"Nor did I intend to become so." The Protector sighed heavily, the lines in his face settling deeper. "The cult imprisoned me because Mordrayn and Pelendralaar fear my influence over what remains of the Mythal. Since the Year of Doom, I have used my abilities as communicant to slow the decay of the city's mantle. As all that I once knew withered and died around me, I held fast to my belief that one day the Mythal would prove the key to restoring Myth Drannor to its lost glory. The cult thinks I still have the power to undo the corruption they have wrought upon the Weave."

Thinks. Kestrel's heart sank to the pit of her stomach. "You don't?"

"Nay." A stricken look crossed the baelnorn's features. He turned his back on them and floated to the empty case. His shaking fingers reached through the glass to caress the depression in the pillow. "They came. The Cult of the Dragon." His voice, so rich before, now warbled in the trembling tones of an old man. "I had… grown weak in my solitude. I succumbed when I should have stood fast."

Kestrel stifled a groan of dismay mixed with frustration. How could an artifact as important as the Gem of the Weave have been left in the care of someone too frail to protect it? Though the baelnorn had appeared formidable when they first discovered him, Mordrayn must have used her dreadful magic to take advantage of the guardian's true age. "They stole it from you, didn't they? Mordrayn and her minions?"

Silverblade yet stood with his back to them, hunched over the empty pillow. "Nay," he said brokenly. "I-" His hand slowly formed a fist, as if his fingers closed around the missing stone. He straightened his spine, lifted his shoulders. "I destroyed it."

Ghleanna gasped. "But how could you-"

He turned to face them, once more possessing the air of authority he'd momentarily lost. His hands no longer trembled, and he raised his chin. "Do you think I would let them have it? Do you think I would betray centuries of trust? I destroyed it!" His eyes challenged them to dispute the wisdom of his act. "The cult tried to steal the sapphire from me, and I annihilated it rather than allow the gem to fall into their clutches. I can no longer commune with the Mythal, for there no longer exists an instrument through which to do so."

The baelnorn's defiant tone discouraged anyone from questioning his decision. Besides, what would be the point? The gem was gone. Stillness filled the air-the sound of hope dying in the hearts of six weary adventurers.

Kestrel's shoulders slumped. Without the sapphire, how could they possibly touch the Mythal, let alone redeem it? She thought with irony of all the gems that had passed through her rogue's hands. She would have traded them all for this single stone.

That musing sparked another. She leaned forward as the notion took shape in her mind. "Can the gem be replaced?"

A fleeting expression of shock passed over the Protector's face, transposed so quickly into one of mere surprise that Kestrel wasn't entirely sure she'd seen it. "Replaced? I-I don't know. Such an undertaking has never been attempted." He paused, as if turning over the idea in his mind. "A new Gem of the Weave… We have nothing to lose in trying."

"Consider us your servants." Corran sprung to his feet. "Tell us what we can do to help. Do you need any special materials?" The others also rose.

"Only a gem," the baelnorn replied. "Harldain Ironbar provided the original sapphire. He can direct you to a new stone. But you also must find a new communicant."

Kestrel frowned. "Why? What about you?"

Miroden Silverblade shook his head wearily. "My time as Protector is over. A new Gem of the Weave requires a new guardian, someone who possesses the wisdom to guide the Mythal, the strength to survive symbiosis with the Weave, the power to keep the stone safe. And, of course, the willingness to spend eternity bound inextricably to the gem."

The party exchanged glances. Kestrel knew she sure as hell wasn't suited for such responsibility. None of them were. "Is there anyone in Myth Drannor who meets that description?"

"There is," the baelnorn said. "No mortal could withstand the Mythal's fire, but one exists who already knows the blessings-and curse-of immortality. Anorrweyn Evensong. The priestess is steeped in the lore of the Mythal, and her spirit has survived the trials of time and adversity. She would serve as the perfect communicant."

"We shall hasten to ask her as soon as we finish with Harldain," Corran said. "Assuming Anorrweyn agrees, how does she become bound to the new gem?"

"Once you obtain an appropriate stone, you must carry it up the spine of the Speculum to a focal point in the dragon's back. With the gem in place, the new communicant recites the Incantation of the Weave. Anorrweyn knows the words-she was present at the first binding. This spellsong bonds the chanter to the gem and attunes the gem to the Mythal."

"How will we know whether the ceremony succeeded?" Ghleanna asked. "Whether the Mythal accepted the new gem?"

"You will know."

Corran started to put his helm back on his head. "We have much to do. We'd best get started."

"Hold." The Protector looked as if he had something more to say but struggled over whether to reveal it. His gaze swept the group, then came to rest on the trunks that stood behind them. "Yes," he murmured, nodding to himself. "You need all the aid I have left within my power to give."

He went to the trunks, brushed dust off the top of one and opened its groaning lid. "In this chest lie some of Myth Drannor's greatest remaining treasures, items given me by the coronal himself to help me safeguard the Gem of the Weave. Though I have failed that duty, perhaps some item in here will help you succeed." Reaching inside, he called Corran's name. The paladin stepped forward.

"Are you trained to fight with a shield?"

"Aye, though I prefer to leave my left hand free."

"You might prefer it to hold this." The Protector withdrew an oval shield etched with white stars along its border. "This is a mageshield, designed to protect its user from death magic. Necromantic spells that hit this shield will bounce back at their caster." His expression darkened, his gaze clouding with memories he alone could see. "'Tis no less than those cult sorcerers deserve." Corran accepted the gift and bowed low, looking as humble as Kestrel had ever seen him.

Silverblade collected himself and turned to the others. "Ghleanna Stormlake." The half-elf walked to stand before the baelnorn. "Is that a magical staff you carry?"

"No, Protector."

"This is." He produced a six-foot wooden staff covered with ornate symbols and runes, most of them resembling flames and bolts of energy. "A spellstaff. Solid as oak, light as balsa. Use it as you would an ordinary quarterstaff. But should anyone send fire or lightning your way, the staff will absorb it. Tap it twice to release the energy at a target of your choosing."

Ghleanna's eyes shone with gratitude. "I have suffered terrible burns from fire magic these past days. I thank you, Protector."

More gifts followed: bracers of protection from paralysis for Faeril, a ring of regeneration for Jarial, a trio of bronze-tipped arrows for Durwyn.

"Finally you, Kestrel." Tremors raced up Kestrel's arm as the Protector lifted her right hand. The silver ring she'd inherited from Athan's band caught the light. "Do you know what this is you wear?"

She shook her head. "There's nothing special-looking about it I thought it was an ordinary silver ring."

"On the contrary. You wear a mantle ring, a piece of magical jewelry crafted in the glory days of Myth Drannor. No doubt your ring earned its battered appearance from centuries of owners who engaged in dangerous missions like yours. The carvings have been worn until they look like mere scratches, but its power remains strong. This ring will shield you from injurious sorcerers' spells."