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.”
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.”