Maestro

CHAPTER 6

With a thousand dwarves marching behind her, Catti-Brie, astride the mighty unicorn Andahar, led the way to the gates of Luskan. Athrogate and Ambergris rode at her side, the two of them assigned by Bruenor to serve as her personal bodyguards. Many threatening looks came at the woman, and particularly at her entourage, from the scalawags serving as gate guards-rogues in the service of one or another of the five competing Captains of Luskan. But Jarlaxle’s hold on the city was so powerful not a single word was spoken, not even a request for the leaders to identify the approaching army.

The gates were pulled open without a word, and Catti-brie led the way into the city.

“Take me to the Hosttower,” she ordered one of the nearby guards, a woman so dark from the sun and dirty from the streets she looked as if she had the shadow of a beard.

Still without a word of response, she escorted them up Reaver’s Run, the main boulevard that led all the way to the city’s main market. Beyond that lay the bridge to Closeguard Island, which housed the Ship of High Captain Kurth, who was of course Jarlaxle’s lieutenant, Beniago.

Indeed, Beniago waited at the far end of the bridge, bidding the newcomers to cross. He took up beside Catti-brie and led the way to the next bridge, from Closeguard to Cutlass Island, where once had stood the Hosttower of the Arcane. Large tents had already been constructed all around the ruins of that once-grand structure.

“Food will be brought to you daily,” Beniago assured Catti-brie.

“Enough to keep me belly fat?” Athrogate demanded.

Beniago, who knew Athrogate well, merely laughed and nodded.

“Aye, better be,” the dwarf grunted.

Catti-brie moved over to the roots of the ruined structure as the dwarves settled in. The devastation had been so complete that she could look down into what had once been the basement of the tower, and even below that broken stone and metal to the deep roots trailing down into the Underdark. These were the roots that ran to Gauntlgrym, delivering seawater to the elementals that held the fire primordial in its pit.

She looked up at the darkening sky. The sun had slipped below the horizon, but only recently. The clouds to the west flared pink and orange in the dying light. The wind was off the water, wet and chill in her face, and Catti-brie pulled her black cloak-the cloak Jarlaxle had given her-tighter about her.

“A daunting task,” Gromph Baenre said and the woman jumped-and nearly transformed into a raven and flew away. The drow was suddenly there, out of nowhere it seemed, standing perfectly calm beside her.

She gave him an incredulous look, and he returned a smile that reminded her of their respective powers. She knew Gromph’s appearance and demeanor was meant to intimidate her so she calmed herself quickly and presented herself more forcefully.

She did a good job of hiding the winding line of terror that continued to twist inside her. Catti-brie trusted in her powers and her relationship with Mielikki. She had returned to this world with clear goals, and that guiding purpose had dominated her existence over the more than two decades of her second life. She had trained with powerful wizards, studied in the extensive library of the Harpells, communed closely with a goddess …

But this was Gromph Baenre, recently the Archmage of Menzoberranzan. He had magically appeared right beside her without a hint of warning or a tingle that anything was amiss.

Catti-brie understood that he could very likely destroy her just as easily and unexpectedly.

“I have examined pieces of the fallen tower already,” Gromph explained. “All the materials are available. We have paintings and have uncovered design sketches of the tower in the bowels of Illusk, below this city. The dwarves should have no trouble replicating the physical structure.”

“That is the easy part,” Catti-brie said.

Gromph stared at the hole in the ground and nodded.

“Why are you doing this?” Catti-brie asked bluntly, and he looked up to match her blue eyes with his amber orbs, the two locking stares intently.

“If I wished you to know-”

“Amuse me,” she heard herself saying, and couldn’t believe the words as they came forth.

Gromph was the one who seemed amused, and he looked back to the hole.

“You intend to inhabit the tower when it is rebuilt,” Catti-brie said in a voice that sounded far too accusatory.

“If it suits me,” Gromph answered. “I intend to live wherever I desire to live. Would you wish to try to stop me?”

“In this city, run by drow?”

Gromph looked up at her again and flashed a wicked smile. “Here or anywhere,” he clarified.

Catti-brie swallowed hard, but she did not allow herself to blink and did not look away.

“You fear for the dwarves,” Gromph surmised. “You fear that if I am in control of the new Hosttower, I might use that position against the magic that preserves Gauntlgrym.”

