Ruins of Myth Drannor (24 page)

Kestrel stifled a groan of dismay mixed with frustration. How could an artifact as important as the Gem of the Weave have been left in the care of someone too frail to protect it? Though the baelnorn had appeared formidable when they first discovered him, Mordrayn must have used her dreadful magic to take advantage of the guardian’s true age. “They stole it from you, didn’t they? Mordrayn and her minions?”

Silverblade yet stood with his back to them, hunched over the empty pillow. “Nay,” he said brokenly. “I—” His hand slowly formed a fist, as if his fingers closed around the missing stone. He straightened his spine, lifted his shoulders. “I destroyed it.”

Ghleanna gasped. “But how could you—”

He turned to face them, once more possessing the air of authority he’d momentarily lost. His hands no longer trembled, and he raised his chin. “Do you think I would let them have it? Do you think I would betray centuries of trust? I destroyed it!” His eyes challenged them to dispute the wisdom of his act. “The cult tried to steal the sapphire from me, and I annihilated it rather than allow the gem to fall into their clutches. I can no longer commune with the Mythal, for there no longer exists an instrument through which to do so.”

The baelnorn’s defiant tone discouraged anyone from questioning his decision. Besides, what would be the point? The gem was gone. Stillness filled the air—the sound of hope dying in the hearts of six weary adventurers.

Kestrel’s shoulders slumped. Without the sapphire, how could they possibly touch the Mythal, let alone redeem it? She thought with irony of all the gems that had passed through her rogue’s hands. She would have traded them all for this single stone.

That musing sparked another. She leaned forward as the notion took shape in her mind. “Can the gem be replaced?”

A fleeting expression of shock passed over the Protector’s face, transposed so quickly into one of mere surprise that Kestrel wasn’t entirely sure she’d seen it. “Replaced? I—I don’t know. Such an undertaking has never been attempted.” He paused, as if turning over the idea in his mind. “A new Gem of the Weave… We have nothing to lose in trying.”

“Consider us your servants.” Corran sprung to his feet. “Tell us what we can do to help. Do you need any special materials?” The others also rose.

“Only a gem,” the baelnorn replied. “Harldain Ironbar provided the original sapphire. He can direct you to a new stone. But you also must find a new communicant.”

Kestrel frowned. “Why? What about you?”

Miroden Silverblade shook his head wearily. “My time as Protector is over. A new Gem of the Weave requires a new guardian, someone who possesses the wisdom to guide the Mythal, the strength to survive symbiosis with the Weave, the power to keep the stone safe. And, of course, the willingness to spend eternity bound inextricably to the gem.”

The party exchanged glances. Kestrel knew she sure as hell wasn’t suited for such responsibility. None of them were. “Is there anyone in Myth Drannor who meets that description?”

“There is,” the baelnorn said. “No mortal could withstand the Mythal’s fire, but one exists who already knows the blessings—and curse—of immortality. Anorrweyn Evensong. The priestess is steeped in the lore of the Mythal, and her spirit has survived the trials of time and adversity. She would serve as the perfect communicant.”

“We shall hasten to ask her as soon as we finish with Harldain,” Corran said. “Assuming Anorrweyn agrees, how does she become bound to the new gem?”

“Once you obtain an appropriate stone, you must carry it up the spine of the Speculum to a focal point in the dragon’s back. With the gem in place, the new communicant recites the Incantation of the Weave. Anorrweyn knows the words—she was present at the first binding. This spellsong bonds the chanter to the gem and attunes the gem to the Mythal.”

“How will we know whether the ceremony succeeded?” Ghleanna asked. “Whether the Mythal accepted the new gem?”

“You will know.”

Corran started to put his helm back on his head. “We have much to do. We’d best get started.”

“Hold.” The Protector looked as if he had something more to say but struggled over whether to reveal it. His gaze swept the group, then came to rest on the trunks that stood behind them. “Yes,” he murmured, nodding to himself. “You need all the aid I have left within my power to give.”

He went to the trunks, brushed dust off the top of one and opened its groaning lid. “In this chest lie some of Myth Drannor’s greatest remaining treasures, items given me by the coronal himself to help me safeguard the Gem of the Weave. Though I have failed that duty, perhaps some item in here will help you succeed.” Reaching inside, he called Corran’s name. The paladin stepped forward.

“Are you trained to fight with a shield?”

