Suddenly, bolts of black lightning arced through the mantle. They converged into a single charge that raced straight down into the emerald. Kestrel instinctively backed up, expecting the gem to explode into a thousand pieces. It pulsed and shook under the assault.
But it held.
Instead, Anorrweyn absorbed the electrical feedback. The force violently wrenched the spirit out of contact with the emerald. She flew backward, between two of the spires and beyond the circle. The wind abruptly ceased as the gem dropped onto the stone floor. Above, the vision of the Mythal evaporated.
"Priestess!" Faeril rushed after the ghost. "Priestess! Where are you?"
Anorrweyn was gone.
They left the circle and searched furiously, hoping to catch a glimpse of the ghost behind one of the spires, but no sign of her remained. Corran regarded the others soberly. "I fear that blast destroyed her."
Faeril choked down a sob and turned her face away.
"What do we do now?" Durwyn asked.
What, indeed? Kestrel fought back despair. It sickened her to think that Anorrweyn Evensong's spirit had been obliterated. The gentle priestess had touched a part of Kestrel's soul she hadn't known existed—had awakened in her the fledgling desire to do the right thing with no thought of personal reward.
Now she was gone. Apparently, that's where altruism got you in this world.
Damn this whole mission anyway. Misfortune dogged their every step, throwing new obstacles in their path before they could overcome the known ones. Now their path lay shrouded in more darkness than ever without the light of Anorrweyn's goodness to aid them. What had the noble spirit's sacrifice won? Kestrel reentered the circle and picked up the forgotten emerald. It twinkled in the starlight but appeared perfectly ordinary. She held it toward the sorcerers. "Did the ceremony take hold at all, or is this just a stupid piece of glass?"
Jarial and Ghleanna exchanged glances. The half-elf shrugged helplessly. "I have no idea."
The party erupted in debate over how to proceed from here. Corran wanted to infiltrate Castle Cormanthor in search of the pool cavern. Jarial suggested returning to Caalenfaire to see whether the diviner could learn more through scrying. Ghleanna thought a good night's sleep at Beriand's shelter would help them clear their heads and gain some perspective. Faeril was too beside herself over Anorrweyn's demise to voice an opinion.
Kestrel just wanted to get off the top of this building. There was no sign of the protective force field that had surrounded them during the ceremony, and she preferred to argue in a less exposed location. As she stood in the center of the circle, a faint fragrance caught her nostrils. A new calm washed over her. She inhaled deeply. Gardenias.
A moment later, Anorrweyn materialized before them. Her "body" appeared to have survived the ordeal unharmed, but her eyes bore a haunted look they hadn't held previously.
"Priestess!" Faeril cried. "Are you all right? What happened?"
Anorrweyn met each of their gazes. Her visage held the expression of one who has dire news to impart. "I could not commune with the Mythal. The Weave rejected my attempt."
Corran, whose face had become hopeful upon the ghost's reappearance, now addressed her with grim resignation. "The Mythal's corruption is too great to save it?"
The spirit shook her head sadly. "Worse. Another Gem of the Weave is already in use."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"Another gem?" Faeril exclaimed. "How is that possible?"
"Harldain gave us the only suitable replacement stone," Corran added. "At least, that's what he told us."
Anorrweyn's face clouded with disgust. "I doubt not the dwarven lord's word. It is the Protector who, I fear, plays a dangerous game with the truth."
Though the others looked at the priestess in confusion, a spark of understanding ignited in Kestrel. Anorrweyn did not speak of another replacement stone. "The baelnorn told us he destroyed the original gem—"
"We will see about that." With a sweep of the ghost's arm, a gate opened in the night air.
Beyond lay the torchlit lair of the Protector. "Come. Let us talk with Miroden Silverblade!"
The baelnorn appeared only mildly surprised by the party's abrupt arrival in his chamber. He set aside the book he'd been reading and rose to greet them. "Good eve, my friends." He looked each of them in the eye but could not meet Anorrweyn's gaze. "Priestess Evensong."
"I have known you many, many centuries, Miroden Silverblade," the priestess began. Though her tone was harsh, it softened. "In life and in death, our paths intertwined as we struggled to save the City of Song from evils mundane and arcane. Through the Opening, the Weeping War, the occupation by creatures of the Abyss—always have we been on the same side."
