R. Salvatore - Archmage

Tiago spun around, his expression sharp.

“How long do you intend to play this game, Tiago?”

The drow inhaled, nostrils flaring, Doum’wielle thought, as if he meant to leap upon her and throttle her.

“ Duke Tiago,” she obediently corrected, and she lowered her gaze. “Drizzt will be with them,” Doum’wielle said. “And the woman, Cattibrie. Do not underestimate her. They whisper that she is a Chosen of Mielikki, and her magical powers, both arcane and divine, are considerable."

“Then she can properly consecrate Drizzt’s grave,” Tiago said, turning back to the campfires. “Even without his head.”

Indeed , Khazid’hea said in Doum’wielle’s mind, and the woman chuckled. Tiago spun back again.

“You doubt me?” he said with a growl.

“The thought of a headless Drizzt amuses me,” Doum’wielle said, and she wasn’t lying.

“And you will amuse me,” Tiago said and started for her. “Now.” Doum’wielle lowered her gaze once more, and when Tiago pushed her down to the bedroll, she did not resist.

Patience , her magical sword told her repeatedly throughout her ordeal, the long-plotting sentient weapon assuring her over and over again that she would get her revenge, but in a more profound and satisfying way. A short while later, it was Doum’wielle’s turn to linger at the northeastern edge of the firelight, looking out over the rolling hills to the campfires of the distant dwarven encampments. Despite her resolve to suppress her wistful nature, her thoughts drifted farther to the east, and inevitably out across the river. She loved the Glimmerwood in the winter, when the pine branches bent low under the weight of new-fallen snow. She thought of sleigh rides she had taken along the paths between those trees, the heavy canopy creating an enchanting roof of bending branches and multiple skylights, the stars shining through to evoke wispy sparkles all about the snowpack.

She heard the elfsong in her mind, the many voices lifting to the starlit sky, past the natural canopy, calling to the patterns of twinkling lights they had named for this creature or that. The Rushing Crayfish had ever been Doum’wielle’s favorite, with a cluster of bright stars outlining one huge claw, dimmer stars showing the second as a smaller outline, as if the astral creature was reaching forward with that one claw, beckoning. And it was a call Doum’wielle wanted to answer, then and now. Her eyes drifted up to the heavens, to a million million stars twinkling in the cold night.

There were no stars in the Underdark, in Menzoberranzan. It had its own beauty, surely, with the faerie fire limning the stalactites and stalagmites. But it didn’t have stars.

And the elves of Menzoberranzan didn’t lift their voices as one to the heavens.

Patience, Little Doe, the woman heard in her mind. Images of great glory and greater power filled her thoughts, and she lost sight of the stars above as surely as if a heavy cloud front had swept in and stolen the eternal mystery. Two tendays later, Tiago and Doum’wielle were awakened one bright morning by the sound of drums. Remembering the significance of this day, the pair rushed to a high vantage point on a steep-sided hillock, and peered against the glare of the rising sun to the southeast. There marched the dwarves, under a banner of a living fire in humanoid form, its arms uplifted and holding a great anvil and throne. The leading troupe crossed to the south of Tiago and Doum’wielle’s position, their line stretching far back, with many pack mules, heavily laden.

And with a drow on a white unicorn trotting easily beside an auburnhaired woman astride a similar mount, but one that seemed made of the essence of light itself, spectral and sparkling.

Doum’wielle looked at Tiago, the drow fixated on the vision. His every dream marched in front of him.

“Well, that was unnecessary,” Jarlaxle quipped when Gromph warped into the room where he and Kimmuriel waited.

“You think me frivolous?” There was a decidedly deadpan tone to Gromph’s voice, as if the words were simply a prelude to a storm. “Or foolish,” Jarlaxle replied. “Why would you taunt an ancient wyrm?"

“You think me weak?” Gromph asked, with that most sinister edge to his voice that he had perfected over the centuries. And the storm clouds seemed closer to Jarlaxle. And darker.

“I think a dragon mighty, and fear you underestimate-”

“So now I am a fool?”

Jarlaxle sighed.

“He knew that he could escape instantly,” Kimmuriel interjected, as he psionically imparted to Gromph, Jarlaxle thinks it was truly you standing before the wyrm, and not merely a clever image. In that regard, you must admit that his concerns are valid. A dragon is, after all, a dragon.

Gromph let his amusement flow back to the drow psionicist.

“With the psionic teleport you have taught him,” said Jarlaxle.

“Taught?” Kimmuriel replied. “That is not the correct word. I have opened possibilities. The archmage has learned how to walk through those less-than-tangible doors.”

“It is not the first time I have used this new ability,” Gromph reminded them. “I find it. . interesting.”

“That you were able to concentrate so fully as to succeed speaks well of your discipline, Archmage,” Kimmuriel said with a bow. “I am impressed that one of your meager training has come so far.”

“I wanted to see if I could perform the teleport under extreme duress,” Gromph said, his gaze darting back and forth at both of his companions, gauging their reactions.

“Well played, then,” said Jarlaxle.

“You heard my conversation with the wyrm?”

Jarlaxle nodded.

“Tiago is almost certainly alive. Find him.”

“I would hope to find his body. For that task, I would actually. . well, search,” said Jarlaxle.

“It was not a request,” Gromph said. “Find Tiago. Put out your scouts, all of them. Tiago is alive and in the North. Find him.”

“So that you can retrieve him for Quenthel and all will be forgiven?” Jarlaxle dared to reply. “And will you then betray my actions to our sister, brother, to better your own prospects in her court?”

He expected a tirade, of course, but surprisingly, Gromph did not react angrily.

“I’m not going to betray you for your role in bringing the copper wyrms to the fight,” he said. “Not yet. But I warn you, do not give me reason to do so. I know what you did, brother . Never forget that.”

Gromph paused and sighed, then said, “I go!” And he did, instantly disappearing from the room.

“A strange encounter,” Jarlaxle remarked.

“Both of the archmage’s encounters this day, I agree,” said Kimmuriel.

“There is a sadness to Gromph,” said Jarlaxle.

“Lolth lost her quest for the domain of magic.”

“Worse, had she won, Gromph now understands that the benefit would have been reserved for the matron mothers and their female protégés. He stands at the pillar of his power, and knows that is not so high a tower in the City of Spiders.”

Kimmuriel shrugged as if it did not matter, and Jarlaxle smiled knowingly. Kimmuriel, after all, didn’t seem to measure his worth by such metrics. His reward was knowledge alone, as far as Jarlaxle could decipher.

“The archmage will find his way,” was all Kimmuriel said, and he started for the exit from the cavern Bregan D’aerthe had taken as a base in the Silver Marches.

“It wasn’t him,” Jarlaxle said, stopping Kimmuriel cold just a couple of strides from the corridor. The psionicist slowly turned to regard the grinning mercenary.

“Standing before the dragon,” Jarlaxle explained. “Do you think so little of me as to believe that I would be fooled by a magical illusion, a projected image?”