Archmage

CHAPTER 7

Longsaddle,” Doum’wielle said in answer to Tiago’s question. “You have been here before?”

The elf woman shook her head. “I have heard of the place, whose reputation is larger than such a hamlet would expect. It is the home of a family of wizards, some powerful but all, by the tales, inept.” Tiago looked at her incredulously. “Inept and powerful?”

“A dangerous combination,” Doum’wielle agreed. “The recklessness of the Harpells who rule Longsaddle is the talk far and wide, and has been for centuries.”

“Yet the dwarves march to this place?”

“The Harpells are long allies of Mithral Hall,” she replied. “They were there, beside the dwarves, when your people attacked. The dwarves still sing silly songs about them, about one in particular-I believe his name was Harkle. I heard these songs often as a child, though I could never decipher most of the words in that heavy Dwarvish accent-some references to his head being where his arse used to be, or some other nonsensical thing.”

Tiago looked back to the west, to the mansion on the hill in the distant village, and Doum’wielle followed his lead. Even from here, they could see the line of dwarves running from the gates in front of that house, down the main road of the town, and out to the south, where the rest of the dwarven force had settled in a tight encampment. It looked like a river, Doum’wielle thought, running from the mansion to a living lake of dwarves.

A howl, the call of a wolf, turned the pair’s attention to the side, to the forest.

To arms! Khazid’hea screamed in Doum’wielle’s thoughts, but even with that telepathic prodding, Doum’wielle did not draw her weapon before her companion had his own in hand, Tiago’s magnificent Vidrinath coming up so quickly that the blade seemed to be an extension of the drow’s arm. Even so, Tiago found himself immediately hard-pressed, and Doum’wielle nearly run over, when a group of strange hybrid creatures, half-man, half-wolf-werewolves! — leaped out of the brush upon them.

Doum’wielle reflexively pushed her sword ahead, and the fine blade impaled the nearest charging creature, sliding so easily through the werewolf’s flesh and even into the bone. With almost any other sword, Doum’wielle’s reaction would have spelled her doom. The werewolf kept coming, so hungry for her blood that it simply ignored the wound, and worse, a second creature was even then sweeping in to the side of the first.

But this was Khazid’hea, the blade rightly called “Cutter.” Doum’wielle yelped and started to fall back, and started, too, to try to get her sword in line with the second creature, simply by angling it out to her right.

With this sword, that instinctive action proved to be enough. Cutter slashed right through the side of the impaled werewolf, nearly cutting the beast in half, and as Doum’wielle continued across, the vorpal blade gashed the second creature from hip to mid-thigh. Back came Doum’wielle’s arm desperately, Khazid’hea cutting as if through air, though again drawing a deep line on the second werewolf, and speeding across to lop the head from the first.

Doum’wielle drew the blade in close, turning the tip down. She hopped back and to her left to avoid the stumbling second creature, and brought the sword across, gashing it across the spine as it stumbled to the ground. And there it writhed, broken beyond repair.

Doum’wielle felt Khazid’hea’s admiration and even awe. For a heartbeat, she thought the sword was complimenting her on her double-kill, but she understood differently when she backstepped a bit more and considered her companion.

She had never seen such grace and speed.

Tiago had been closer to the attackers, and so four of the six had leaped at him. One flopped on the ground, blood flying from its multiple wounds.

The other three looked little better.

Tiago went down low under a clawing swipe, his shield-huge now, as it had spiraled outward, widening to his call-going over his ducking head, his forearm braced against his skull. Down atop it slammed a werewolf, arm and shoulder driving, but any balance and leverage the lycanthrope might have had over Tiago was thrown away by a simple tilt of the shield Orbbcress, Spiderweb, and it grabbed the werewolf as it tilted. At Tiago’s call, the shield let go just as the creature tried to pull back against the stickiness.

And up came Tiago, now beside and behind the beast, and one stroke from the starlight blade of Vidrinath laid the werewolf low.

Already, Tiago was moving to his defensive stance, shield sweeping across to defeat the attacks of the remaining two werewolves.

Doum’wielle thought that she should go to him, but Khazid’hea hit her with a wall of countering demands, holding her in place to watch the spectacle. The veteran sword understood, if Doum’wielle did not, that Tiago was fully in control of this battle.

Behind the shield, the blade named Vidrinath stabbed out, once and again, small cuts on the two werewolves.

Tiago went into a spin, quick-stepping to the right, then back to the left as the werewolves pursued. He leaped into a back somersault, landing gracefully on his feet and in a run right back at the werewolves, but angled to the side.

He went by them to the left, his shield easily defeating the swing of the nearest as he ran past. Easily defeating, and catching with its magical filaments.

Tiago went down to one knee, his drop yanking the werewolf off balance, lurching over. Back the other way went the drow, releasing his shield’s grip, turning as he went to sweep his slightly curved sword across the lycanthrope’s face.

It howled and fell away as Tiago came together with the remaining creature.

Now one-against-one, Tiago didn’t bother with any of his twirling and ducking moves. He fought straight up, his sword and shield darting and sweeping, always ahead of the werewolf, finding its way past the feeble attempts at defense and increasingly putting the beast off balance.

Whenever his movements put him near one of the other beasts, Tiago worked a downward coup de grace into his dancing flow, so effortlessly, so gracefully that it seemed like part of a previously choreographed and rehearsed dance.

And always he was back up against the still-standing werewolf, blocking and stabbing. At first Doum’wielle thought that her drow companion was simply wearing the werewolf down. Its movements began to noticeably slow.

She remembered the name of Tiago’s sword. Vidrinath was the drow word for “lullaby,” or at least, the drow version of the word, which referred to a taunting melody sung to those struck and caught by the infamous drow sleeping poison.

The elf woman just shook her head as the fight continued, as Tiago increased his pace and the werewolf slowed.

An arm went flying, severed at the elbow. Then a hand from the beast’s other arm twirled into the air.

Tiago Baenre didn’t simply beat the werewolf, he dismembered it, disemboweled it, and ultimately decapitated it as it stood there flailing with stubby arms, ridiculously still trying to battle him.

From a balcony on the northern side of the Ivy Mansion, Catti-brie, Drizzt, and their hosts heard the cries of the werewolves.

“The Bidderdoos,” Penelope Harpell explained with a sad shake of her head. “They are so numerous, and so. .” Her voice trailed off and she shook her head again.

“I knew Bidderdoo Harpell,” said Drizzt. “He was a good man."

“A sad legacy he has left,” said Penelope.

“Is there nothing that can be done?” Catti-brie asked.

“You are a priestess-a Chosen, it is said,” Penelope answered. “Pray to your goddess for inspiration. Many in the Ivy Mansion work their spells and ply their alchemy in search of an antidote, but lycanthropy is a stubborn disease.”

“Regis,” Drizzt quietly muttered.

“The little one?” Penelope asked.

“An alchemist,” Catti-brie explained. “He carries an entire workbench in that magical pouch at his side.”

“I do remember,” said Penelope. “He showed me. I just assumed that he was out with the dwarves. . and Wulfgar.”

The telling hesitation before she mentioned the giant man had Catti-brie and Drizzt exchanging sly grins, and when their gazes turned back to Penelope, she merely shrugged and nearly giggled, not about to deny the rumors. “Neither are here, I fear,” Catti-brie explained, and Penelope’s expression soured just a bit.

