Drizzt, Catti-brie, Deudermont, and Harkle encountered no trouble as they left Carradoon for their trek into the Snowflake Mountains. The drow kept the cowl of his cloak pulled low, and everyone in town was so excited by the presence of the schooner that none paid too much attention to the group as they departed.
Once they got past the gate, the foursome found the going easy and safe. Guided around any potential problems by the drow ranger, they found nothing remarkable, nothing exciting.
Given what they had all been through over the last few weeks, that was just the way they wanted it.
They chatted easily, mostly with Drizzt explaining to them the nature of the wildlife about them-which birds went with which chatter, and how many deer had made the beds of flattened needles near to one grove of pines. Occasionally the conversation drifted to the task at hand, to the blind seer’s poem. This put poor Harkle in quite a predicament. He knew that the others were missing obvious points, possibly critical points in the verse, for with his journal, he had been able to scrutinize the poem thoroughly. The wizard wasn’t sure how much he could intervene, though. Fog of fate had been created as a passive spell, a method for Harkle to facilitate, and then witness dramatic unfolding events. If he became an active participant in those events by letting another of the players in this drama glance at his enchanted journal, or by using what the journal had shown to him, he would likely ruin the spell.
Certainly Harkle could use his other magical abilities if fate led them to battle, and certainly he could use his intuition, as in the discussion on the Sea Sprite when they had first agreed that they needed to see a sorcerer or a priest. But direct intervention, using information given by the facilitation of the spell, would alter the future perhaps, and thus defeat the intentions of fate. Harkle’s spell had never been created for such a purpose; the magic had its edges. Poor Harkle didn’t know how far he could push that boundary. In living his forty years surrounded by wizards at least as outrageous as he, he understood all too well the potentially grave side effects of pushing magic too far.
So Harkle let the other three babble through their discussions of the poem, nodding his head and agreeing with whatever seemed to be the most accepted interpretation of any given line. He avoided any direct questions, though his halfhearted shrugs and mumbled responses brought many curious looks.
The trails climbed higher into the mountains, but the going remained easy, for the path was well-worn and oft-traveled. When the foursome came out from under the gloom of the mountain canopy, off the path and onto a flat meadow near to the edge of one steep drop, they understood why.
Drizzt Do’Urden had seen the splendors of Mithril Hall, so had Catti-brie. With his magic, Harkle Harpell had visited many exotic places, such as the Hosttower of the Arcane in Luskan. Deudermont had sailed the Sword Coast from Water-deep to exotic Calimport. But none of those places had ever taken the breath from any of the four like the sight before them now.
It was called the Spirit Soaring, a fitting name indeed for a gigantic temple-a cathedral-of soaring towers and flying buttresses, of great windows of colored glass and a gutter system finished at every corner with an exotic gargoyle. The lowest edges of the cathedral’s main roof were still more than a hundred feet from the ground, and three of the towers climbed to more than twice that height.
The Baenre compound was larger, of course, and the Host-tower was more obviously a free-flowing creation of magic. But there was something more solemn about this place, more reverent and holy. The stone of the cathedral was gray and brown, unremarkable really, but it was the construction of that stone, the earthly, and even greater, strength of the place that gave them awe. It was as though the cathedral’s roots were deep in the mountains and its soaring head touched the heavens themselves.
A beautiful melody, a voice rich and sweet, wafted out of the temple, reverberated off the stones. It took the four a moment to even realize that it was a voice, a human voice, for the Spirit Soaring seemed to have a melody all its own.
The grounds were no less spectacular. A grove of trees lined a cobblestone walk that led up to the temple’s massive front doors. Outside that perfectly straight tree line was a manicured lawn, thick and rich, bordered by perfectly-shaped hedgerows and filled with various flower beds, all red and pink, purple and white. Several leafy bushes dotted the lawn as well, and these had been shaped to resemble various woodland animals-a deer and a bear, a huge rabbit and a group of squirrels.
