Ruins of Myth Drannor (26 page)

Kestrel felt her heart skip a beat. “I think Jarial is working on something.”

Faeril released a groan. “Tell him to work faster.”

A moment later, Jarial finished mumbling.

“Oh!” the cleric exclaimed. “Kestrel, Jarial… you can let go.”

“W—what?” Kestrel stared at her in shock.

“I’ve boosted her strength,” Jarial said.

Kestrel looked from him back to Faeril and reluctantly loosed her grip. Faeril rose to a crouch, some of the strain gone from her face. “Help me lift him,” she said to Corran in a steady voice.

As the others watched in mute amazement, the cleric rose to her feet, bringing Durwyn’s legs with her. Had she been taller, she could have lifted his whole body over the edge, gripping him by the ankles like a plucked goose. As it was, Corran guided the warrior’s chest and head over the edge of the staircase while Faeril pulled him to safety.

“Damn…” Kestrel muttered. Magically boosted or not, she’d never seen a woman perform such an incredible feat of strength. Her voice was swallowed by the wind, which had changed direction and now carried a chill. The sun sank lower behind the horizon.

They continued up the stairs with as much haste as they could. Ahead, Kestrel saw a circle crowned by bony-looking spires. The dragon’s spine, Anorrweyn and the Protector had called it, and now she understood why. The spindly arches looked like the vertebrae of a great beast. They rose toward the darkened sky, somehow untouched by the missiles that had bombarded the stairs. The circle had to be their destination.

The higher they climbed, the more the wind buffeted them about. By the time they reached the apex, their hair whipped about their faces and they had to shout to be heard. Lingering rays of sunlight streaked across the sky.

The party entered the circle with more desperation than reverence. Runes and intricate knotwork, similar to what they had seen inside the Hall of Wizards, covered the stone floor. About ten feet above, the bony spires arced toward a central hollow just large enough for a certain gem.

“Let’s do this and get out of here,” Kestrel said. Though she scanned the shadows, she saw no sign of the priestess. “Where’s Anorrweyn?”

“We’ll have to wait for her,” Faeril said.

Out of the corner of her eye, Kestrel detected movement in the near-darkness. She turned, scanning the sky. More wings, and lots of them. “We don’t have time to wait.” She pointed. “There’s a whole flight of gargoyles coming at us! Put the emerald in place!”

Corran hesitated. “We don’t know the—”

“Just do it!”

The wind had become a gale, speeding the gargoyles closer each second. In the light of the dying sun, Kestrel could see a sinister gleam of hatred in their eyes. They hurled themselves at the party with frightening velocity.

Boosted by Durwyn, Corran slid the emerald into its setting. The gem caught the last ray of light just before the sun faded from view. The beam sparked a glow in the emerald that immediately radiated in a sphere so large as to encompass the entire Speculum in a pale green aura.

The gargoyles, too fast and too close to change their course, slammed into the intangible field. Their bodies bounced off the barrier like hail.

“Such creatures of evil deserve nothing less,” said a soft voice behind them. Anorrweyn had materialized. Despite the force field, wind still whipped through the stone circle so hard that Kestrel and others had trouble staying on their feet. The ghost, however, appeared to exist in a state of perfect calm. Not a strand of her hair was disturbed.

Durwyn stared up at the green bubble surrounding them. “Is that the Mythal?”

“Nay, merely a force that protects us from predators whilst we conduct the incantation ceremony,” Anorrweyn said. “Let us begin.”

They parted to let her advance. When she reached the center of the circle, she offered a brief prayer to Mystra, then raised her hands toward the emerald and closed her eyes. “Qu’kiir vian ivae, qu’kiir nethmet.” Her voice was barely audible.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. “Ivae marat vand Cormanthor,” Anorrweyn chanted softly. “Mythal selen mhaor kenet. Qu’kiir vand tir t’nor.”

Anorrweyn’s hair and gown fluttered gently, as if stirred by a soft breeze. “Qu’kiir vian ivae, qu’kiir nethmet,” she repeated, this time more loudly.

Kestrel shook off the words’ hypnotic effect to edge closer to Ghleanna. “You speak Elvish, don’t you?” she said just loudly enough to be heard above the roar of the wind. “What does she say?”

Ghleanna leaned close, but never took her eyes off the priestess. “The words are ancient, so my understanding is limited,” she responded. “But roughly: Binding gem, awaken your light. Dance the weave of the Mythal. Bind it to me that I might drive corruption from our home.”

Anorrweyn reached the end of the verse once more. “Qu’kiir vand tir t’nor.” Another thunderclap boomed, much closer than the first. Without pause, she began again.

“Qu’kiir vian ivae, qu’kiir nethmet.” The priestess tossed back her head, entirely given over to the incantation. She chanted the mystical words in a clear, strong voice that rose above the wind’s howl. Her hair streamed behind her now, as if the natural forces of this plane finally touched her.

An enormous crack of thunder rent the air. Kestrel nearly jumped out of her skin as the echo reverberated through the night, but Anorrweyn never ceased in her chant. She shouted the words heavenward. “Qu’kiir vand tir t’nor!”

Slowly, Anorrweyn rose into the air as if drawn up by some unseen hand. When her fingertips touched the emerald, deep green light burst forth. The radiance spouted beyond the protective field and into the night sky, where it diffused into a wavery mantle of prismatic light that extended as far as the eye could see.

Kestrel gasped. Surely they gazed upon the Mythal itself.

The great Weave coursed with power beyond mortal comprehension, yet it was also a thing of overwhelming beauty. Strands of every hue interlaced in complex knotwork patterns that overlapped so tightly as to form an unbroken blanket of light and energy. The mantle enveloped the city as lovingly as a mother’s arms encircle her child.

Yet as they watched, an oily blackness—darker even than the night sky—stole into the fabric of the Weave, oozing between its strands. The taint spread, appearing to open up gaping holes in the sacred shield. Beyond lay not the stars of the heavens, but nothingness.

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.”

“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.”