Pool of Radiance Page 4

  He opened his mouth to say something but seemed to change his mind. "I suppose."

  They distributed the goods amongst themselves. For the time being, Ghleanna carried the vials, planning to examine them later to see if she could identify their con­tents. Durwyn added several dozen arrows to his supply. Corran offered Kestrel an ordinary-looking dagger Loren had been carrying. "You seem to know how to use these."

  "Thanks." She gestured toward the ring. "I'll take that too, if no one minds. It won't fit either of you."

  "And it can be sold for a fair price when we return, right?" Corran said dryly. He glanced at the others, then tossed it to her. "It's yours."

  She slid the dagger into a sheath on her belt and slipped the ring on her right middle finger where it wouldn't impede the dexterity of her dominant left hand.

  They had just moved the last body into the makeshift crypt when a shout drifted out of another nearby building.

  "Leave that alone! Hey—leave me alone! Scat! Scat, I tell ye! Git yer stinkin' carcasses outta here! Hey—help!"

  They hurried off in the direction of the cries, following them to a well-fortified building that looked as if it might once have been an armory. A foul stench issued forth, one that reminded Kestrel of the undead bandit she'd seen last night beside Phlan's pool.

  Within, they found a half dozen rotting, animated orc corpses in tattered clothing circling what appeared to be a peddler's wagon. Atop it, fending off the creatures with anything he could lay his hands on, perched a very irri­tated halfling. His leather armor seemed to deflect most of the zombies' claws, but a few scratch marks marred his arms and round, ruddy cheeks.

  "Git back, I said!" He brained the nearest creature with a cast-iron frying pan, then tossed a basket over the head of another. "Whew! Ye need some perfume!" He unstopped a vial and flung its contents in the eyes of a third.

  Durwyn moved to engage the undead beings, but Cor­ran stayed him. The paladin stepped forward. "Foul crea­tures of darkness!" he called out in a commanding tone.

  The zombies turned in the direction of his voice and staggered toward their new target, arms outstretched.

  "Great," Kestrel muttered. Now the creatures were coming to attack them. At least these things moved slowly. Just as she was about to draw the twin daggers from her boots, Corran held a silver symbol of Tyr aloft.

  "Begone!" he cried. "Trouble this man no more!"

  The creatures moaned and tried to shield their eyes as they backed away. They shuffled jerkily toward a rear exit and out into the night. Within minutes the armory was free of their presence, though their odor lingered.

  The halfling scrambled down from his perch and over to Corran. "Thank ye, sir," he said, removing his red knit cap and sweeping into a bow that revealed the start of a bald spot in the center of his thin brown curls. "Nottle's the name. Purveyor of the finest equipment and goods in all Myth Drannor." He straightened. "An' who might ye be?"

  "Corran D'Arcey, Defender of Tyr. These are my com­panions, Durwyn, Kestrel, and Ghleanna Stormlake."

  "Well met!" Nottle bowed again in greeting, then stooped to retrieve his merchandise. He hung the frying pan back on the wagon and picked up a quarterstaff from the floor. "Usually I can fend off the beasts m'self, but t'night they got m'staff away from me."

  "This happens all the time?" Kestrel asked. "Why do you stay?"

  "Business is good here, m'dear," he said. "Adventurers comin' and goin', all thinkin' they're gonna strike it rich, then discoverin' they ain't as prepared as they thought they were. That's where I come in. Actually, the place has gotten a little less dangerous lately—them dreadful alhoon and phaerimm creatures have left this part of the city. The baatezu, too. 'Course, now we have the drow and undead to put up with, so it's not exac'ly paradise. Say, are ye needin' anythin? I'll cut ye a deal, seeing as Corran here saved my wagon just now."

  "Drow?" Ghleanna asked.

  "Indeed, m'dear. They mostly stay below, in the dun­geons, but I've seen a few here on the surface. At night, a'course."

  Kestrel shuddered. She'd never encountered a drow before, but she'd heard tales of the ruthless subterranean elven race. They were said to have dark skin, shockingly white hair, and no mercy.

  "An adventuring band was killed today not far from here," Corran said. "Did you ever do business with them?"