Catti-brie blinked several times when she spotted the gardener, the most unusual dwarf she, who had been raised by dwarves, had ever seen. She poked Drizzt, pointing out the little fellow, and the others noticed, too. The gardener saw them, and began bobbing their way, smiling widely.
His beard was green-green!-split in half and pulled back over his large ears, then twisted with his long green hair into a single braid that dangled more than halfway down his back. He wore a thin sleeveless robe, pale green in color, that hung halfway to the knee, leaving bare his bowed legs, incredibly hairy and powerfully muscled. Bare too were the dwarf’s large feet, except for the thin straps of his open-toed sandals.
He cut an intersecting course, coming onto the cobblestones thirty feet ahead of the foursome. There he skidded to a stop, stuck two fingers in his mouth, looked back over his shoulder and gave a shrill whistle.
“What?” came a call a moment later. A second dwarf, this one looking more like what the foursome would expect, rose up from the shade of the tree closest to the temple door. He had broad, square shoulders and a yellow beard. Dressed all in brown, he wore a huge axe strapped on his back and a helmet adorned with deer antlers.
“I telled ye I’d help ye!” the yellowbeard roared. “But ye promised me sleep time!” Then this second dwarf noticed the foursome and he stopped his tirade immediately and bobbed down the path toward the group.
The green-bearded dwarf got there first. He said not a word, but gave a dramatic bow, then took up Catti-brie’s hand and kissed it. “Hee hee hee,” he squeaked with a blush, moving in turn from Catti-brie to Deudermont, to Drizzt, to ...
Back to Drizzt, where the little one ducked low, peeking up under the full hood.
The drow obliged him, pulling back the hood and shaking out his thick white mane. First meetings were always difficult for Drizzt, especially so far from those places where he was known and accepted.
“Eek!” the little one squealed.
“A stinkin’ drow!” roared the yellowbeard, running down the path, tearing the axe off of his back as he came.
Drizzt wasn’t surprised, and the other three were more embarrassed than startled.
The greenbeard continued to hop up and down and point, benign enough, but the yellowbeard took a more direct and threatening course. He brought his axe up high over his head and bore down on Drizzt like a charging bull.
Drizzt waited until the last possible second, then, using the magical anklets and his honed reflexes, he simply sidestepped. The yellowbeard stumbled as he passed, running headlong into the tree behind the drow.
The greenbeard looked to the other dwarf, then to Drizzt, seeming for a moment as if he, too, meant to charge. Then he looked back to the other dwarf, noting the axe now stuck in the tree. He walked toward the yellowbeard, bracing himself and slapping the dwarf hard on the side of the head.
“A stinkin’ drow!” the yellowbeard growled, taking one hand from his axe handle to fend off the continuing slaps. Finally he managed to yank his axe free, but when he leaped about, he found three of the four, the drow included, standing impassively. The fourth, though, the auburn-haired woman, held a bow taut and ready.
“If we wanted ye dead, we’d’ve cut ye down afore ye got up from yer nap,” she said.
“I mean no ill,” Drizzt added. “I am a ranger,” he said, mostly to the greenbeard, who seemed the more levelheaded of the two. “A being of the forest, as are you.”
“Me brother’s a druid,” the yellowbeard said, trying to appear firm and tough, but seeming rather embarrassed at the moment.
“Doo-dad!” the greenbeard agreed.
“Druid dwarf?” Catti-brie asked. “I’ve lived most o’ me life with dwarves, and have never heared of a druid among the race.”
Both dwarves cocked their heads curiously. Surely the young woman sounded dwarfish with her rough accent.
“What dwarves might that be?” the yellowbeard asked.
Catti-brie lowered Taulmaril. “I am Catti-brie,” she said. “Adopted daughter of Bruenor Battlehammer, Eighth King of Mithril Hall.”
The eyes of both dwarves popped open wide, and their mouths similarly dropped open. They looked hard at Catti-brie, then at each other, back to Catti-brie, and back to each other. They bumped their foreheads together, a firm, smacking sound, then looked back to Catti-brie.
“Hey,” the yellowbeard howled, poking a stubby finger Drizzt’s way. “I heared o’ ye. Ye’re Drizzt Dudden.”
