Pool of Radiance

by Carrie Bebris

  Expecting a long corridor, Kestrel was sur­prised to discover only a small antechamber. The room was empty, with a single pair of doors breaking up the smooth expanse of wall. The massive oak doors, however, took up nearly one whole side.

  "Are we in the right place?" Faeril murmured. "I thought the baelnorn's dwelling—"

  "Hush!" Kestrel closed her eyes to focus her sense of hearing. Muffled noises came from more than one place on the other side of the doors. A muted voice, the scrape of a chair, several low chuckles. She signaled to the others to remain still—and silent—while she investigated. Then she crept up to the doors and peered through the keyhole.

  Her vantage point offered only a limited view of the room beyond. Flickering torchlight cast shadows on the walls—two figures standing, more sprawled in chairs around a table. She strained for a better view, but she could not see the people casting the shadows. From the relative size of the shadows, she guessed the erect pair to be closer than the seated individuals. She could hear them, male voices speaking in low tones.

  "Still no word from Forgred's men, Lieutenant?"

  "No, Captain."

  "Or Gashet? Rubal?"

  "No, sir.... She will not be pleased."

  "Hrmph. She must learn patience."

  Suddenly, a crackling sound rent the air. A gate, like the one that had transported the party to Myth Drannor, appeared in Kestrel's line of sight It pulsed and snapped with light and energy. A bright flash lit the room. Then, just as suddenly, the gate disappeared.

  Kya Mordrayn had arrived.

  Kestrel stifled a gasp. The archmage appeared even more formidable in person than she had in the scrying mirror. She was a tall woman, approaching six feet, and her boots and upswept hair made her seem at least a foot taller. A stiff collar anchored two red leather shoulder pieces that extended like dragon wings on either side of her head. At her waist hung a pair of black metal gloves, with white symbols of an open skeletal mouth on each palm. The Gauntlets of Moander.

  Mordrayn's monstrous right arm hung past her knee—until she raised it to point at one of the speakers who had fallen silent at her entrance.

  What news, Mage Captain? As in the scrying mirror, Mordrayn did not open her mouth to speak. Her voice seemed to simply fill the minds of those who listened.

  "The baelnorn remains locked away in the next room, Mistress. No one has entered."

  The archmage nodded approvingly. That is well. And the intruders?

  "We have not found them yet. But—"

  Her brows drew together. I grow tired of excuses. The fingers of Mordrayn's human hand moved ever so slightly. The captain screamed as a blaze of light filled the room. The smell of burning flesh drifted through the keyhole, accompanied by a sickening sizzling sound.

  Unable to see the captain, Kestrel kept her gaze on Mordrayn. As her servant shrieked in pain, the archmage remained stoic, even bored. When the screams ceased and the flames died out, one upright shadow remained on the wall. The seated figures appeared smaller, as if trying to sink into their chairs.

  Mordrayn shifted her gaze to encompass the remain­ing officer. You command now.

  "Yes, Mistress." The figure bowed his head, then raised it quickly. "Mistress—an idea."

  The archmage had turned as if to leave but spun around at her servant's entreaty. She arched an eyebrow. Speak quickly.

  "With your permission, I will unlock the doors."

  The archmage gasped aloud. Unlock them?

  "Yes ... and be ready."

  Mordrayn stared at her new commander a long time, flexing her talons as she pondered his proposal. Not a sound broke the stillness. Finally, she nodded in assent. Plan wisely. Use the drow slaves as you see fit. And if you fail, pray that they kill you..

  The magical gate reappeared. A moment later, the arch­mage was gone.

  Immediately, the commander spun to face the seated figures. "Get up, you maggots! Get moving! You—get everyone in here...."

  Kestrel backed away from the doors and returned to the others. "We've found the baelnorn—the cult is holding him captive here." As she described the scene she'd just witnessed, the sound of an enormous bolt sliding back indicated that the doors now indeed stood unlocked. "We haven't much time. They're mobilizing quickly."

  Corran leaned on his sword, frowning. "How many are there?"

  "Hard to say—I could see only shadows. A dozen, per­haps more. I suspect at least some of them are sorcerers, as the captain was one."

