Maestro

CHAPTER 20

Athrogate stood by the stem of the new Hosttower of the Arcane, hands on hips and a continual sigh blowing from his mouth.

Ambergris was there with him, moving about the recently constructed trunk of the planned tower, examining the joints between the fitted pieces, casting a spell here or there, but ultimately shaking her head.

“It ain’t workin’,” Athrogate explained to Catti-brie, when she and the other magic-using architects of the project arrived to his summons. A swarm of dwarves was gathering as well.

“The progress seems remarkable,” Lord Parise Ulfbinder replied, nodding as he worked, his eyes up the ten-foot-tall trunk of the structure. “Better than I would have ever imagined!”

Athrogate snorted derisively.

“Can you not find enough pieces?” Ilnezhara put in, and she looked from Athrogate to Lady Avelyere, who was leading the search for shards from the original Hosttower.

“We’ll never find them all,” Lady Avelyere replied, “but surely a substantial portion will be recovered.”

“Won’t matter,” Athrogate told them. “Ain’t workin’!” He moved over to the structure and Ambergris, and motioned for Skullbreaker, her two-handed mace. He spit into his hands, hoisted the weapon, and to the shock of all watching, slammed it against the side of the tower.

The stone disintegrated beneath the weight of the blow, and large cracks ran out from the spot of impact.

“Wouldn’t hold a twig for long, ne’er mind a branch big enough to hold rooms and such,” the dwarf explained.

“If we thicken the walls, we might be goin’ up higher,” Ambergris agreed. “But we’ll not e’er replicate them tree branches that made for the first tower.”

“We’ll need to find different spells to strengthen the bends and joints,” Catti-brie suggested.

“Or better builders,” Gromph remarked.

“No designs to support a one-armed arch, ye durned elf,” Athrogate argued, and others, wizard and dwarf alike, took up the debate.

“Or our puzzle approach is errant,” one giant voice yelled above them, drawing the attention of all.

“This was my fear,” the cloud giant, Caecilia went on. “We have approached the reconstruction as a matter of collecting the old pieces and then weaving dwarven masonry and magical spells to put the puzzle back together. I was doubtful from the start.”

“Ye got a better idea?” Athrogate asked skeptically, hands on hips and a scowl on his face. “We got no design prints.”

“We’re not even for knowin’ what them pieces are made of,” Ambergris added. “Seem to be crystal, mostly, aye, but there’s more.”

“The lack of a design rendering is damaging,” Caecilia admitted.

“Because it was constructed wholly of magic,” Gromph argued.

“Puzzling, as well,” said Lord Parise. “Surely they worked with a plan.”

“Surely they did not,” argued Gromph. “The Hosttower was a magical artwork, not a dwarven construct.”

“We’re knowing that dwarfs were a part of it,” Athrogate protested.

“So were mules, likely,” Gromph retorted.

“Bah, as ye wish,” said Athrogate, “and ye’re knowin’ the spells that might paint her anew, are ye?”

Gromph scowled at the sarcasm.

“We’ve no hint of any such thing,” Tazmikella put in. “Whatever magic that might have built the Hosttower is not revealed among the ancient knowledge of dragonkind.”

“Or you simply haven’t found it yet,” Lord Parise replied, and both Tazmikella and Ilnezhara looked at each other and shrugged.

“Then might we all go back to our libraries, or repositories, our most learned scholars, and delve deeper into the magic,” Caecilia said, and others nodded.

Gromph stared hard at the two dwarves standing by the trunk, as if judging them for this failure.

Many whispered conversations erupted all around the field on Cutlass Island, not in disagreement with Caecilia’s last advice, but neither in support. They reflected the pall that Athrogate’s undeniable observations had so abruptly thrown over the progress they had been making these tendays.

Indeed, the whole field around the structure became a cacophony of groans and muttering.

Gromph Baenre wasn’t listening, though, nor was he including his own voice in the arguments. He noted that Catti-brie, too, had tuned all of it out. She walked slowly to the pile of shards that lay to the side of the tower, picked up a small one in one hand, then conjured a ball of flame in her other hand.

She examined the shard, then put it, her hand, and that curious ruby ring she wore into the summoned flame. Then, to Gromph’s surprise, stuck her face into the flame as well.

