“Do you know what happened to you?” the drow man asked, moving very close. “The phylactery necklace . . .”
“Asbeel,” Brevindon said, and the name shocked him, as did the fact that he felt free suddenly, as he hadn’t in many tendays.
“Asbeel is destroyed,” the drow explained. “He’ll bother you no more.”
“But we will,” said yet another drow, a taller man, and Brevindon blinked and for a moment thought that maybe he had indeed imbibed too much alcohol as the man transformed before his eyes, becoming a tall and lanky, red-haired human.
“I am High Captain Kurth,” he said.
“Or he was before you decided to attack our city,” the other drow man said.
Brevindon spent a long moment trying to digest all of that, whispering as much to himself as to them, “Why am I alive?”
“Because you are going to help us rid Luskan of your filthy gnolls and the other mercenaries you brought here,” the drow who went by Kurth answered. “You are going to help us restore the order of the city properly.”
“The gnolls,” Brevindon said. He shook his head, not in denial of them, but in denial of all that had transpired. How had he been so foolish? So vile? He had sided with gnolls—with a demon!—as had the other nobles of his house.
His house . . . House Margaster, once so glorious . . .
What had become of it?
What had he done?
“You were coerced by a demon,” the smaller drow said, and it took Brevindon a moment to wonder if he had spoken his terrible thoughts aloud.
Then he remembered more and knew that he hadn’t needed to—not for this one.
“Kimmuriel?” he whispered under his breath. He thought it a name, the name of a drow, this drow, who had been in his thoughts as Asbeel had assailed his very soul.
“The demon is purged,” Kimmuriel said flatly. “Asbeel will bother you no more.”
“Only to be replaced by you in my head?” Brevindon argued.
The drow snickered. “Only when I choose to be. But that will not be the case in the deal you have just been offered.”
“What deal?”
“You do as we ask, and you will remain in some position of power here in this city,” High Captain Kurth told him. “You will find it a lucrative offer.”
“And one that will allow Brevindon Margaster to restore some bit of his reputation if he is wise in his decisions,” said the big man he knew to be Wulfgar.
“Should’ve just killed him,” said the woman.
“So I should choose?” Brevindon asked again, simply to clarify all of this shocking information in his own thoughts.
“You already made your choice,” Kimmuriel told him. “And now you will do as you have been told.”
“Because if I don’t you will kill me.”
Another snicker from Kimmuriel. “Your imagination fails you if you think that.”
Brevindon Margaster felt a wave of foul thoughts filtering through his mind, turning his every observation and reflexive response into an image of utter horror. He closed his eyes, slapped his fists against them. He screamed as loudly as he could, trying to deny the suggestions, the images, the emotions.
Finally they subsided, but only because of Kimmuriel and nothing to do with Brevindon’s denials or mental response, and the drow left him then with the complete understanding that he would be begging for death for a long while before the drow ever offered him the mercy of it.
You do not understand what it is to be an elf, do you?
Brother Afafrenfere heard the woman’s voice, but it was not the voice of a dwarf, more melodious . . . distant.
He felt his blood pumping.
No, I would not want to live in a world without dragons.
This time it was a male voice, elven . . . no, drow. A voice he recognized.
Drizzt!
Are ye more trapped by the way the world sees ye or by the way ye see the world seein’ ye?
Madness . . . a woman . . . an image of Catti-brie, but different, younger perhaps, her hair styled in a manner as Afafrenfere had never seen. But those deep-blue eyes. Yes, it was Catti-brie.
Suddenly, Afafrenfere saw a child, elven, beneath the torn body of an elf woman—was this the first voice her had heard? Blood, blood everywhere.
His blood?
He saw her again, but she was not a child, and oh, how he recognized her! And it was the same bloodied child, he knew.
He just knew.
But who was she? How did he know her?
A profound sadness overwhelmed him. The words came as emotions, came as images, came as experiences.
Their deaths usually come from the front.
Drizzt’s voice again.
