Ruins of Myth Drannor (14 page)

“Tell them, Volun,” Caalenfaire said finally.

“The Cult of the Dragon is a secret society, four and more centuries old,” Volun said, its eyes flashing red light once more. “Its founder was the madman Sammaster, a sorcerer who believed it is Toril’s destiny to be ruled by dead dragons.”

Kestrel had remained quiet until this point, not wanting to draw the attention of either the skull or its unsettling master. Now she felt compelled to question the outrageous statement. “Dead dragons? You said he was mad, but where in the Abyss did he come up with that idea?”

“From a passage in the oracle Maglas’s book of prophecies, Chronicle of Years to Come.”

Caalenfaire passed a hand over his scrying bowl. A distant, ancient voice echoed from within. “Nought will be left save shattered thrones, with no rulers but the dead. Dragons shall rule the world entire.”

“Sammaster mistranslated the passage,” Volun said. “He thought it said ‘The dead dragons shall rule the world.’ He founded the Cult of the Dragon to bring that prophecy to fruition.”

“How do the cultists operate?” Kestrel asked.

The diviner stirred. He leaned back in his chair, but his gaze never left the scrying bowl. “Let the little bird come closer, that she may see.”

Kestrel’s heart slammed in her chest so hard that her pulse roared in her ears. Come closer? To an undead sorcerer? She’d never experienced a stronger impulse to turn tail and run. Somehow, she forced her feet to remain rooted to the floor as she glanced at her companions. Corran gave her a sharp look and jerked his chin toward the throne. She shook her head. No way.

Then she realized that the others waited for her to move forward. She would look the coward if she refused. Swallowing hard, she approached. Caalenfaire slid his left hand down the side of the scrying bowl so she could see into it, but otherwise he remained still. She peered into the water.

“The cult finds evil dragons willing to undergo the transformation into dracoliches—undead dragons,” Volun said. As the skull spoke, an image appeared in the scrying bowl. A dozen cult sorcerers gathered around a blue dragon. The cultists performed some arcane ceremony involving the dragon and a large diamond. One of the cult sorcerers poured a potion into the dragon’s mouth. Within moments, a glow appeared in the center of the diamond. As the glow strengthened, the dragon’s skin shriveled and dried, its body becoming a corpse.

“In exchange for their mortal lives,” Volun continued, “the dragons gain additional powers in their new undead state. They also win the cult’s promise to help elevate them to world domination.” The scene showed the archmage touching the diamond, uttering a few words, then touching the dragon’s skeletal remains. The glow disappeared from the diamond as the dragon corpse jerked violently and rose, red flames flickering in its empty eye sockets.

Kestrel shuddered as the image faded away. She’d known the cult sorcerers were evil, but this kind of diabolical magic went beyond her comprehension. It made Caalenfaire and his familiar look downright approachable.

Well, not quite. As soon as she could politely do so, she backed away from the diviner’s throne. “So this Kya Mordrayn person—she runs the whole cult?”

“The cult operates in cells,” Volun said, “pockets of followers scattered throughout the continent of Faerűn. While each cell has its own leadership, the cult as a whole has no central power structure. The individual cells are too fractious to get along with each other. Such an organization necessarily attracts the unbalanced and power-hungry. Mordrayn is the archmage of a single, but strong, cell.”

“And she’s helping Pelendralaar amass enough power to take over the world?” Corran asked. “That’s rather ambitious, isn’t it? Even for a fanatic.”

“She has unraveled the great Weave.” Caalenfaire’s voice held a disturbing note of resignation.

“Mordrayn and Pelendralaar use the powerful magic of the Mythal to advance their goals,” Volun said. “With such strong sorcery to aid them, Master fears they may actually succeed.”

The diviner passed a hand over his scrying bowl, frowning. “Poison has reached the heart.”

“Master Caalenfaire senses great evil deep within Castle Cormanthor. We believe this evil, whatever it is, helped contaminate the Mythal. Cleanse the Mythal and defeat the cult, and you might have a chance at destroying the evil that has overtaken the castle.”

Kestrel stifled a groan. Cleanse the Mythal and defeat a bunch of insane cultists—as if doing so were as easy as picking a fat nobleman’s pocket.

“Something troubles the little bird,” Caalenfaire said.

