“Not quite alone,” Caalenfaire murmured. “There is a hand over them, Volun. Whose hand, I cannot determine.”
“Can you at least tell us something of the cult?” Ghleanna asked. “How can we succeed if we don’t know who we’re up against?”
The skull was silent, its eyes dark, empty sockets.
“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 Faerûn. 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?