Catti-brie saw no need to answer.

“It is a reasonable fear, of course,” said Gromph. “Or it would be, except for two important matters. First, the magic of the Hosttower isn’t enacted like that of a wand. I will not call upon the tower to fuel the elementals enslaving the primordial any more than I can tell the tower not to do so. I expect you will understand this as we go through the process. Surely no instrument of such power would have ever been left to the whims of whomever happened to be serving as the leader of the Hosttower at any particular time in its millennia of existence, particularly not since the dwarves helped build the original tower, from all that I can tell.

“And second, I am not a simple and capricious murderer. What reason would I have to destroy Gauntlgrym, even if that was within my power?”

“Why did the drow attack Mithral Hall? Why does Tiago pursue Drizzt? Why-?”

“Gauntlgrym in the hands of a dwarf king serves me well at this time,” Gromph stated.

“And if that changes?”

“I assure you, human woman, I am not one you wish to anger. And I do not need a Hosttower beneath my feet to rain destruction, wherever I choose.”

“You say such things and expect me to trust you in this most important endeavor?”

“I speak the simple truth, and know that you have no choice in the matter. If you believe that you can reconstruct the Hosttower of the Arcane without my aid, then you prove the drow matron mothers correct when they proclaim the stupidity of humans.”

Catti-brie was very relieved at that moment when Beniago walked up to stand beside her. Jarlaxle and his many henchmen would protect them all from the wrath of Gromph.

“Braelin Janquay has returned to serve in House Do’Urden?” Gromph asked in the drow tongue, and Catti-brie was glad to learn that she could still understand the language well enough to keep up with the fast-speaking wizard.

A mixed blessing, she realized, when Beniago answered in perfect drow, “Yes, uncle.”

Uncle.

The web around her was daunting. Catti-brie walked away, to a tent she had taken as her own. As she neared the closed flap, she shut her eyes and pictured again the hole in the ground that had been the grand and wondrous Hosttower of the Arcane. She tried again to picture that magnificent structure with its branching tendrils-it seemed as much a living thing as something built by elves and dwarves.

The image proved fleeting, replaced by something else, something that surprised Catti-brie: the amber eyes of Gromph Baenre, staring at her, measuring her, devouring her.

She glanced back to find Gromph looking back at her from the base of the Hosttower.

Shaken, the woman retired to her tent.

“Ignore the ghosts,” Jarlaxle told Drizzt as they wound their way through ancient, cobweb-filled halls and corridors, many with stone statues and bas reliefs so covered by the dust of centuries that they had become unrecognizable.

Still, Drizzt understood the design of the place and the architecture and statues enough to suspect that he and Jarlaxle had come into Illusk in their underground meandering.

“The spirits have been rendered benign by my associates,” Jarlaxle explained. “At least, benign to those strong enough of mind and will to ignore them-I would expect you are among that group. Such creatures feed and strengthen on fear.”

Several of the specters appeared, their faces stretched and elongated as if frozen in some exaggerated, truly horrified scream. The long-dead of Illusk floated about the sides of the wide hall Drizzt and Jarlaxle traversed. They leered at them from every shadow, it seemed. And they whispered in Drizzt’s mind, telling him to flee, offering him images of some gruesome impending feast upon his warm flesh.

Drizzt looked at his companion, then steeled himself against his budding terror. Trust Jarlaxle, he silently reminded himself. The drow mercenary’s casual gait comforted him, reminding him that he was traveling with one of the most capable people Faerun had ever known.

So Drizzt found his center and his heart, and in his fortified emotional state, the ghosts became no more to him than moving decorations, like a rolling animation of Illusk’s ancient secrets and history.

They came to an area less dusty and forlorn, and with other dark elves of Bregan D’aerthe moving about, all pausing to tip a nod to their leader, and to Drizzt. At one door, Jarlaxle paused and held his hand up to halt Drizzt. “Pray wait here,” the mercenary instructed. “I will return in a moment.”

Drizzt moved to put his back up against the wall, and tried to appear relaxed, though he surely didn’t want to be in this place without an escort. But no sooner had Jarlaxle gone through the door than he came back out, shook his head, and apparently reconsidered,. He motioned to Drizzt to follow.