Kestrel wished he would stop calling her that, but she wasn’t about to tell him so. “This whole mission troubles me. ‘Cleanse the Mythal.’ ‘Seize the power of the Mythal.’ How are we supposed to take control of something we can’t see or touch?”

Caalenfaire consulted his bowl once more. “The Path dims now. It twists.” His voice seemed to span a great distance, not just the boundary of death but the march of time. “Still, the signs are clear. You must get up from under. Beyond the Circle, find Harldain Ironbar. You can enter his tower in the House of Gems only from the surface. Harldain is your ally. Heed well his counsel.”

Volun’s voice also seemed to be fading from the present. “To reach the Heights, you must unseal the Circle of Mythanthor. You have seen it—a great golden circle in the floor, in the uppermost part of the dungeons. You need the Ring of Calling to unseal the Circle. Master, look into your bowl. Can it tell you where the Ring of Calling lies?”

“I am looking. It is unclear. They are Veiled Ones now, and their shadow darkens anything they might touch or any place they might go. There are many possibilities. The Tulun Wall… the Corridor of Salg… but first they should try the Room of Words in the Onaglym. Yes! But look— Resheshannen!”

“Master has spoken the Word of Oblivion. When you find the ring, use this word to release it from its once-proud bones. Wear the ring while standing in the Circle.”

Ghleanna bowed. “We thank you, Master Caalenfaire and Volun. You have lent our quest new direction.”

“The sword, Volun, the sword,” Caalenfaire murmured. “Now that their path lies in shadow, they need it more than ever.”

“Oh, yes—Master has a gift for you. Examine the scrying pedestal in the main hall. An arrow will guide you. And Master says the little bird should fear not Loren’s Blade. It carries no curse.”

Kestrel started at the unexpected announcement about the magical weapon she’d acquired from Athan’s band. How had the diviner known she harbored doubts? The returning dagger had not even come up in conversation.

Caalenfaire seemed to have lapsed back into a trance, and Volun’s eyes had gone dark. One at a time, the adventurers retreated down the stairs. Anxious as Kestrel was to depart, she hesitated to turn her back on the ghost and thus found herself the last one standing on the balcony. As she finally turned to go, the diviner’s tremulous voice broke the stillness once more.

“The bird of prey feels under attack.”

Kestrel froze. Why, oh why, had he singled her out? Slowly, she faced him. “I thought I was ‘talibund.’ What do you know of me?”

“You do not share the others’ idealism. You speak uncomfortable truths… .I know something of that.”

She grew warm, her hands trembling with nervous energy as if she’d been caught red-handed at some shady activity. Could the old ghost see straight into her soul?

“There is one in particular with whom you clash.”

Corran.As if on cue, the paladin’s voice floated up to them. “Kestrel?”

“Coming!” she called, not taking her gaze off the spectral wizard.

“Be of two minds but one heart,” Caalenfaire said, his image fading from view and his voice seeming to echo from some far-off place. “Do not let conflict between you threaten your mission. It is too important.” With that, the ghostly diviner and his familiar faded away altogether.

Kestrel paused to catch her breath before heading down the stairs. The apparition’s words had left her feeling exposed, as if all her thoughts and emotions were on display for anyone to see. She shook her shoulders in an attempt to shrug off the sensation.

By the time Kestrel rejoined the others, they had already begun to examine the base of the scrying pedestal and had located a rune shaped like an arrowhead. Jarial had followed its point until he found a crack in the marble, which he’d traced to outline a secret panel. Kestrel tried to pry it off but ultimately had to give up and let Ghleanna cast an opening spell upon it.

Corran reached in and withdrew a gleaming silver long sword. He held the blade reverently, testing its weight and balance. The weapon seemed almost an extension of the paladin’s own hand, so smoothly did it arc and thrust under his command. As Kestrel watched him swing the sword from side to side, Caalenfaire’s final words echoed in her mind.

“‘Tis a magnificent weapon—light but sturdy—the finest I’ve ever held.” Corran swept the blade through the air one more time, then offered its jeweled hilt to Durwyn. “Care to test it?”

The guard hefted his axe. “Nay, this is my weapon. I’d hardly know what to do with a long sword.”

Corran shrugged and offered the blade to Kestrel. Though she could defend herself with a sword in a pinch—hell, she could defend herself with a frying pan if she had to—her swordsmanship wasn’t nearly worthy of such a weapon. “Keep it, Corran,” she said. “You wield it much better than I ever could.”

