Ruins of Myth Drannor (17 page)

Durwyn followed the magical attacks with a pair of arrows. He missed Jarial’s naga, but Kestrel caught the creature between the eyes with a dagger. The beast’s head thumped to the floor.

“One down!” Durwyn shouted. Already, Kestrel breathed a little easier.

Beside her, Jarial began a second incantation. The injured naga rose, parts of her charred purple flesh still smoking. Hatred seethed from her gaze as she took in the party. “Vile humans!” She started a spell of her own.

Just as Jarial seemed about to complete his casting, he suddenly flew back and sprawled facedown on the ground. A hole in his back welled blood.

Kestrel spun around. A third naga had stolen up behind them, unheard in the noise of battle, and struck the human sorcerer with her tail.

“Arrogant wanderers!” the creature hissed. “How dare you bring violence into our place of worship?” She swung her tail again, this time aiming for Kestrel. The thief ducked and rolled away from the giant snake, but the creature drew back its tail for a second attack.

“Yourplace of worship?” Corran sputtered. “You blaspheme a house of Mystra with your profane idol!” He grabbed his warhammer and swung it against the black marble statue of the snake god, breaking off one of its three heads.

“No!” The naga’s tail dropped in mid-swing, her attention fully drawn to Corran.

The injured naga finished her spell, directing it at Ghleanna. Three bursts of dark magical energy sped toward the half-elf. When they came within a foot of her, however, they bounced off a shimmering barrier and harmlessly sputtered out.

“Llash damn you to the Abyss!” the thwarted creature swore.

Corran swung his warhammer at the base of the idol. The marble fractured, and the top-heavy sculpture wobbled. The paladin threw his weight against it, pushing it toward the monster. The idol tottered. Corran threw himself at the statue once more, this time toppling it onto the injured naga. It landed on her head with a mighty crash. The creature’s body jerked spasmodically, then fell still.

“Llash! Aid your servant!” the remaining naga cried. Unable to tear her gaze away from the fallen statue, she seemed oblivious to the enemies surrounding her. She slithered toward the idol.

Kestrel took advantage of her distraction to hurl Borea’s Blood. The ice knife caught the creature in the throat just below her head. The naga couldn’t even scream before the paralyzing cold numbed her upper body. Her head fell to the floor, where Durwyn easily removed it with a stroke of his axe.

The moment he struck the death blow, a loud hissing commenced outside the ruined shrine. Not another naga? Kestrel didn’t think so—this was a different sort of hiss, like that released by the last few drops of water in a pan boiled dry. She cautiously approached the doorway and peered out.

The amber pool was evaporating so rapidly that steam billowed into the sky. As the foul water dissipated, the land around it returned to health. Greenery once again graced the area surrounding the ruined shrine, and patches of blueglow moss appeared.

Kestrel turned to the others. “The pool’s gone!” Then an idea struck her. “I’ll be right back,” she called over her shoulder as she dashed out the door. She dug up a patch of the healing moss and brought it inside for Jarial. Ozama’s boots had saved him once again from the naga’s poison, but the creature’s barbed tail had inflicted a nasty wound. As Kestrel applied the moss to the sorcerer’s back, the air in the ruined shrine suddenly chilled.

“Where are the followers of Mystra?” beseeched a forlorn voice. The sound seemed to come from above. They all looked skyward—to find their view of the clouds veiled by a translucent ceiling.

The ruined walls of the shrine seemed to be restored, but in a shimmery, intangible state. At the same time, the Llash graffiti faded. All around them, features of the former temple reappeared—statues, tapestries, ritual objects. The ghostly shrine looked as it had centuries ago, before war brought it to ruin.

“Those faithful to the Goddess of the Weave—are they no more? Where are the servants of Mystery?” The plaintive voice echoed throughout the spectral building, but the speaker remained unseen.

“There are many who yet serve you in our time, my lady,” Corran called to the air.

Kestrel stared at him. “You think that’s actually Mystra’s voice?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“Where are the followers of Mystra?”

Kestrel didn’t believe they heard a divine call. Wouldn’t a goddess, of all people, know where her followers were? As it was, the voice held such melancholy that she didn’t think she could listen to it much longer. “Can we leave before whoever she is drives us mad?” She retrieved her weapons and went to clean them on the grass outside while Durwyn helped Jarial to his feet.