Afafrenfere’s thoughts spun. He found an image of Parbid, then, so clear and close that he felt as if he could reach out and touch him once more. Images of his own life flickered about him, his loves, his fears, his father denying him and throwing him out of their home, the last look on his mother’s face.
But other images intermingled, as if his own memories were mixing with those of another.
With those of Drizzt, of course.
It was only the sound of dwarves laughing that brought him back to the present and the physical. He opened his eyes and realized his pain.
The dwarves were all around him, four now, showing one another the wounds they had suffered in the fight.
“He killed him to death!” one woman roared. “Me husband’s dead, and I’m payin’ that one back.”
He saw the dwarf woman approaching, spear in hand.
It made sense now, though. Afafrenfere understood. Drizzt had transcended here, and bits of the drow’s memory remained, the echoes of a ghost. Afafrenfere was near death, had nearly slipped to the nether realm, and thus had he heard those memories, felt them keenly.
And he felt, most of all, the joy of Drizzt.
Oh, how he wanted to go and tell Catti-brie and the others! Drizzt was gone, but the retriever hadn’t killed him or taken him, no! He had escaped through transcendence. He had stepped from this life willingly.
To fool the retriever and save them.
The demons didn’t have him. He was forever beyond them now, and in a place of beauty and peace and oneness.
A place Afafrenfere hoped to soon join.
He felt peace at that. Drizzt’s friends should not cry for him, nay, for he was in the harmony of the universe now, in the place of purest joy. Afafrenfere desperately wanted to tell them, but he knew he would not leave this place. He was broken, and even if that approaching dwarf didn’t stab him, he was already mortally wounded.
She leaned over him, staring down at him with hateful eyes, lifting the spear to plunge it into his chest.
Brother Afafrenfere smiled at her, giving her pause.
It was time, he knew.
Grandmaster Kane had been right. And now, he was ready.
The monk felt his physical body come apart, bursting into bits of light, into scattering memories, the torn and flittering pages of the book that had been Brother Afafrenfere.
He kept his physical presence just long enough to see the startled look on the face of the dwarf. He wanted to tell her that he forgave her, but he had no voice with which to speak.
The dwarf’s expression shifted from curiosity to fear to sheer outrage. She lifted her spear suddenly and stabbed it down.
But she didn’t hit Brother Afafrenfere, for he was already gone. She didn’t hit anything, except perhaps punching a hole in the monk’s empty robes.
“That one changed his mind quick,” Bonnie Charlee said to Wulfgar, soon after the encounter with Brevindon. “I’d’ve thinked a Waterdeep lord would have a bit more spunk than that in him.”
Wulfgar sighed. “Kimmuriel,” he explained. “Do not underestimate the power—and danger—of that one. I’m sure that he let Brevindon Margaster understand exactly what would befall him if he did not play along.”
“Bah!” Bonnie Charle
e snorted, sounding so much like Bruenor at that moment that Wulfgar almost laughed aloud.
“Trust me on this,” he told her. “Kimmuriel is the most dangerous creature you have ever encountered. Ever.”
His tone left no room for debate, and stole the grin from Bonnie Charlee’s face.
“If you ever forget that, there is nothing I will be able to do to save you,” Wulfgar added.
“Damned drow elves,” she said. “And why’re ye making o’ them friends, then?
“One of them,” Wulfgar corrected. “Perhaps someday I’ll get the chance to tell you all about Drizzt Do’Urden. Perhaps I’ll introduce you, and you will understand.”
She didn’t seem convinced.
“Or maybe there are two drow I would name as friends,” Wulfgar went on. “Jarlaxle . . .”
He stopped when Kimmuriel came back into the room. He noted that Bonnie Charlee took a step away from the approaching drow. Yes, she had heard his warning.
“You will both do as Beniago instructs,” the psionicist told them. “I am off to the south.”
“Gauntlgrym?” Wulfgar asked eagerly.
“Eventually, perhaps, but no.”
“Take me.”
“I would possibly be taking you to your death, fool.”