“Not killed, I pray.”

“They are off in the east, to Aglarond to find Regis’s love,” Catti-brie explained. “An extraordinarily beautiful halfling, to hear him tell it.

Truly, our diminutive friend is smitten.”

“They will return, then?”

“We hope,” said Drizzt. “Every passing day, we look to the east, hoping to see them riding back to join us.”

Penelope sighed. “Well, perhaps they will, then, and perhaps we will find our cure for the poor Bidderdoos, or perhaps Regis will ride in and save the day.”

“He has become quite adept at that of late,” said Catti-brie, and they all shared a laugh.

“And of course, if there is anything we can do,” Drizzt offered. “We have a Bidderdoo in our dungeon,” Penelope explained, and she held up her hand when the others showed a bit of shock at the remark.

“She came to us in a moment of lucidity and is being treated well. The brave woman wishes us to do whatever we think may help, and has endured great pain through our failed attempts to cure her. But still, she does not ask for release. She is determined that she will help the pack of doomed souls wandering the forest about Longsaddle. Perhaps you can go to her later, and take your goddess with you,” she said to Catti-brie.

“If any of the beings we name as gods can help such creatures, Mielikki of nature’s domain would seem a logical choice.”

“I will do whatever I can, of course, Lady Penelope,” Catti-brie replied with a graceful bow. “How much I do owe to the Harpells, and most of all, I owe you my friendship.”

Penelope nodded and smiled, then even stepped over and wrapped Catti-brie, once her protégé, in a great hug.

“And what may I, might the Harpells, do for you now?” Penelope asked. “You come to my door with an army of dwarves-such an army that has not been seen beyond the memory of elves, I expect!"

“We have come for respite,” Drizzt explained. “It has been a long road, and that after a long and bitter war. We seek the hospitality of Longsaddle, whatever may be spared, while mud-rotted feet heal, boots are mended, and our animals can be rested and shod.”

“On your way to the west,” Penelope said, a logical conclusion, of course, since they had come from the east.

Drizzt and Catti-brie exchanged another look. “We travel to. ."

“Gauntlgrym, in the Crags,” Penelope finished.

That brought a couple of surprised, but surely not astonished, stares. “The whispers precede you,” Penelope told them. “Did you think you could march an army of five thousand dwarves across the breadth of the North without drawing attention?”

“Perhaps we’re simply traveling for Icewind Dale,” Drizzt said. “For a visit?” the clever Penelope asked.

Drizzt shrugged.

“Gauntlgrym sits there in wait, and the Delzoun dwarves march in great numbers,” Penelope offered. “One does not need an abacus to add those clues to their obvious answer. And this time, you aren’t going to Gauntlgrym to rescue a cursed vampire dwarf, but to rescue the most ancient homeland of Bruenor’s ancestors, and those of King Emerus and the twin kings Bromm and Harnoth as well.”

“King Bromm is dead,” Catti-brie told her. “He fell to a white wyrm on a frozen lake early in the War of the Silver Marches.”

“And King Harnoth remains in Citadel Adbar, the lone blood king of the Silver Marches remaining on a dwarven throne,” Drizzt said. “Bruenor is out in the encampment, as is King Emerus, who gave his throne to another, as is King Connerad, the Eleventh King of Mithral Hall, who surrendered his crown to a deserving Dagnabbet Brawnanvil that he could join in this greatest quest of the Delzoun dwarves.”

“It seems you have quite a story to tell,” Penelope said. “And quite a story yet to write. Go and fetch these dwarf kings, Master Drizzt, if you will, and whatever other dwarves they wish to bring in, and you can tell the Harpells your tale in full, and over the finest meal you’ve had in tendays.” Drizzt and Catti-brie nodded, and turned to the stairs.

“Just him,” Penelope said to Catti-brie, who looked back at her curiously. “You and I have so much to catch up on. Please remain."

“Of course,” Catti-brie said, and she gave Drizzt a kiss and sent him off. She had barely settled in a comfortable chair beside Penelope when they saw the drow thundering down the hillside on his magnificent white unicorn.

“I’m honored that you and your army chose to come through Longsaddle on your march,” Penelope said. “I expect that you played no small role in that decision.”

“It seemed a reasonable respite, and one much needed."

“And?”

“You see right through me, lady,” Catti-brie said.

“I know you well, Delly Curtie,” Penelope replied, using the woman’s old name, the one she had worn when first she had come to Longsaddle those few years before. “Or Ruqiah, perhaps?”

Catti-brie laughed. “I do wish to spend some time in the libraries of the Ivy Mansion,” she admitted. “And to discuss some thoughts with the greatest of the Harpell wizards, yourself and Kipper, surely, who is so well versed in the matters of teleporting.”

“You don’t think we can transport an army, I hope,” Penelope replied with a laugh.

“No, no,” Catti-brie answered, laughing too. “But when Gauntlgrym is retaken, and I have no doubt that it will be. . the dwarves have responsibilities in other lands.”

“Ah,” Penelope purred, nodding as she figured it out. “You wish to magically connect Gauntlgrym to Mithral Hall with something akin to a permanent gateway.”

“And to Adbar and Felbarr, perhaps Icewind Dale, and perhaps other Delzoun dwarf fortresses,” Catti-brie admitted. “How much more secure would my father’s people-”

“Your father?”

“Bruenor,” Catti-brie explained. “My adoptive father.”

“In another life.”

“In this one, as well.”

Penelope spent a moment pondering that, then shrugged, and Catti-brie got the distinct impression that the carefree woman didn’t have a high opinion of that arrangement remaining intact, even through decades of the sleep of death and Mielikki’s magical reincarnation.

“So you wish to facilitate a magical portal, through which the dwarves can trade, and can send armies whenever and wherever they are needed?"

“It would be a boon.”

“Or a curse,” said Penelope. “Even if I could facilitate such an impressive feat as that, you couldn’t easily close it down. If one dwarven fortress fell, your enemies would have an open doorway to the other citadels.” Catti-brie mulled that grim possibility for a while. She wanted to deny it, but Penelope had a strong point. If the drow of Menzoberranzan came back to Gauntlgrym and chased out Bruenor, would any of the other kingdoms be safe ever again?

“Something to consider,” Penelope said. “So let us explore the possibilities together with Kipper in the coming days. If anyone here at the Ivy Mansion has any idea of how such a gate might be facilitated, it would be him, no doubt.”

“I am not so sure. .”

“Wait until you see the possibilities before you douse the torch, my friend,” Penelope advised. “You will gain insight on your choices through this exploration.”

“I do not expect that it will be an easy choice if the possibility exists."

“Perhaps we all have some difficult, though exciting decisions ahead of us,” Penelope said with a laugh, and she leaped from her chair and held out her hand to Catti-brie. “Come, my nose tells me that you need to bathe, and perhaps we can find, or magically weave, a proper gown for one of your beauty.”

“Too kind!” Catti-brie agreed, for she wasn’t about to say no to a bath.

They had been marching the dusty road through the heat of summer, and Penelope wasn’t the only one aware of Catti-brie’s fragrance! She took the woman’s hand and jumped up beside her, smiling widely. But behind that grin, Catti-brie was trying to make some sense of Penelope’s other curious statements regarding difficult and exciting decisions.

