Ruins of Myth Drannor (18 page)

“The man who raised you—” Ghleanna began tentatively, breaking her gaze away from the fire to regard Kestrel. “Was he a good man?”

“He was.” She grinned, more to herself than Ghleanna. “Not an honest man, mind you, but a good man.”

“Does he yet live?”

Her grin faded. “Quinn died in a tavern brawl when I was twelve. Slipped an ace up his sleeve once too often.” She glanced toward the cots, where the others all seemed to have dozed off at last. “I can only imagine what Lord D’Arcey would think about that.”

Ghleanna flashed her a conspiratorial smile. “He shan’t hear of it from me.”

“Thanks.” They lapsed into silence again. Kestrel felt as if she ought to return the other woman’s show of interest. “What about your folks?” She prepared to sit through the tale of some aristocratic elven or human house—perhaps both.

“I never knew my parents, either,” the half-elf said softly. “My mother died birthing me, and my father—well, he’d gone back to his human wife and son before I was born.” Ghleanna returned her gaze to the fire, apparently finding it easier to avoid eye contact when talking about herself. “My uncle took me into his household, but he resented a ‘half-breed’ growing up alongside his elven children. ‘Twas not until my human brother found me—after our father had died—that I felt I truly had a family.”

Kestrel listened with surprise. She’d always found the ways of wizards so mysterious that she never considered the real, flesh-and-blood people beneath the robes. She’d assumed the half-elf boasted a pedigree similar to Corran’s, one full of wealthy family members eager to pay for her magical training or anything else she desired. The rogue had never imagined Ghleanna’s background could have a thing in common with her own.

The sorceress yawned and rose. “Dawn shall be upon us all too quickly, I think. Will you retire as well?”

“Soon,” Kestrel answered. Ghleanna had given her much to ponder.

At first light, the party set out for the southwest ruins. They entered the ghost shrine to hear Anorrweyn’s spirit still repeating her lonely, sorrowful call.

“Where are the followers of Mystra?” The cry seemed to echo off the intangible walls.

Faeril stepped forward, holding out the medallion she wore around her neck. “Here, priestess! Mystra’s faithful still walk this earth. I am Faeril, but one of Our Lady’s many servants.”

Goosebumps prickled Kestrel’s arms as she waited to see whether the elven spirit would respond. The room fell unnaturally silent. No sounds from outside seemed to penetrate the spectral building, and those who stood within scarcely dared to breathe.

A faint scent stole into the air. Kestrel inhaled the musky perfume, searching her mind to identify the familiar fragrance. Gardenias.

Moments later, the slender figure of a woman appeared—at first dim and wavering, then brighter and steadier. A small nose, high cheekbones and a soft mouth set off the large turquoise eyes that dominated her heart-shaped face. Long, dark tresses cascaded over her shoulders, disappearing behind the silky fabric of her close-fitting green gown. Though an emerald ferronniere crowned her forehead, in truth Anorrweyn Evensong needed no adornment.

Kestrel absently ran her fingers through her short, boyish locks. The priestess’s understated elegance made the rogue suddenly self-conscious of her own rough-and-tumble appearance. Kestrel knew that while she might have the dexterity of a cat, she’d never possess one-tenth Anorrweyn’s grace. In the past, women like this gentle elf made her feel defensive, but somehow this spirit struck a chord in her.

“Faeril.” The elven spirit smiled and extended her hand toward the cleric. Her fingertips came within inches of Faeril’s face but did not touch it. “You are truly a daughter of Mystra?”

“Yes, priestess. Your sect has suffered hardship but yet survives.”

“I had feared the spinning centuries had put an end to Our Lady’s worship.” Anorrweyn’s gaze swept the group. “These are your companions?”

“Yes, priestess.”

The spirit then studied the party one member at a time, briefly assessing each person as Faeril made introductions. When Anorrweyn’s eyes met Kestrel’s, the thief felt warmth and peace pass through her. “You are the heroes who freed the remains of my temple from the evil creatures who laid claim to it.” Anorrweyn’s voice had lost its melancholy timbre, and its tones now fell soft as spring rain. “How may I aid you in return? Speak quickly—my foothold in your time is light.”

Corran removed his helm and genuflected before her. “The Mythal is in jeopardy, priestess. Evildoers have corrupted its magic and harnessed its power for their own diabolical ends.”