“You just had me fight a demon. This is a chance I’m willing to take. Take me, Kimmuriel, I beg. Have I not earned that much from you, at least?”
Kimmuriel started to respond, but stopped and considered Wulfgar for a long moment. “Are you so desperate to find your friends that you would risk your—”
“Yes!” he interrupted. “Of course.”
Kimmuriel considered it for a moment.
“Very well. You might prove of value to me.” He turned to Bonnie Charlee. “Do as Beniago instructs.”
“No. If he’s going, I’m going,” she said.
“No, you’re not,” Kimmuriel replied simply.
She started to argue, but looked to Wulfgar, who shook his head at her. “Do as Beniago instructs,” Wulfgar told her. “Please. I’ll be back for you. You have my word.”
“I’ve not e’er been stupid enough to take a man at his word,” the clearly despondent woman replied.
“Then you’ll be pleasantly surprised,” Wulfgar assured her. He walked over and kissed her on the forehead and whispered in her ear, “I will come find you. Stay safe and do as Beniago . . .”
“Yeah, I heard ya,” she grumbled.
Chapter 25
Firestorm
On her way to speak with Catti-brie later that day, Yvonnel inadvertently intercepted Penelope Harpell and Donnola Topolino.
“Quite a chance she took with a bairn in her belly,” Donnola remarked after a greeting. “Are you going to see her, then?”
“I wish she had spoken with me before she went down into that hellish chasm,” Penelope added.
Their concerns, and their aiming those fears at Yvonnel, were not lost on the drow woman.
“She consulted me and I begged her not to go,” Yvonnel replied. “I even offered to go in her place. She is quite determined.”
“Headstrong,” Penelope corrected.
“Stubborn as any dwarf I’ve ever met,” Donnola insisted. “And as you might know, I’ve met a few.”
“I got her out of there as soon as she needed to be extracted,” Yvonnel assured them.
“She’s a bit . . . warm, from the experience, we’re hearing,” Donnola said. “You think it worth it?”
Yvonnel considered that as they neared Catti-brie’s door. “I do,” she decided. “We had to know and we learned a lot. More than Catti-brie and the baby are at risk here. If Maegera finds its way free, there won’t be much left of Gauntlgrym or anyone in here.”
“And you think that Catti going down into that pit might help prevent that?” Penelope asked.
Yvonnel paused a moment, then nodded. “She gained insight. She has an idea, so she claims. That’s why I’m here.” She looked from one woman to the other. “And you?”
“Just checking on her,” Donnola answered, moving up to the door.
“But we heard that she might have some trick formulating,” Penelope conceded, and she and Yvonnel joined Donnola, who had paused.
Before Yvonnel could ask about that, she understood, for here, close, they could hear the sobs coming from inside the room.
“Every night,” Penelope quietly explained. “Perhaps we should go.” And she turned away.
“No,” Donnola surprised her by saying. “She’s trying to be strong for everyone and so taking it all on herself.” The halfling shook her head resolutely. “I’m not for letting that happen.”
Donnola pushed through the door, and after a quick exchange of glances, Penelope and Yvonnel followed her in.
Catti-brie was crying, indeed, but as soon as she noted the intruders, she sucked in her breath. Donnola went for her with arms wide, but Catti-brie held up her hand and managed to say, “Don’t.”
“But my friend . . .”
Catti-brie shook her head, her jaw clenched as she held back further sobs.
“Aye, if I touch you, then you’ll melt, I know,” Donnola said. “But I can’t stand seeing you . . .”
She stopped when Penelope rushed past her, moving aside Catti-brie’s upraised hand and wrapped the woman in a great hug. Immediately, as Donnola had just predicted, Catti-brie melted into great sobs, her shoulders shuddering, tears pouring down her face.
Donnola joined in the hug, and even Yvonnel, so unsure of her place here, moved closer and put a comforting hand on Catti-brie’s shoulder.
“You’ll be strong,” Penelope whispered to the woman. “You are strong. But get it out now. You’ve been dealt a bad hand, my love. Nothing fair about it.”
