"Kestrel? Kestrel!"

Faeril's voice drifted to her through a fog, stirring Kestrel to consciousness. Her battered body hurt all over, but her left arm ached so intensely that she almost lapsed back into oblivion rather than endure the pain.

Gentle fingers searched her throat for a pulse. "Thank Mystra, she's still alive," the cleric said.

"How bad is she hurt?" Was that Corran's voice or Durwyn's? Kestrel's head was still too cloudy to distinguish the male timbre, and she had not yet been able to force her eyes open.

"She's got a compound fracture in her left arm. I can heal that-it's her unconsciousness that concerns me most I fear a serious head injury. Did anyone see when she fell?"

"Just before you turned the undead drow." That was Corran's voice. The other speaker must have been Durwyn. "She was surrounded by them. I tried to reach her, but-"

"We all had our hands full." Faeril grasped Kestrel's injured arm and-in movements that caused pain more excruciating than the break itself-reset the bone. Kestrel heard the cleric begin a prayer. In a few minutes the pain subsided, though it did not disappear completely. "That is all I can do for now," Faeril said. "I have exhausted my healing gifts for this day."

"Were it not for your healing spells during combat, none of us would have survived that battle," Corran said.

Faeril's ministrations, though limited, boosted Kestrel's strength enough that the rogue finally managed to open her eyes. She blinked rapidly, trying to focus her blurred vision. After a moment, her sight cleared.

Corran and Faeril knelt beside her, with Durwyn hovering close behind. The three of them had removed their helms, and all looked as if they'd journeyed to the Abyss and back. Blood spattered their armor and caked their hair. An ugly bruise had formed on Corran's right cheekbone, just above the stubble line of his four-day beard. Cuts covered Faeril's arms, including one long gash that ran from elbow to shoulder. Durwyn seemed to favor his left leg.

The burly warrior smiled as she met his worried gaze. "We thought we'd lost you," he said.

"Sorry to disappoint everyone," Kestrel said weakly. When she tried to sit up, Faeril had to support her. "Where are Ghleanna and Jarial?"

Corran glanced off to one side. "Resting. Both suffered terrible burns from cult spells. We were surprised to find Jarial still breathing after two fireballs hit him at once. I just stabilized him, but it will be some time before he-or any of us, really-is moving quickly."

Kestrel pushed the last of her mental fogginess aside, forcing herself to think clearly. "We've got to get out of here. Another gate could open any moment with more reinforcements."

The paladin nodded gravely. "I think that door over there leads to the baelnorn's cell. We haven't even had a chance to see whether it's locked. Feel up to examining it?"

With Faeril's aid, Kestrel got to her feet. Dizziness seized her, but she fought it off and stumbled to the door, praying to any deity who would listen that this would prove a simple lock. She couldn't analyze much more at the moment-not with the pounding headache forming behind her eyes.

They found the door unlocked. Within, an ancient elf sat in the center of the tiny boxlike room. Wrinkles surrounded his glowing white eyes, which assessed Kestrel and the others as they entered. Not a strand of hair remained on his pate, making his regal forehead look all the higher. His pointed ears and fingers seemed preternaturally long, even for an elf. Simple garments of brown homespun covered his shriveled, pale skin. Long arms hugged his knees to his chest in a defensive posture.

Yet for all the alterations wrought upon his physical form by age and undeath, the man once known as Miroden Silverblade still possessed such a puissant, vital presence that a full minute elapsed before anyone realized the baelnorn could not move.

Jarial leaned heavily on the Staff of Sunlight as he regarded the Protector. The mage's too-pink skin shone tight against the bones of his face. His eyelashes and eyebrows had been singed off altogether. "I believe he's magically bound," he said in a voice so scratchy that it pained Kestrel to hear it

"Aye," said Ghleanna, who did not look much better.

"With an enchantment similar to one I used on you, Kestrel." Her blistered lips twisted into what Kestrel could only suppose was meant to be a wry smile. The day we first met-remember?"

She remembered the incident, although that afternoon in Phlan seemed years ago. "Does that mean you can free him?"

"I believe I have enough strength remaining to try one spell." Ghleanna mumbled her incantation as she hobbled in a circle around the baelnorn. When she returned to her starting point, she extended one hand toward the guardian and uttered a final word.

The baelnorn unfurled like a morning glory in the sun, rising to a towering height. He was a tall man-well over six feet-made taller still, Kestrel soon realized, by the fact that he levitated about a foot off the floor. A noble calmness seemed to surround him, putting her at ease despite the fact that the party was in the presence of yet another undead denizen of the city.

"You have my deepest gratitude," the Protector said in a rich voice that belied his gaunt appearance. "But we are not safe here. Come." He swept his hand broadly. The room faded around them, and they found themselves in a large circular chamber. "Here, in my home, we may speak freely."

The apartment was comfortably, if sparsely, furnished. Soft light filled the room, though Kestrel couldn't determine its source. A wooden table and two chairs sat in one part of the chamber; a plush bedroll and plump cushions lay spread in another. A large section of the wall held shelves piled high with books and scrolls. Two massive trunks stood beneath.

Kestrel had expected the Mythal's communicant to enjoy more lavish quarters. To her way of thinking, gracious surroundings were a minimum trade-off for an eternity of constant vigilance. Yet the more she assessed the humble dwelling, the more it seemed a proper place for the baelnorn to guard the Sapphire of the Weave. Few would think to plunder such a simple abode in search of the priceless gem.

Opposite the doorway stood an ornate glass case containing a small, red velvet pillow. The pillow still held the impression of an item that had once rested upon it- surely the Gem of the Weave. The treasure, however, was nowhere in sight. Dread seized her. In the baelnorn's absence, had the cultists stolen the Sapphire? If Mordrayn had the gem, their quest was surely doomed, for Kestrel could think of no other means to cleanse the Mythal of the corruption that tainted it

She tore her gaze away from the empty case to see whether the Protector had noted the missing item. He avoided her questioning look. Instead, he addressed the group as a whole. "Sit," he said, "and be well."

At a slight gesture from the baelnorn, Kestrel's headache immediately dissipated. A moment later the pain in her arm and residual aches from other injuries fled as well. She felt rested as if she'd slept for a week-better than she had since waking with that firewine hangover in Phlan before all this madness began. Looking around, she saw that the others also had been restored to perfect health. The men even appeared clean-shaven.

"I am Miroden Silverblade, known as the Protector for these past six centuries," he said, his tired but clear eyes studying the companions as keenly as they assessed him. "To whom do I owe my freedom? And what brought the six of you to that black corner of the catacombs?"

Corran introduced the party and described their activities thus far, concluding with Anorrweyn Evensong's suggestion to seek the baelnorn's aid. "She told us you protect the Sapphire of the Weave, and that you possibly could use the gem to reverse the corruption of the Mythal. But we didn't expect to find you held captive."