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 from further decay. After years of study and debate, they decided to create an artifact now known as the Gem of the Weave. Through this gem, the Mythal could be monitored and, as necessary, tuned. One person alone would be forever entrusted with the power and responsibility of using the gem to protect and maintain the Mythal.

"Our city engineer, Harldain Ironbar, secured an appropriate gem-a perfect sapphire-and the city's most powerful spellcasters created the Incantation of the Weave to bind the sapphire to the Mythal. But a communicant was needed, a person who would bind his or her spirit to the gem. Once again, a far-seeing elf came forward to sacrifice his life to protect what remained of this great city. Miroden Silverblade, a lord of House Ammath, willingly ended his mortal existence to spend eternity as a baelnorn-an immortal guardian. Now known simply as the Protector, he holds safe the Sapphire of the Weave, which he uses to commune with and tune the Mythal."

"It seems we should meet this Protector," Corran said.

Kestrel did not relish the thought of encountering yet another ghost. Anorrweyn wasn't so bad-the rogue might have forgotten the priestess was a spirit at all were it not for her translucence and her tentative hold on the present. However, the image of Caalenfaire in his scrying chair still gave her the shudders.

Ghleanna nodded in response to Corran's statement. "How well do you know the baelnorn?" she asked Anorrweyn. "If we seek help from him, will he aid us?"

"I know he would," the priestess responded. "Guarding the Mythal is his whole reason for being. Miroden Silverblade can use the gem to undo the corruption of the Mythal. That should help you drive out the evil that has invaded Myth Drannor."

"Can you take us to him?" Jarial asked.

"Alas, I cannot." A note of sorrow crept into the spirit's voice. "Once my spirit walked freely on this plane to continue My Lady's work. But vandals stole my skull from its resting place beneath this shrine. I cannot leave this ghostly building until it is returned. Forsooth, I can scarcely cling to the present." Her image flickered again, disappearing for longer beats of time than before. "Eltargrim-Coronal-where are you? Shall the Tel'Quessir drown uncaptained in this dark sea?"

Kestrel found herself feeling sympathy for the trapped spirit: Anorrweyn's consciousness had survived her death only to see her mortal remains scattered about like so much litter. How horrible-to have pieces of one's body dispersed over ruins, while one's consciousness forever flitted between centuries.

"No, no-I must hold to the living moment a while longer." The priestess clawed at the air, fighting a temporal battle they could not witness. "Night falls again on the eve of my death. The spellfire comes. Listen, before I am caught in its blaze once more… Seek out the baelnorn yourselves. He lives deep below Myth Drannor's surface, in the catacombs beneath Castle Cormanthor. Harldain Ironbar, whose spirit yet haunts the Onaglym, can help you gain access to the catacombs. Once inside, the baelnorn's lair is marked with the Rune of the Protector." She traced the symbol in the air. To reach him, you must know the Word of Safekeeping: Fhaomiir."

Corran rose and bowed once more. "We thank you for your aid, Anorrweyn Evensong. I but wish we could do more to help you."

"You can…" Anorrweyn's image flickered, disappearing for so long that Kestrel thought she would not return. Nonetheless, the strong-willed spirit fought her way back to the present one more time. "I believe my graverobbers were minions of a lich who dwelt within the catacombs. They may have taken their prize there. If you should happen upon my skull-"

"Of course," Corran said.

"I could then stand with both feet in this time. I could help you further." Anorrweyn smiled, the first smile they had seen from her. The expression lit her whole face with an angelic glow, sparking a response in Kestrel that caught the rogue by surprise. She wanted to aid the ghostly priestess, wanted to help this gentle, noble spirit obtain some peace as she faced eternity trapped on this earth.

"I promise you, priestess, we will do all we can," Kestrel said solemnly. "It would be our privilege to restore your skull to its sacred resting place."

The vow-the first words Kestrel had spoken since Anorrweyn appeared-pleased the priestess. Corran looked at her in astonishment, approval dawning in his eyes.

Kestrel rose and turned away from the paladin's gaze, intending to join Durwyn at the entrance. She didn't need Corran D'Arcey's approval, or anyone else's for that matter. Helping Anorrweyn just felt like the right thing to do.

A small cry from Faeril arrested her attention. Anorrweyn's form was fading from view, wavering and shimmering as it dimmed.

"Be not afraid, daughter," the priestess said. "I must leave you now. But return with my skull and I shall be stronger." Anorrweyn Evensong was but a faint outline now, rapidly disappearing altogether. "Trumpets cry… the tide rushes in… Summon the armathors!"

With that, the elven spirit was gone. The scent of gardenias lingered.

The House of Gems resembled nothing so much as the dwarves who had raised it. Though the Onaglym was a large two-towered building, its stone construction lent it a dense, compact appearance, giving Kestrel the impression that nothing could ever budge-or even mar-the dwarven stronghold. Despite the wars that had rocked the rest of Myth Drannor, the fortress stood solid and strong, undaunted by the changes wrought upon the city around it.

Here they would find Harldain Ironbar, or so Caalenfaire had said. As both the diviner and Anorrweyn had mentioned the dwarven spirit-did all the ghosts in this town know each other?-visiting him seemed the next logical step of their mission. Besides, they needed to learn from Harldain how to enter the catacombs if they ever hoped to meet the Protector or locate Anorrweyn's skull.

The Onaglym's exterior betrayed no sign of cult sorcerers still occupying its Round Tower. In fact, with the exception of the cultists, the rest of the city's evil denizens seemed to give the fortress a wide berth. The dwarven meeting hall appeared to have escaped the looting and lairing that characterized most of Myth Drannor's surface buildings. After the trap the party had encountered while trying to reach the Room of Words, Kestrel could guess why.