And there she remained, and many began to take note, and so the murmurs quieted, until the only sound on the field was the hissing burn of Catti-brie’s summoned flame, a hiss that grew louder as the flames intensified, shifting to a more furious orange, then to a bluish white, and finally just a pure white. Those nearest the woman had to step back from the intense radiation of heat.

But Catti-brie kept her hand and face in the fire.

With his shield arm swinging out wide to the left, Tiago could feel the two scimitars trapped, and no more in the grasp of Drizzt Do’Urden. That arm led the turn, the rising twist lifting up from his feet, his legs, his hips, his chest, his entire spine rotating in a beautiful and deadly dance.

The proud young Baenre roared in anticipation of his ultimate victory as his head came around, leading the way for his swinging sword arm.

And that roar became something very different when Tiago saw his target clearly, standing exactly where he had expected, easily in range.

But hardly unarmed.

The astonished Tiago stared at the sharp end of an arrow, and Drizzt held a bow-from where it had come, Tiago could not begin to guess in that flash of recognition, that singular terrifying instant before Taulmaril was released and a bright flash of burning whiteness consumed the Baenre warrior’s thoughts.

Tiago Baenre’s head simply exploded.

“Baubles,” Drizzt said dryly, and flashed his left arm across to use the bow to block the swinging sword, though Vidrinath came across with no strength behind the swing. “Fairly earned and wisely mastered.”

Catti-Brie was laughing and shaking her head at the simplicity of it all when she pulled her face out of the white-hot flame. With a puff of breath and a word, she blew out the flame, extinguishing her spell.

“What’d’ye know, girl?” Athrogate asked.

“Limestone,” she said, holding up the shard.

“Too hard,” Athrogate replied. “Marble, then, but aye, too brittle!”

“Crystalline,” Ambergris added.

“What do you know?” Gromph demanded.

“No wizard built this tower,” she said to the great drow. “And no priest, and no dwarf, and no dragon, and no giant,” she added, looking in turn at Ambergris, Athrogate, the dragon sisters, and Caecilia. “Though all helped, do not doubt.”

“Now you speak in riddles?” an agitated Gromph remarked.

“Though all helped, and all were surely needed,” Catti-brie said. “To contain the magic.”

“Say it plainly, woman,” an obviously intrigued Lord Parise begged. The scholar Shadovar leaned forward, pulled toward Catti-brie.

“The Hosttower of the Arcane was built by the primordial beast that resides in Gauntlgrym,” she answered with all confidence. She had seen. In the intense heat, the shard had revealed itself, and through the intense fire and through her Ring of Elemental Command, Catti-brie had peered into the realm of fire once more, and had heard the echo of the primordial’s memory.

A hundred confused, mostly disapproving scowls came back at her.

“The roots were first, bit by bit, the tree grown later,” the woman explained, to even more confused stares.

“Grown?” Lord Parise and Caecilia asked in unison, and Catti-brie nodded.

“As if t’were alive?” Ambergris asked, and Catti-brie nodded.

“Then we canno’ rebuild it and Gauntlgrym’s doomed,” Athrogate said logically.

“Yes, we can,” said the smiling Catti-brie, looking right at Gromph. “Yes, we can.”

By the time Tiago’s sword hit the floor, Drizzt already had his second arrow away, this one shooting up at the trio on the balcony.

The woman in the middle of the group smiled even as the enchanted missile sped for her face. Her wards caused it to explode into a shower of harmless, multi-colored sparks long before it got near enough to hit her.

So Drizzt would send a steady stream, he decided, but before he had the next arrow on the bowstring, he was in utter blackness.

Instinctively, and quite used to such an occurrence, he dived into a roll. So experienced was he with the drow darkness that he knew precisely how many rolls he would need to get out the side of it, figuring it had been centered on him.

And so he came around to his knees ready to shoot.

But was still in total darkness.

He fired anyway, knowing the general direction, but only one shot. He had to be moving quickly.

And so he was rolling again, over and over, and each one seemed slower to him, and he couldn’t understand that. The floor felt less solid-it was as if he rolled in bubbling tar, as though he were sinking into it. It caught him and held him and tried to flow up over him.

It was just darkness then, and Drizzt wasn’t even rolling, just flopping slightly, his shoulder coming off the floor but sagging back down, broken and caught.