When she returned, Corran still cast a searching gaze heavenward. “She sounds so sorrowful,” he said. “We should try to help her.”

The sad voice stirred a response in Kestrel as well—not that she’d ever admit that fact to Corran. Unlike the quixotic paladin, she knew they couldn’t afford any more tangential delays. “Like we helped Nottle? Look what that cost us.”

The words came out more sharply than she intended. Corran turned his head away, but not before she saw a look of bitter regret cross his features. Apparently, the paladin felt the responsibility for Emmeric’s death more keenly than she’d realized.

“All right, then,” Corran said quietly, his back to them all. “Let us go.”

Injured, tired, and nearly out of spells, the party voted to visit Beriand and Faeril before returning to the House of Gems. Though the elven shelter lay out of their way, there they could find healing and a safe place to rest.

Kestrel hadn’t apologized to Corran for her earlier barb about Emmeric, though her conscience pricked her. The delight she’d expected to feel at having discovered a way to wound him hadn’t materialized. She felt more hollow than anything else. There was no satisfaction, she realized, in causing a companion the chagrin his unguarded response had revealed.

Faeril greeted them warmly upon their arrival. “You have been busy!” she said as soon as she saw them. “Already, we feel a change in the Mythal.”

Corran acknowledged her with a bow. “For the better, I hope?”

“Oh, yes!” Faeril’s face shone, some of the careworn lines having faded since they last saw her. “Come inside. You must tell us of your deeds.”

Though eager to learn what the adventurers had accomplished, the clerics insisted on first tending to their injuries. The party was in sorry shape. While the blueglow moss and potions had relieved their immediate distress, Kestrel and Jarial yet moved stiffly. The wound Durwyn had received from Preybelish had not had time to heal of its own accord. Corran remained weakened from the cult sorcerer’s life-draining spell—the paladin had refused to use his limited healing powers on himself lest a greater need arise before the day’s end.

They shed their armor, grateful to be in a place of relative safety where they could rest and renew their strength. The elves tended the four wounded humans and also checked how well Ghleanna had healed under Corran’s care after Preybelish’s near-fatal attack. “I cannot even tell you were injured,” Faeril declared. She turned to the paladin. “Your faith must be strong indeed.”

Over a meal of roasted rabbit and hearty bread, Corran, Kestrel, and the others related their exploits in the dwarven undercity, ending with their ascent to the surface and their encounter at the shrine. “When the pool evaporated, a ghostly image of the intact temple appeared,” Corran concluded.

Faeril gasped, her thick slice of bread dropping to her plate. “By Our Lady, you have seen Anorrweyn’s shrine!” Her eyes shone with reverence.

“The shrine is one of several ghost buildings in Myth Drannor,” Beriand said. “The wars destroyed many structures, but some were so sacred to the elves that they refuse to disappear completely. From time to time, under certain conditions, these buildings reappear intact. When you defeated the naga and destroyed the spawn pool, you must have triggered the temple’s appearance.” He paused to sip from his goblet. “Did you ever see the crying woman you spoke of?”

“Just heard her,” Kestrel said, nibbling the last few shreds of meat off a bone. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she’d started to eat. “ ‘Where are the followers of Mystra?’ That’s all she said—over and over.”

“How blessed you are—to have heard her voice!” Faeril exclaimed. She rose to pour more wine, beginning first with Durwyn’s goblet and ending with Beriand’s. Kestrel noted that she did not lift Beriand’s cup to pour, as she had with the others, but brought the bottle to the sightless cleric’s goblet.

“That was Anorrweyn Evensong, the founder of our sect,” Beriand said. “When evil magic destroyed the temple during the fall of Myth Drannor, its head priestess also perished. So strong was her devotion to Mystra that her spirit remained on this earth to continue her work. Whenever the ghost shrine appeared, so did she.” Beriand reached for his wine, his practiced hand going straight to the goblet. “For centuries after the temple’s physical destruction, followers of Mystra would visit the site and use talismans to invoke the apparition and speak to Anorrweyn. But in the past two hundred years or so, Myth Drannor has become so dangerous that pilgrims stopped coming. I doubt anyone has invoked the shrine in over a century.”