  "Athan's band? Sad thing, that—them gittin' killed. I hope they weren't friends of yers?" He lowered his voice to a con­spiratorial whisper. "Word is, the scarred mages got 'em."

  At the mention of scarred mages, a tingle raced along Kestrel's collarbone.

  "Who are the scarred mages?" Though she asked the question, she wasn't sure she wanted to learn the answer. "No one knows fer certain. We jes' started seein' 'em one day. I think they got somethin' to do with the goings-on at the castle. Dunno why they killed yer friends, but I might be able to find out" He paused, a mercenary glint creeping into his dark eyes. "That kinda information... it don't come cheap."

  "They weren't our friends," Kestrel said. Corran looked at her sharply, probably ready to accuse her of betraying the heroes' memory or some nonsense like that, but she didn't care. This little guy was a talker, and if the ill-fated party had disfigured wizards after them, she didn't need word spread around town that friends of the dead adven­turers had come to avenge them. "We just saw them lying in the street and wondered."

  "Curiosity ain't generally healthy in Myth Drannor," he said. "But I owe ye for scarin' off those zombies, so if ye find yerselves needin' information, come to me. If I don't know the answer, I can usually find out."

  "Have you heard anything about a Pool of Radiance?" Durwyn blurted.

  Gods! If he hadn't been wearing armor, Kestrel would have kicked the big, dumb warrior for being so obvious.

  Nottle scratched his head. "Can't say as I have." He pulled a canvas tarp over the wagon. "That some sort of landmark round here? You wanna to talk to the elves up at the shrine—coupl'a Mystra clerics, Beriand and Faeril. They can maybe tell ye more." He lifted his staff and mut­tered a word Kestrel couldn't discern, apparently securing his goods for the night.

  The peddler turned back to the group. "The shrine's hidden in a big tree stump. Head down the street—ye'll see it." He patted the many pockets of his oversized vest, then reached inside one to withdraw a scroll. "Ye'll be needin' this. Study the word on it afore ye git to the shrine. That should git ye in."

  Corran reached for the proffered scroll. "Thank you, Nottle."

  The halfling paused before handing it over. "We're square now, right? Ye helped me, I'm helping ye, and that's the end of it."

  The paladin appeared bemused, but Kestrel knew where Nottle was coming from. He didn't want to be in their debt. "Yep, Nottle, we're even," she said.

  He released the scroll to Corran's grasp. "Best of luck to ye, then. An' remember, if ye find yerselves needin' any goods..."

  They found the ruined shrine as Nottle described. An enormous tree trunk—easily as wide as any ordinary church Kestrel had seen in Faerûn's human cities—stood at the end of the road. Mystra's symbol, a circle of seven stars, had been carved into the bark, and a walkway had been hewn out of the wood about one story up. It wasn't much, as far as temples went, but at least the building was intact Kestrel could not, however, discern an entrance to the shrine or any stairs up to the walkway.

  Though they had all studied the scroll, they'd agreed Ghleanna should speak the password. The sorceress possessed the most knowledge of things magical and had elven blood besides. In her distrust of the arcane arts, Kestrel was perfectly happy to leave the task to the half-elf.

  As they approached the stump, a deep, booming mas­culine voice rent the air. "Tam-tamak!" They all jumped, startled, at the thunderous enunciation. The word res­onated as if one of the gods themselves had uttered it.

  Before their eyes, the tree stump transformed into an exquisite celebration of Mystra. Intricate renderings of the goddess and other decorative carvings em
erged from the bark. A wide staircase leading up to the walkway also emerged. At its head appeared double doors marked with Mystra's symbol. Ionic columns with flowing scrollwork flanked the opening.

  They hastened up the stairs. When they reached the top, the doors slid open to reveal a small antechamber. The party had barely passed through when the wall sealed itself shut behind them, leaving them in darkness.

  "Who enters Mystra's house?" demanded a strong female voice. Kestrel searched the darkness but saw no sign of the speaker.

  "Travelers who respect the Lady of Mysteries and seek aid from her faithful," Corran replied.

