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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.”
    The group answered