R.A. Salvatore: Maestro

They could have used some sort of a teleport to bring the battlerager’s body home to Gauntlgrym, but the winter of the Year of the Rune Lords Triumphant, or 1487 by Dalereckoning, had broken early and so they had decided to take an easy ride instead. Besides, big changes were afoot in the North, so it was said, with upheavals in Waterdeep and grumblings that Lord Neverember had angered more than King Bruenor with his blustery ways.

“I miss him,” Catti-brie said to Penelope on the second morning out from Longsaddle. Drizzt had urged his unicorn ahead to scout, leaving the two women alone. The auburn-haired woman glanced back over her shoulder and cast a wistful grin. “I did not know him much in the latter days of his life. I saw him not at all, alive at least, in these years of my rebirth. And still, I cannot but feel a sense of loss with him back there in that box.”

“Never a more loyal friend than Thibbledorf Pwent, so claims King Bruenor,” Penelope replied, and she put a comforting hand on Catti-brie’s forearm.

“So he truthfully claims,” said Catti-brie. “Pwent would have caught a ballista spear flying for any of us. His life was to serve.”

“A good life, then, if after all these years you still feel the pang of loss at his passing.”

“I do.” She gave a helpless little chuckle. “It is a strange thing of this second life I know. Many of those dearest to me are here again. My beloved husband, the Companions of the Hall, but still there are times when I feel out of place, as if the world I knew has been left behind and this new world is meant not for me, but for those who have yet to write their tales.”

“You are half my age,” Penelope reminded her. “There is a large book in front of you, dear Catti-brie, and one with half the pages yet blank.”

Catti-brie laughed again and nodded. “It just feels strange sometimes, out of place.”

“I understand.”

“What does?” Drizzt asked, riding back to join them.

“The world,” said Penelope.

“Particularly you,” Catti-brie teased.

“It would seem as if I have missed a profound discussion,” Drizzt said, falling into line beside the wagon. “One worthy of repeating?”

“Not really,” Catti-brie said. “Just the lament of a silly young woman.”

“Bah, but you’re not so young,” Drizzt teased, and Catti-brie shot him a phony glare.

“We were discussing the books we write of our lives,” Penelope explained. “It would seem that Catti-brie has a few chapters to add.”

Drizzt nodded. “I understand,” he said, and he did indeed. “We have just climbed a great mountain in reclaiming Gauntlgrym. The scope of that achievement remains hard to fathom. Perhaps now is the time to let out our breath and to wonder what the next great adventure might be.”

Catti-brie and Penelope exchanged a glance then, tipping the drow off.

“So you are plotting your course,” Drizzt said.

“We know what we must do,” Penelope said seriously.

“The Hosttower?”

“It must be rebuilt, or Gauntlgrym will prove a short-lived victory,” said Catti-brie. “There is no doubt that without the power of the ancient magic delivering the water elementals to the prison, the fiery primordial will soon enough break free. The resulting eruption will ruin Bruenor’s kingdom … and what else? Will Neverwinter again be buried under a mountain of ash? Waterdeep, perhaps?”

“You know this?”

“I know this.” Catti-brie held up her hand to display the Ring of Elemental Command that Drizzt had taken from the body of the drow wizard, Brack’thal Xorlarrin, and given to her.

“How long do we have?”

“A decade?” She didn’t seem very certain.

“And how long to rebuild the Hosttower of the Arcane?” Drizzt asked. “Can you even hope to accomplish such a task? Is the magic still understood? Do the spells remain to access? It was built many ages ago, by all that I have heard, and we have since passed the Time of Troubles, the Spellplague, the return of Abeir …”

“I do not know,” Catti-brie bluntly admitted.

“We cannot know until we begin,” Penelope added. “But all of the Ivy Mansion will join in as we can. We will open our library and cast our spells as needed.”

“We cannot know the course until the first stones are reassembled,” Catti-brie agreed.

“You cannot know that you will know the course even then,” said Drizzt, and the women had no rebuke for that logic. They were in wholly unexplored territory here, dealing with magic that the world had not seen in millennia.

“We will find assistance from many quarters,” Penelope replied. “Your friend Jarlaxle controls the city, and he understands the urgent need for this. He believes, too, that rebuilding the Hosttower will serve his own needs.”

“The Harpells will ally with Bregan D’aerthe?”

“Jarlaxle allied with Bruenor,” Catti-brie reminded him.

Drizzt started to reply, but bit it back and just heaved a confused sigh instead. What else might be said of Jarlaxle other than a confused sigh, after all? Once again, Jarlaxle had saved Drizzt’s life when Doum’wielle, wielding Khazid’hea, had mortally wounded him. Surely the level of Jarlaxle’s involvement in securing the Forge and the lower levels of Gauntlgrym went well beyond what the friends had witnessed, and could not be understated. Jarlaxle had convinced House Xorlarrin that to wage war against Bruenor’s legions would not serve them well, and had he not done so, how many dwarves would have gone to their graves under the barrage of Xorlarrin magic?

“I expect that Jarlaxle will provide great insight,” Drizzt had to admit. “He has contacts across Faerun and beyond. He consorts with dragons! Likely, he will prove to be your greatest resource in this journey.”

Again the two women exchanged a look, and Drizzt stared at them curiously.

“He will be valuable, but more so will be the Archmage Gromph Baenre, I expect,” said Catti-brie.

Drizzt felt as if he would simply slide off Andahar’s side and crumble to the ground. “Gromph Baenre?” he mouthed in reply.

“He has lived more than eight centuries and has ready access to, and intimate knowledge of, spells that were long forgotten before the Time of Troubles even. Is there anyone in the Realms, save perhaps Elminster himself, wherever he might be, more prepared for such a task as this?”

“He is Baenre,” Drizzt said evenly, as if that should be enough-and normally, it most certainly would be.

“He is indebted to Jarlaxle, and cannot return to Menzoberranzan. Or so said Jarlaxle, though I know not why.”

Drizzt had heard as much. He tried to focus on those truths and set aside his deeper fears-fears of House Baenre that every dark elf who was not Baenre had judiciously whipped into him from his earliest days.

“You really intend to pursue this?” he asked at length.

“I have no choice.”

“You have every choice!” Drizzt insisted. “This is a Baenre, and a wizard beyond the power of all but a very few. Elminster himself would deal carefully with the likes of Archmage Gromph Baenre! He is drow through and through, and he is Baenre through and through, and so not to be trusted.”

“He needs Jarlaxle.”

“For now. But that may change, and if it does, what will it concern Gromph to destroy you, all of you, and take the tower for his own?”

“He can have the tower as his own!” Catti-brie retorted. “As long as the magic is flowing to Gauntlgrym to keep the beast in its pit.”

“And what blackmail might Gromph demand of King Bruenor when such power as that is in his control?” Drizzt asked.

The responding expressions, winces of discomfort from both, showed that the two were well aware of that possibility.