“Aye, though I prefer to leave my left hand free.”

“You might prefer it to hold this.” The Protector withdrew an oval shield etched with white stars along its border. “This is a mageshield, designed to protect its user from death magic. Necromantic spells that hit this shield will bounce back at their caster.” His expression darkened, his gaze clouding with memories he alone could see. “‘Tis no less than those cult sorcerers deserve.” Corran accepted the gift and bowed low, looking as humble as Kestrel had ever seen him.

Silverblade collected himself and turned to the others. “Ghleanna Stormlake.” The half-elf walked to stand before the baelnorn. “Is that a magical staff you carry?”

“No, Protector.”

“This is.” He produced a six-foot wooden staff covered with ornate symbols and runes, most of them resembling flames and bolts of energy. “A spellstaff. Solid as oak, light as balsa. Use it as you would an ordinary quarterstaff. But should anyone send fire or lightning your way, the staff will absorb it. Tap it twice to release the energy at a target of your choosing.”

Ghleanna’s eyes shone with gratitude. “I have suffered terrible burns from fire magic these past days. I thank you, Protector.”

More gifts followed: bracers of protection from paralysis for Faeril, a ring of regeneration for Jarial, a trio of bronze-tipped arrows for Durwyn.

“Finally you, Kestrel.” Tremors raced up Kestrel’s arm as the Protector lifted her right hand. The silver ring she’d inherited from Athan’s band caught the light. “Do you know what this is you wear?”

She shook her head. “There’s nothing special-looking about it. I thought it was an ordinary silver ring.”

“On the contrary. You wear a mantle ring, a piece of magical jewelry crafted in the glory days of Myth Drannor. No doubt your ring earned its battered appearance from centuries of owners who engaged in dangerous missions like yours. The carvings have been worn until they look like mere scratches, but its power remains strong. This ring will shield you from injurious sorcerers’ spells.”

Kestrel thought of the magical hits she’d taken from the cultists and drow. “But it hasn’t protected me from anything.”

“Mantle rings must be worn in pairs. Its mate is probably lost to time.” He opened his hand to reveal another silver band of the same size. This one had a smooth surface engraved with tiny runes. “Wear this ring on your left hand, and a dozen spells will wash over you harmlessly.”

He dropped the ring in her palm. She stared at it, her intrinsic distrust of magic making her reluctant to put it on. Would she feel different? Would it have some other, unknown effect on her? She met the Protector’s gaze and, at his commanding nod, slipped the ring on her finger. Nothing dramatic happened. In fact, within moments she scarcely noticed its presence.

“Now go,” the baelnorn said, meeting each pair of eyes one by one. His face held a look of desperation. “Save the Mythal. For if Mordrayn and the cult use it for the great evil they intend, the City of Song can never be redeemed.”

“Back again, are you?” Harldain Ironbar greeted them as they entered his tower. “Did you find the old Protector?”

“We did indeed,” said Corran. “Now we’ve another favor to ask.”

“Name it.”

Corran told the old dwarf about the sapphire’s destruction at the baelnorn’s hands and their need for a new stone. Harldain stroked his beard. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He shook his head as if in disbelief. “Centuries ago, when we mined for the sapphire, Caalenfaire advised me to secure three gems. He said we would need more than one to ensure the Mythal’s survival. At the time, I thought he wanted some backups in case somethin’ went wrong during the incantation ceremony. But now I’ll wager he saw this day comin’. Imagine that! Way back then.”

“So you have another sapphire?”

“No. We couldn’t find two perfect sapphires. Once we had the first, all others seemed flawed—the color was off, or they lacked clarity, or some such thing. So we mined an emerald and a ruby instead. The ruby was destroyed by the nycaloth when the Armies of Darkness swept the city, but we still have the emerald, down in the Hoard.”

“The what?”

“The Hoard of the Onaglym Dwarves. Our private stash of treasure.”

Kestrel felt her energy flag. “Don’t tell me it’s back in the dwarven dungeons.” She couldn’t bear the thought of still more backtracking.

“Nope. It’s right below the courtyard. You know…” He cast a knowing look at Kestrel. “The one with your favorite statue.”

Kestrel remembered the animated, axe-swinging dwarf only too well. Even with the passkey to disable it this time around, she’d given the stone guardian a wide berth when they arrived. “Where’s the entrance to the Hoard?” she asked. “I searched the whole courtyard and didn’t find any secret doors or hidden stairways.”