He gazed at the blade a moment more. “I shall call this sword ‘Pathfinder,’ that it may help us find our own way to defeat Mordrayn and the Pool.”

They did not tarry longer. The diviner’s cryptic hints and warnings had created a sense of urgency in them all. As the party headed back to the Rohnglyn, Kestrel fell into step beside Durwyn. “Little bird,” he said absently.

“What?”

“Caalenfaire called you a little bird. So did Preybelish. I just realized why—they were referring to your name.” He stopped and regarded her quizzically. “Why did your parents name you after a falcon?”

Kestrel stared at him. They’d just learned from a spooky diviner that a dracolich and some mad cultists were trying to take over Faerűn, and he was asking about her name? “They didn’t.”

“But a kestrel is a—”

“I know what a kestrel is,” she snapped. “My parents didn’t give me my name. I got it from the man who found me as a baby after they were killed.” Her tone softened as she thought of Quinn. He’d been passing by the burned-out house and heard her hungry cries coming from the root cellar where her parents must have hidden her before brigands put arrows in their chests and set the cottage ablaze. “He said when he first saw me I reminded him of a falcon because he’d never seen such fierce eyes in so little a person.”

She flushed, self-conscious at having revealed the personal story to a group of people she barely considered allies, let alone friends. Durwyn had caught her off-guard. No one had ever asked about her name before. As she looked away from Durwyn, she caught Corran regarding her pensively. Yes, she was a ragamuffin raised by a rogue stranger—she’d probably just confirmed every low opinion he held of her.

She noted Ghleanna’s gaze on her also. The sorceress, however, regarded her not with condescension but with understanding. Her expression surprised Kestrel—the half-elf had seemed reserved until now, except on the subject of Athan. Perhaps her missing lover made her empathetic to the losses of others.

They reached the dancing lights of the Rohnglyn. Just before Jarial touched the golden sphere to take them back into the dwarven dungeons, Kestrel glanced up at the balcony once more.

Caalenfaire and Volun reappeared. For the first time, the diviner gazed at the party instead of into his scrying bowl, his face careworn but hopeful.

Outside the entrance to the House of Gems tower, the body of the cult sorcerer Kestrel and her companions had defeated lay undisturbed. Either the cultists had not passed through the door to the Room of Words since the party was last here or they had stepped over their comrade’s body as if it were no more than a piece of litter.

To the group’s surprise, they found the tower door unlocked. It opened into a single round room about thirty feet in diameter, a curved stone staircase spiraling up the far wall. The chamber was empty of furnishings or occupants.

“At last a lucky break,” Durwyn said as he strode forward.

“Wait!” Kestrel grabbed his arm. The cultists were no fools—and neither were dwarven engineers. She studied the circular room, noting a line of what appeared to be pockmarks rimming the stone wall at a height of about five feet She knelt to retrieve one of the daggers from her boots but changed her mind and withdrew Loren’s Blade instead. The magical dagger would better serve her purpose.

With a snap of her wrist, she sent the weapon hurling through the air at eye level. Dozens of darts came flying from the wall in rapid succession, shooting out of the holes on one side and into the holes opposite. The others gasped in surprise. Durwyn let out a low whistle.

Kestrel herself was so startled by the profusion of missiles that she almost forgot to catch Loren’s Blade as it returned to her. “The darts flew too fast for me to see, but I’ll wager they’re spiked on both ends,” she said. To prove her point, she threw the dagger again, with the same results.

“A perpetual trap,” she explained. “There’s no need to reset it once it’s sprung. The darts can cross the room over and over until doomsday.” Though Kestrel forced herself to adopt a nonchalant all-in-a-day’s-work demeanor, inwardly she cursed every person under four feet tall who’d ever lived in this city. She admired the dwarves’ engineering prowess—not one dart had missed its chamber—but damn, they made her life more difficult.

Durwyn rubbed the stubble on his chin. “So how do we get past the trap?”

On a hunch, Kestrel flung Loren’s Blade across the room once more, this time four feet off the ground. Nothing happened, except that her weapon clanked against the wall and boomeranged back to her hand.

That was the secret, then. “The trap’s designed to strike nondwarves—people taller than them.” She addressed Durwyn primarily but extended her gaze to include the others. “As long as we stay close to the ground, we should be all right.”