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 Faerun'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.
The chamber looked like a room hewn out of a tree trunk. Every surface was of wood-floor, walls, ceiling, furniture. The one exception was a pair of crystal cabinets etched with circles of stars. Though it appeared that the room had held windows at one time, the tree's outer bark had overgrown the openings. As a result, the shrine was well-fortified, but dark.
The cook fire provided the chamber's only light besides Faeril's free-floating orb. A moment's study revealed that it gave off no smoke. Kestrel suspected it was a magical flame, one that would heat food without burning down the shrine.
An older elf, perhaps the human equivalent of sixty-five, knelt before the altar but rose when the party entered. Unlike Faeril, he wore the simple garb of a cleric. A length of white cloth was wrapped around his waist and secured over one shoulder. His other shoulder and half his torso remained bare. He seemed to have begun losing muscle mass in his upper body, but his chest did not yet have the sunken appearance of an older man. The elf's graying hair flowed to his shoulders, and around his neck, barely visible beneath a pointed beard, he wore a medallion that matched Faeril's.
He took several steps toward them on bare feet. His eyes, dark as coal but warm as a summer rain, seemed to look not at the foursome but past them. After a moment, Kestrel realized why: The older cleric was blind.
'You are new in Myth Drannor, yes?' the holy man inquired. Though handicapped by blindness, he had a strong, self-assured voice. 'I am Beriand, Mystra's servant. Welcome to our sanctuary.'
The group answered the elves' inquiry as to whether any of the party needed healing, and gratefully accepted an invitation to partake of an evening meal. Kestrel was so hungry she almost could have eaten the Bell's five-day potluck soup. Almost. Fortunately, the clerics' vegetable stew looked and smelled far more appealing.
Corran and Durwyn removed their armor before the meal. Eased of the burden of its weight, they relaxed visibly. Even their faces appeared less strained. Kestrel took the opportunity to study the paladin. Sweat dampened his short dark hair, which had been trapped beneath his helmet most of the day. Though he appeared less intimidating without his armor, Corran was still a formidable figure. His carriage revealed a man confident of his place in the world. He moved about as if he had a right to be there-wherever 'there' was at the moment, be it the streets of Myth Drannor, the pool cavern of Valjevo castle, or this temple to a god not his own.
Durwyn, by contrast, appeared ill at ease in the shrine. He moved as if trying to confine his large body to the smallest space possible, a trait she hadn't noticed when they were in battle or out of doors. Was it the temple, she wondered? Did he feel out of his element because this was a holy setting, or was he comfortable only in a combat environment?
The makeshift shelter had only three chairs, so the whole group sat in a half-circle on the floor as they ate. Beriand and Faeril sat in the center, with Ghleanna and Corran on one side of them. Kestrel and Durwyn sat on the other.
During the repast, the clerics explained how they came to be in Myth Drannor. 'Few elves venture to this haunted city,' Beriand said. 'Since the year our race finally abandoned Myth Drannor altogether, our leaders have discouraged return, and the evil creatures who overtook its streets and dwellings did their part to deter all but the most stalwart-or foolish.'
'Yet you came,' Kestrel said between hungry mouthfuls.
'We were called,' he responded.
'Beriand had visions that led us here,' Faeril explained. 'He saw Mystra amid the ruins of Myth Drannor.'
'I believe it was a 'genesis vision'-an image sent by Mystra to summon us here, back to where our sect began.' Though sightless, Beriand's eyes shone with devotion to his goddess. 'Our sect was founded in this city centuries ago by a priestess of Mystra named Anorrweyn Evensong.'
'Several months ago we journeyed here with six other clerics,' Faeril said. 'But we never reached Anorrweyn's temple. When we arrived at the city Heights, someone launched a huge fireball at our party. It killed all but the two of us.'
Corran gasped. 'Unprovoked? Who would do such a thing to holy men and women?'
'We still do not know,' said Beriand. 'We retreated into an undercity complex carved out long ago by dwarves, only to find the so-called 'dwarven dungeons' crawling with drow. Such an abomination would not be