“Yes, I feel them, even through the years. They have raised an abomination under the very seat of the coronal, an abomination that cracks stone and earth in its hunger.” She extended her hand toward the paladin. “Rise, holy knight.”

Corran obeyed. Though his large form physically dwarfed the priestess, it was she who exuded more presence. “They plan to overtake first Myth Drannor and then all Faerűn,” Corran continued, “raising a dracolich to ultimate dominion over all.”

If it was possible for a bloodless, incorporeal being to pale, Anorrweyn Evensong did so. “They cannot be allowed to succeed!”

“We have made it our mission to stop them,” Ghleanna said. “But we have only an imperfect understanding of the Mythal. We come to you seeking knowledge.”

“I will gladly share all I have. Please, sit and rest as the Mythal’s tale is one that spans centuries. I will tell as much as I can before my spirit slips back into the past.” She gestured toward several benches that looked as if they’d been literally tossed into the corner. Broken legs and blocks of stone lay scattered around them. “I regret I cannot offer you better hospitality, but I believe you may find an intact seat or two in that pile.”

They found three benches that appeared sound enough to support the weight of six people. Corran and Durwyn positioned them in a half-circle. Kestrel and the others sat down—all except Durwyn, who repeatedly glanced over his shoulder at the entrance. “I don’t want any more nagas to surprise us,” he said finally. “I’ll stand guard and listen from the door.”

The fighter’s absence left an empty space beside Kestrel. To her surprise, the ghost herself took that seat. Had Caalenfaire come so close, Kestrel would have jumped like a rabbit but somehow she felt calm in Anorrweyn’s presence. A fleeting look of envy passed over Faeril’s features at Kestrel’s proximity to Anorrweyn, but the cleric’s own seat actually offered a better view of the priestess.

“The Mythal was woven in the Year of Soaring Stars,” the spirit began. “The city’s greatest wizards, most of them elves, came together to lay the Mythal. Working cooperatively, they wove a spell greater than the sum of its casters. Each chose a special power to infuse into the mantle, and each gave some of his or her life to engender it.” The ghostly elf turned to Corran. “You wish to speak?”

Anorrweyn’s perceptiveness impressed Kestrel—the priestess had not even been looking at him directly. “Yes,” Corran said, appearing startled himself. “What kind of powers?”

“All kinds. Protections preventing certain types of magic from being used within the city. Interdicts to prevent undesirable races—such as drow, orcs, and goblins—from entering the city. The creation of amenities such as blueglow moss for the injured and a featherfall effect for the clumsy. These are but a few.” The elven priestess glanced at the others as if checking whether more questions were forthcoming. Seeing no such indication, she continued. “The chief caster, Mythanthor, sacrificed his life to bring the Mythal into being. The weaving process consumed him body and soul. This sacrifice he made willingly, that by his death the Mythal and his beloved city would live.”

Kestrel tried to imagine the fierce and selfless dedication of the wizard Mythanthor but found she could not. She’d never believed in anything strongly enough to give her life for it, and she doubted she ever would.

“The City of Song knew centuries of glory under the mantle of the Weave,” Anorrweyn continued. “Ah, the beauty of those times… the Serpentspires, the Glim-gardens… We floated on the air! But then the Armies of Darkness came.” Anorrweyn’s image flickered. “I hear their thunder, see their fire… .”

Faeril started forward. “Priestess?”

Anorrweyn hovered between planes, phasing in and out of the present. “My spirit slides back to those wicked days even as I tell their tale.” Her image solidified but the priestess swayed. “The drums. Can you hear the drums?” She closed her eyes, frowning in concentration. “No, of course you cannot. I must tighten my grip on the present. Show me your medallion again, daughter.”

Faeril knelt before the priestess and laid the amulet at her feet. The wavering ceased for a time. The cleric remained on her knees. “Prithee continue priestess, if you can.”

Anorrweyn raised her hand to her temples, forcing herself to focus. “The Weeping Wars that ruined Myth Drannor damaged the Mythal as well. Many of its powers were lost or weakened. The surviving city leaders met in secret to devise a way to save the Mythal from further decay. After years of study and debate, they decided to create an artifact now known as the Gem of the Weave. Through this gem, the Mythal could be monitored and, as necessary, tuned. One person alone would be forever entrusted with the power and responsibility of using the gem to protect and maintain the Mythal.

