"The second floor seems to have a lot of scrolls and books. There might be a history of the Mythal or something."
They climbed the stairway. The moment they reached the top, however, a cold breeze blew over them. Out of nowhere, a figure materialized.
Rather, almost materialized. A solid wooden throne appeared, but the man seated on it remained translucent, the back of the chair showing through his form. Kestrel sucked in her breath. A ghost. Her heartbeat accelerated, adding to the sick feeling that still lingered in the pit of her stomach.
Weren't ghosts supposed to appear the way they did in life? If so, this man-an old elven sorcerer, from the look of his ornate robes and headdress-must have been ancient when he died. The spirit's gaunt face, sunken eyes, and bony limbs lent him a skeletal mien. He rested on a cobweb-covered oak throne as gnarled as he and seemed so deeply settled into it that Kestrel wondered if he had risen from it in centuries. On his lap he held a gold bowl filled with water, and his right hand rested on a grinning skull with glowing red eyes.
The spirit did not seem to notice the party. "Now foul water freezes the guardians," he muttered as he stared into the bowl. His voice had a tired, forlorn quality to it, as of one who has lived too long and seen too much, for whom immortality is more a curse than a blessing.
Kestrel and the others exchanged glances. She was in favor of backing right down the staircase without a word, but Ghleanna stepped forward. Before the half-elf could speak, however, the skull's eyes flashed.
"Do not disturb the Master."
Kestrel jumped. The skull had spoken!
"Here is the wise counsel you seek." The skull's feminine voice carried an eerie resonance, sending further chills down Kestrel's spine.
"How do you know that we-" Ghleanna began.
"Your coming has been foreseen."
Kestrel looked from the skull back to its "master." The ghostly wizard was a diviner, then-a seer. She had known her share of charlatans who earned their living telling fortunes for the gullible, but she'd never encountered anyone with the genuine power to foresee the future.
"Master Caalenfaire instructs you to seek out the spirit of the dwarf lord Harldain Ironbar," the skull said. "You will find him beyond the Circle of Mythan-but hold! You do not have the Ring of Calling!"
"No, we yet seek it," Ghleanna said. Kestrel didn't know how the sorceress had the nerve to address the skull, or even to stand so close to Caalenfaire.
"Master! Despair and woe! Your prediction has gone awry."
The ancient diviner stirred, but still appeared entranced. He never lifted his gaze from the scrying bowl on his lap. "What? Volun, what is this you say? Where are they? I cannot see them. I cannot hear them. The fools!"
"They are talibund, Master. They have left the Path."
Kestrel glanced at her companions to see whether they understood this conversation any better than she. The spellcasters appeared pensive, as did Corran. Durwyn looked absolutely bewildered.
"Volun, what is this 'Path' of which you speak?" Ghleanna asked. Kestrel noted that she gripped her staff tightly. Perhaps the sorceress wasn't as comfortable talking with the disembodied skull as she wanted the pair to believe.
"Master Caalenfaire had worked out a destiny for you-a path you should walk. For the eventual good of Myth Drannor, if not your own." Volun's eyes flashed rapidly. "Instead you have become talibund. Now you walk your own path, which none can see. May Tymora help us! This is an unsettling turn."
Kestrel edged closer to Jarial. "What's this word the skull keeps using-'talibund'?"
"I don't know," he whispered back.
"Talibund. The Veiled Ones," Volun said. "What soothsayers call those whose destinies cannot be foretold."
Ghleanna gripped her staff tighter and took a tentative step closer to the skull. "Is the warrior Athan talibund? Can your master say whether he still walks the path of the living?"
"Athan's path became veiled before even yours," Volun replied. "Master does not know his fate."
Disappointment flickered across the half-elf's face. With each dead end in her inquiries about the warrior, Ghleanna seemed to lose a little more of her spirit.
"Look, Volun," Caalenfaire said. "I have captured them in my bowl once more. Or at least, their shadows-the Veiled Ones will be writ into the Song of Faerun."
"Now what is he talking about?" Kestrel muttered. Her nerves were too frayed to withstand much more of this mysterious speech.
"The Song of Faerun is the great tale of the world, sung by the Bard of Kara-Tur at the close of the millennium. Master, tell us more about the Song!"
"Listen, Volun, and be amazed."
From the scrying bowl drifted the notes of a lute, soon joined by a feminine voice of such sweet perfection that Kestrel momentarily forgot her fear.
In Cormanthor did mage Mordrayn
Speak spells of greed in Words of flame.
With poison troth she soon unmade
Proud treasure of the Silver Blade,
And by her side, Pelendralaar,
Their minds as one, come from afar;
Dark creatures drown the city bright,
The dragon's kin, the elf of night.
The Pool! The Pool! It grows, and yet
One small band against it set.
The bard continued the song, but her voice faded from hearing. Kestrel felt her anxiety returning.
"This is not what we had foreseen, Master! It gives me hope."
Durwyn stepped forward excitedly. "What happens next? How does the song end?"
Caalenfaire, apparently back in his scrying trance, did not answer. Durwyn looked at the skull hopefully. "Volun?"
"I will not tell you," Volun replied. "No mortals should glimpse their future. It is never happy enough, or long enough. Look at my master. Would you become like him? Do not seek out the future-it will find you soon enough."
"How do we return to the Path?" Corran asked.
"Return? You cannot. Do not even try." The flickering in Volun's eyes dimmed. "We will peer ahead as far as we can and give you such help as we are able, but if Master Caalenfaire could see you, perhaps others could also. People of power. Maybe it is better for you to walk alone in the dark-"
"Not quite alone," Caalenfaire murmured. "There is a hand over them, Volun. Whose hand, I cannot determine."
"Can you at least tell us something of the cult?" Ghleanna asked. "How can we succeed if we don't know who we're up against?"
The skull was silent, its eyes dark, empty sockets.
"Tell them, Volun," Caalenfaire said finally.
"The Cult of the Dragon is a secret society, four and more centuries old," Volun said, its eyes flashing red light once more. "Its founder was the madman Sammaster, a sorcerer who believed it is Toril's destiny to be ruled by dead dragons."
Kestrel had remained quiet until this point, not wanting to draw the attention of either the skull or its unsettling master. Now she felt compelled to question the outrageous statement. "Dead dragons? You said he was mad, but where in the Abyss did he come up with that idea?"
"From a passage in the oracle Maglas's book of prophecies, Chronicle of Years to Come."
Caalenfaire passed a hand over his scrying bowl. A distant, ancient voice echoed from within. "Nought will be left save shattered thrones, with no rulers but the dead. Dragons shall rule the world entire."
"Sammaster mistranslated the passage," Volun said. "He thought it said 'The dead dragons shall rule the world.' He founded the Cult of the Dragon to bring that prophecy to fruition."
"How do the cultists operate?" Kestrel asked.
The diviner stirred. He leaned back in his chair, but his gaze never left the scrying bowl. "Let the little bird come closer, that she may see."