Rarely in her young life had Yvonnel felt so uncomfortable or so out of place. She wanted to be a part of this—she felt all the sympathy Donnola and Penelope were showing to the woman, and indeed, felt in her very pores the pain exuding from Catti-brie. The woman had lost her beloved, and indeed, part of the reason Yvonnel had come to care so much for this human woman was because she, too, had felt the love between her and Drizzt.
Early on, Yvonnel had found Drizzt quite attractive and interesting, and had even fancied that she might become his partner at some point, but once she had seen Drizzt with Catti-brie, she knew that her desires would certainly have to wait. There was something so tangible between them, so intermeshed and beautiful, that in a very atypical stance for a drow, Yvonnel hadn’t even tried to interrupt that and instead celebrated it.
The emotion between them was so foreign to her! But not entirely, she knew, though she had to look far, far back in the memories of her namesake to better understand it.
So, too, with this encounter. The shared hug.
What drow would do that?
None, Yvonnel knew. Nor would any cry over a lost lover, replacing tears with sneers and growls of revenge.
And that, Yvonnel understood in that very moment, was the weakness.
Not of these people, nay, but of the drow.
Catti-brie soon settled, Donnola and then Penelope pulling back from her. Yvonnel removed her hand from the woman’s shoulder but Catti-brie caught it with her own. As she held Yvonnel’s gaze, Catti-brie offered a little nod of gratitude.
Now composed, Catti-brie took a deep and steadying breath.
“We’re here for whatever you’re needing,” Penelope said to her.
“I’m just being silly,” Catti-brie said, and it sounded ridiculous to them all, even to Catti-brie. “How is Regis?” she quickly asked Donnola.
“Madder than I ever knew he could be,” she replied. “He says he knows, though, after his own journey to the afterlife, and that’s keeping him.”
Catti-brie nodded and managed a smile, but she didn’t seem as convinced, Yvonnel thought.
“I’m just crying for my own loss, not for Drizzt,” Catti-brie said. “If . . .” She paused. “There’s divine justice
, I know, and none are more deserving of heaven than my love.”
The conversation went on from there, and despite the urgency of their mission regarding Maegera, whatever it might be that Catti-brie had thought of, Yvonnel didn’t interrupt. She just listened to the banter, sharing memories of Drizzt, sharing hopes for the child, Donnola and Penelope promising they’d be there every step of the way to help her with the babe.
Yes, Yvonnel waited and listened, and patience wasn’t at play here. She didn’t want it to end. This simple moment of shared pain and shared love and shared hope so suddenly seemed more important to her.
This, she understood finally and fully, was what they were fighting for. It was what Drizzt had sacrificed himself to preserve.
It was worth it, the drow decided.
“Ye can’t be thinking this will work,” Bruenor said, hands on hips, as Yvonnel and Catti-brie went over their final plans, revealing the desperate ploy. The dwarf king shook his head. Preparations had been going on for days, but Bruenor still couldn’t seem to believe in the plan.
“But we do,” Yvonnel told him. “The drow are formidable even without the press here. We can’t simply hunker and hold ground.”
“Hold ground?” Bruenor asked. “We been givin’ ground, as ye asked.”
“We’ll push them back,” Catti-brie assured him.
“Aye, we,” Athrogate interjected and held up his fist. The dwarf, full of anger, raving vengeance for his dear lost Ambergris, had never stopped arguing against the plan. “We! Dwarves and halflings,” he looked to Regis and Donnola. “And even some stinkin’ drow elfs. What’s makin’ ye think we’re needin’ . . .”
“If you stay quiet, you can hear the baying of doglike demons,” Yvonnel stopped him. “They are near. Too near. Even aside from this fighting, all of Menzoberranzan has risen now, and if those drow forces become one fist, they will be near enough to us for the matrons to strike with their magic.”
Athrogate’s shoulders slumped.
“We’re going to push them back, all the way back,” Catti-brie told him, told them. “But we need to do this first for it to work.”
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