He finished his prayer and sat back. “How do you feel?”
“Good as new.” She started to rise, eager to confirm that she could stand on her own, but Corran placed a restraining hand on her arm.
“Rest a while longer,” he said. “Let your bones strengthen before you crash into something as you stumble around in the dark.”
Reluctantly, she settled back down. He, however, sounded as if he were starting to rise. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“To see if I can find the others.”
“In the dark?”
“They may be alive but injured. I must at least try to locate them.”
Kestrel thought the effort hopeless, but she could understand Corran’s drive to try. It was the paladin in him—the helper, the healer. Faeril would have done the same.
The thought of the cleric sparked an idea. “Corran, when you heal people, you receive that power from your god, right? Just like Faeril?”
“Sort of.” His tone questioned where she was going with this, but he continued, “In both cases it is divine power, but paladins and clerics channel it differently. Tyr grants me the ability to heal with the touch of my hands. Clerics heal through miracles—they petition their gods to answer prayer spells with divine magic, to heal and perform other wonders.”
“Can you make your hands glow, like Faeril did?” She drew up her knees and hugged them to her chest. Perhaps it was the darkness, or the dread of being left alone, but she found herself warming to Corran’s conversation.
“No. I suspect that is a gift specific to Mystra’s faithful, for I have never witnessed it before.” He paused. “I have seen Tyr’s priests and older paladins produce a glowing ball of light through prayer. I’ve also seen seasoned paladins, like my father and older brothers, perform some of the miracles of clerics, but only after years of faithful service. Once they have proven themselves, Tyr thus empowers them to better do his work.”
His father and brothers? “Is everyone in your family a paladin?”
He laughed. “Pretty much. The D’Arceys have served Tyr for as many generations as we can remember. It’s a lot to live up to.”
No wonder Corran had such lofty notions about honor and justice. He’d probably been indoctrinated in the cradle and hadn’t seen enough of the world to temper his idealism. At least, not when they’d met. Since coming to Myth Drannor, Corran had lost some of that naivete. His personality still needed some work, but he no longer spouted about “fallen worthies” and never retreating from a battle. His experiences in this doomed city had indeed seasoned him.
Perhaps, she thought, Corran had served Tyr well enough to get them out of this living tomb. “Have you ever tried to perform a miracle?”
“Nay, ’twould be presumptuous!”
“Then how will you know when you’ve proven yourself?” Emboldened by the darkness, by her inability to see whatever expression—condescension? outrage?—his face held, she pressed on. “I don’t pretend to know much about matters of faith, Corran. But if we die in this tunnel and Mordrayn succeeds at her plan, Tyr won’t have any followers left on Toril because they’ll all be dead. We could really use his help right now. If you’re worried about sounding presumptuous, ask for something small—like a light.”
When he did not answer immediately, she thought he’d dismissed her idea in disgust. A moment later, she heard his quiet, hesitant voice break the stillness. “Tyr, if this humble servant has found favor in your eyes, grant me light that I may see our path clearly.”
A ball of brilliant light appeared in Corran’s palm, nearly blinding Kestrel with its sudden brightness. She blinked rapidly until her pupils adjusted, then looked at Corran. The paladin gazed at the glow in wonder.
“He answered.” Corran glanced up to meet Kestrel’s eyes. A smile, the first they’d ever shared, stole across his face. “He found me worthy. He answered.”
In the blaze of Corran’s holy light, they found Ghleanna, Faeril, and Durwyn lying nearby, unconscious but alive. The brilliance woke Ghleanna almost immediately. The two others soon followed.
The tunnel’s collapse had dropped tons of impassable rubble at both ends of the passageway, leaving the party in a cavern about a hundred feet long littered with piles of rock and dirt. They now stood at the far end, debating whether magic would blast through the rockslide or cause a further collapse. Corran and Faeril were optimistic, the others skeptical.
Kestrel shivered. She didn’t care to experiment with sorcery but saw no alternative. They couldn’t dig their way out, and if they didn’t do something they’d starve to death—or perhaps suffocate first.
She shivered again. If she didn’t know better, she’d say a draft crept along her neck.
Turning, she left the others to their debate and scanned the cavern. The tunnel walls were lined with debris, some of it piled quite high. A craggy hollow in one corner shadowed the ceiling from Corran’s light. She picked her way over to that side and scaled the heap of stones.
“Kestrel, where are you going?” Corran called.
“Don’t you feel that draft?” She crawled into the crevice. Sure enough, early morning light filtered through a hole not quite two feet in diameter. “Here! It’s an opening to the outside!”
She reached up to grasp the edges of the hole and pull herself out. To her shock, she found her right hand grasped by a larger one. A moment later, familiar blue eyes peered down at her. “Need a lift?”
“Athan!”
With just one hand, he pulled her out of the cavern. They stood at the base of a cliff, with Castle Cormanthor looming high above them. The warrior appeared fully healed. No trace of injury or pain marred his features. He’d also shaven and washed away the dried blood and other physical evidence of the cult’s torture. New armor—a suit she remembered from Harldain’s hoard—made the strapping man appear even larger than he had before. A gleaming two-handed sword hung at his side.
“How did you find us?”
“By Mystra’s grace, I think. I was skirting the castle base, seeking a way in, when I heard you call out just now. I never would have noticed that hole otherwise.”
She looked around for some sign of the sorcerer. “Is Jarial with you?”
He shook his head. “Beriand has been fending off near-constant attacks in Faeril’s absence. Jarial stayed behind to defend him.” Kestrel noted that Athan now wore the ring of regeneration Jarial had received from the baelnorn. “He sent these along, too.” Athan gestured toward the Staff of Sunlight and Ozama’s boots lying at his feet.
The rest of the party appeared below. Athan lifted Ghleanna out next, giving his sister a proper hug—now that his ribs were healed—before helping Faeril squeeze through the narrow space. Durwyn had to widen the hole for himself and Corran to accommodate their broad shoulders.
Once all had emerged, Athan explained Jarial’s absence to the others. “He said to give the staff to Faeril. Lena or Kestrel, I thought the boots would fit one of you best.”
Kestrel nodded to the sorceress. “Take them.” While Ghleanna donned the footwear and the cloak her brother had borrowed, Corran asked Athan whether he’d found a weakness in the castle’s defenses.
“Nay,” he replied. “The entrance is well guarded, and there’s nothing here below. I’d hoped to sneak in, but I don’t think it’s possible.”
Kestrel studied the fortress’s exterior. Breaking and entering was something she knew a little about. A quick survey revealed their best option. One of the towers appeared to have no roof but rather sat open to the sky. They just needed to reach it.
She sighed and pulled out her grappling hooks. They had a long climb ahead of them.