“Our city engineer, Harldain Ironbar, secured an appropriate gem—a perfect sapphire—and the city’s most powerful spellcasters created the Incantation of the Weave to bind the sapphire to the Mythal. But a communicant was needed, a person who would bind his or her spirit to the gem. Once again, a far-seeing elf came forward to sacrifice his life to protect what remained of this great city. Miroden Silverblade, a lord of House Ammath, willingly ended his mortal existence to spend eternity as a baelnorn—an immortal guardian. Now known simply as the Protector, he holds safe the Sapphire of the Weave, which he uses to commune with and tune the Mythal.”

“It seems we should meet this Protector,” Corran said.

Kestrel did not relish the thought of encountering yet another ghost. Anorrweyn wasn’t so bad—the rogue might have forgotten the priestess was a spirit at all were it not for her translucence and her tentative hold on the present. However, the image of Caalenfaire in his scrying chair still gave her the shudders.

Ghleanna nodded in response to Corran’s statement. “How well do you know the baelnorn?” she asked Anorrweyn. “If we seek help from him, will he aid us?”

“I know he would,” the priestess responded. “Guarding the Mythal is his whole reason for being. Miroden Silverblade can use the gem to undo the corruption of the Mythal. That should help you drive out the evil that has invaded Myth Drannor.”

“Can you take us to him?” Jarial asked.

“Alas, I cannot.” A note of sorrow crept into the spirit’s voice. “Once my spirit walked freely on this plane to continue My Lady’s work. But vandals stole my skull from its resting place beneath this shrine. I cannot leave this ghostly building until it is returned. Forsooth, I can scarcely cling to the present.” Her image flickered again, disappearing for longer beats of time than before. “Eltargrim—Coronal—where are you? Shall the Tel’Quessir drown uncaptained in this dark sea?”

Kestrel found herself feeling sympathy for the trapped spirit: Anorrweyn’s consciousness had survived her death only to see her mortal remains scattered about like so much litter. How horrible—to have pieces of one’s body dispersed over ruins, while one’s consciousness forever flitted between centuries.

“No, no—I must hold to the living moment a while longer.” The priestess clawed at the air, fighting a temporal battle they could not witness. “Night falls again on the eve of my death. The spellfire comes. Listen, before I am caught in its blaze once more… .Seek out the baelnorn yourselves. He lives deep below Myth Drannor’s surface, in the catacombs beneath Castle Cormanthor. Harldain Ironbar, whose spirit yet haunts the Onaglym, can help you gain access to the catacombs. Once inside, the baelnorn’s lair is marked with the Rune of the Protector.” She traced the symbol in the air. To reach him, you must know the Word of Safekeeping: Fhaomiir.”

Corran rose and bowed once more. “We thank you for your aid, Anorrweyn Evensong. I but wish we could do more to help you.”

“You can…” Anorrweyn’s image flickered, disappearing for so long that Kestrel thought she would not return. Nonetheless, the strong-willed spirit fought her way back to the present one more time. “I believe my graverobbers were minions of a lich who dwelt within the catacombs. They may have taken their prize there. If you should happen upon my skull—”

“Of course,” Corran said.

“I could then stand with both feet in this time. I could help you further.” Anorrweyn smiled, the first smile they had seen from her. The expression lit her whole face with an angelic glow, sparking a response in Kestrel that caught the rogue by surprise. She wanted to aid the ghostly priestess, wanted to help this gentle, noble spirit obtain some peace as she faced eternity trapped on this earth.

“I promise you, priestess, we will do all we can,” Kestrel said solemnly. “It would be our privilege to restore your skull to its sacred resting place.”

The vow—the first words Kestrel had spoken since Anorrweyn appeared—pleased the priestess. Corran looked at her in astonishment, approval dawning in his eyes.

Kestrel rose and turned away from the paladin’s gaze, intending to join Durwyn at the entrance. She didn’t need Corran D’Arcey’s approval, or anyone else’s for that matter. Helping Anorrweyn just felt like the right thing to do.

A small cry from Faeril arrested her attention. Anorrweyn’s form was fading from view, wavering and shimmering as it dimmed.

“Be not afraid, daughter,” the priestess said. “I must leave you now. But return with my skull and I shall be stronger.” Anorrweyn Evensong was but a faint outline now, rapidly disappearing altogether. “Trumpets cry… the tide rushes in… .Summon the armathors!”

With that, the elven spirit was gone. The scent of gardenias lingered.