"Drow?" Ghleanna asked.

"Indeed, m'dear. They mostly stay below, in the dungeons, but I've seen a few here on the surface. At night, a'course."

Kestrel shuddered. She'd never encountered a drow before, but she'd heard tales of the ruthless subterranean elven race. They were said to have dark skin, shockingly white hair, and no mercy.

"An adventuring band was killed today not far from here," Corran said. "Did you ever do business with them?"

"Athan's band? Sad thing, that-them gittin' killed. I hope they weren't friends of yers?" He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Word is, the scarred mages got 'em."

At the mention of scarred mages, a tingle raced along Kestrel's collarbone.

"Who are the scarred mages?" Though she asked the question, she wasn't sure she wanted to learn the answer. "No one knows for certain. We jes' started seein' 'em one day. I think they got somethin' to do with the goings-on at the castle. Dunno why they killed yer friends, but I might be able to find out" He paused, a mercenary glint creeping into his dark eyes. "That kinda information… it don't come cheap."

"They weren't our friends," Kestrel said. Corran looked at her sharply, probably ready to accuse her of betraying the heroes' memory or some nonsense like that, but she didn't care. This little guy was a talker, and if the ill-fated party had disfigured wizards after them, she didn't need word spread around town that friends of the dead adventurers had come to avenge them. "We just saw them lying in the street and wondered."

"Curiosity ain't generally healthy in Myth Drannor," he said. "But I owe ye for scarin' off those zombies, so if ye find yerselves needin' information, come to me. If I don't know the answer, I can usually find out."

"Have you heard anything about a Pool of Radiance?" Durwyn blurted.

Gods! If he hadn't been wearing armor, Kestrel would have kicked the big, dumb warrior for being so obvious.

Nottle scratched his head. "Can't say as I have." He pulled a canvas tarp over the wagon. "That some sort of 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."