Day after day dragged by, and Tiago grew frustrated, for Drizzt rarely left the Ivy Mansion, and when he did, it was only to travel the short distance to the dwarven encampment. Tiago certainly wasn’t going near to a house of human wizards, and the dwarves presented an equal challenge, for though tendays had passed, through the hottest days of summer, the camp was truly a fortress, with the bearded folk on full alert at all times. It was because of the werewolves. The creatures were everywhere, their howls ever-present in the night.

The couple had found protection from the beasts in an abandoned home-likely a halfling house, for it was more below ground than above. The walls outside the hill that contained the bulk of the place were solid and well fortified. Tiago and Doum’wielle had not been bothered since that first day, though they had on several occasions found tracks near their windows.

Doum’wielle enjoyed the respite, and the training time it afforded her with Khazid’hea. The sword understood Drizzt, and she was being trained specifically to fight him, she knew. She soon came to recognize that she had not been the first one the sentient Cutter had trained in this manner, and for the same purpose.

“You have a vendetta against that particular dark elf,” she whispered to the sword one sunny afternoon. Tiago had remained inside the house, out of the uncomfortable sun, while Doum’wielle wanted to bask in the bright sunlight, well aware that she might not again know this sensation for many years, perhaps never again.

I was once wielded by Catti-brie, the sword explained. She was not worthy. Doum’wielle digested the thoughts, not disagreeing, but still unable to make the connection, considering the sword’s obvious anger toward the drow ranger. This preparation and training, this plan Khazid’hea had formulated, wasn’t just about her, Doum’wielle had come to believe. There was something else here, something personal. But why would a sword care?

He rejected you, she thought, and the sensation returned by Khazid’hea told her that she had indeed sorted out the riddle.

“You wished Drizzt to wield you when Catti-brie could not properly do so,” she whispered.

She felt the sword’s anger-not directed at her.

Doum’wielle understood clearly then that she had just confirmed that she was not the first the sentient blade had trained specifically to kill Drizzt Do’Urden. She was about to inquire of that when a noise to the side, along with a warning from Khazid’hea, put her on her guard. She backstepped to the house’s door, expecting a group of werewolves, or perhaps a dwarf patrol, to leap out upon her.

But it was not a werewolf that came forth, nor a dwarf, but a drow, and one Doum’wielle did not recognize.

“Well met, Little Doe,” he said, but then put his hand to his lips and gasped. “Pardon, Doum’wielle Armgo,” he corrected with a low and respectful bow. “Or should I call you Doum’wielle Do’Urden now?”

“Who are you?”

“I am of Bregan D’aerthe,” the drow answered.

“The mercenary band?”

“Who serve at the pleasure of Matron Mother Baenre,” the drow clarified. “Like your partner, I am Baenre. Beniago, at your service.”

Doum’wielle thought she had heard the name before, but she couldn’t be sure.

“I am here at the command of the matron mother, and of Archmage Gromph,” Beniago went on. “They tasked Bregan D’aerthe with finding you-well, to be honest, with finding Tiago, who is a noble son of House Baenre. But we expected that you would not be far from his side.”

“You have come to bring us back to Menzoberranzan?”

“No. Not immediately, at least. I know nothing of that. I was tasked with finding you and delivering to you a gift from the archmage.”

He began to approach, and held up his hands as if he were holding something, a cape or a cord, perhaps, though Doum’wielle could see nothing. She shied back a step or two.

He is no enemy, Khazid’hea imparted to her and she let Beniago catch up to her, and only flinched a bit as his hands went up high. He moved them out over her head, as if he were placing a crown, or perhaps a necklace upon her, and indeed as he brought his hands down, Doum’wielle felt the weight of a heavy chain.

“Wh-what. .?” she stammered, falling back and reaching up, and indeed feeling a chain around her neck, as thick as a finger, and with a circular pendant hanging low between her breasts.

“With that around your neck, Archmage Gromph can know your place,” Beniago explained.

“Know my place?”

“The matron mother will send him to retrieve you and Tiago when she so chooses,” Beniago bluntly replied. “She is not one to forgive tardiness.”

Despite the warning, this whole scenario seemed an invasion to Doum’wielle, and she reflexively went to remove the invisible necklace.

“Do not,” Beniago warned, the tone of his voice changing dramatically. “You are instructed to wear it, and to say nothing of it to Tiago, and nothing of this visit at all. To Tiago or anyone else.”

At the mention of Tiago, Doum’wielle glanced back at the house, where all was quiet.

“Nothing,” Beniago warned her again.

Doum’wielle was about to protest, but Beniago cut her short, and stole any argument she might have offered, by saying, “On penalty of. .” He paused and smiled. “You can well imagine. The Archmage of Menzoberranzan is already aware of your location, bastard darthiir of House Do’Urden. Gromph Baenre is already aware that you wear the necklace. And he will know if you try to remove it.”

Doum’wielle understood then that this wasn’t a request. It was a command, and one that carried great and deadly consequence if it was not followed. She looked down and cupped the pendant in her hand, trying to make out some slight reflection of the thing. But it was perfectly invisible.

Doum’wielle looked back up, but Beniago was already gone.

She turned back to the house and considered Tiago.

He cannot protect you from the wrath of Archmage Gromph, Khazid’hea said in her thoughts, and if the sword had been reading her mind, it would have known that she understood that truth very, very well.

They have likely been searching for Tiago since he fell from the wyrm, Khazid’hea explained.

Then he should wear the necklace.

You would tell that to Archmage Gromph?

The necklace seemed heavier to Little Doe, then, and its chain, a shackle.

“Well, where would you like to go?” Kipper asked.

“I know not,” a flustered and somewhat nervous Catti-brie answered.

Old Kipper had just taught her the basics of a spell she feared, one that she wanted to spend some more time studying, and here he was prodding her to give it a try!

“Just think of a place, girl!” Kipper scolded. “Imagine a place of safety and security, a place where you could hide and feel as if nothing in the world could harm you.”

Catti-brie looked at him curiously.

“Best for a teleport,” Kipper explained. “For there, in your most secure hearth and home, is a place you know best. Every corner, every finger of it is locked into your mind’s eye so perfectly that you won’t miss with your spell. And so you can trust that you’ll never appear too high up in the air and take a nasty fall, or, shudder to say it, magically appear too low, in the midst of stone and dirt!” He paused and scrutinized her carefully.

“Mithral Hall, perhaps?”

But Catti-brie’s thoughts, spurred by Kipper’s description were not, to her surprise, recalling a place anywhere near Mithral Hall. No, she pictured a place she had cultivated, a place of Mielikki. She had known violence in that place, and had once been discovered there, and yet, to her, the secret garden she had cultivated as the child Ruqiah seemed to her the place of her spirit’s warmest rest.

She saw it now, so clearly that she felt as if she could touch it. She began reciting the spell, though she was hardly aware of the words spilling forth.

She could smell the flowers, she could touch them.

Indeed, she was touching them before she even realized that she had successfully cast the spell, and was then standing in the secret garden in the lands that had been Netheril-and indeed, still might be, for Cattibrie had not been there in several years, and on that occasion had only passed through.

She stood there for a long while, remembering Niraj and Kavita and the Desai tribe. She hoped they were well, and vowed to find them again when she was done with Bruenor’s war.