It was a small chamber with a single bed, a single desk, and a single chair, now filled by a lone man, a human, sitting back with his soft boots up on the table.

A man Drizzt knew well.

“Drizzt has agreed to join our quest,” Jarlaxle explained, and Artemis Entreri nodded.

“You will risk the ways of Menzoberranzan for the sake of Dahlia?” Drizzt asked the assassin.

“You will?” Entreri returned with equal skepticism. “Will not Catti-brie burn with jealousy?”

“She knows I have no interest in Dahlia in any way that is threatening to her,” Drizzt replied. “I seek to aid an old companion, nothing more.” He paused and stared hard at Entreri, beginning to decipher more regarding this unexpected valor from the assassin. “Do you understand that?”

After a pause, Entreri offered a slight nod and said convincingly, “I am pleased to have you along.”

Jarlaxle dropped a mask on the table beside the assassin’s legs, and Drizzt recognized that magical item. Jarlaxle had gotten it from him after he had taken it from a banshee named Agatha. It appeared as a simple white stage mask with a tie to hold it in place, but it was so much more.

“You will walk as a drow,” Jarlaxle told Entreri. “Every step of the way from this place to Menzoberranzan and back again. We do not know what eyes will be upon us when we leave the wards my friends have enacted as protection around Illusk.”

Entreri picked up the mask, rolled it over several times with his fingers, and at last managed a nod, one clearly of great reluctance.

“We can afford no mistakes,” Jarlaxle explained. “So we will take no chances.”

“Would not a simple spell of illusion suffice?”

“Ah, but that is the beauty of Agatha’s Mask,” Jarlaxle explained. “Neither it nor the changes its wearer enacts can be detected with magic.”

As he explained things to Entreri, Jarlaxle turned sidelong, his gaze sweeping out to include Drizzt in his warning. Drizzt was looking past Jarlaxle, though, to this enigma he knew as Entreri. He noted the assassin’s eyes widening with clear shock, a profound scowl coming over him. Drizzt didn’t even have to follow Entreri’s gaze to realize he had noted the red blade Jarlaxle wore at his hip.

Entreri seemed as if he would melt there and then. His lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but no sound came forth.

“It was not destroyed,” Jarlaxle said, obviously noting the same thing as Drizzt.

“Throw it back in the pit!” Entreri demanded.

“You still do not know if your longevity is tied to the blade.”

“It is,” Entreri stated flatly. He spat both words, and spat before and after for good measure.

“Well, so be it, then,” Jarlaxle told him. He drew the blade, laid it on the table, then pulled off the magical gauntlet and put it down beside the sword.

Entreri shied away, sliding his chair back. “Throw it back into the pit,” he whispered again, seeming on the edge of abject desperation.

“No one will hold Charon’s Claw over you now,” Jarlaxle assured him. “I give it to you. The Netherese are a fading memory-they’ll not hunt the blade now.”

“I do not want it,” Entreri said with a sneer. “Destroy it.”

“I am sure I have no idea how that might be done,” said Jarlaxle. “Nor would I deign to do so if I did. You have long demanded of me that I help you retrieve Dahlia from Matron Mother Baenre, and so I … so we shall.”

“Not with that,” Entreri insisted, his hateful stare never leaving the bone-hilted, red-bladed, diabolical sword. “It’s not possible.”

Drizzt could feel the pain emanating from Entreri’s every word. This sword, Charon’s Claw, had enslaved him. And with it, the Shadovar Lord Herzgo Alegni had tortured the man for decades. All of those awful memories resounded clearly now in Entreri’s tone. This was not a man used to being submissive, but the obvious level of his fear now truly touched Drizzt. Entreri really had expected to die when he threw Charon’s Claw into the primordial pit, and yet he had demanded that the sword go in. He, Drizzt, and Dahlia had ventured through danger to the bowels of Gauntlgrym for exactly that reason: to destroy Charon’s Claw, and with it, to destroy Artemis Entreri.

It would seem that Entreri hated Charon’s Claw more than he valued his own life. The question, then, Drizzt knew, was whether or not Entreri hated the sword more than he cared for Dahlia-and that, Drizzt now suspected from Entreri’s hesitance and twisting expression, was a different matter entirely.

