Suddenly, bolts of black lightning arced through the mantle. They converged into a single charge that raced straight down into the emerald. Kestrel instinctively backed up, expecting the gem to explode into a thousand pieces. It pulsed and shook under the assault.
But it held.
Instead, Anorrweyn absorbed the electrical feedback. The force violently wrenched the spirit out of contact with the emerald. She flew backward, between two of the spires and beyond the circle. The wind abruptly ceased as the gem dropped onto the stone floor. Above, the vision of the Mythal evaporated.
“Priestess!” Faeril rushed after the ghost. “Priestess! Where are you?”
Anorrweyn was gone.
They left the circle and searched furiously, hoping to catch a glimpse of the ghost behind one of the spires, but no sign of her remained. Corran regarded the others soberly. “I fear that blast destroyed her.”
Faeril choked down a sob and turned her face away.
“What do we do now?” Durwyn asked.
What, indeed? Kestrel fought back despair. It sickened her to think that Anorrweyn Evensong’s spirit had been obliterated. The gentle priestess had touched a part of Kestrel’s soul she hadn’t known existed—had awakened in her the fledgling desire to do the right thing with no thought of personal reward.
Now she was gone. Apparently, that’s where altruism got you in this world.
Damn this whole mission anyway. Misfortune dogged their every step, throwing new obstacles in their path before they could overcome the known ones. Now their path lay shrouded in more darkness than ever without the light of Anorrweyn’s goodness to aid them. What had the noble spirit’s sacrifice won? Kestrel reentered the circle and picked up the forgotten emerald. It twinkled in the starlight but appeared perfectly ordinary. She held it toward the sorcerers. “Did the ceremony take hold at all, or is this just a stupid piece of glass?”
Jarial and Ghleanna exchanged glances. The half-elf shrugged helplessly. “I have no idea.”
The party erupted in debate over how to proceed from here. Corran wanted to infiltrate Castle Cormanthor in search of the pool cavern. Jarial suggested returning to Caalenfaire to see whether the diviner could learn more through scrying. Ghleanna thought a good night’s sleep at Beriand’s shelter would help them clear their heads and gain some perspective. Faeril was too beside herself over Anorrweyn’s demise to voice an opinion.
Kestrel just wanted to get off the top of this building. There was no sign of the protective force field that had surrounded them during the ceremony, and she preferred to argue in a less exposed location. As she stood in the center of the circle, a faint fragrance caught her nostrils. A new calm washed over her. She inhaled deeply. Gardenias.
A moment later, Anorrweyn materialized before them. Her “body” appeared to have survived the ordeal unharmed, but her eyes bore a haunted look they hadn’t held previously.
“Priestess!” Faeril cried. “Are you all right? What happened?”
Anorrweyn met each of their gazes. Her visage held the expression of one who has dire news to impart. “I could not commune with the Mythal. The Weave rejected my attempt.”
Corran, whose face had become hopeful upon the ghost’s reappearance, now addressed her with grim resignation. “The Mythal’s corruption is too great to save it?”
The spirit shook her head sadly. “Worse. Another Gem of the Weave is already in use.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Another gem?” Faeril exclaimed. “How is that possible?”
“Harldain gave us the only suitable replacement stone,” Corran added. “At least, that’s what he told us.”
Anorrweyn’s face clouded with disgust. “I doubt not the dwarven lord’s word. It is the Protector who, I fear, plays a dangerous game with the truth.”
Though the others looked at the priestess in confusion, a spark of understanding ignited in Kestrel. Anorrweyn did not speak of another replacement stone. “The baelnorn told us he destroyed the original gem—”
“We will see about that.” With a sweep of the ghost’s arm, a gate opened in the night air.
Beyond lay the torchlit lair of the Protector. “Come. Let us talk with Miroden Silverblade!”
The baelnorn appeared only mildly surprised by the party’s abrupt arrival in his chamber. He set aside the book he’d been reading and rose to greet them. “Good eve, my friends.” He looked each of them in the eye but could not meet Anorrweyn’s gaze. “Priestess Evensong.”
“I have known you many, many centuries, Miroden Silverblade,” the priestess began. Though her tone was harsh, it softened. “In life and in death, our paths intertwined as we struggled to save the City of Song from evils mundane and arcane. Through the Opening, the Weeping War, the occupation by creatures of the Abyss—always have we been on the same side.”
The Protector bowed his head as Anorrweyn continued. “Now that Myth Drannor faces its greatest threat yet, I fear our paths diverge. You have told these brave adventurers, who fight to save a city not their own, that you destroyed the Sapphire of the Weave. Miroden, I was present at the creation of the gem. I witnessed the Moment of Binding. I know that as you stand before me, the sapphire yet exists in this world.”
The priestess touched her hand to the baelnorn’s withered cheek. A tear wet her fingers. “You love this city more deeply than most of the People love their lifemates. What happened, Miroden, to make you betray your sacred duty as communicant? Where is the sapphire? Open your heart to me, old friend.”
The Protector closed his eyes and pressed Anorrweyn’s palm against his cheek. He sighed heavily—an anguished, heartrending moan—then tore his face away from her gentle touch. He crossed to the empty gem case and ran shaking hands over its surface. “I thought... I thought...” He extended his hands heavenward and dropped to his knees. “Mystra, forgive me!”
He collapsed, rocking on the floor as he hid his face from view. Anorrweyn laid her hands on the baelnorn’s shoulders and whispered words audible only to his ears. He nodded, reaching up to grasp one of her hands. The priestess continued her gentle murmurings. After a little while, he nodded a second time and rose.
“It is with the deepest shame that I stand before you,” the baelnorn said. His face seemed to have aged a century in mere minutes. “I allowed pride to blind me, and in so doing, I violated the sacred trust placed in me so many years ago.” He paused and looked at the priestess. “Anorrweyn’s suspicions are correct—the Sapphire of the Weave still exists.” The baelnorn lowered his head. “Kya Mordrayn has it.”
“That is not a cause for shame,” Corran said softly. “You are but one person. She had a whole cult to help her steal it from you.”
Silverblade raised his head sharply. A pained expression crossed it. “She did not steal it. I—I gave it to her.”
Kestrel gasped. She was not the only one—all of them regarded the so-called Protector with shock. How could he have done such a thing? She wanted to shout a thousand questions and a hundred epithets but held her tongue. The baelnorn shut his eyes against their incredulous expressions.
“Continue, Miroden,” Anorrweyn bade. “Tell us how it happened.”
“When the archmage first came to me, she spoke eloquently of Myth Drannor’s lost beauty and grace—of the silvertrees in the courtyard of the Maerdrym, of how the Windsong Towers brushed against the stars. Oh, how her words made me long for the old days, Anorrweyn! Times so long past even the People have started to forget.”
The baelnorn’s eyes held a faraway expression.
“Mordrayn told me she had discovered a way to restore the City of Song to its former splendor. By using the Mythal to summon a Pool of Radiance, we could infuse new life into the city. The fading Mythal would grow strong once more, and Myth Drannor, in turn, would rise to greatness again.”