She glanced back at the narrow entrance to the place, through the shielding stones, and thought of Lady Avelyere, who had called to her from that very entrance, angry that her student had so deceived her. Catti-brie smiled, for that was not really a bad memory, though surely she had been startled and afraid when powerful Avelyere had caught her.

But soon after, because of that confrontation, she had come to know that the woman truly cared for her. She nodded, and hoped that Avelyere, too, was well, and thought that she should visit the Coven, Avelyere’s school of sorcery, if it could be safely arranged.

Catti-brie remembered that Kipper had placed a contingency spell upon her, one that would return her to the Ivy Mansion in a short while.

She let go of external memories and focused instead on the warmth of the place as she made her way through the flowers to the cypress tree shading the far end of the garden. She moved beneath it, under the glare of the Netherese sun, and gently ran her fingers along the light gray bark, tracing the silvery lines that coursed it like veins.

She closed her eyes and remembered the magic she had brought to this place to cultivate it, until it was able to stand on its own-and indeed, it had. She slid the right sleeve of her black robe and the colorful blouse beneath up enough to reveal her divine spellscar, shaped like the head of a unicorn. In this place Catti-brie had truly come to understand her relationship with Mielikki. In this place, she felt whole and warm.

She felt the first tugs of Kipper’s spell of return then, and sighed, opening her eyes and scanning the tree so that she could burn its every twist and turn into her memory forevermore.

That’s when she noted something very curious.

There was one branch that was not leafy, and seemed like an aberration, a stub. It was as thick around as her wrist, but only extended a few feet from the trunk before rounding off in an abrupt ending. She reached up to touch it, wondering if it had been broken by a strike of lightning, perhaps, or by some animal.

It came free and fell, and she barely managed to catch it before Kipper’s spell caught her.

The look of surprise on Catti-brie’s face was genuine when she found herself back in Kipper’s private library at the Ivy Mansion, the branch in hand.

“Well now, what have you found?” she heard Kipper asking before she properly reoriented herself.

She wanted to answer “a branch,” but as she continued to touch the silvery-gray bark, she realized that answer to be a woefully inadequate. This wasn’t just a branch from the cypress tree, she realized, but a gift from the tree-from Mielikki? She clasped it in both hands, like a staff, and brought it closer, and noticed then that the bluish mist of her spellscar was swirling around her forearm, and extending to swirl about the staff, as well.

Catti-brie looked at Kipper and shook her head, at a loss to explain. Kipper wasn’t waiting for an explanation anyway. He was already casting a spell to magically examine the staff. He nodded and opened his eyes some time later.

“A fine item to focus your energies,” he said. “I’ve always said that a wizard should never be without a staff! A young wizard, at least, so that when she errs badly, she can at least knock those laughing at her over the head.” He held out his hand and motioned for the item, and Catti-brie, though she didn’t really want to surrender it, handed it to him.

Kipper put it through some movements-sidelong as if in a block, then in one outstretched hand, as if he was loosing a mighty blast of power.

He nodded again. Muttering “well-balanced,” he examined the head of the item, which was a bit bulbous and also slightly concave. Kipper laughed and brought his free hand to his lips, glancing all about. He rushed to his desk, fumbled with some keys, and finally opened a drawer.

“A lock?” Catti-brie asked dryly. “A bit mundane, don’t you think?” Kipper laughed again and bent low, rummaging through the cluttered drawer. He came back up holding a large blue gemstone, a sapphire. He brought it to the tip of the staff, settling it into the concave end, nodding. “I can have it properly set,” he said, as much to himself as to Catti-brie.

“What is it?”

“It holds spells for you,” he replied. “Oh, but it has a lot to offer! I spent many years crafting this one, I did!” He tossed it to Catti-brie. She caught it easily and held it up in front of her sparkling eyes- sparkling because she could feel the sapphire teeming with energy. It had enchantments upon it, she knew immediately, bringing many spells into her thoughts with only that cursory examination.

“Well, to be fair, I didn’t create the orb,” Kipper admitted. “It was more in the way of repairing it.”

“Repairing what?”

“A staff,” he replied. “One that I took from a wizard after defeating her in a duel, and breaking her staff in the process. Finest lightning bolt I ever threw, I tell you!” He chuckled and nodded, enjoying the memory, apparently. “It’s an item of the old magic, before the Spellplague, before the Time of Troubles, even. I’d thought to make it anew, and indeed, even during the Spellplague I managed to repair the orb. But then I never finished, like so much of my life’s work. Maybe I just never found a staff suitable for it.”

“It sounds like you have great respect for the item this wizard held."

“She was no match for me except for that staff, oh no!” Kipper declared.

He looked at Catti-brie more closely. “That blouse you wear, it, too, is from the old times.”

Catti-brie looked at the garment-it was more a shift than a blouse, and had been a robe for its previous wearer, a most wicked little gnome named Jack.

“Do you know what it is?”

“I know its properties.”

“Its name?”

Catti-brie shook her head, but then answered, “The Robe of the Archmage?” for she had heard it referred to as such.

“Indeed,” Kipper replied. “And this. .” he took the sapphire from her and held it up so she could clearly see it. “This was the heart of a Staff of the Magi. I never finished my work with it, because. . well, because I am old Kipper and my reputation for distraction is well earned, like so many of my family. And because I never found a suitable staff. Yet here you go, disappearing from me for just a few moments, and poof, you return with something I’ve long wanted, but hardly remembered that I wanted!” It took Catti-brie a long while to sort that jumble of words out, and she shook her head, mostly in amusement at Kipper’s animated state. But then her expression turned deadly serious. “I cannot,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“What, girl?”

“I. . I cannot give it to you,” she tried to explain. “The staff, it is a gift from Mielikki.”

Kipper held up the silvery staff. He focused more intently upon it this time. He brought the gem up close to his face and whispered to it, and then his eyes widened indeed.

“It’s already enchanted,” he said.

“I feel the warmth of divine healing within it,” Catti-brie said. “I am sorry, my friend.”

“Sorry? No, no, I did not mean for you to give me your staff, of course!” Kipper explained. “No, I meant to complete my work on your staff. For you!”

Catti-brie was taken aback. “I could not. .”

“Of course you could! Of course you would, and why not? My adventuring days are all but over, and I’ve little desire to get into any dragon’s lairs or troll caves any longer. Why, if I could use you as my protégé and send you forth properly armed-ha! — why then I’d feel as if old Kipper did something truly worthwhile.”

“Kipper,” Catti-brie said, and she moved over and hugged the man. He pushed her back, though, just a bit, a mischievous smile on his wrinkled face. He held up the blue sapphire and the silver staff and arched his eyebrows.

“Dare we?” he asked.

It was nearly midsummer, long into the seventh month of Flamerule, when the dwarves at last broke camp and resumed their march. Their feet healed, their bellies full, their spirits high, the dark tide of dwarven warriors flowed out of Longsaddle, like a river down the road to the southwest, heading with grim determination for the Crags.

Their ranks had not thinned in their long stay, and indeed some new and powerful allies had joined in the march.

Catti-brie was perhaps alone among the army who was not surprised when Penelope Harpell had ridden out to join them, with several other eager young wizards at her side, and one much older one.

For it seemed clear that Catti-brie had intrigued old Kipper with her talk of a functioning gate between Gauntlgrym and Mithral Hall, so much so that the old wizard had decided to investigate the possibilities for himself. The woman looked to her silver-gray staff, the blue sapphire sitting perfectly atop it. She was certain that few in the world could claim an item of this power, infused with both arcane and divine magic, and so fittingly matching the spellscars on her arms.