“Do you not believe you can dominate the blade?” Jarlaxle asked.

“I want nothing to do with it.”

“But it is here, and not destroyed,” said Drizzt, “and if Jarlaxle had not retrieved it, then someone else would have. Surely such a powerful magical sword would have soon enough found a worthy wielder, and since Charon’s Claw knows you and is tied to you …”

“Shut up,” said Entreri.

“The choice is yours,” said Jarlaxle. “Who is the master and who the slave?”

Entreri’s scowl showed that he wasn’t buying into that particular line of reasoning.

“An excuse,” Drizzt interjected, rather harshly, and the other two stared at him curiously.

“What do you know?” Jarlaxle asked.

“I know that I am looking upon a coward, and that I never expected,” Drizzt stated. He didn’t blink as he locked Entreri’s gaze with his own. “Our human friend uses the sword to shield his deeper anger.”

Entreri shook his head, his expression caught somewhere between outrage and doubt.

“You loathe Charon’s Claw so you won’t have to loathe yourself,” Drizzt accused. “Isn’t that always your way? There is always some external reason for your anger, so you claim, but in truth that reason is …” He waved his hand dismissively and swung about for the door.

“You dare?” Entreri muttered.

“If we are to be done with this, Jarlaxle, then let us be on with it now,” Drizzt said. “I miss my wife already.”

He paused and gave a derisive snort, and without turning, addressed Entreri, “If you mean to run up and attack me, you should do so now, while my back is turned.”

“Shut up,” Entreri said again.

“Because you cannot bear to hear my words?” Now Drizzt did swing around to face the man.

Entreri stared at him hard, and for a moment it seemed he meant to leap across the room and attack Drizzt. But then he just laughed helplessly and whispered, “Yes.”

He lowered his gaze to the table and stood there studying the vicious sword that had for so long been the instrument of his torture.

“Who is the slave and who the master?” Jarlaxle asked again.

“That choice is wholly your own, Artemis Entreri,” Drizzt said. “That sword, powerful as it may be, cannot compel you in any way-if you are your own master first.”

Entreri chewed his lip for a moment, never taking his gaze from that cursed blade. Then he moved swiftly, sweeping the glove from the table and sliding his hand into it. With a growl, he took up Charon’s Claw and raised the blood-red blade up before his eyes. It seemed to Drizzt that Entreri and the sword shared a private moment then, a private battle, and if Charon’s Claw had any hold over him, then it would be proven only if Entreri held it without the protective gauntlet.

“Let us be done with this,” Entreri said, and he slid the sword into his belt. “And quickly, for surely I will be driven mad with the echoes of Drizzt Do’Urden-who has appointed himself as my conscience-sounding about me.”

Drizzt smiled warmly at that, and even patted Entreri on the shoulder as he moved past with Jarlaxle. For all of the assassin’s grumbling and complaining, Drizzt noticed that Entreri didn’t flinch at his friendly touch.

Not at all.

Minolin Fey gasped and put her hand to her mouth, thinking that such a sound probably wasn’t a good idea with Yvonnel posing naked save a string-of-pearls belt with a tassel of gemstones cascading down over her right hip, that leg demurely crossed over her left.

She wasn’t gasping at Yvonnel, who looked very beautiful and had been sitting like this for long stretches over the last several days-well, in a sense she was. The reaction came from the image on the canvas in front of her, the portrait of Yvonnel now being finished by Minolin Fey’s mother, Matron Mother Byrtyn Fey.

Matron Mother Byrtyn was a noted artist, her work always a pleasure to behold, and her best work manifested in portraits.

But Yvonnel had demanded no interpretation. She had explicitly instructed Matron Mother Byrtyn to paint her exactly as she appeared. And Yvonnel, this little tyrant who had sprung forth from Minolin Fey’s loins, had gone further when explaining things to Minolin Fey. If Byrtyn failed at this task, Yvonnel meant to turn her into a drider.

Looking at the painting now, undeniably beautiful, but surely quite different from the living Yvonnel sitting on the divan in front of them, Minolin Fey believed her mother doomed.

Matron Mother Byrtyn nodded and stepped back, looked at Yvonnel, then back at the painting, and she nodded again.

