The Companions s-1

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Why Lady,” Parise said teasingly, “you have come to love the girl.”

  Lady Avelyere rocked back on her heels and considered the words. Her first impulse was to staunchly deny the accusation, but she quickly put that aside and honestly searched deep within herself. “She has such promise and skill,” she replied. “A curiosity and a hope, from her earliest days.”

  “It is more than professional curiosity,” said her friend, who knew her well.

  Lady Avelyere nodded.

  “You think her a protege.”

  “Thought,” Lady Avelyere was quick to reply, correcting the tense. “Now I understand that is impossible. Her loyalty is not to me and never has been.”

  “But she has not crossed you.”

  “True enough,” said Lady Avelyere. “And thus I am content to do as you say, and not to punish her for her duplicity and secret devotion to this foreign goddess.”

  Parise Ulfbinder wore a sly grin, which elicited an exasperated sigh from Lady Avelyere. He was seeing right through her, of course. He recognized that she was wounded to think that this girl she had brought in and all but raised as her own might have a higher loyalty than to her and the Coven. To think that Ruqiah would walk away after all that she had done for her! And to think that Ruqiah would accept so much training, diverting the precious resources of the Coven toward one who knew that she would not remain!

  So indeed there was a measure of anger within Lady Avelyere, a sense of being wronged by this girl. But more than that, she had to admit, there was sadness and disappointment. Ruqiah had been quite the project for her, and yes, quite the protege! Lady Avelyere had great affection for all of the sisters of her Coven, but none more than the curious little Bedine girl she had captured in a web years before.

  It would not be easy to let her go.

  Catti-brie rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and moved to the window, surprised that sunlight was streaming in. It was a west-facing window, after all, and usually remained quite dark until late in the day.

  She pulled aside the sash and stared at the sun lowering in the western sky.

  "The woman backed up a step and turn?” she asked to regard her unkempt bed. How could it be late in the afternoon? How could she have slept throughout the whole of the day?

  She thought back to the previous night and tried to recall going to bed.

  But she could not.

  She tried to recall what day it was, and when she was supposed to meet again with her parents in the Desai encampment. She had a vague recollection of speaking with them recently, but that didn’t make any sense to her.

  She dressed quickly, brushed her hair, and headed out, ready to apologize profusely for abandoning her duties that day.

  Just a short way down the hallway, she ran into Rhyalle, who greeted her with a big smile and a gentle touch.

  “Oh, but you are up!” Rhyalle said before Catti-brie could begin her apology. “We have been so worried about you.”

  “I was only in my room,” Catti-brie replied hesitantly. She half turned to point back the way she had come.

  “For a tenday,” Rhyalle replied. “We feared that you would never awaken, though Lady Avelyere assured us that your affliction would pass.”

  “Avelyere? Affliction?” Catti-brie stammered.

  “Yes, of course-oh, but you probably remember little of your fevered dreams. It was the spellscar, Lady Avelyere believes.” She grabbed Catti-brie’s arm and pulled back the sleeve, revealing the spellscar that resembled the seven stars of Mystra. “Others with such marks have suffered similar afflictions recently, from what we’ve been told. But it will pass-indeed, it has passed. You look so well!”

  Catti-brie couldn’t begin to sort through all of that confusing information. One thing did leap out at her, however: The last memory that would come to her was that of her parents, in their tent. Was it there that she had fallen? And if that was the case, how had she come back to her bed in the Coven?

  Catti-brie half-turned back the way she had come, then changed her mind and pushed past Rhyalle. “I must speak with Lady Avelyere,” she explained.

  But Rhyalle tightened her grip on Catti-brie’s arm and held her back, then shifted to block her way.

  “You need to remain in your room,” she said. “Lady Avelyere will come to you presently.”

  “No, I-”

  “Yes!” Rhyalle forcefully corrected. “I was coming this very moment to check in on you. Lady Avelyere has made these instructions quite clear. Come, back to your room.”

  Catti-brie hesitated.

  Rhyalle pushed her more forcefully. “No argument,” she insisted. “You are to await the lady in your room. You are not to leave your room until she has granted you permission.”