She nodded, and couldn’t contain her smile, so glad to have old Kipper along. For suddenly the road seemed friendlier, suddenly the caverns ahead not so dark, and now, she knew, she would be ready to meet what challenges might come.

“They got a reputation o’ bumblin’,” King Emerus whispered to Bruenor, the old dwarf full of doubt when the Harpells asked to join in the march. But Bruenor could only grin. He remembered well the role the Harpell family had played back in the days before the Spellplague, before the Time of Troubles even, when the drow had come to Mithral Hall.

“Aye, and we might find a few of our boys turned into newts, or frogs or dogs, or might be a turnip or two,” Bruenor replied.

Emerus looked at him gravely, but Bruenor dismissed it with a laugh. “One thing we’re not for matchin’ with them drow in Gauntlgrym is wizardry.”

“We got a hunnerd priests,” Emerus protested.

“Wizardry,” Bruenor repeated. “Our priests’ll be too busy tending burned skin if we can’t match them drow wizards, and Drizzt’s telling me that this house that’s set itself up in Gauntlgrym is one fat with durned wizards. So now we got some, and aye, them Harpells’ve earned their foolish reputation honestly. But don’t ye doubt the power they’re bringin’, and this one, Penelope. .” he paused and looked at the woman, riding easily on a spectral mount and chatting with Drizzt and Catti-brie.

“She’s a good one,” Bruenor finished. “Me girl says she’s a good one.”

“As ye wish,” Emerus said and let it go at that. He didn’t have nearly the experiences of battling dark elves that Bruenor could boast, but he had seen enough of their magical tricks in the siege of Citadel Felbarr, and he had to admit that if these human wizards were at all competent, their presence could only help.

At the very least, Emerus figured, the Harpell wizards would make themselves the first targets of drow lightning bolts, giving him and his boys the chance to get up close to the magic-users.

They kept their pace easy, for this was difficult territory, and since they meant to be battling in the Underdark, in the subterranean halls of Gauntlgrym, they didn’t fear the onset of winter. Surely they’d be inside long before the first snows fell.

They moved directly through the wild Crags, fearing no goblin tribes, or barbarians, or any other enemy that might rise against them. Along familiar ground, Drizzt and Bruenor noted that they were near the tunnel entrance that would take them down to Gauntlgrym, but Bruenor pressed the march on beyond that point, leaving only a few scouts behind and taking the army all the way to the city of Neverwinter.

They made camp in sight of Neverwinter’s gate on the last day of Eleasis in the Year of the Nether Mountain Scrolls.

“All rise for the Protector!” the guard barked, and everyone sitting around the long table in the great building known as the Hall of Justice jumped up from their seats. This was the most impressive structure in the city of Neverwinter, capped with an enormous red and gold dome, and with huge circular windows along the curving ceiling to capture the sky at the true points of the compass. It was a new construction, too, and a testament to the hardy and industrious settlers determined to raise this city from the ashes of the volcano.

A decorated door at the back of the chamber banged open and a young woman of perhaps thirty winters confidently strode in. Her hair was auburn and cut short and made her large blue eyes seem huge, while the blue tint of her vestments and plated greaves made them shine bluer.

“Could be your sister,” Drizzt said to Catti-brie.

“General Sabine,” Bruenor whispered, nodding, for he had served under her in his short time posing as Bonnego Battle-axe of the Neverwinter Guard.

Behind the young general came a man who appeared just a bit north of middle age, but with youthful vigor, and the musculature typical of a man much younger. His hair and beard, both neatly trimmed, were silver, and his scowl seemed perpetual even at first glance. He wore a golden breastplate carved into the likeness of a lion’s face in full roar.

“All hail Lord Protector Dagult Neverember!” the guard called, and around the table came a unified call of “Hail, Neverember!”

General Sabine moved to stand beside her seat, just to the right of the throne centering the back center length of the table. She stood at perfect attention, not even blinking it seemed, though she did move her gaze over to consider Drizzt more than once, and a slight moment of curiosity-recognition, perhaps? — flickered when she scanned Bruenor.

The lord protector came up fast, seeming quite agitated. He brushed past Sabine and verily jumped over the arm of the throne to take his seat, motioning dismissively with his hand to indicate that the others could sit.

“I am roused from my most comfortable bed in Waterdeep with news that an army has camped on the doorstep of Neverwinter,” he said as soon as the chairs stopped rustling. His tone, his posture, and his expression all worked in unison to convey that he was none too pleased.

All eyes of the visitors across the table went to King Emerus, whom they had appointed to speak for them. The old dwarf chuckled a bit at the Lord Protector’s cross and demeaning tone-Neverember’s reputation had preceded him and he was certainly living up to it.

Emerus planted his hands on the table and slowly rose.

“Me name’s Warcrown, Emerus Warcrown, and until this march I was known as the King o’ Citadel Felbarr in the Silver Marches and the Alliance of Luruar,” the dwarf began. “Ye heared o’ me?”

Lord Protector Neverember wouldn’t offer the respect of a nod or affirmation, and merely rolled his hands to prompt the old dwarf to keep talking.

“The army afore yer gates, the dwarfs o’ Felbarr, Citadel Adbar, and Mithral Hall, did’no come to yer call or with yer permission,” the proud old dwarf said evenly. “We come as a courtesy and nothin’ more, to let the folk and leaders o’ Neverwinter know of our coming and o’ what we mean to be doing.”

“A courtesy?” Lord Neverember scoffed. “You send an army as a courtesy?”

“Well, since we’re soon to be neighbors. .” Emerus retorted.

“To cross my borders without invite? An army? That can be considered an act of war, King Emerus, as you should surely know!”

Emerus started to reply, but Bruenor banged his hands on the table and shot up. “Aye, a courtesy, and so when’s it startin’ that dwarfs and the folk o’ Neverwinter’re at odds?”

“Bonnego,” he heard from the side. He turned to the end of the table and only then noticed the elderly Jelvus Grinch, who had once been first citizen of the fledgling city, and who had known Bruenor when he had come here in disguise in search of Gauntlgrym.

“Bruenor,” the dwarf corrected, but in a friendly tone as he turned to regard the elderly man, and to bow with respect as well. “Ye knowed me as Bonnego, and aye, I served in yer garrison and on yer wall for a bit,” he added, looking then to General Sabine, who now obviously recognized him as well. “But me name’s Bruenor, and me family’s Battlehammer, and that’s a name ye should be knowin’ well.”

“King Bruenor Battlehammer?” Lord Neverember asked, and he seemed a bit less sure of himself suddenly. “Am I to believe that two dwarf kings have marched to my city’s gate?”

“Ye was just telled as much,” said Bruenor. “And that we come as a courtesy.”

“You are not old enough. .” Neverember started to argue.

“I am known in your city as well,” Drizzt said, and he rose up beside Bruenor. “Indeed, it was Jelvus Grinch, then First Citizen, who asked me to stay those years ago, in the early days of Neverwinter reclaimed."

“Drizzt Do’Urden,” the elderly man confirmed. “ ’Tis true.”

