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 Faerûn,” 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: Fhaormiir.”
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—”