  She pushed again and Catti-brie relented.

  A few moments later, she was sitting on the edge of her bed, alone in her room, her thoughts spinning, her memories drifting in and around.

  “A tenday?” she asked aloud, and she couldn’t begin to sort that out. Even her memory was playing tricks on her now-first she had thought her last memories to be of the Desai encampment, but now she wondered if those were older recollections. For it seemed now that her most recent memories were of doing her chores around the Coven and anticipating her next visitAlpirs and UntarisIanythingon to the Desai encampment. Yet even these seemed strangely removed, or had greatly receded at least.

  None of it made any sense to her. Something was wrong, very wrong. She pulled back both her sleeves and looked at her scars, even running her fingers over each. Nothing seemed amiss with them.

  Lady Avelyere came to her some time later, rushing to embrace her. She reiterated everything Rhyalle had told her, pausing every so often to gently kiss the young woman on the cheek and stroke her hair.

  “I don’t …,” Catti-brie started to say, and she paused and shook her head. “Nothing of the last days … of the last …” She shook her head again. “Nothing makes any sense.”

  “I know, dear,” Lady Avelyere replied. “Fevered dreams. You were quite ill, though I am not sure of your affliction. I sense it was tied to the spellscars you carry. We have heard of others-”

  “Yes, I have been told,” Catti-brie interrupted.

  “In all of those cases, the affliction passed quickly and showed no sign of returning,” Lady Avelyere added. “So it will be with you, I expect.” She kissed Catti-brie on the forehead again. “Now back to your rest, I demand.”

  Catti-brie didn’t resist as Lady Avelyere eased her back onto the bed.

  “I am expected soon in the home of my parents,” Catti-brie said.

  “Oh, no, no, no, girl,” Lady Avelyere replied. “You will not be going out of the Coven for many days. No, no. Not until I am certain that your affliction has truly passed. You were fortunate that you were struck down here, among friends with great means to help you to heal. Had you been outside of here, you likely would have died.”

  “They will worry-”

  “I will find a way to get word to them that you are well and will visit when you are able,” Lady Avelyere promised. She gave Catti-brie one last hug and quietly left the room, leaving Catti-brie alone with her jumbled thoughts.

  She chewed her lips and kept looking at her window, wanting nothing more than to be out of there and off to one of her secret gardens, where she might commune with Mielikki to garner some answers. Beyond the confusion of her apparent loss of memory, and of a tenday, something seemed wrong; somewhere, just below her consciousness, contradictions nagged at Catti-brie’s sensibilities.

  Catti-brie searched through the conversations with Rhyalle and Lady Avelyere over and over again, seeking some clues. One thing stood out: Why would Catti-brie have likely died had she been struck with her affliction outside of the Coven? Hadn’t both Rhyalle and Avelyere just told her that others had been similarly afflicted, and that in those instances, the affliction had passed with no serious ramifications?

  Catti-brie winced. Had Avelyere
just lied to her?

  She focused her mind, determined to remember more, or to at least put some of the flitting memories floating through her thoughts into some sort of context and order.

  She looked to the door again, then to a small, decorative plant set in the corner of the room.

  Her gaze went back to the door as she chewed anew on her lip. Dare she?

  Caution bade her not to do it. The projection of Ruqiah bade her not to do it.

  " But the wisdom of?” she asked but something nagged at her, told her that something was truly amiss.

  She went to the plant and dragged it across to the opposite wall, out of sight of the door, which opened into the room and would shield anyone entering.

  CHAPTER 19

  GODLY INSIGHT

  The Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR) Mithral Hall

  The torchlight flickered, casting wild shadows in the vast empty chamber as the solitary in the general direction figure made his way along the narrow bridge. A massive drop to his left and right only accentuated the loneliness of the scene: a single dwarf, walking hesitantly, his torch only barely chasing away the darkness.

  His step slowed even more as he approached the central platform on this great bridge that spanned the chasm known as Garumn’s Gorge. His footsteps echoed, hard boots on stone. The shuddering torchlight showed that he was trembling.