“Drizzt Do’Urden,” the drow corrected, giving a bow.
“Yeah,” the yellowbeard agreed. “I heared o’ ye. Me name’s Ivan, Ivan Bouldershoulder, and this is me brother, Pikel.”
“Me brudder,” the greenbeard agreed, draping an arm across Ivan’s sturdy shoulders.
Ivan glanced back over his shoulder, to the deep cut he had put in the tree. “Sorry about me axe,” he said. “I never seen a drow elf.”
“Ye come to see the cathedr ... the catheter ... the cathe . . . the durned church?” Ivan asked.
“We came to see a man named Cadderly Bonaduce,” Deudermont answered. “I am Captain Deudermont of the Sea Sprite, sailing out of Waterdeep.”
“Ye sailed across land,” Ivan said dryly.
Deudermont had his hand up to wave away that expected response before the dwarf ever began it.
“We must speak with Cadderly,” Deudermont said. “Our business is most urgent.”
Pikel slapped his hands together, put them aside his tilted head, closed his eyes and gave a snore.
“Cadderly’s takin’ his nap,” Ivan explained. “The little ones wear him out. We’ll go and see Lady Danica and get ye something to eat.” He winked at Catti-brie. “Me and me brother’re wanting to hear more about Mithril Hall,” he said. “Word says an old one’s running the place since Bruenor Battlehammer packed up and left.”
Catti-brie tried to hide her surprise, even nodded as though she was not surprised by what Ivan had to say. She glanced at Drizzt, who had no response. Bruenor had left? Suddenly both of them wanted to sit and talk with the dwarves as well. The meeting with Cadderly could wait.
The inside of the Spirit Soaring was no less majestic and awe-inspiring than the outside. They entered the main area of the cathedral, the central chapel, and though there were at least a score of people within, so large was the place that the four strangers each felt alone. All of them found their eyes inevitably moving up, up to the soaring columns, past several ledges lined with decorated statues, past the glow coming in through the stained glass windows, to the intricately carved vaulting of the ceiling more than a hundred feet above them.
When he finally managed to move the stricken four through the main area, Ivan took them through a side door, into rooms more normally sized. The construction of the place, the sheer strength and detail of the place, continued to overwhelm them. No supporting arch or door was without decoration, and one door they went through was so covered in runes and sculptures that Drizzt believed he could stand and study it for hours and hours without seeing every detail, without deciphering every message.
Ivan knocked on a door, then paused for an invitation to enter. When it came, he swung the door open. “I give ye Lady Danica Bonaduce,” the dwarf said importantly, motioning for the others to follow.
They started in, Deudermont in the lead, but the captain stopped short, was nearly tripped, as two young children, a boy and a girl, cut across his path. Seeing the stranger, both skidded to a halt. The boy, a sandy-haired lad with almond-shaped eyes, opened his mouth and pointed straight at the drow.
“Please excuse my children,” a woman across the room said.
“No offense taken,” Drizzt assured her. He bent to one knee, and motioned the pair over. They looked to each other for support, then moved cautiously to the drow, the boy daring to reach up and touch Drizzt’s ebony skin. Then he looked at his own fingers, as if to see if some of the coloring had rubbed off.
“No black, Mum,” he said, looking to the woman and holding up his hand. “No black.”
“Hee hee,” Pikel chuckled from the back.
“Get the brats outa here,” Ivan whispered to his brother.
Pikel pushed through so that the children could see him, and their faces brightened immediately. Pikel stuck a thumb into each ear and waggled his fingers.
“Oo, oi!” the children roared in unison, and they chased “Uncle Pike” from the room.
“Ye should be watching what me brother’s teaching them two,” Ivan said to Danica.
She laughed and rose from her chair to greet the visitors. “Surely the twins are better off for having a friend such as Pikel,” she said. “And such as Ivan,” she graciously added, and the tough-as-iron dwarf couldn’t hide a blush.
