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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 fer 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 Faerűn’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