  He paused at the front rim of the circular platform. Across from him, in the darkness, he heard the sound of water-Bruenor’s Falls-which marked the final run to the eastern gate of Mithral Hall.

  For Bruenor, the return proved only bitter, not bittersweet.

  He had come this way with the caravan only a tenday before, but hadn’t slowed and hadn’t even dared look at the podium on the northern side of this ceremonial platform. In his short time in Mithral Hall, he had not come back this way to the east, spending his days in the great Undercity, and even venturing to the western gate and to Keeper’s Dale beyond, arguably the place of his greatest triumph.

  Keeper’s Dale was heavily guarded now, with fortified positions and war machines all around the higher peaks. Guarded against orcs, Bruenor … Reginald Roundshield of Citadel Felbarr … had been told, for the troublesome creatures had become very active of late.

  Yet again.

  How strange it had been for Bruenor to hear the discussions about him, questioning his own judgment as king that century before, when he had made peace with King Obould Many-Arrows. Back and forth went the arguments, and they sounded to Bruenor much like the same debates he had heard, and had been party to, in the days of the treaty!

  Nothing had been resolved. The land had known relative peace, but to many of the current dwarves of Mithral Hall, it clearly seemed more the crouch of the tiger before the killing spring than any true and lasting alliance, partnership, or even tolerance between Mithral Hall and the orcs. And worse, they whispered, now the orcs had made inroads into the kingdoms all around their own land, and knew the defenses and, perhaps, how to exploit those defenses.

  Bruenor’s gaze locked on the podium, on the parchment spread atop it, secured by a heavy piece of clear crystal. He swallowed hard and inched up.

  He saw the signature, his signature, and the crude mark of King Obould.

  “Did ye lead me wrong, elf?” he asked quietly, as if speaking to Drizzt, who had counseled him on this very important decision, who indeed had lobbied him strongly to sign the treaty.

  “Ah, but I can’no know,” Bruenor whispered.

  “What’s to know then, eh?” came a voice behind him, startling him-and all the more surprising because it was not accompanied by the light of a second torch. He turned around to see Ragged Dain, who had obviously followed him out here, secretly and stealthily.

  “If this paper’ll hold in these times,” Bruenor replied.

  “Bah, that treaty,” said the old warrior. “I remember when it was signed. Never did much like it.”

  “King Bruenor was wrong, then?”

  “Hush yer mouth, boy!” Ragged Dain scolded. “Ye don’t be talking ill o’ the king o’ them whose hall ye’re walking about!” in the general direction, and paouC3to

  “It was a long time ago,” Bruenor replied.

  Ragged Dain came up beside him and put his hand on the crystal mount, sliding his fingers slowly over the signatures of Bruenor and Obould. “Aye, it was, but be sure that I’m rememberin’, and so’s King Emerus Warcrown, don’t ye doubt, particularly now when these new orcs are in a fightin’ mood all across the Silver Marches.”

  “Are ye thinking it was wrong for King Bruenor to sign the treaty?”

  Ragged Dain didn’t answer for a bit, but just stared at the parchment. Then he shrugged. “Who can know? Meself was arguin’ against it, to be sure. Telled King Emerus that personally, though I was but a young fighter of little renown at the time.”

  “King Emerus stood here for the signing,” Bruenor said, and he remembered well the look Emerus had given him before he had moved up to add his signature, an expression more of resignation than of antipathy.

  “Aye, he did,” said Ragged Dain. “Weren’t his choice, mind ye.”

  “He would have preferred war.”

  “Most dwarves would’ve!”

  “But not King Bruenor.” Bruenor purposely said it in a way that could be construed as accusatory, to gauge Ragged Dain’s expression.

  The old veteran merely shrugged and wore no such agreeing scowl. “Alas for King Bruenor, then. He weren’t for findin’ any support for a war. Not from Silverymoon, not from Sundabar.” He paused and took a deep breath, and Bruenor knew well what was coming next. “Not even from Felbarr.”

  “King Emerus wouldn’t stand with Mithral Hall?” Bruenor asked, trying to feign surprise.