“I speak for the dwarf beside me,” Drizzt said. “Know that he is who, and what, he claims-Bruenor Battlehammer, Eighth and Tenth King of Mithral Hall. And beside him is Connerad Brawnanvil, who, like King Emerus with Citadel Felbarr, served as King of Mithral Hall until this very march commenced back in the lands of the Silver Marches.”

“Three dwarf kings?” Lord Neverember asked, and he gave a dismissive chuckle.

“They’ve come for Gauntlgrym,” General Sabine soberly remarked, and the lord protector stopped laughing.

“Just figurin’ that out, are ye?” Bruenor replied sourly.

Neverember lived up to his short-tempered reputation then, leaping to his feet and yelling, “You have come to my lands to wage war?”

“Nah,” said Bruenor. “We’re marching to our own land to take it back.”

“Land that falls within my borders.”

“Then them borders’ll be redrawn, don’t ye doubt,” Bruenor shot back. “Gauntlgrym’s a dwarven home, and goin’ back to Delzoun rule, and none’ll doubt our claim.”

“And it’s held by drow, by all word that’s come forth,” Emerus added. “What’ve ye done to rid yer lands o’ that scourge, O Lord Protector?”

Emerus sat down when he finished, and tugged Bruenor’s sleeve to get him, too, to return to his seat. Across the way, Lord Neverember leaned on the table with an aggressive posture, staring hard at the dwarves. Finally, he returned to his seat.

“You mean to reclaim Gauntlgrym for the dwarves,” he said.

“Aye, and know that we’re meanin’ to fight any who think to stand afore that end,” said Bruenor.

Neverember bristled but let it go. “And re-fire the forges.”

“Already runnin’,” said Bruenor. “And better that they’re runnin’ for dwarf smiths.”

Neverember nodded and wore an expression that looked as if he was beginning to see things in a different light-no doubt, in a profitable light for Neverwinter, or more important, for himself. Bruenor recognized that clearly, for he had paid close attention to all the whispers along the road regarding the new Lord Protector of Neverwinter. Bruenor had not met the man in his short time in the city previously. But even then the whispers had been quite consistent in tagging the man with some of the mind’s deadly sins, and all were on display already in this short meeting: pride, wrath, and now, it seemed pretty clear to the dwarf, avarice.

“We come to introduce ye to yer new neighbors, Lord Neverember,” said Bruenor. “Don’t ye doubt that.”

“Those lands in the Crags are under my control,” he countered.

“Not anymore,” said Bruenor.

Those seated around Lord Protector Neverember sucked in their breath as one, and the man sputtered as he searched to put his anger into words, but Bruenor wasn’t about to let it go.

“Gauntlgrym’s dwarf land,” he declared, standing again. “If ye’re meaning to fight us, ye best do it now, afore we get into the mines. Ye got the belly for that?”

Neverember stared at him incredulously, sputtering still, his lack of options laid bare. There was no way the Neverwinter garrison could be turned loose on the powerful army Bruenor and Emerus had brought to their doorstep. Five thousand battle-hardened dwarf veterans outfitted with the strongest armor and weapons of the finest materials mined in Mithral Hall and Citadel Felbarr and lovingly crafted by the artisans of Citadel Adbar would prove formidable against the very best armies of the Realms, particularly in the open field, where the dwarves’ discipline and tight defensive formations could frustrate even heavy cavalry.

Certainly the garrison of Neverwinter wasn’t about to leave the protection of the city walls to challenge them, Lord Neverember’s bluster notwithstanding.

Exposed now, the Lord Protector of Neverwinter settled back in his chair and stroked his silver beard, managing a smile that was supposed to appear wry, but in reality seemed rather pathetic to Bruenor.

“You have come as a courtesy, you say, but you offer threats?” came the predictable response-the answer of a man trying not to be embarrassed.

“No threats to any who’re not trying to stop us from gettin’ back our home,” said Bruenor. “Are ye sayin’ ye like the drow and goblins on yer doorstep more than a kingdom o’ dwarfs? If that’s what ye’re sayin’ then say it straight up.”

“I said no such thing.”

“Gauntlgrym’s Delzoun.”

“The land above it is under my protection,” Lord Neverember said. “Even if you are successful in reclaiming the Underdark of this place you claim to be Gauntlgrym, your kingdom will extend no farther than your front door.”

Bruenor chuckled, understanding now. The greedy Waterdhavian lord was angling for a tithe. The dwarves would need trade, obviously, and Neverember wanted his cut.

“Talk for another day,” Bruenor said, and he offered Neverember a grin and a nod to show that he understood well what was going on. “First we’ve got a war to fight and win, and don’t ye doubt that we’ll be doing just that.”

Before Lord Neverember could even respond, Bruenor motioned left and right to his entourage, and they rose and stepped away from the table. The crafty old dwarf, who appeared so young, wanted to make it clear that he and his people were not under the suffrage of Lord Protector Neverember or anyone else, and so he wasn’t about to wait for a dismissal from the lord, or even a respectful conclusion to the formal meeting.

He was daring Neverember to take action, perhaps even to detain him and his small entourage.

Because he knew the man would do no such thing, particularly not with King Emerus and Drizzt-who remained quite popular in Neverwinter these days-in that entourage.

They were out of the city soon after, without hindrance, and General Sabine, riding a fabulous warhorse with metal barding, and Citizen Jelvus Grinch on a smaller riding horse even accompanied them back to the main dwarven encampment, chatting amicably all the way.

“Lord Neverember is in a difficult position here,” General Sabine told them. “This long-lost complex you call Gauntlgrym. .”

“Is Gauntlgrym,” Bruenor interrupted. “Been there meself more than once. No doubt.”

General Sabine bowed to concede the point.

“Gauntlgrym has been a thorn in Neverwinter’s side,” she explained. “Monsters come forth from the Underdark all the time. And it was from that region, from the very mountain that houses the ancient complex, that the volcano erupted in the first place, destroying the old city.”

Bruenor and Drizzt knew the truth of that all too well, and knew the source of the volcano to be the very same fire primordial that fired Gauntlgrym’s legendary Forge. Drizzt had watched the eruption from a hilltop not so far away.

“Did ye come out here to tell me how to think o’ Neverember then?” Bruenor asked. “I seen what I seen.”

“I hope you understand the upset your arrival has caused, and will cause, with the powers that be in the region,” General Sabine replied.

“Not just Lord Neverember,” Jelvus Grinch added. “I expect that many of the Waterdhavian lords will not be as welcoming as you hope.”

“But what would you do if you were still first citizen?” Drizzt asked, his tone revealing that he knew the answer.

“I’d be going into Gauntlgrym beside you to chase the dark elves and the rest away,” he answered after only a slight hesitation to glance at General Sabine. His words could be construed as a treasonous act under the court of fiery Neverember. Jelvus Grinch had no authority to speak against the Lord Protector of Neverwinter, and certainly not in the presence of Neverwinter’s captain of the guard, and yet he was.

That told Drizzt and the others a lot about Jelvus Grinch, but more importantly, it told Drizzt and Bruenor about the reliability and integrity of General Sabine. Jelvus Grinch would not have spoken so openly if he didn’t trust the woman, which in Drizzt and Bruenor’s eyes told them that they could trust her as well.

“With the dwarves claiming Gauntlgrym, Neverwinter will be far more secure,” Jelvus Grinch went on. “And more prosperous, I would assume, with a mighty trading partner so near. You will want our food and our cloth.”