  All eyes turned to the paladin, including Kestrel's. She'd never been involved in an out-and-out battle against an organized military force. For once, she was happy to let Corran take command. Was this the confidence Ghleanna had described?

  Corran rubbed his temples, then mumbled a brief prayer to Tyr. "Okay, here's what we do."

  The cult forces were still organizing when Kestrel and her party burst into the room. The element of surprise won them a momentary advantage—long enough for Ghleanna to launch a fireball at the living warriors and Jarial to use the Staff of Sunlight to weaken the enthralled drow assembled in the chamber. The combined effect cre­ated a burst of light so bright that even the surface-dwellers blinked.

  The enslaved Kilsek staggered under the visual assault, cringing and covering their eyes. Kestrel picked off two of the weakened dark elves without even a struggle, slipping behind them in the bright light of day and sinking a dag­ger between their shoulder blades. Faeril sent two more to their final rest in the shock of the initial onslaught, her new blade glowing with holy fire.

  At the sight of flames dancing around the steel, Kestrel glanced at the cleric in surprise. "I didn't know that was a magical weapon."

  Faeril regarded the sword in awe. "Neither did I." She celebrated the discovery by plunging the blade into another dark elf.

  Ghleanna had been assigned the task of subduing the commander, at whom she immediately launched a second spell. They'd all hoped the lieutenant would prove the only sorcerer among the cultists—the party had entered com­bat under the shield of protective spells, but their magical defenses couldn't hold out forever. Soon, Kestrel saw a sorcerous battle unfold out of the corner of her eye, with Ghleanna and the lieutenant launching magical volleys at each other.

  Corran, once again cloaked by invisibility, was to help the half-elf slay the commander, applying steel to supple­ment spells. Kestrel saw no sign yet of the paladin, but her attention was focused on another drow opponent. The soulless dark elf moved his hands in the gesture-language of Razherrt and his followers. At the last second, she real­ized he was casting a spell. She dropped to the floor and rolled, trying to dodge his aim, but to no avail. A fan of flames burst from his hands, searing her side.

  She yelped in pain but got to her feet, more determined than ever to save Nathlilik the trouble of releasing this par­ticular Kilsek into true death. She hurled Loren's Blade at him, catching him in the throat. Beside her, Faeril's flame blade dispatched the last enthralled drow.

  Meanwhile, six cult fighters charged Durwyn. Jarial appeared to launch a spell at them, but Kestrel saw no visible effect. She soon realized, however, that the fighters moved more slowly than they had before. Faeril rushed to fight beside Durwyn, while Kestrel maintained her posi­tion and sent Loren's Blade flying once more.

  As Ghleanna unleashed a series of fire bursts, a cry of "Death to Tyr's enemies!" revealed Corran's whereabouts. Pathfinder penetrated the cult commander's defenses, striking a blow at the evil sorcerer's back. The combina­tion of Ghleanna's spells and Corran's sword proved the mage's undoing, and before long he lay on the floor with the dead drow.

  Ghleanna, however, suffered serious burns on her arms and face from one of the cultist's enchantments. Faeril, having just dispatched her opponent with a fatal strike to the chest, disengaged from combat to attend the half-elf. Durwyn had defeated two foes, leaving just three cult fighters blocking the entrance to the baelnorn's cell.

  Kestrel noted the situation with cautious opti
mism. They could handle the remaining cultists—Corran and Jarial had already weakened two of them. Victory was all but assured.

  Until the reinforcements arrived.

  Without warning, a gate opened in the corner of the room. The additional forces the lieutenant had summoned earlier spilled out, surprised to find a battle in progress but ready to fight nonetheless. Cult fighters and countless enslaved drow entered the fight filling Kestrel with despair. How could they possibly prevail against these numbers?

  "Close the gate!" Corran shouted.

  "How?" she shouted back. Even if she knew a way to physically shut a magical portal, too many foes stood between them and the opening.