Drizzt understood that the woman was a warrior simply by the way she walked across the room, lightly, silently, in perfect balance through the complete motion of every step. She was slight of build, a few inches shorter than Catti-brie and no more than a hundred and ten pounds, but every muscle was honed and moved in harmony. Her eyes were even more exotic than those of her children, almond-shaped and rich brown, full of intensity, full of life. Her hair, strawberry blond and as thick as the drow’s white mane, bounced gaily about her shoulders as though the abundance of energy that flowed within this woman could not be contained.
Drizzt looked from Danica to Catti-brie, saw a resemblance there in spirit, if not in body.
“I give ye Drizzt Dudden,” Ivan began, pulling the deer-antlered helmet from his head. “Catti-brie, daughter of Bruenor of Mithril Hall, Captain Deudermont of the Sea Sprite, outa
Waterdeep, and . . .” The yellow-bearded dwarf stopped and looked curiously at the skinny wizard. “What’d ye say yer name was?” he asked.
“Harpell Harkle . . . er, Harkle Harpell,” Harkle stuttered, obviously enchanted by Danica. “Of Longsaddle.”
Danica nodded. “Well met,” she said to each of them in turn, ending with the drow.
“Drizzt Do’Urden,” the ranger corrected.
Danica smiled.
“They came to speak to Cadderly,” Ivan explained.
Danica nodded. “Go and wake him,” she said, still holding Drizzt’s hand. “He will not want to miss an audience with such distinguished visitors.”
Ivan hopped away, rambling down the hallway.
“Ye’ve heared of us?” Catti-brie asked.
Danica looked at her and nodded. “Your reputation precedes you,” she assured the young woman. “We have heard of Bruenor Battlehammer and the fight to reclaim Mithril Hall.”
“And the war with the drow elves?” Drizzt asked.
Danica nodded. “In part,” she replied. “I hope that before you leave you will find the time to tell us the story in full.”
“What do ye know o’ Bruenor’s leavin’?” Catti-brie asked bluntly.
“Cadderly knows more of that than I,” Danica replied. “I have heard that Bruenor abdicated his reclaimed throne to an ancestor.”
“Gandalug Battlehammer,” Drizzt explained.
“So it is said,” Danica went on. “But where the king and the two hundred loyal to him went, that I do not know.”
Drizzt and Catti-brie exchanged glances, both having a fair guess as to where Bruenor might have gone.
Ivan returned then, along with an old, but sprightly man dressed in a tan-white tunic and matching trousers. A light blue silken cape was pulled back from his shoulders, and a wide-brimmed hat, blue and banded in red topped his head. At the front center of the hat band sat a porcelain and gold pendant that depicted a candle burning above an eye, which all of the four recognized as the holy symbol of Deneir-the god of literature and art.
The man was of average height, around six feet, and was muscular, despite his advanced age. His hair, what was left of it, was mostly silver in hue, with a hint of brown. Something about his appearance seemed strangely out of place to the companions. Drizzt finally recognized it to be the man’s eyes, striking gray orbs that seemed full of sparkle, the eyes of a younger man.
“I am Cadderly,” he said warmly with a humble bow. “Welcome to the Spirit Soaring, the home of Deneir and of Oghma, and of all the goodly gods. You have met my wife, Danica?”
Catti-brie looked from the old Cadderly, to Danica, who could not have been much older than Catti-brie, certainly not yet out of her twenties.
“And yer twins,” Ivan added with a smirk, eyeing Catti-brie as she studied Danica. It seemed to perceptive Drizzt and Deudermont that the dwarf was familiar with such confusion upon such an introduction, a fact that led them both to think that Cadderly’s advanced age was no natural thing.
“Ah, yes, the twins,” Cadderly said, shaking his head and unable to contain a smirk at the mere thought of his boisterous legacy.
The wise priest studied the expressions of the four, appreciating their gracious withholding of the obvious questions. “Twenty-nine,” he remarked offhandedly. “I am twenty-nine years old.”
“Thirty in two weeks,” Ivan added. “Though ye’re not looking a day over a hunnerd and six!”