“Grand!” Yvonnel exclaimed, and she leaped up from her seat.

“No!” Minolin Fey cried, drawing a surprised look from her mother and a knowing smile from Yvonnel. “No,” she said more calmly. “It must be presented formally, touched up to perfection and unveiled from beneath a proper cloth.”

Yvonnel said nothing, just kept smiling. She didn’t bother to collect the robes lying beside the divan, but padded on bare feet toward the canvas.

Minolin Fey reflexively went for the canvas.

“Do not touch that,” Yvonnel warned. She kept coming, and now her smile was dangerous indeed, one that chased Minolin Fey back from the canvas. The wife of Gromph, the mother of Yvonnel, held her breath as Yvonnel, naked as a baby but so deadly, came around the edge of the canvas.

And there stood Matron Mother Byrtyn, smiling proudly, oblivious to the fate that was about to befall her. Minolin Fey closed her eyes.

“Brilliant!” Yvonnel shouted, and Minolin Fey jumped back and stared dumbfounded-the painting was beautiful and yes, brilliant, but it hardly resembled the naked woman standing next to it.

“It feels as if I’m looking into a mirror,” Yvonnel went on. “Truly your talent exceeds what my mother claimed.”

“Your mother?” Matron Mother Byrtyn replied. “And which Baenre …?”

“Your daughter,” Yvonnel said, “my mother, Minolin Fey Baenre.”

Matron Mother Byrtyn stared at the woman curiously, and with a bit of ire, clearly. Though this was a Baenre daughter, and one who had paid Matron Mother Byrtyn well, she did not have leave to speak to a matron mother of a Ruling House in such a manner.

But Byrtyn’s expression didn’t hold when she turned to regard Minolin Fey, who nodded sheepishly.

“Ah, I see you have much to talk about, Mother,” Yvonnel said in a tease, “and Grandmother.”

She tapped the edge of the painting and walked away, laughing. She didn’t even pause to scoop up her discarded robes, just walked out naked into the hallway and closed the door behind her.

Minolin Fey stared at the painting, well aware that Matron Mother Byrtyn’s stern gaze was upon her. Perhaps she should have warned her mother-she just wasn’t sure of her proper place around Yvonnel.

Now she had to explain, in any case, but even that urgency could not tear her eyes from the painting. She had seen Matron Mother Byrtyn’s work many times in her life, and the discrepancy between the painting and the flesh of Yvonnel seemed so very odd to her, so very unusual. Even Yvonnel’s hair was cut differently than the woman pictured. And her breasts were very different, not nearly as large as Byrtyn had painted.

Minolin Fey ran her hands over her face and through her own white hair, unable to reconcile the scene in front of her, as she so often was where her unusual daughter was concerned.

“I was beginning to wonder if you would forget a courtesy visit and already be on your way,” Catti-brie said when Jarlaxle at last caught up to her in her tent beside the ruins of the Hosttower. There was no mistaking the edge in her voice, a purposeful reminder to Jarlaxle that she wasn’t very happy with him pulling her husband back to the city of his birth.

“My associates are gathering supplies. It is a long journey, and not one where scavenging for food and water is advisable.” He ended with a wink and a smile, but it was clearly lost on the woman. Jarlaxle merely shrugged then, and placed a stack of parchments and scroll tubes down on the table between him and Catti-brie.

“Gromph has translated the Illusk references to the Hosttower so that you might easily peruse them,” he explained.

“How generous of him,” the woman remarked sarcastically. “For alas, he would believe, wouldn’t he, that such simple spells of translation are beyond me.”

“I recognize and accept your anger,” Jarlaxle told her, and he offered a gracious bow.

“You have no right to ask this of Drizzt.”

Jarlaxle rocked back on his heels, which was not a typical response from the ever-wary mercenary.

“Look around you,” he replied. “Do you believe all of this happened by good fortune? Or some spontaneous act of the gods? Those parchments on your table-do you understand the lengths I traveled to uncover them and decipher them?”

“I do understa-”

“I have delivered Archmage Gromph to you!” Jarlaxle interrupted. “The Archmage of Menzoberranzan, the most powerful drow wizard in Faerun! And one who can destroy me, utterly. You do not understand, good lady. Oh, certainly you comprehend the basic details of what I have done, but you do not begin to understand the risks I have placed upon myself.”