  Jarial darted off to the side, positioning himself directly across from the gate. He unleashed a forked lightning bolt straight at the portal. One branch stopped the flow of cultists streaming out by electrocuting those hapless indi­viduals immediately within. The other branch hit the gate itself, sending a crackle of electrical feedback racing through the very fabric of the portal. The gate snapped and wavered and popped. Random zaps of energy ricocheted within its walls. In a great burst of light, it collapsed.

  Kestrel had no time to appreciate the fireworks—too many cultists and drow swarmed the room. Three soulless dark elves had her backed into a corner from which she feared she would never emerge. She found herself unable to land a single offensive blow on any of them—parrying their strikes was the best she could do.

  Another burst of sunlight issued from Jarial's staff, causing Kestrel's opponents and the rest of the Kilsek to stagger under the sudden brightness. She seized the advantage and brought her club down on one foe's skull with every ounce of strength she could muster. He slumped to the floor, but another dark elf took his place. The new opponent crippled her left arm with a retributive strike. Moments later, one of his comrades cut her legs out from under her.

  Kestrel fell hard. She tried to push the pain from her consciousness, but it clutched at her mind like dark ten­tacles wrapping around her every thought. Her arm hung limp at her side, the broken bone protruding through her skin and armor. She transferred her club to her right hand and prepared to hold out as long as she could against the swarming dark elves. She called out, trying to draw someone's attention to her situation, but with their whole party so severely outnumbered she doubted any­one could help her.

  This was it, then, the place where she would die—beset by undead drow in the bowels of Myth Drannor. She had always wondered.

  She fended off two more blows but could not block the third. It slammed into her head, knocking her flat and blurring her vision. Did she still face three drow, or did six now surround her? Through the haze overtaking her awareness, she heard Faeril's voice rise above the din of battle. "By the grace of Mystra, I command thee to fall back!"

  They were the last words she heard.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  "Kestrel? Kestrel!"

  Faeril's voice drifted to her through a fog, stir­ring Kestrel to consciousness. Her battered body hurt all over, but her left arm ached so intensely that she almost lapsed back into oblivion rather than endure the pain.

  Gentle fingers searched her throat for a pulse. "Thank Mystra, she's still alive," the cleric said.

  "How bad is she hurt?" Was that Corran's voice or Durwyn's? Kestrel's head was still too cloudy to distinguish the male timbre, and she had not yet been able to force her eyes open.

  "She's got a compound fracture in her left arm. I can heal that—it's her unconsciousness that concerns me most I fear a serious head injury. Did anyone see when she fell?"

  "Just before you turned the undead drow." That was Corran's voice. The other speaker must have been Dur­wyn. "She was surrounded by them. I tried to reach her, but—"

  "We all had our hands full." Faeril grasped Kestrel's injured arm and—in movements that caused pain more excruciating than the break itself—reset the bone. Kestrel heard the cleric begin a prayer. In a few minutes the pain subsided, though it did not disappear completely. "That is all I can do for now," Faeril said. "I have exhausted my healing gifts for this day."

  "Were it not for your healing spells during combat, none of us would have survived that battle," Corran said.

  Faeril's ministrations, though limited, boosted Kestrel's strength enough that the rogue finally managed to open her eyes. She blinked rapidly, trying to focus her blurred vision. After a moment, her sight cleared.

  Corran and Faeril knelt beside her, with Durwyn hov­ering close behind. The three of them had removed their helms, and all looked as if they'd journeyed to the Abyss and back. Blood spattered their armor and caked their hair. An ugly bruise had formed on Corran's right cheekbone, just above the stubble line of his four-day beard. Cuts cov­ered Faeril's arms, including one long gash that ran from elbow to shoulder. Durwyn seemed to favor his left leg.

  The burly warrior smiled as she met his worried gaze. "We thought we'd lost you," he said.

  "Sorry to disappoint everyone," Kestrel said weakly. When she tried to sit up, Faeril had to support her. "Where are Ghleanna and Jarial?"

  Corran glanced off to one side. "Resting. Both suffered terrible burns from cult spells. We were surprised to find Jarial still breathing after two fireballs hit him at once. I just stabilized him, but it will be some time before he—or any of us, really—is moving quickly."

  Kestrel pushed the last of her mental fogginess aside, forcing herself to think clearly. "We've got to get out of here. Another gate could open any moment with more reinforcements."