“And our markets for your wares,” General Sabine added.

Bruenor nodded, but thought that the dwarves would have nothing to do with Neverwinter’s products, craftsmen, or markets if Neverember tried to slap a tariff on the dwarves for bringing their goods out through what the Lord Protector considered Neverwinter land.

As far as Bruenor was concerned-and he was sure that King Emerus and King Connerad felt the same way-in that situation, they’d either tunnel out a new exit farther to the north or to the east, or they’d just disregard any such demands of taxation.

And they’d cut Neverwinter out of any trading partnerships or military alliances.

Bruenor Battlehammer did not march to Gauntlgrym with such a force from the Silver Marches to bow down to the human lords of the Sword Coast.

“We need her alive,” the human said.

Jarlaxle sighed. “We did not go to all the trouble of finding the troubled young elf just to see her slaughtered.”

“You went to find Tiago at the command of Gromph,” the man pressed.

“We went to do both.” Jarlaxle turned to Kimmuriel. “A fortunate coincidence that they were together.”

Kimmuriel’s expression showed that he could not have cared less.

Jarlaxle sighed again, an audible lament to the extremes of his two companions, one who apparently couldn’t see past his own immediate desires, and the other, who was so removed from emotion that none of this seemed at all important to him. The mercenary grinned and let it go; this had ever been his role in Bregan D’aerthe, after all, balancing the immediate desires with the long-term implications.

Fortunately for him this time, Gromph’s-and by extension, Matron Mother Baenre’s-demands that Bregan D’aerthe locate and track Tiago also played into some more important developments and likelihoods that Jarlaxle had expected farther down the line.

Beniago and the human left then, leaving the co-leaders of Bregan D’aerthe alone in the room at the inn called One-Eyed Jax in Luskan.

“We don’t need her at all,” Kimmuriel pointed out. “Our excitable friend believes that since she, too, is darthiir, she will ultimately lead us where he desires to go.”

“He sees us as if we all look alike, my friend,” Jarlaxle replied. “Are we not guilty of the same prejudices against his kind? Or against Doum’wielle’s, for that matter?”

Kimmuriel stared at him for a few moments. “You are,” said the ultimately pragmatic psionicist, who spent more time with the otherworldly mind flayers than with his own kind, and when he considered the truth of Kimmuriel’s words, Jarlaxle realized that he really couldn’t disagree.

Still, Jarlaxle was less inclined toward xenophobia and prejudice than most others of his race, so he could take Kimmuriel’s point well without taking it personally.

“When do you meet with Gromph again for his next lesson?” Jarlaxle asked.

“In a tenday, in Sorcere,” the psionicist replied.

“We see where this is leading, and I don’t think the archmage will approve. Nor will he harbor the risk of knowing our plans without going straight to the wretched matron mother.”

“Archmage Gromph has more on his mind than something Bregan D’aerthe might do with a minor House in Menzoberranzan sometime in the future,” Kimmuriel insisted.

“He is not removed from this,” Jarlaxle reminded him. “He has been tasked with ensuring Tiago’s safe return to Menzoberranzan. That puts us side by side, but not with similar end goals.”

“He is more removed than you believe,” Kimmuriel said. “But I will take great care when I present this to the archmage.” He held up a large crystal, one attuned to the necklace Beniago had hung around Doum’wielle’s neck.

This item was a psionic creation more than an arcane one, scrying through the sheer power of the mind. If Doum’wielle had been so trained, she could use the gem hanging around her neck to look back the other way, but of course, she’d never recognize such a power. But Gromph, training under Kimmuriel and growing quite adept at the strange psionic powers, would be able to utilize the connection between the gems.

And the great Kimmuriel, holding the third gem, would be able to psionically walk beside Tiago and Doum’wielle as surely as if he were actually standing with them.

“Keep a close watch,” Jarlaxle bade him. “If Gromph moves on Tiago and Doum’wielle, we must be quick to act.” Jarlaxle considered that closed the business between he and Kimmuriel, and rose from his seat, but Kimmuriel’s next words stopped him before he took a step.

“For the sake of your human friend?”

Jarlaxle laughed under his breath at the sarcastic remark, so characteristic of the often too-clever Kimmuriel.

“For all our sakes, as the wider events unfold.”

“We find a good profit simply working under the commands of the matron mother,” Kimmuriel reminded him.

“Until Quenthel grows tired of us, or wishes to make a point against us.”

“Against her brother, you mean.”

Jarlaxle spun and glared at Kimmuriel. “You accuse me of using Bregan D’aerthe to further my own designs?”

Kimmuriel shrugged and returned Jarlaxle’s look with a disarming grin. “Is that not why we have Bregan D’aerthe?”

That stark admission caught Jarlaxle off guard. He had elevated Kimmuriel to co-leader of the band precisely to make sure that he, Jarlaxle, did not wrongly use the band in pursuit of goals that did not serve Bregan D’aerthe.

“In this instance, I do not disagree that your needs and those of Bregan D’aerthe are one and the same,” Kimmuriel explained. “When your sister imprisoned you as a guard of House Do’Urden-”

“Along with half of our foot soldiers,” Jarlaxle interjected, and Kimmuriel nodded.

“She also sublimated our Luskan operation to House Xorlarrin and their fledgling city,” Kimmuriel finished.

“We should remain a proxy group for House Baenre,” the psionicist went on, “but only partly that, and only so long as it serves us.”

“Keep a close watch, I beg,” Jarlaxle said again.

“Of course.”

As soon as Jarlaxle exited the room, Kimmuriel pulled forth that third crystal, the one with which he could monitor Doum’wielle and Tiago.

Unknown to Jarlaxle and to the archmage, with this gemstone Kimmuriel would be able to watch Gromph as well.

That breathtaking reality unnerved the psionicist as much as anything he had undertaken in the centuries of his life, for if Gromph Baenre ever got a hint that Kimmuriel was spying on him, his retribution would likely leave Kimmuriel tortured and begging for death next to K’yorl in the prisons of Errtu in the Abyss.

Yes, this was a dangerous game Kimmuriel was playing, and he had to admit to himself that spying on Gromph was as much a fulfillment of his personal desires to savor in the beauty of House Baenre’s downfall as Kimmuriel’s destroyed House was at long last avenged as it was any hope of practical gain.

The pieces were already in play, after all, and in a tenday, Kimmuriel would quietly insinuate more powerful words of the spell K’yorl had given him to facilitate Gromph’s unwitting actions, returning her to Menzoberranzan where she could wreak revenge upon House Baenre.

Kimmuriel didn’t have to monitor that-in fact, it was far more logical, and indeed much safer for him to remain as far removed from the coming chaos as he could. Still, despite all of that, despite his life’s efforts in remaining purely pragmatic, in being driven purely by reason and not by emotion. .

Indeed, despite all of that, Kimmuriel Oblodra simply couldn’t help himself.

Of all the travelers from the Silver Marches, Tiago and Doum’wielle were the first to enter the tunnels that would take them to the ancient dwarven complex, now the drow city of Q’Xorlarrin. Tiago knew this region well, having come forth to raid Port Llast in search of Drizzt, and he knew, too, that he and his companion would almost certainly find the upper reaches of the complex empty of drow.