  A moment later, a ball of light appeared, illuminating the room and the woman who had spoken. She was an elf, with shoulder-length braided hair the color of pure gold and a round face dominated by the bluest eyes Kestrel had ever seen. Golden flecks within them caught the light, as did a medallion around her neck engraved with Mystra's circle. The armor of a fighter protected her sinewy body, and she carried herself with strength and confidence. Had she been human, Kestrel would have guessed her to have seen thirty-five or more summers, but she had no idea how old that would make the woman in elf years.

  "Then welcome, friends," the elf said. "My name is Faeril. How came you to learn the password to this safe house?"

  "From a scroll given us by Nottle the peddler."

  The corners of her mouth turned up in a half-smile. "Then Nottle must think well of you, though I am sure you paid him dearly. Here you will find shelter, food, and if you need it, healing. We merely ask that you share the pass­word only with those of good heart."

  "A promise freely given," Corran replied.

  Faeril bade them follow her and led them through a short passage into a room with a makeshift altar, a cook-fire, and half a dozen cots that Kestrel guessed had been pews at one time. "This used to be the shrine's sacristy, but now we use it for everything—worship, nursing, and daily living," Faeril explained.

  The chamber looked like a room hewn out of a tree trunk. Every surface was of wood—floor, walls, ceiling, furniture. The one exception was a pair of crystal cabinets etched with circles of stars. Though it appeared that the room had held windows at one time, the tree's outer bark had overgrown the openings. As a result, the shrine was well-fortified, but dark.

  The cook fire provided the chamber's only light besides Faeril's free-floating orb. A moment's study revealed that it gave off no smoke. Kestrel suspected it was a magical flame, one that would heat food without burning down the shrine.

  An older elf, perhaps the human equivalent of sixty-five, knelt before the altar but rose when the party entered. Unlike Faeril, he wore the simple garb of a cleric. A length of white cloth was wrapped around his waist and secured over one shoulder. His other shoulder and half his torso remained bare. He seemed to have begun losing muscle mass in his upper body, but his chest did not yet have the sunken appearance of an older man. The elf's graying hair flowed to his shoulders, and around his neck, barely visible beneath a pointed beard, he wore a medallion that matched Faeril's.

  He took several steps toward them on bare feet. His eyes, dark as coal but warm as a summer rain, seemed to look not at the foursome but past them. After a moment, Kestrel realized why: The older cleric was blind.

  "You are new in Myth Drannor, yes?" the holy man inquired. Though handicapped by blindness, he had a strong, self-assured voice. "I am Beriand, Mystra's ser­vant. Welcome to our sanctuary."

  The group answered the elves' inquiry as to whether any of the party needed healing, and gratefully accepted an invitation to partake of an evening meal. Kestrel was so hungry she almost could have eaten the Bell's five-day potluck soup. Almost. Fortunately, the clerics' vegetable stew looked and smelled far more appealing.

  Corran and Durwyn removed their armor before the meal. Eased of the burden of its weight, they relaxed visibly. Even their faces appeared less strained. Kestrel took the opportunity to study the paladin. Sweat dampened his short dark hair, which had been trapped beneath his hel­met most of the day. Though he appeared less intimidating without his armor, Corran was still a formidable figure. His carriage revealed a man confident of his place in the world. He moved about as if he had a right to be there—wherever "there" was at the moment, be it the streets of Myth Drannor, the pool cavern of Valjevo castle, or this temple to a god not his own.

  Durwyn, by contrast, appeared ill at ease in the shrine. He moved as if trying to confine his large body to the smallest space possible, a trait she hadn't noticed when they were in battle or out of doors. Was it the temple, she wondered? Did he feel out of his element because this was a holy setting, or was he comfortable only in a combat environment?

  The makeshift shelter had only three chairs, so the whole group sat in a half-circle on the floor as they ate. Beriand and Faeril sat in the center, with Ghleanna and Corran on one side of them. Kestrel and Durwyn sat on the other.

  During the repast, the clerics explained how they came to be in Myth Drannor. "Few elves venture to this haunted city," Beriand said. "Since the year our race finally aban­doned Myth Drannor altogether, our leaders have dis­couraged return, and the evil creatures who overtook its streets and dwellings did their part to deter all but the most stalwart—or foolish."

  "Yet you came," Kestrel said between hungry mouth­fuls.

  "We were called," he responded.