The Protector bowed his head as Anorrweyn continued. "Now that Myth Drannor faces its greatest threat yet, I fear our paths diverge. You have told these brave adventurers, who fight to save a city not their own, that you destroyed the Sapphire of the Weave. Miroden, I was present at the creation of the gem. I witnessed the Moment of Binding. I know that as you stand before me, the sapphire yet exists in this world."
The priestess touched her hand to the baelnorn's withered cheek. A tear wet her fingers. "You love this city more deeply than most of the People love their lifemates. What happened, Miroden, to make you betray your sacred duty as communicant? Where is the sapphire? Open your heart to me, old friend."
The Protector closed his eyes and pressed Anorrweyn's palm against his cheek. He sighed heavily—an anguished, heartrending moan—then tore his face away from her gentle touch. He crossed to the empty gem case and ran shaking hands over its surface. "I thought... I thought ..." He extended his hands heavenward and dropped to his knees. "Mystra, forgive me!"
He collapsed, rocking on the floor as he hid his face from view. Anorrweyn laid her hands on the baelnorn's shoulders and whispered words audible only to his ears. He nodded, reaching up to grasp one of her hands. The priestess continued her gentle murmurings. After a little while, he nodded a second time and rose.
"It is with the deepest shame that I stand before you," the baelnorn said. His face seemed to have aged a century in mere minutes. "I allowed pride to blind me, and in so doing, I violated the sacred trust placed in me so many years ago." He paused and looked at the priestess. "Anorrweyn's suspicions are correct—the Sapphire of the Weave still exists." The baelnorn lowered his head. "Kya Mordrayn has it."
"That is not a cause for shame," Corran said softly. "You are but one person. She had a whole cult to help her steal it from you."
Silverblade raised his head sharply. A pained expression crossed it. "She did not steal it. I—I gave it to her."
Kestrel gasped. She was not the only one—all of them regarded the so-called Protector with shock. How could he have done such a thing? She wanted to shout a thousand questions and a hundred epithets but held her tongue. The baelnorn shut his eyes against their incredulous expressions.
"Continue, Miroden," Anorrweyn bade. "Tell us how it happened."
"When the archmage first came to me, she spoke eloquently of Myth Drannor's lost beauty and grace—of the silvertrees in the courtyard of the Maerdrym, of how the Windsong Towers brushed against the stars. Oh, how her words made me long for the old days, Anorrweyn! Times so long past even the People have started to forget."
The baelnorn's eyes held a faraway expression.
"Mordrayn told me she had discovered a way to restore the City of Song to its former splendor. By using the Mythal to summon a Pool of Radiance, we could infuse new life into the city. The fading Mythal would grow strong once more, and Myth Drannor, in turn, would rise to greatness again."
The dreamlike trance faded as the Protector's thoughts returned to the present. He ran his fingers along the edge of the empty gem case. "She told me that the fate of Myth Drannor rested in my hands alone, and in my foolish pride I believed her. I did not ask the questions I should have asked." He met Anorrweyn's penetrating gaze. "I
wanted so much for her words to be true, for myself to be the one whose faith and perseverance restored the city, that I did not probe into the details of her plan."
"I know that hope for the city's revival has sustained you through centuries of lonely isolation," Anorrweyn offered.
"That can never excuse my actions," he said. "I surrendered the Sapphire of the Weave—the treasure entrusted to me so long ago by more worthy lords than I—to Mordrayn. I taught her the incantation. Mordrayn contacted the Mythal and directed its ancient power to create a Pool of Radiance deep within Castle Cormanthor. Only afterward did she reveal herself as an archmage in the Cult of the Dragon. By the time I realized the horror of what I had done, I could not stop her. The pool brought life, yes—stolen life. It spawns tendrils of itself in other cities and drains the spirits of the living to fuel the tainted Mythal."
"A diabolical cycle," Corran said. "What is her final purpose?"
"I do not know." The baelnorn shook his head in bewilderment. "By Our Lady, this is not what I intended! I sought to redeem the City of Song—instead, I have damned it."