“Remain alert,” he told Doum’wielle when they went into the long approach tunnels. “We will likely encounter enemies, goblins and kobolds at the least, in the upper chambers. Matron Mother Zeerith does not have the resources to secure the whole of the vast tunnels and chambers of the ancient dwarven homeland, particularly after her losses in the Silver Marches War, and I am sure that she remains in the lower tunnels.”

“We will go to her?”

“No,” Tiago sharply replied. “Once the dwarves are in the Underdark, Drizzt will almost surely serve as scout. We’ll find our place, and we’ll find him alone. Then we’ll go and see Zeerith, and perhaps she will accompany me to the Ruling Council in Menzoberranzan, where I will present the matron mother with the heretic’s head.”

He should be warning his family of the dwarves’ approach, Doum’wielle thought, but knew better than to say. Somehow, the necklace made her bolder about such thoughts.

She felt a sting of disapproval from Khazid’hea, a reminder to her that her own future likely hinged on this expected confrontation with the rogue Do’Urden.

She looked at Tiago and smiled and nodded, then obediently followed him down into the darkness.

Doum’wielle suppressed her wicked smile, secure in the notion that she, not he, would be the one presenting the head of Drizzt Do’Urden to Matron Mother Baenre.

With her father Tos’un dead, this was her only chance to find a place where she was not simply iblith, to be abused and discarded by the merciless drow.

PART TWO

SEEKING DESTINY

The winds of change have lifted the hair from my neck. They tickle me and tease me, and take me to a place unexpected.

My road has wound in circles these last years, from hearth and home, to the open road, to trying to build anew with a group that was not of my own heart. And now the circle completes, back to where I began, it seems, but not so.

For these friends returned are not the friends I knew. They are very much akin in heart and duty, of course, and surely recognizable to me, but yet, they are different, in that they have seen a new light and way, a new perspective on mortality and death, and on the meaning of life itself. This attitude manifests itself most subtly, usually, but I see it there, in every Bruenor grumble, in every Catti-brie confidence, in every Regis fight, and in every Wulfgar laugh.

And now I see it in myself as well. For these last decades, after the passing of Catti-brie and the others, and even before Bruenor fell in Gauntlgrym, I was restless, and quite content to be. I wanted to know what was around the next bend, any bend in the road, be it the quest to find Gauntlgrym or the years afterward when I led the band of Artemis Entreri, Dahlia, and the others. My home was in my memories-I neither wanted nor needed a replacement. For those memories were enough to sustain me and nourish me. I nearly lost myself in that long and winding journey to that ultimate conclusion, and would have, I know, had I not refused Dahlia on that hillside in Icewind Dale. There, again, I found myself, and so in the end, I survived. Drizzt Do’Urden, this person I strive to be, survived the trials.

And now I find myself on the road of adventure again with Cattibrie and Bruenor, and could anything be better? Ours is a noble quest, as much so as the one that reclaimed Mithral Hall that century and more ago. We march with songs and the cadence of dwarven boots, under the flags of three kings and with the flagons of five thousand grinning dwarf warriors.

Could anything be better?

Perhaps so if Wulfgar and Regis were still with us, and truly I miss them every day. But at the same time, I am happy for them, and hold confidence that we will meet again. I noted the sparkle in Regis’s eyes whenever he spoke of Donnola Topolino, and I can only applaud the road he has chosen-and only be happier that mighty Wulfgar walks that road beside him! Woe to any ill-intentioned rogues who cross the path of that formidable pair!

They will come back. I have fretted on this for a while, but now I am convinced. This is not like the time long ago when Wulfgar abandoned us to return to Icewind Dale. Nay, on that occasion, I doubted that we would ever see Wulfgar again, and we would not have, none of us, except that Regis and I ventured to Icewind Dale. Even then, the reunion was. . strange. For when Wulfgar left us those decades ago, he did so emotionally as well as physically.

That is not the case this time.

They will come back, and we will be victorious in Gauntlgrym. These things I believe, and so I am at peace, and excited and anxious all at once.

And nervous, I admit, and I am surprised by that truth. When we rejoined together atop Kelvin’s Cairn that dark night, there was only elation. And as the shock of my friends returned from the dead wore away, I was left simply giddy, feeling blessed and fortunate beyond what anyone should ever expect.

In the early days back together, even when we returned to the Silver Marches and found ourselves embroiled in a war, we all had the sense that the Companions of the Hall survived on time borrowed from the gods, and that our end, for any of us, could come at any moment, and it would be all right, because we had found each other again and had left no words unsaid. Even though my four friends had begun a new life, living two decades and more with new identities, with new family, new friends, and for Regis at least, a new love in his life, our existence was to be enjoyed and appreciated day by day.

And it was. . all right.

Soon after, Catti-brie, Bruenor, and I had come to believe that Wulfgar and Regis had fallen in the tunnels of the Upperdark on our journey back to Mithral Hall. For months we had thought them lost to us forevermore, that they had journeyed once again into the realm of death, this time not to return.

And it was. . all right.

The pain was there, to be sure, but still, we had been given the great gift of time together once more, and in the knowledge that our companionship was indeed rooted in mortality! I cannot emphasize that gift enough! Many times, I claim that a person must know he is going to die, must recognize and accept that basic truth of life, in order to defeat his fears and press on with a true sense of purpose in life. My friends knew that, and know that now, better than most.

They have seen the other side.

And when they are called again from this life, they go with acceptance, each, and not because they know a truth of immortality and eternity beyond the mortal coil-indeed, Wulfgar, and even Regis, remain skeptical of the gods, even after their ordeal in the enchanted forest of Iruladoon.

The close brush with death, indeed their decades in the clutches of something other than life, has given them, has given us all, both urgency and acceptance. It is a blessing, twice over.

Perhaps because of the passage of time, perhaps because of our victories and survival in the War of the Silver Marches, but now I have come to sense a change. That borrowed time seems less to me as I grow comfortable with the return of my friends, alive and vibrant, and hopefully with many decades ahead of them-indeed, even discounting the possibility of an enemy blade cutting one of us low, Bruenor could well outlive me in natural years!

Or our end, any of us or all of us, could come this very day, or tomorrow. I’ve always known this, and make it a part of my daily routine to remind myself of it, but now that the newness of my friends’ return has worn off, now that I have come to believe that they are here-they are really here, as surely and tangibly as they were when I first met Catti-brie on the slopes of Kelvin’s Cairn, and she introduced me to Bruenor and Regis, and then Wulfgar came to us when he was defeated in battle by Bruenor.

It is new again, it is fresh, and it is, in terms of an individual’s life, lasting.

And so I am nervous about going into battle, because now I am seeing the future once more as the comfort of home and of friends, and my Catti-brie, all about, and it is a future I long to realize!

In a strange way, I now see myself moving in the opposite direction of Wulfgar. He has returned carefree, ready to experience whatever the world might throw before him-in battle, in game and in love. He lives for each moment, without regret.

Fully without regret, and that is no small thing. “Consequence” is not a word that now enters Wulfgar’s conversation. He is returned to life to play, with joy, with lust, with passion.

I try to mirror that exuberance, and hope to find that joy, and know my lust in my love for Catti-brie, but while Wulfgar embraces the life of the free-spirited nomad, a rapscallion even, finding adventure and entertainment where he may, I find myself suddenly intrigued by the permanency of hearth and home, a husband, among friends.

A father?

— Drizzt Do’Urden