Pool of Radiance_ Ruins of Myth Drannor - Carrie Bebris [62]
“We have made it our mission to stop them,” Ghleanna said. “But we have only an imperfect understanding of the Mythal. We come to you seeking knowledge.”
“I will gladly share all I have. Please, sit and rest as the Mythal’s tale is one that spans centuries. I will tell as much as I can before my spirit slips back into the past.” She gestured toward several benches that looked as if they’d been literally tossed into the corner. Broken legs and blocks of stone lay scattered around them. “I regret I cannot offer you better hospitality, but I believe you may find an intact seat or two in that pile.”
They found three benches that appeared sound enough to support the weight of six people. Corran and Durwyn positioned them in a half-circle. Kestrel and the others sat down-all except Durwyn, who repeatedly glanced over his shoulder at the entrance. “I don’t want any more nagas to surprise us,” he said finally. “I’ll stand guard and listen from the door.”
The fighter’s absence left an empty space beside Kestrel. To her surprise, the ghost herself took that seat. Had Caalenfaire come so close, Kestrel would have jumped like a rabbit but somehow she felt calm in Anorrweyn’s presence. A fleeting look of envy passed over Faeril’s features at Kestrel’s proximity to Anorrweyn, but the cleric’s own seat actually offered a better view of the priestess.
“The Mythal was woven in the Year of Soaring Stars,” the spirit began. “The city’s greatest wizards, most of them elves, came together to lay the Mythal. Working cooperatively, they wove a spell greater than the sum of its casters. Each chose a special power to infuse into the mantle, and each gave some of his or her life to engender it.” The ghostly elf turned to Corran. “You wish to speak?”
Anorrweyn’s perceptiveness impressed Kestrel-the priestess had not even been looking at him directly. “Yes,” Corran said, appearing startled himself. “What kind of powers?”
“All kinds. Protections preventing certain types of magic from being used within the city. Interdicts to prevent undesirable races-such as drow, orcs, and goblins-from entering the city. The creation of amenities such as blueglow moss for the injured and a featherfall effect for the clumsy. These are but a few.” The elven priestess glanced at the others as if checking whether more questions were forthcoming. Seeing no such indication, she continued. “The chief caster, Mythanthor, sacrificed his life to bring the Mythal into being. The weaving process consumed him body and soul. This sacrifice he made willingly, that by his death the Mythal and his beloved city would live.”
Kestrel tried to imagine the fierce and selfless dedication of the wizard Mythanthor but found she could not. She’d never believed in anything strongly enough to give her life for it, and she doubted she ever would.
“The City of Song knew centuries of glory under the mantle of the Weave,” Anorrweyn continued. “Ah, the beauty of those times… the Serpentspires, the Glim-gardens… We floated on the air! But then the Armies of Darkness came.” Anorrweyn’s image flickered. “I hear their thunder, see their fire…”
Faeril started forward. “Priestess?”
Anorrweyn hovered between planes, phasing in and out of the present. “My spirit slides back to those wicked days even as I tell their tale.” Her image solidified but the priestess swayed. “The drums. Can you hear the drums?” She closed her eyes, frowning in concentration. “No, of course you cannot. I must tighten my grip on the present. Show me your medallion again, daughter.”
Faeril knelt before the priestess and laid the amulet at her feet. The wavering ceased for a time. The cleric remained on her knees. “Prithee continue priestess, if you can.”
Anorrweyn raised her hand to her temples, forcing herself to focus. “The Weeping Wars that ruined Myth Drannor damaged the Mythal as well. Many of its powers were lost or weakened. The surviving city leaders met in secret to devise a way to save the Mythal