"Nay, Miroden," Anorrweyn said gently. "Hope lives. We have created a new Gem of the Weave."
Some of the anguish left his face. He gazed at the party in amazement. "You succeeded? Then you can undo some of the damage I have wrought. You must break Mordrayn's link with the Mythal." The baelnorn passed his hand in front of the wall. An opening formed, revealing a passage behind. "This tunnel leads to the castle. Find the sapphire. Destroy it by touching it while speaking this word: Ethgonil. It is the Word of Redemption."
Kestrel and the others hesitated, still trying to absorb all they'd heard. Kestrel felt she ought to be angry with the Protector for his betrayal, for setting in motion the events it now fell to her and her companions to stop. Yet, as she looked at the baelnorn's shriveled form, his face wracked with shame, she felt only pity.
"Make haste," Anorrweyn urged. "The cult cannot be allowed to poison the Mythal any further. I will return to the Speculum. When the sapphire is destroyed, I shall use the emerald to turn the Mythal's power against our enemies. Then you can seize the Gauntlets of Moander from Mordrayn to destroy the pool."
As they filed into the passage one by one, Kestrel stole a last glimpse at Miroden Silverblade. The elf lord who had for centuries defended the Sapphire of the Weave with strength and wisdom—who had willingly sacrificed his own life to protect the Mythal—once again huddled on the floor. Anorrweyn knelt beside him, drew his head into her lap and gently rocked the tortured spirit.
Kestrel felt she was observing grief too intense and private for an audience. She turned and entered the passage, leaving the ghosts to mourn in solitude. She and the others had no more time to dwell on the past.
Not if they were going to save the future.
BOOK THREE
The Arcane Cabal
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"You can admit it any time now."
Corran's jocular tone took Kestrel by surprise. She frowned at the paladin as they stepped over the bodies of yet another soulless drow band. The winding passage beneath Castle Cormanthor was simply too tight to move the enthralled Kilsek aside after defeating them. "Admit what?"
"We were right to trust Nathlilik," the paladin said, muting his voice in case other patrols lurked nearby. "That Staff of Sunlight has proven invaluable."
She glanced at the sacred weapon in Jarial's grip. They'd encountered so many cult patrols since leaving the baelnorn that without the staff they would have exhausted themselves getting this far. "We would have found it anyway," she said with a shrug. "As for Nathlilik, if she had done what she promised and released all her kin into true death, we wouldn't even need the staff. She probably gave up and skipped town."
"Or got caught."
Kestrel followed Corran's gaze. Ahead, the corridor widened into a long, narrow chamber lined with prison cells carved into the rock like small caves. The pens, separated from each other by about six feet, stretched as far up the passage as Kestrel could see. In the closest cell, Nathlilik herself paced like a caged panther.
The drow leader stopped abruptly when she saw them approach. "We meet again, humans." She grinned mockingly, gesturing at her cell with a sweep of her hand. "Welcome to my new abode. Can I offer you tea? A glass of wine?"
Kestrel ignored her sarcasm. "What happened?"
"What do you think?" Nathlilik snapped. "The cult captured us. Killed all my men one at a time and fed their blood to the dracolich as an appetizer. I'm the main course—at least I was until you came along. What are you standing around for? Let me out."
Nathlilik's attitude made Kestrel's hackles rise. "I don't think I like your tone."
The dark elf barked a harsh laugh. "Don't expect me to beg, human. Not to you." She strutted to the corner and plunked down on the floor. "The cult has taken my life-mate. They've taken my men, and they've taken my weapons, but I'll hold my pride until the last drop of blood leaves my body."
Kestrel shrugged. "You do that." She walked past the cell, fighting the urge to turn around to see whether the rest of the group followed. If someone else wanted to free the arrogant drow witch, let them try to get past that lock. She knew exactly which tool it would require.
She heard Corran's footsteps behind her. "Kestrel..." he murmured.
"Corran, we haven't the time, and I haven't the inclination." She continued marching away.
"Wait!" Nathlilik cried.
Kestrel turned. To her amazement, the whole party had followed her lead. Nathlilik had watched all six of them pass her cell "I've learned more about the cult's activities during my imprisonment," the dark elf said. "Free me and I'll tell you what I know."