“And upon my husband!”

“Yes, and upon you! Do you wish to secure Gauntlgrym? If so, then this is how. It is not an easy task, for any of us. And yes, I understand how the idea of Drizzt walking back into Menzoberranzan terrifies you. But make no mistake here, Catti-brie, your own course is no less dangerous, nor is mine. The victory we won to initially reclaim the dwarven halls might well prove the easiest one of all.”

“What does Drizzt returning to Menzoberranzan have to do with securing Gauntlgrym?”

“Nothing,” Jarlaxle answered, and he managed a smile. “And everything. This is not a journey to simply rescue his old companion. This is a quest to placate the archmage and to give to him, and to me and to all the other drow associates who now stand with your father, a measure of hope and respect.”

Catti-brie stared at him incredulously, and clearly she could not sort out those cryptic references.

But Jarlaxle didn’t back down under that scouring gaze. He stood resolute, and even nodded to reaffirm his position.

“I must admit that it is an impressive assemblage you have gathered here,” said Catti-brie. “Myself and Gromph and the Harpells, and a thousand dwarves and Luskan helpers besides.”

“We will rebuild this tower.”

“Why?” Catti-brie asked. “Why is this so important to you?”

“Why is it so important to you?”

“King Bruenor is my father.”

“And my friend,” Jarlaxle said, but Catti-brie was shaking her head even as he answered.

“Is it for your own power here in Luskan?” she asked. “Do you think the renewal of the Hosttower will strengthen your mercenary band? Or that it will perhaps offer more independence for you from the demanding and demeaning calls of the Matron Mothers of Menzoberranzan?”

“It is all of that,” Jarlaxle admitted.

“Archmage Gromph?”

“Yes, him too. I have many interests here, some my own, some for Bregan D’aerthe, some for Luskan, some for Gromph. I do not deny any of that. But I also have interests here for King Bruenor, and for you. And, of course, for Drizzt, whom I have come to love as a brother.”

“Strong language.”

“I consider my every word carefully before I speak,” Jarlaxle replied.

Catti-brie nodded, and Jarlaxle was glad that she would let it go at that. He wasn’t really sure exactly what he was looking for beyond a few immediate gains. But there was something more, Jarlaxle knew in his heart, though he couldn’t bring himself to admit it or express it.

It went back to Gromph, and to Matron Mother Zeerith, the only matron mother who had ever-to his knowledge-truly appreciated the plight of Menzoberranzan’s male drow. Jarlaxle held no illusions that he could transform drow society, but he was determined to begin that shift at least, and in doing so, to bring himself a level of greater autonomy from the matron mothers of that city, particularly from his ridiculous sister, Matron Mother Quenthel.

“It is an awesome force we have assembled here,” Catti-brie admitted, walking to the tent flap and looking out at the dwarves, who were already hard at work gathering together any surviving pieces of the shattered tower. “And yet I fear our task will still be above us. I have looked at the parchments you earlier provided.” She snorted and shook her head. “I feel like a child trying to decipher the treatises of the great philosophers, or like a dimwitted goblin reading the spellbook of Elminster!” She turned back and offered a sheepish grin. “But I am not alone,” she said with a determined nod. “We will get this done.”

“You are right to feel that way,” Jarlaxle replied. “We haven’t gathered nearly enough of the information to accomplish the task before us. We have a Chosen of Mielikki, a great accomplished drow mage, a cadre of lesser wizards, and an assemblage of the greatest dwarf masons and builders of this era. Also, and of no small importance, my associate communes with an illithid hive-mind. But still, there remain missing pieces.”

Catti-brie studied him carefully. “But you know how to find those pieces,” she stated instead of asked.

Jarlaxle laughed. “All of the elder, great races partook in the creation of the Hosttower of the Arcane, I believe, so yes, I have some ideas. Tazmikella and Ilnezhara will arrive shortly.”

“The dragon sisters?”

“Dragon magic is among the most ancient, most powerful, and most lasting.”

Catti-brie nodded her agreement.

“And we’ll not stop there,” Jarlaxle explained. “And so I bid you to leave this place today. I have already spoken with Kipper Harpell and he has agreed to send you on your way.” He smiled wider as he finished, “I need an ambassador.”

