“I... can’t... hold him...” Faeril’s face turned red with exertion as she struggled to keep her grip. Several highly unladylike grunts followed. Every muscle in her arms and neck bulged.
Corran scurried to help, but before he could reach them the gargoyle swooped again. The paladin’s blade rang as he struck the creature. Faeril, meanwhile, had turned purple. Her perspiring hands were sliding off Durwyn’s armor. “I’m losing him!”
“Hang on!” Kestrel couldn’t aid her—too many people were in the way, and the space was too narrow. She could help Jarial, who also struggled to maintain his grasp. As she grabbed Faeril’s legs, she heard the sorcerer beside her muttering another spell.
Ghleanna also uttered another casting, this one directed at the remaining gargoyles. Both creatures suddenly ceased moving. Their wings fell still. Then, as had the rest of their pack, they dropped like rocks.
Corran reached Faeril and added his strength to hers. “You all right?” he called to Durwyn.
“I can’t find a handhold,” he shouted. “It’s a sheer drop.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll get you up somehow.” After reassuring the warrior, he tried to help Faeril pull him to safety. His efforts, however, were thwarted by Durwyn’s sheer bulk. Corran lowered his voice so only those still on the stairs could hear. “We can’t get enough leverage to pull him up.”
Kestrel felt her heart skip a beat. “I think Jarial is working on something.”
Faeril released a groan. “Tell him to work faster.”
A moment later, Jarial finished mumbling.
“Oh!” the cleric exclaimed. “Kestrel, Jarial... you can let go.”
“W—what?” Kestrel stared at her in shock.
“I’ve boosted her strength,” Jarial said.
Kestrel looked from him back to Faeril and reluctantly loosed her grip. Faeril rose to a crouch, some of the strain gone from her face. “Help me lift him,” she said to Corran in a steady voice.
As the others watched in mute amazement, the cleric rose to her feet, bringing Durwyn’s legs with her. Had she been taller, she could have lifted his whole body over the edge, gripping him by the ankles like a plucked goose. As it was, Corran guided the warrior’s chest and head over the edge of the staircase while Faeril pulled him to safety.
“Damn...” Kestrel muttered. Magically boosted or not, she’d never seen a woman perform such an incredible feat of strength. Her voice was swallowed by the wind, which had changed direction and now carried a chill. The sun sank lower behind the horizon.
They continued up the stairs with as much haste as they could. Ahead, Kestrel saw a circle crowned by bony-looking spires. The dragon’s spine, Anorrweyn and the Protector had called it, and now she understood why. The spindly arches looked like the vertebrae of a great beast. They rose toward the darkened sky, somehow untouched by the missiles that had bombarded the stairs. The circle had to be their destination.
The higher they climbed, the more the wind buffeted them about. By the time they reached the apex, their hair whipped about their faces and they had to shout to be heard. Lingering rays of sunlight streaked across the sky.
The party entered the circle with more desperation than reverence. Runes and intricate knotwork, similar to what they had seen inside the Hall of Wizards, covered the stone floor. About ten feet above, the bony spires arced toward a central hollow just large enough for a certain gem.
“Let’s do this and get out of here,” Kestrel said. Though she scanned the shadows, she saw no sign of the priestess. “Where’s Anorrweyn?”
“We’ll have to wait for her,” Faeril said.
Out of the corner of her eye, Kestrel detected movement in the near-darkness. She turned, scanning the sky. More wings, and lots of them. “We don’t have time to wait.” She pointed. “There’s a whole flight of gargoyles coming at us! Put the emerald in place!”
Corran hesitated. “We don’t know the—”
“Just do it!”
The wind had become a gale, speeding the gargoyles closer each second. In the light of the dying sun, Kestrel could see a sinister gleam of hatred in their eyes. They hurled themselves at the party with frightening velocity.
Boosted by Durwyn, Corran slid the emerald into its setting. The gem caught the last ray of light just before the sun faded from view. The beam sparked a glow in the emerald that immediately radiated in a sphere so large as to encompass the entire Speculum in a pale green aura.
The gargoyles, too fast and too close to change their course, slammed into the intangible field. Their bodies bounced off the barrier like hail.
“Such creatures of evil deserve nothing less,” said a soft voice behind them. Anorrweyn had materialized. Despite the force field, wind still whipped through the stone circle so hard that Kestrel and others had trouble staying on their feet. The ghost, however, appeared to exist in a state of perfect calm. Not a strand of her hair was disturbed.
Durwyn stared up at the green bubble surrounding them. “Is that the Mythal?”
“Nay, merely a force that protects us from predators whilst we conduct the incantation ceremony,” Anorrweyn said. “Let us begin.”
They parted to let her advance. When she reached the center of the circle, she offered a brief prayer to Mystra, then raised her hands toward the emerald and closed her eyes. “Qu’kiir vian ivae, qu’kiir nethmet.” Her voice was barely audible.
Thunder rumbled in the distance. “Ivae marat vand Cormanthor,” Anorrweyn chanted softly. “Mythal selen mhaor kenet. Qu’kiir vand tir t’nor.”
Anorrweyn’s hair and gown fluttered gently, as if stirred by a soft breeze. “Qu’kiir vian ivae, qu’kiir nethmet,” she repeated, this time more loudly.
Kestrel shook off the words’ hypnotic effect to edge closer to Ghleanna. “You speak Elvish, don’t you?” she said just loudly enough to be heard above the roar of the wind. “What does she say?”
Ghleanna leaned close, but never took her eyes off the priestess. “The words are ancient, so my understanding is limited,” she responded. “But roughly: Binding gem, awaken your light. Dance the weave of the Mythal. Bind it to me that I might drive corruption from our home.”
Anorrweyn reached the end of the verse once more. “Qu’kiir vand tir t’nor.” Another thunderclap boomed, much closer than the first. Without pause, she began again.
“Qu’kiir vian ivae, qu’kiir nethmet.” The priestess tossed back her head, entirely given over to the incantation. She chanted the mystical words in a clear, strong voice that rose above the wind’s howl. Her hair streamed behind her now, as if the natural forces of this plane finally touched her.
An enormous crack of thunder rent the air. Kestrel nearly jumped out of her skin as the echo reverberated through the night, but Anorrweyn never ceased in her chant. She shouted the words heavenward. “Qu’kiir vand tir t’nor!”
Slowly, Anorrweyn rose into the air as if drawn up by some unseen hand. When her fingertips touched the emerald, deep green light burst forth. The radiance spouted beyond the protective field and into the night sky, where it diffused into a wavery mantle of prismatic light that extended as far as the eye could see.
Kestrel gasped. Surely they gazed upon the Mythal itself.
The great Weave coursed with power beyond mortal comprehension, yet it was also a thing of overwhelming beauty. Strands of every hue interlaced in complex knot-work patterns that overlapped so tightly as to form an unbroken blanket of light and energy. The mantle enveloped the city as lovingly as a mother’s arms encircle her child.
Yet as they watched, an oily blackness—darker even than the night sky—stole into the fabric of the Weave, oozing between its strands. The taint spread, appearing to open up gaping holes in the sacred shield. Beyond lay not the stars of the heavens, but nothingness.