  "Beriand had visions that led us here," Faeril explained. "He saw Mystra amid the ruins of Myth Drannor."

  "I believe it was a 'genesis vision'—an image sent by Mystra to summon us here, back to where our sect began." Though sightless, Beriand's eyes shone with devotion to his goddess. "Our sect was founded in this city centuries ago by a priestess of Mystra named Anorrweyn Even­song."

  "Several months ago we journeyed here with six other clerics," Faeril said. "But we never reached Anorrweyn's temple. When we arrived at the city Heights, someone launched a huge fireball at our party. It killed all but the two of us."

  Corran gasped. "Unprovoked? Who would do such a thing to holy men and women?"

  "We still do not know," said Beriand. "We retreated into an undercity complex carved out long ago by dwarves, only to find the so-called 'dwarven dungeons' crawling with drow. Such an abomination would not be possible if the Mythal were functioning properly."

  Kestrel set aside her empty bowl. "The Mythal? What's the Mythal?"

  "The city's ancient protective magic," Faeril said. "Cen­turies ago, Myth Drannor's most powerful wizards— including your human Elminster—came together to weave a protective spell that encompassed the entire city like a mantle. We suspect, however, that of late it has become corrupted."

  "I believe that is why Mystra summoned us here," Beriand said. "As elves, we are naturally attuned to the Mythal. Though the magical Weave remains strong, many of its threads bear a foreign taint. The contamination has worsened in the time we have been here."

  Faeril offered more stew to the travelers. When Corran and Durwyn accepted, she rose to serve it. "It has been rough going since our arrival," she said over her shoulder as she ladled the food. "We were forced to retreat to this shrine, and most days so much violence rocks the streets that we cannot leave. By day it is orcs, and by night, swarms of undead. But there are many here who need our ministry—we have saved many lives—and the Mythal must somehow be purified. So we stay." She returned with two more steaming bowls.

  Corran thanked her as she handed one to him. "In your time here, have you heard any talk of something called the Pool of Radiance?"

  Faeril glanced at Beriand, whose face betrayed no hint of recognition. "Only from another band of travelers like yourselves," she said. "They also seek it, but we had no information to help them."

  "Athan and his band were allies of ours," said Corran, "but they were killed this day. Do you know what hap­pened to them?"

  Faeril gasped at the news. "These are ill tidings indeed. Athan was a fine warrior, one of the best men I have ever known."

&
nbsp; Beriand's expression also saddened. "We had not heard—greatly we rue their passing. I know only that they had just come from the Room of Words, a chamber high up in the Onaglym, or House of Gems."

  Kestrel wondered if the tales she'd heard of Myth Drannor's riches might prove true after all. A whole house full of gems? "What were they doing there?"

  "They had recently found an item known as the Ring of Calling," Beriand said. "They believed it would grant them access to the city's acropolis—or the 'Heights'—but first they needed to break the ring's bond to its previous owner. They went to the Onaglym's Room of Words in hopes of finding a command word that would free the ring from the skeletal arm on which they found it I do not know whether their research proved successful."

  At Beriand's mention of a ring, Kestrel removed her newly acquired one and put it in the cleric's hand. "We found this on one of the adventurers. Is it the Ring of Calling?"

  He shook his head immediately. "Alas, no. The Ring of Calling is mysteriously bonded to the skeletal arm of its last wearer. No amount of physical force, nor any of the magic Athan's band attempted, could remove it." He gave Kestrel's ring back to her. "Did you find any such ring?"

  "No."

  He sighed. "Then I can only assume that whoever killed the party now has the ring, and searches for the enabling word themselves."

  "Back in the Room of Words?" Ghleanna asked.

  "That is the most likely place to find it," said Beriand. "The chamber is a repository of books containing words that power magical items. When Coronal Eltargrim Irithyl opened the elven capital city to other races, the dwarves came despite their distrust of magic. But later, when they built the House of Gems as their stronghold, they created the Room of Words to feel more empowered over the city's many magical devices." Beriand chuckled. "They thought if they could just collect all the enabling words in one place, they could somehow protect themselves."

  Kestrel didn't think the dwarves' idea sounded all that silly—at least it was some action against the mysteries of sorcery.