“To where?”

“A place you know well,” he replied. “Or … knew well.”

With that, Jarlaxle tipped his hat. “This is my last work here at this time, perhaps for many tendays. My associates-your husband among them-await my return, and so I bid you farewell, Catti-brie.”

He offered that typical disarming smile and started to turn, but Catti-brie held him with her look. She bent down and picked up a bag that had been sitting at her feet, pulled it open, and produced a most remarkable black leather belt, set on one side with a brown cylindrical pouch, and possessed of a striking mithral buckle that Jarlaxle had seen before, shining silver and with the relief of a slightly recurving longbow on its face. That raised image had been cut out when Athrogate had taken the item from the Great Forge.

“What is it?” he asked, taking it and studying the carving more closely. “It resembles the Heartseeker.”

“A memento,” Catti-brie replied. “You will give it to Drizzt?”

The mercenary nodded.

“On your word?”

Another nod, and a reassuring smile. “May Mielikki walk with you these difficult days and guide your steps toward what is best for you, for your father, and …”

“And for you,” she finished.

Jarlaxle laughed, stepped forward, and kissed her on the cheek.

“Yes,” he admitted. “And is it not a wondrous thing that all of our interests are so perfectly aligned? We are, it would seem, of like heart!”

He tipped his hat again and strode out of the tent, making a straight line for the bridge to Closeguard Isle, which would bring him to another bridge to the mainland and the entryway to Illusk and the deeper Underdark, where Drizzt and Entreri waited.

Soon after, Catti-Brie stood in a familiar garden, sheltered by rocks from the great brown plain of Netheril.

She lingered some time there, feeling the soft petals of the plants, rubbing her hand along the smooth back of the same young cypress tree that had given her the limb for the staff she now carried. She couldn’t come to this place without being transported back in time, to her earliest days in this second life she now enjoyed. This was her secret garden, her secret refuge, the place where young Ruqiah had come to understand that Mielikki was with her still, and that the goddess would help her on her difficult journey.

On a sudden impulse, Catti-brie took out the onyx figurine of Guenhwyvar and called for the panther. She wanted Guenhwyvar to see this place, to know this place.

The gray mist became a black panther. Guenhwyvar went off her guard almost immediately, and Catti-brie was glad. The gentleness of this garden refuge she had created could not be denied-not even by the blood that had been spilled here. The sense of peace permeated the air and filled her nostrils, and so filled Guenhwyvar’s, too.

“Let me tell you a story, Guen,” Catti-brie said, sitting down among the flowers. “Of a little girl named Ruqiah and the wonderful friends she once knew.”

Guenhwyvar seemed to understand-of course she did!-and she settled in front of the woman, lying down and stretching, but never taking her large eyes or her attention from Catti-brie.

Sometime later, Catti-brie moved out from the rocks, and climbed atop a large one to afford herself a look over the land.

Shade Enclave, the grand floating city she had once called home, was no more-not up in the sky to the north, at least-indeed, not up in the sky at all. The magic had been stolen by the advent of the Sundering, and the great city and the floating stone upon which it sat had fallen from the sky to crash upon the ground.

Thousands had died in that cataclysm, so Kipper had told her-after Jarlaxle had explained it all to him, apparently. The carnage had been tremendous, both for those living in the floating city and those living on the ground in its shadow.

But they had not all died, and so up there, amid the broken stones and fallen towers, an enclave of Netherese remained, and thrived anew.

“Lord Parise Ulfbinder,” Catti-brie quietly muttered, and not for the first time, as she strove to commit that name to memory, or to search her own memories to try to recall anything she might have learned of the great man in her days in Shade Enclave.

He was alive, so Jarlaxle had relayed through Kipper, and it was up to Catti-brie to convince him to journey beside her back to Luskan.

A strong wind blew down from the north, carrying stinging sand. Catti-brie pulled her black cloak tighter about her as a shield. Then she pulled it tighter still, so much so that its magic began to tingle all around her, as she and the cloak became as one.

The woman-turned-crow leaped off and spread her wings, the strong winds lifting her higher and higher.

She beat her wings and bucked the headwinds, making her way to what remained of Shade Enclave, and looking, too, for something else, for somewhere else.

For a home more dear.