  Ragged Dain offered another shrug. “Without Sundabar and Silverymoon, we wouldn’t’ve been doin’ much again them orc thousands,” he said. “Tens of thousands! Tens of tens of thousands!”

  “So you don’t blame Bruenor?”

  Ragged Dain paused again and looked at the treaty for a long while. “If I’ve any anger, lad, know that it’s for the human kingdoms o’ the Silver Marches, and them elves o’ Silverymoon and the Moonwood. We could’ve put an army on the field that would’ve shaked the whole o’ the world! We could’ve chased that durned Obould back into his hole, ne’er to come out again!”

  “I’ve heared the tales of what’s now what,” said Bruenor. “Might that we’ll be doin’ just that, in short order!”

  Surprisingly this time, Ragged Dain offered another shrug, one halting and almost resigned.

  Bruenor’s eyes went wide. “So ye’ve lost the love o’ the fight, ye old dog?”

  “Bah, but if ye say that again, I’ll pitch ye into the gorge, don’t ye doubt,” said Ragged Dain.

  “Then what? Ye heared the rumors of orcs stirring as surely as I have. Ye know them orcs’re pushin’ for a fight.”

  Ragged Dain glanced all around, as if ensuring that they were truly alone. “King Connerad …,” he said, shaking his head.

  asked, and Catti-brie nodded.we, and he couldim“ A good dwarf, by all accounts, and son of a hero, King Banak,” said Bruenor.

  “Aye, but with no reach,” Ragged Dain explained. “Not to his fault, but true nonetheless. When Bruenor talked, th’others o’ the Silver Marches listened. Proved in battle, he was, and oh, beyond anything anyone now might know! Even King Emerus would’no stand atop any pedestal higher than that one! King Connerad’s a good dwarf, as ye say, and his people love him, don’t ye doubt, but he ain’t no King Bruenor. Ain’t no King Bruenor nowhere, and if the Marches ain’t fightin’ as one, the legions o’ Many-Arrows’ll run us all down.”

  Bruenor felt proud and overwhelmed all at once. The fleeting moment of pride held him up, but only briefly until the weight of the world descended upon his young and sturdy shoulders.

  He didn’t know what to say, but knew what he wanted to say. He wanted to grab Ragged Dain by the co
llar and shout the truth into his face.

  Or was that the plan of the gods all along, Bruenor suddenly wondered?

  “What do ye know?” Ragged Dain asked.

  The words jolted Bruenor and made him aware that he was gasping for air under the weight of emotions. “Wh-what?” he stammered back. “What do ye know?”

  “Nothing,” Bruenor answered, and indeed, he was in no position to answer that or any other question at that moment, his mind spinning with the possibilities. He considered his anger toward the gods, toward Moradin in particular, for allowing him to be so manipulated by Catti-brie and Mielikki, for stealing the meaning and the reward of his life right out from under him.

  But then he thought of Dumathoin, God of Secrets Under the Mountain, and it occurred to him that his step from Iruladoon, though facilitated by Mielikki, might not have been for Mielikki at all.

  He looked again at the treaty, at his signature. His greatest achievement or his greatest folly? Indeed, that had ever been the question, and now, with the specter of war looming over the Silver Marches, the answer seemed clear before him.

  Through the power of Mielikki, he had been given rebirth, but perhaps-yes, more than perhaps, he then convinced himself-through the power of Moradin, he had been delivered here, to this place in this time, with this crisis looming.

  Mithral Hall, indeed the Silver Marches, needed a King Bruenor, so Ragged Dain had just declared.

  Bruenor Battlehammer alone knew where to find one.

  The party was on in full, as was customary whenever a large caravan from one of the three dwarf communities in the Silver Marches-Mithral Hall, Citadel Felbarr, and Citadel Adbar-prepared to head for home from one of the others. In addition, the train from Citadel Adbar had arrived the night before, giving the dwarves of Mithral Hall an added reason to break out the Gutbuster this fine day, and so they did.

  They toasted to Citadel Felbarr. They toasted to Citadel Adbar. They toasted to Mithral Hall. They toasted to the Delzoun brotherhood. They toasted to the demise of Many-Arrows. They toasted to toasting!