Durwyn frowned thoughtfully as he chewed his food. Finally, he spoke. “If the priestess shows up whenever the temple does, why couldn’t we see her?”

“I suspect because there was no follower of Mystra among you.”

“Anorrweyn’s cry must be answered!” Faeril said. She pushed aside her wooden plate, her supper forgotten in her zeal. “Let me return with you and prove to the high priestess that Mystra still has followers in Myth Drannor. We cannot leave her spirit to think that the city has fallen entirely to the nagas who debased her sacred shrine.”

Kestrel could tell by the expression on Corran’s face that the paladin was about to take Faeril up on her offer. She shifted uncomfortably, pushing aside her own plate and drawing her knees up in front of her body. She had a feeling she was about to be labeled selfish again, but someone had to keep this mission on track. “Not that I don’t feel sorry for your priestess and all,” she began, trying to use more tact than she had previously, “but we have more pressing matters.”

Corran turned toward her, his brows drawn in displeasure. Before he could speak, however, Faeril addressed her. “Anorrweyn can help your cause, Kestrel. I know she will!”

Beriand nodded his agreement. “Anorrweyn Evensong would prove a powerful ally against those trying to[3]use the Mythal for their own wicked ends. In life she was dedicated to the causes of unity and peace, and was among the city leaders most in tune with the Mythal. She may know of ways to cleanse it that we do not.”

“In that case, we’d be honored to have you join us,” Corran said to Faeril. Kestrel bristled. She’d been about to concede the point herself, but once again Corran had spoken for the whole party without consulting anyone. She began to feel less contrite about her earlier remark.

The others were apparently tolerant of the paladin’s high-handedness. Ghleanna, in fact, extended the invitation to Beriand.

“Thank you for asking,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I would like nothing more. But I know that a blind man would slow you down, and time is too precious, your mission too vital.” He rose from the floor, leaning on his staff, and made his way over to his cot. “No, leave here tomorrow morn without me. When the cult is defeated and the Mythal restored, then shall I meet Anorrweyn Evensong.”

Long after the others retired, Kestrel remained by the fire, staring into the flames. Caalenfaire’s words yet echoed in her mind, and she’d hardly had time to think about the whole strange interview since it took place.

Be of two minds but one heart.The diviner had looked straight inside her and seen the frustration building there. She missed the freedom of working alone, of deciding for herself the best course of action. She was tired of making nice with her companions, tired of compromising. Especially with Corran.

The others were tolerable. Durwyn didn’t have the confidence to voice his opinion very often. Jarial, conscious of his status as the newcomer, didn’t throw his weight around much either. Ghleanna usually had good ideas, and Corran respected the sorceress enough to listen to them. If only he’d show her, Kestrel, the same courtesy.

She raised her arms above her head and stretched. At times, the others’ company seemed almost physically confining. When this quest was over—if she lived to see its end—she’d be on her own once more. She’d make her own choices again, do things her way. When she built up her fortune, when she finally had that easy life she craved, she’d be the one telling other people what to do.

Rustling near the cots interrupted her musing. Light footsteps followed, bringing Ghleanna into view. “May I join you?”

Kestrel didn’t object. “Can’t sleep?”

“Nay. My mind swirls with too many thoughts.” The mage sat down cross-legged beside her.

She studied the half-elf. Ghleanna was a beautiful woman, combining the best features of her mixed heritage. The firelight glinted off the gold specks in her eyes and the highlights in her unbound golden hair. Kestrel could see the appeal the sorceress would hold for Athan, or any man for that matter. She wondered again if Ghleanna was romantically involved with the famed warrior. “Does Athan occupy some of those thoughts?” she asked boldly.

Ghleanna did not answer immediately, instead pushing a lock of hair behind one delicate, pointed ear. “Aye,” she finally admitted, bringing her knees up and hugging them to her chest. “Athan is very dear to me. News of his death would wound me deeply, but this not knowing… I think sometimes it is worse.”

Though Ghleanna had confirmed her suspicions, Kestrel floundered for a response. Since Quinn’s death she’d made a priority of keeping others at a distance. She’d never had the need—or felt the urge—to offer words of support to anyone on any occasion. A minute lapsed, then two, until a reply no longer seemed necessary.