Robert Salvatore: The Ghost King

“Heartseeker, yes,” Drizzt said. He stepped back and pulled the mighty bow from his shoulder, presenting it to her.

“Can’t be fishing Maer Dualdon with a bow, though, and so it’s Rumblebelly’s line I’m favorin’,” she said, still looking into the distance and not at Drizzt.

Drizzt crinkled his face in confusion.

The woman sighed deeply. Her eyes rolled back into her head, showing only white to Drizzt. The flames and energy reappeared and a gust of wind came up from nowhere, striking only Catti-brie, as if those waves of energy that had come forth from her were returning to her being. Her hair, her skin, her age—all returned, and her colorful garment stopped blowing in the unfelt wind.

The moment passed and she settled to the ground, unconscious once more.

Drizzt shook her again, called to her many times, but she seemed not to notice. He snapped his fingers in front of her eyes, but she didn’t even blink. He started to lift her, to carry her toward the camp so they could hurry on their way to Mithral Hall, but as he extended her arm, he saw a tear in her magical blouse just behind the shoulder. Then he froze as he noticed bruises under the fabric. With a shiver of panic, Drizzt gently slid the ripped section aside.

He sucked in his breath in fear and confusion. He had seen Catti-brie’s bare back a thousand times, had marveled at her unblemished, smooth skin. But it was marked, scarred even, in the distinctive shape of an hourglass as large as Drizzt’s fist. The lower half was almost fully discolored, the top showing only a small sliver of bruising, as if almost all of the counting sand had drained.

With trembling fingers, Drizzt touched it. Catti-brie did not react. “What?” he whispered helplessly.

He carried Catti-brie along briskly, her head lolling as if she were half-asleep.

It was a place of soaring towers and sweeping stairways, of flying buttresses and giant, decorated windows, of light and enlightenment, of magic and reason, of faith and science. It was Spirit Soaring, the work of Cadderly Bonaduce, Chosen of Deneir. Cadderly the Questioner, he had been labeled by his brothers of Deneir, the god who demanded such inquiry and continual reason from his devoted.

Cadderly had raised the grand structure from the ruins of the Edificant Library, considered by many to be the most magnificent library in all of Faerûn. Indeed, architects from lands as far and varied as Silverymoon and Calimport had come to the Snowflake Mountains to glimpse this creation, to marvel in the flying buttresses—a recent innovation in the lands of Faerûn, and never before on so grand a scale. The work of magic, of divine inspiration, had formed the stained glass windows, and also rendered the great murals of scholars at work in their endless pursuit of reason.

Spirit Soaring had been raised as a library and a cathedral, a common ground where scholars, mages, sages, and priests might gather to question superstition, to embrace reason. No place on the continent so represented the wondrous joining of faith and science, where one need not fear that logic, observation, and experimentation might take a learner away from edicts of the divine. Spirit Soaring was a place where truth was considered divine, and not the other way around.

Scholars did not fear to pursue their theories there. Philosophers did not fear to question the common understanding of the pantheon and the world. Priests of any and all gods did not fear persecution there, unless the very concept of rational debate represented persecution to a closed and small mind.

Spirit Soaring was a place to explore, to question, to learn—about everything. There, discussions of the various gods of the world of Toril always bordered on heresy. There, the nature of magic was examined, and so there, at a time of fear and uncertainty, at the time of the failing Weave, rushed scholars from far and wide.

And Cadderly greeted them, every one, with open arms and shared concern. He looked like a very young man, much younger than his forty-four years. His gray eyes sparkled with youthful luster and his mop of curly brown hair bounced along his shoulders. He moved like a much younger man, loose and agile, a distinctive spring in his step. He wore a typical Deneirrath outfit, tan-white tunic and trousers, and added his own flair with a light blue cape and a wide-brimmed hat, blue to match the cape, with a red band, plumed on the right side.

The time was unsettling, the magic of the world possibly unraveling, yet Cadderly Bonaduce’s eyes reflected excitement more than dread. Cadderly was forever a student, his mind always inquisitive, and he did not fear what was simply not yet explained.

He just wanted to understand it.

“Welcome, welcome!” He greeted a trio of visitors one bright morning, who were dressed in the green robes of druids.

“Young Bonaduce, I presume,” said one, an old graybeard. “Not so young,” Cadderly admitted.

“I knew your father many years ago,” the druid replied. “Am I right in assuming that we will be welcomed here in this time of confusion?” Cadderly looked at the man curiously. “Cadderly still lives, correct?”

“Well, yes,” Cadderly answered, then grinned and asked, “Cleo?”

“Ah, your father has told you of … me …” the druid answered, but he ended with wide eyes, stuttering, “C–Cadderly? Is that you?”

“I had thought you lost in the advent of the chaos curse, old friend!” Cadderly said.

“How can you be …?” Cleo started to ask, in utter confusion.

“Were you not destroyed?” the youthful-seeming priest asked. “Of course you weren’t—you stand here before me!”

“I wandered in the form of a turtle, for years,” Cleo explained. “Trapped by insanity within the animal coil I most favored. But how can you be Cadderly? I had heard of Cadderly’s children, who should be as old …”

As he spoke, a young man walked up to the priest. He looked very much like Cadderly, but with exotic, almond-shaped eyes.

“And here is one,” Cadderly explained, sweeping his son to him with an outstretched arm. “My oldest son, Temberle.”

“Who looks older than you,” Cleo remarked dryly.

“A long and complicated story,” said the priest. “Connected to this place, Spirit Soaring.”

“You are wanted in the observatory, Father,” Temberle said with a polite salute to the new visitors. “The Gondsmen are declaring supremacy again, as gadget overcomes magic.”

“No doubt, both factions think I side with their cause.”

Temberle shrugged and Cadderly breathed a great sigh.

“My old friend,” Cadderly said to Cleo, “I should like some time with you, to catch up.”

“I can tell you of life as a turtle,” Cleo deadpanned, drawing a smile from Cadderly.

“We have many points of view in Spirit Soaring at the time, and little agreement,” Cadderly explained. “They’re all nervous, of course.”

“With reason,” said another of the druids.

“And reason is our only way through this,” said Cadderly. “So welcome, friends, and enter. We have food aplenty, and discussion aplenty more. Add your voices without reserve.”

The three druids looked to each other, the other two nodding approvingly to Cleo. “As I told you it would be,” Cleo said. “Reasonable priests, these Deneirrath.” He turned to Cadderly, who bowed, smiled widely, and took his leave.

“You see?” Cadderly said to Temberle as the druids walked past into Spirit Soaring. “I have told you many times that I am reasonable.” He patted his son on the shoulder and followed after the druids.

“And every time you do, Mother whispers in my ear that your reasonableness is based entirely on what suits your current desires,” Temberle said after him.