  The paladin nodded gravely. "I think that door over there leads to the baelnorn's cell. We haven't even had a chance to see whether it's locked. Feel up to examining it?"

  With Faeril's aid, Kestrel got to her feet. Dizziness seized her, but she fought it off and stumbled to the door, praying to any deity who would listen that this would prove a simple lock. She couldn't analyze much more at the moment—not with the pounding headache forming behind her eyes.

  They found the door unlocked. Within, an ancient elf sat in the center of the tiny boxlike room. Wrinkles sur­rounded his glowing white eyes, which assessed Kestrel and the others as they entered. Not a strand of hair remained on his pate, making his regal forehead look all the higher. His pointed ears and fingers seemed preter­naturally long, even for an elf. Simple garments of brown homespun covered his shriveled, pale skin. Long arms hugged his knees to his chest in a defensive posture.

  Yet for all the alterations wrought upon his physical form by age and undeath, the man once known as Miro­den Silverblade still possessed such a puissant, vital pres­ence that a full minute elapsed before anyone realized the baelnorn could not move.

  Jarial leaned heavily on the Staff of Sunlight as he regarded the Protector. The mage's too-pink skin shone tight against the bones of his face. His eyelashes and eye­brows had been singed off altogether. "I believe he's mag­ically bound," he said in a voice so scratchy that it pained Kestrel to hear it

  "Aye," said Ghleanna, who did not look much better.

  "With an enchantment similar to one I used on you, Kestrel." Her blistered lips twisted into what Kestrel could only suppose was meant to be a wry smile. The day we first met—remember?"

  She remembered the incident, although that afternoon in Phlan seemed years ago. "Does that mean you can free him?"

  "I believe I have enough strength remaining to try one spell." Ghleanna mumbled her incantation as she hobbled in a circle around the baelnorn. When she returned to her starting point, she extended one hand toward the guardian and uttered a final word.

  The baelnorn unfurled like a morning glory in the sun, rising to a towering height. He was a tall man—well over six feet—made taller still, Kestrel soon realized, by the fact that he levitated about a foot off the floor. A noble calmness seemed to surround him, putting her at ease despite the fact that the party was in the presence of yet another undead denizen of the city.

  "You have my deepest gratitude," the Protector said in a
rich voice that belied his gaunt appearance. "But we are not safe here. Come." He swept his hand broadly. The room faded around them, and they found themselves in a large circular chamber. "Here, in my home, we may speak freely."

  The apartment was comfortably, if sparsely, furnished. Soft light filled the room, though Kestrel couldn't deter­mine its source. A wooden table and two chairs sat in one part of the chamber; a plush bedroll and plump cushions lay spread in another. A large section of the wall held shelves piled high with books and scrolls. Two massive trunks stood beneath.

  Kestrel had expected the Mythal's communicant to enjoy more lavish quarters. To her way of thinking, gra­cious surroundings were a minimum trade-off for an eternity of constant vigilance. Yet the more she assessed the humble dwelling, the more it seemed a proper place for the baelnorn to guard the Sapphire of the Weave. Few would think to plunder such a simple abode in search of the priceless gem.

  Opposite the doorway stood an ornate glass case con­taining a small, red velvet pillow. The pillow still held the impression of an item that had once rested upon it— surely the Gem of the Weave. The treasure, however, was nowhere in sight. Dread seized her. In the baelnorn's absence, had the cultists stolen the Sapphire? If Mordrayn had the gem, their quest was surely doomed, for Kestrel could think of no other means to cleanse the Mythal of the corruption that tainted it

  She tore her gaze away from the empty case to see whether the Protector had noted the missing item. He avoided her questioning look. Instead, he addressed the group as a whole. "Sit," he said, "and be well."

  At a slight gesture from the baelnorn, Kestrel's headache immediately dissipated. A moment later the pain in her arm and residual aches from other injuries fled as well. She felt rested as if she'd slept for a week—better than she had since waking with that firewine hangover in Phlan before all this madness began. Looking around, she saw that the others also had been restored to perfect health. The men even appeared clean-shaven.