"Tell us what you know, and we'll free you," Kestrel replied.
Nathlilik, clearly incensed at having lost the upper hand, hesitated. Kestrel waited. Finally the drow spoke. "In the upper part of the castle stands an enormous urn. The Vessel of Souls, they call it. That's where the cult keeps the spirits of all the creatures whose blood they drain. My kin are trapped in there. Kedar's soul is in there. Destroy the vessel, and the cult's enthralled slaves will trouble you no more."
"I thought that was your job," Kestrel said. "When we last saw you, isn't that where you and your band were headed?"
"The cult captured us before we could succeed. But we got as far as the Vessel Chamber—I've seen the wicked thing with my own eyes."
As much as Kestrel would have liked to leave Nathlilik to the cult's mercy—or lack thereof-—she reluctantly opened the lock of the dark elf's cell. Nathlilik strode out of her prison without so much as a "thank you."
"We defeated a Kilsek patrol a hundred yards or so down the passageway," Corran said. "You can retrieve one of their weapons. Since we're on the same side, would you like to join forces?"
Kestrel's eyes widened. She found the thought of spending any more time in Nathlilik's company abhorrent. Before she could voice an objection, however, the dark elf sneered. "Ha! Walk in the company of surface-dwellers? I'll take my chances alone." Without another word, she disappeared into the darkness.
The party stared after her. "That is one disagreeable woman," Durwyn declared.
They continued past the cell blocks, most of which stood empty. Apparently, the cult didn't hold prisoners long before using their blood to slake Pelendralaar's thirst. In the last cell, however, they found the crumpled form of a man passed out in the corner. He lay facedown, nearly naked, his blond hair matted with blood and his body covered with bruises. Whip marks swelled his back and oozed pus.
"Oh, by my Lady's grace!" Faeril cried. "Kestrel, let me in to help him!"
"Is he even alive?" Jarial asked.
Ghleanna dropped her staff and clutched the prison bars, peering intently into the dark cell. "He's a large man," she said softly. "A warrior...."
The cleric started uttering prayers of healing while Kestrel struggled with the locks. There were several mechanis
ms, all more complex than the sole lock that had secured Nathlilik's cell. Apparently, this was one prisoner the cult wanted to keep.
She sprung the last lock and swung open the door. Faeril rushed to the captive's side, followed closely by Ghleanna. The sorceress touched his hair with a shaking hand. "It is Athan." She choked back a sob. "Oh gods, what have they done to him? Can you save him?"
"Mystra, lend me your light, that I may tend your servant." Instantly, Faeril's hands glowed with a soft blue-white light The glow illuminated Athan's dark cell just enough for her to examine him. The cleric quickly assessed her patient running her hands along his limbs and torso. She checked his head and neck, then with Corran's help gently rolled the warrior onto his side to better examine his chest.
Ghleanna watched Faeril in scared silence until she couldn't keep quiet any longer. "Well?"
"His pulse is weak, and he's barely breathing," Faeril said. "He's got a skull fracture and numerous broken bones—his right arm and hand, half a dozen ribs. His right leg is broken in two places, and both lower legs are smashed into pulp." She wrinkled her nose. "From the smell, I think gangrene has set in."
"But you can save him, right?" Ghleanna asked anxiously. "You can heal him?"
Faeril raised her gaze to Ghleanna's. "He is too badly injured for me to heal him fully. I think I can keep him from death."
"Do you hear that Athan?" Ghleanna stroked a lock of his hair, her voice tremulous. "Faeril's going to help you."
Corran cleared his throat. "Can I assist?"
Faeril shook her head. "If you speak of laying on hands, let's see what I can do alone. We don't know what lies ahead—your healing powers may be needed later. But you can help me bandage his wounds." She turned to Kestrel. "I will also need your hands. Durwyn, Jarial, stand watch. This may take a while."
The cleric uttered a prayer-spell asking Mystra to heal Athan's gangrenous legs and lacerated back. "'Tis best to leave him unconscious until I can alleviate some of his pain," she explained to Ghleanna. When the decay was gone and the bone fragments fused, she beseeched the goddess to mend the other breaks in his leg and hand. Finally, she entreated Mystra to heal the warrior's head injury.
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