“Did you check the statue itself?” He shrugged. “No matter. Even if you had, you couldn’t get at the Hoard without the Ironbar.”

Durwyn regarded the ghost in confusion. “Without you?”

Harldain winked and slipped a small baton out of a pocket in his robe. “No, this ironbar.” He handed the object to Kestrel. It was an ordinary-looking rod about twelve inches long, half an inch in diameter, and—judging from its weight—made of solid iron. “There’s a hole at the base of the statue. Push the rod into the opening to unseal the entrance.”

They hastened back to the courtyard, where they immediately put the ironbar to use. A great grinding sound echoed through the courtyard as the statue slowly slid backward to reveal a shaft about twenty feet deep. Rungs embedded in the wall formed a ladder. At the bottom was a passage opening, but from their vantage point they could not see where it led.

Kestrel stared down into the blackness, then swung herself over the edge and scaled the ladder. When her feet touched ground, the passage flared with sudden brightness.

“What’s that?” Corran called down.

She peered through the portal. The passage extended just three feet before opening into a large chamber lined with flaming torches. “Some sort of automatic lighting system. The treasure room’s right here. You can come down if you want, but the doorway’s only about four feet tall.” She crawled through the entrance and let out a low whistle. “Wow! Get a load of this… .”

Her exclamation sent the party scurrying down the shaft for a look at the legendary Hoard of the Onaglym Dwarves. Durwyn elected to remain above standing guard, but the others soon joined her wide-eyed survey of the scene. Jewels by the trunkful, gold by the ton, exquisitely crafted armor and weapons all lined the room. In the center, surrounded by glass, a palm-sized emerald hung suspended in mid-air, slowly rotating in place, its facets catching the torchlight and sending deep green rays dancing along the walls.

Kestrel walked toward the glass. “That must be what we’re looking for.”

“Aye, that it is.”

They all jumped at the sound of Harldain’s voice booming behind them. Without another word, the ghost approached the emerald, leaning on his cane as if it still supported the weight of a body. Though his hand penetrated the glass effortlessly as he reached toward the stone, he did not touch it.

“I wanted to see it one last time.” His gaze caressed the gem reverently. “You’ll not lay eyes on a finer emerald in all the Realms.” With obvious reluctance, he tore his eyes away from the stone. “The dwarves of Myth Drannor kept this emerald safe all these years, awaitin’ the need Caalenfaire foresaw. I now put it in your hands.”

In one fluid motion, he raised his cane and smashed the glass. Thousands of shards fell to the ground in a circle around the gem, which still levitated and spun.

Undaunted by the sharp fragments, Corran crushed them beneath his armored feet as he claimed the emerald. “We shall defend the gem with our lives until a new Protector guards it.”

“Let me help.” Harldain crossed to a collection of prominently displayed armor and weapons. “These are the finest items our dwarven craftsmen ever produced, augmented by the spells of the coronal’s best wizards for those who defended the City of Song in the Weepin’ War. Rather than let such powerful articles fall into enemy hands, they were enchanted to return here if their bearers fell in battle.” Harldain brushed his fingers along the edge of a breastplate that seemed to glow with inner light. His eyes held a far-off expression, as if he were remembering the soldier who last wore the piece. He cleared his throat. “They’ve been in this chamber ever since, and they aren’t doin’ anyone any good just sittin’ down here,” he said gruffly. “Take whatever you can use.”

Kestrel gazed at the collection in awe, her eyes drawn in particular to a set of leather armor about her size, which looked more supple than a pair of ladies’ kid gloves. Was it truly hers for the taking?

Harldain noted her admiration. “That suit will protect you much better than what you’re sportin’ now and let you move much easier. You’ll think you’re wearin’ silk pajamas.”

She laughed at the absurd statement—no armor could feel like that.

“Try it on if you don’t believe me.”

To her astonishment, she found Harldain hadn’t been exaggerating. The pieces fit as if they’d been made for her and felt light as an ordinary shirt. “Take it,” he urged. She couldn’t argue.

The others each selected lighter, better protection than what they’d been wearing. Even the sorcerers found cloaks enchanted to repel enemy attacks. Durwyn, still standing watch above, was not forgotten—Harldain himself chose a suit of lightweight plate sized for the warrior’s large build.