R. Salvatore - Archmage

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.