“Begone!” he cried. “Trouble this man no more!”
The creatures moaned and tried to shield their eyes as they backed away. They shuffled jerkily toward a rear exit and out into the night. Within minutes the armory was free of their presence, though their odor lingered.
The halfling scrambled down from his perch and over to Corran. “Thank ye, sir,” he said, removing his red knit cap and sweeping into a bow that revealed the start of a bald spot in the center of his thin brown curls. “Nottle’s the name. Purveyor of the finest equipment and goods in all Myth Drannor.” He straightened. “An’ who might ye be?”
“Corran D’Arcey, Defender of Tyr. These are my companions, Durwyn, Kestrel, and Ghleanna Stormlake.”
“Well met!” Nottle bowed again in greeting, then stooped to retrieve his merchandise. He hung the frying pan back on the wagon and picked up a quarterstaff from the floor. “Usually I can fend off the beasts m’self, but t’night they got m’staff away from me.”
“This happens all the time?” Kestrel asked. “Why do you stay?”
“Business is good here, m’dear,” he said. “Adventurers comin’ and goin’, all thinkin’ they’re gonna strike it rich, then discoverin’ they ain’t as prepared as they thought they were. That’s where I come in. Actually, the place has gotten a little less dangerous lately—them dreadful alhoon and phaerimm creatures have left this part of the city. The baatezu, too. ’Course, now we have the drow and undead to put up with, so it’s not exac’ly paradise. Say, are ye needin’ anythin? I’ll cut ye a deal, seeing as Corran here saved my wagon just now.”
“Drow?” Ghleanna asked.
“Indeed, m’dear. They mostly stay below, in the dungeons, but I’ve seen a few here on the surface. At night, a’course.”
Kestrel shuddered. She’d never encountered a drow before, but she’d heard tales of the ruthless subterranean elven race. They were said to have dark skin, shockingly white hair, and no mercy.
“An adventuring band was killed today not far from here,” Corran said. “Did you ever do business with them?”
“Athan’s band? Sad thing, that—them gittin’ killed. I hope they weren’t friends of yers?” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Word is, the scarred mages got ’em.”
At the mention of scarred mages, a tingle raced along Kestrel’s collarbone.
“Who are the scarred mages?” Though she asked the question, she wasn’t sure she wanted to learn the answer. “No one knows fer certain. We jes’ started seein’ ’em one day. I think they got somethin’ to do with the goings-on at the castle. Dunno why they killed yer friends, but I might be able to find out.” He paused, a mercenary glint creeping into his dark eyes. “That kinda information... it don’t come cheap.”
“They weren’t our friends,” Kestrel said. Corran looked at her sharply, probably ready to accuse her of betraying the heroes’ memory or some nonsense like that, but she didn’t care. This little guy was a talker, and if the ill-fated party had disfigured wizards after them, she didn’t need word spread around town that friends of the dead adventurers had come to avenge them. “We just saw them lying in the street and wondered.”
“Curiosity ain’t generally healthy in Myth Drannor,” he said. “But I owe ye for scarin’ off those zombies, so if ye find yerselves needin’ information, come to me. If I don’t know the answer, I can usually find out.”
“Have you heard anything about a Pool of Radiance?” Durwyn blurted.
Gods! If he hadn’t been wearing armor, Kestrel would have kicked the big, dumb warrior for being so obvious.
Nottle scratched his head. “Can’t say as I have.” He pulled a canvas tarp over the wagon. “That some sort of landmark round here? You wanna to talk to the elves up at the shrine—coupl’a Mystra clerics, Beriand and Faeril. They can maybe tell ye more.” He lifted his staff and muttered a word Kestrel couldn’t discern, apparently securing his goods for the night.
The peddler turned back to the group. “The shrine’s hidden in a big tree stump. Head down the street—ye’ll see it.” He patted the many pockets of his oversized vest, then reached inside one to withdraw a scroll. “Ye’ll be needin’ this. Study the word on it afore ye git to the shrine. That should git ye in.”
Corran reached for the proffered scroll. “Thank you, Nottle.”
The halfling paused before handing it over. “We’re square now, right? Ye helped me, I’m helping ye, and that’s the end of it.”
The paladin appeared bemused, but Kestrel knew where Nottle was coming from. He didn’t want to be in their debt. “Yep, Nottle, we’re even,” she said.
He released the scroll to Corran’s grasp. “Best of luck to ye, then. An’ remember, if ye find yerselves needin’ any goods...”
They found the ruined shrine as Nottle described. An enormous tree trunk—easily as wide as any ordinary church Kestrel had seen in Faerûn’s human cities—stood at the end of the road. Mystra’s symbol, a circle of seven stars, had been carved into the bark, and a walkway had been hewn out of the wood about one story up. It wasn’t much, as far as temples went, but at least the building was intact. Kestrel could not, however, discern an entrance to the shrine or any stairs up to the walkway.
Though they had all studied the scroll, they’d agreed Ghleanna should speak the password. The sorceress possessed the most knowledge of things magical and had elven blood besides. In her distrust of the arcane arts, Kestrel was perfectly happy to leave the task to the half-elf.
As they approached the stump, a deep, booming masculine voice rent the air. “Tam-tamak!” They all jumped, startled, at the thunderous enunciation. The word resonated as if one of the gods themselves had uttered it.
Before their eyes, the tree stump transformed into an exquisite celebration of Mystra. Intricate renderings of the goddess and other decorative carvings emerged from the bark. A wide staircase leading up to the walkway also emerged. At its head appeared double doors marked with Mystra’s symbol. Ionic columns with flowing scrollwork flanked the opening.
They hastened up the stairs. When they reached the top, the doors slid open to reveal a small antechamber. The party had barely passed through when the wall sealed itself shut behind them, leaving them in darkness.
“Who enters Mystra’s house?” demanded a strong female voice. Kestrel searched the darkness but saw no sign of the speaker.
“Travelers who respect the Lady of Mysteries and seek aid from her faithful,” Corran replied.
A moment later, a ball of light appeared, illuminating the room and the woman who had spoken. She was an elf, with shoulder-length braided hair the color of pure gold and a round face dominated by the bluest eyes Kestrel had ever seen. Golden flecks within them caught the light, as did a medallion around her neck engraved with Mystra’s circle. The armor of a fighter protected her sinewy body, and she carried herself with strength and confidence. Had she been human, Kestrel would have guessed her to have seen thirty-five or more summers, but she had no idea how old that would make the woman in elf years.
“Then welcome, friends,” the elf said. “My name is Faeril. How came you to learn the password to this safe house?”
“From a scroll given us by Nottle the peddler.”
The corners of her mouth turned up in a half-smile. “Then Nottle must think well of you, though I am sure you paid him dearly. Here you will find shelter, food, and if you need it, healing. We merely ask that you share the password only with those of good heart.”
“A promise freely given,” Corran replied.
Faeril bade them follow her and led them through a short passage into a room with a makeshift altar, a cook-fire, and half a dozen cots that Kestrel guessed had been pews at one time. “This used to be the shrine’s sacristy, but now we use it for everything—worship, nursing, and daily living,” Faeril explained.