Robert Salvatore: Road of the Patriarch

"More than a meal?" Emelyn asked.

"You have heard of the goings-on in Vaasa?"

"I have heard that you mean to honor a drow, and that there is apparently a knight-in-waiting."

"A Zhengyian construct appeared north of Palishchuk," Gareth explained.

"They seem to be more common of late. There was a tower outside of Heliogabalus—"

"Mariabronne the Rover fell within the walls of this one."

That set Emelyn back on his heels.

"It was said to be a replica of Castle Perilous," Lady Christine interjected. "Alive with gargoyles, and ruled by a dracolich."

Emelyn's eyes, gray like his robes, widened with every proclamation. "And this drow and the others defeated the menace?"

Gareth nodded. "But the construct remains."

"And you wish me to fly to the north to see what I might learn," Emelyn reasoned.

"That would seem prudent."

"And Olwen?" Emelyn asked, but before Gareth or Christine could respond, the old wizard gasped and held up his hand. "Ah, Mariabronne!" he said. "I'd not considered Olwen's love for that one."

"Find him?" Gareth bade Emelyn, and again he indicated the mirror.

Emelyn nodded and stepped forward.

No one in Faerûn was better at preparing a banquet than Christine Dragonsbane. She was the daughter of Baron Tranth, the former ruler of the region known as Bloodstone Valley, which included Bloodstone Village. Growing up in the time of Zhengyi, in the noble House that controlled the sole pass between Vaasa and Damara, Christine had witnessed scores of feasts prepared for visiting dignitaries, both from the duchies and baronies of Damara and from Zhengyi's court. In the years before open warfare, much of the duplicity that had lured Damara into a position vulnerable to Zhengyi's imperialistic designs had occurred right there in Bloodstone Village, at the table of Baron Tranth.

The meal planned for that night held no such potential for intrigue, of course. The guests were the friends of Gareth, honest and true companions who had fought beside him in the desperate struggle against the Witch-King. Riordan Parnell wouldn't be there, as he was off to Palishchuk, which complicated things for Christine a bit. Had he been in attendance, Riordan, an extraordinary bard, would have provided much of the entertainment. And entertainment was paramount on Gareth's mind.

"This is a meal for solidarity of purpose and agreement of how we should proceed," he told Christine not long after Emelyn had magically flown out to Soravia. "But most of all it is for Olwen. He has lost a child, in effect."

"And we have both lost a niece," Christine reminded.

Gareth nodded, but neither of them were truly devastated by the death of Commander Ellery. She had been a relative, but a distant one, and one that neither Gareth nor Christine had known very well. Gareth had seen her only a few times and had spoken to her only once, on the occasion of her appointment to the Army of Bloodstone.

"This night is for Olwen," Christine agreed, and took her leave.

Soon after, though, they found out that they were both incorrect. Emelyn the Gray returned from Soravia, appearing in Gareth's audience chamber amidst a cloud of smoke. Coughing and waving his hands, more with annoyance than with any expectation that he would clear the cloud, Emelyn stood alone, shaking his head.

"Olwen is not in his castle," the old wizard explained. "Nor is he anywhere in the city, or in Kinnery or Steppenhall. He went out soon after the news of Mariabronne's fall reached Kinbrace, along with several of his rangerly ilk. Who knows what silliness they are up to."

" 'Rangerly'?" Gareth asked.

"Druidic, then?" Emelyn offered. "How am I to properly describe men who dance about the trees and offer prayers of gratitude to beautiful and benevolent creatures right before and right after they kill them?"

" 'Rangerly' will suffice," the king conceded, and Emelyn wagged his wrinkled old head.

"Do you have any notion of where they went?" Gareth asked.

"Somewhere in the northeast—some grove they have deemed sacred, no doubt."

"A funeral?"

Emelyn shrugged.

"And there was no way to find him?" Gareth asked.

Emelyn's look became less accommodating, his expression telling Gareth in no uncertain terms that if he could have found the man, Olwen would be standing beside him.

"Olwen has been an adventurer for most of his life," Emelyn reminded. "He has known loss as often as victory and has buried many friends."

"As have we all."

"He will overcome his grief," said the wizard. "Better, perhaps, that he is not here in the morning when you celebrate those who survived the trip to this Zhengyian construct. Olwen would have strong questions for them, do not doubt, particularly for the drow."

"We all have questions, my friend," Gareth said.

Emelyn eyed him with open suspicion, and Gareth couldn't hold back his smile from his ever-perceptive old companion.

"How could we not?" the king asked. "We had an unusual party travel north on our behalf, unbeknownst to us, and we are now left an unusual band of victorious survivors. We have a construct of unknown origin—"

Emelyn held up his hand to stop his friend. "I detest Palishchuk," he remarked.

Gareth's grin widened. "I could trust no other with this most important investigation. Riordan is already there, doing that which Riordan does best— interrogating people without them even realizing it—but he has no practical understanding of such creation magic as this."

"I am not fond of Riordan, either," grumped Emelyn, and Gareth couldn't contain a chuckle. "But he is a bard, is he not? Are bards not especially skilled at determining the origins and history of places and dweomers?"

"Emelyn…." Gareth said.

The old wizard huffed. "Palishchuk. Oh joy of joys. To be surrounded by half-orcs and their unparalleled wit and wisdom."

"One of the heroes who defeated the castle's guardians was a half-orc wizard," said Gareth, and that seemed to pique Emelyn's curiosity for a moment.

A brief moment. "And I know a dwarf who dances gracefully," came the sarcastic reply. "For a dwarf. Which means that the area clerics need only repair a few broken toes among the spectators after each performance. Could a half-orc wizard be any more promising?"

"When the survivors returned to the Vaasan Gate, they reported that Wingham was in Palishchuk."

That did interest Emelyn, obviously so.

"Enough, my king," he surrendered. "You wish me to go, and so I go, but it will not be as brief a journey as my trip to Soravia, a land that I know well and can thus teleport to and from quickly. Expect me to be gone a tenday, and that only if the riddles presented by the Zhengyian construct are not too tightly wound. Am I to leave at once, or might I partake of the feast you promised in order to lure me here in the first place?"

"Eat, and eat well," said Gareth, smiling, then he paused and took on a more serious visage. "I trust that your magic is powerful enough to lift you and transport you when your belly is full?"

"If you were not the king, I'd offer a demonstration."

"Ah, but if I were not the king, then Zhengyi would not likely allow it."

Emelyn just shook his head and walked off to the guest rooms where he could clean up and prepare for Christine's table.

It was a night of toasts to old friends and old times. The five adventuring companions lifted their glasses to Olwen, most of all, and to Mariabronne, who had held such promise. They reiterated their goal of unifying the Bloodstone Lands, Damara and Vaasa, into a singular kingdom, and of defeating any and all remnants of the tyrant Zhengyi.

They talked of the next morning's ceremony, sharing what little they knew of the man who would be granted knighthood and of his strange, ebon-skinned companion. Celedon Kierney promised that they would know much more of the pair soon enough, a vow he made with a nod of approval from Kane. There was no disagreement at that table among the friends who had struggled hand-in-hand for more than a decade. They saw the challenges before them, the potential trouble, and the mystery of the newcomers, and they methodically set out their plans.