“It was the task of building the cathedral,” Danica explained, and there was just a hint of sorrow and anger in her controlled tones. “Cadderly gave to the place his life force, a choice he made for the glory of his god.”
Drizzt looked long and hard at the young woman, the dedicated warrior, and he understood that Danica, too, had been forced into a great sacrifice because of Cadderly’s choice. He sensed an anger within her, but it was buried deep, overwhelmed by her love for this man and her admiration for his sacrifice.
Catti-brie didn’t miss any of it. She, who had lost her love, surely empathized with Danica, and yet, she knew that this woman was undeserving of any sympathy. In those few sentences of explanation, in the presence of Cadderly and of Danica, and within the halls of this most reverent of structures, Catti-brie understood that to give sympathy to Danica would belittle the sacrifice, would diminish what Cadderly had accomplished in exchange for his years.
The two women looked into each other’s eyes, locking gazes, Danica’s exotic almond-shaped orbs and Catti-brie’s large eyes, the richest shade of blue. Catti-brie wanted to say, “At least you have your lover’s children,” wanted to explain to Danica the emptiness of her own loss, with Wulfgar gone before ...
Before so much, Catti-brie thought with a sigh.
Danica knew the story, and simply in sharing that long look with Catti-brie, she understood and appreciated what was in the woman’s heart.
The eight-for Pikel soon returned, explaining that the children were sleeping in the gardens and being watched over by several priests-spent the next two hours exchanging tales. Drizzt and Cadderly seemed kindred spirits and indeed, had shared many adventures. Both had faced a red dragon and lived to tell the tale, both had overcome legacies of their past. They hit it off splendidly, as did Danica and Catti-brie, and though the dwarven brothers wanted to hear more of Mithril Hall, they found it hard in cracking into the conversation between the women, and the one between Drizzt and Cadderly. Gradually they gave up, and spent their time engaged with Harkle. He had been to Mithril Hall and had participated in the drow war, and turned out to be quite the storyteller, highlighting his tales with minor illusions.
Deudermont felt strangely removed from it all. He found himself missing the sea and his ship, longing to sail again out of Waterdeep Harbor to chase pirates on the open waters.
It might have gone on for all of the afternoon, except that a priest knocked on the door, informing Danica that the children were awake. The woman started to leave with the dwarves, but Drizzt stopped her. He took out the panther figurine and called to Guenhwyvar.
That set Ivan back on his heels! Pikel squealed, too, but in glee, the dwarfish druid always willing to meet with such a magnificent animal, despite the fact that the animal could tear the features from his face.
“The twins will enjoy their time with Guenhwyvar,” the drow explained.
The great cat ambled out of the room, Pikel in close pursuit, grabbing the panther’s tail that Guenhwyvar might pull him along.
“Not as much as me brother,” Ivan, still a bit shaken, remarked.
Danica was going to ask the obvious question of safety, but she held the thought in check, realizing that if the panther wasn’t to be trusted, Drizzt would never have brought it in. She smiled and bowed graciously, then left with Ivan. Catti-brie would have gone, but Drizzt’s posture, suddenly formal, told her that it was time to speak of business.
“You have not come here merely to exchange tales, fine though they may be,” Cadderly said, and he sat up straight, folding his hands in front of him, ready to hear their most important story in full.
Deudermont told it, Drizzt and Catti-brie adding in points they thought necessary, and Harkle constantly highlighting the story with remarks that really had nothing to do with anything as far as the other four could tell.
Cadderly confirmed that he had read of Caerwich and the blind seer. “She speaks in riddles that are not always what they seem,” he warned.
“So we have heard,” Deudermont agreed. “But this is one riddle my friends cannot ignore.”
“If the seer spoke truthfully, then a friend lost, my father Zaknafein, is in the clutches of an evil being,” Drizzt explained. “A minion of Lloth, perhaps, or a matron mother of one of Menzoberranzan’s ruling houses.”
Harkle bit hard on his lip. He saw a mistake here, but had to consider the limitations of his spell. He had read the blind seer’s poem, word by word, at least a score of times, committing it fully to memory. But that was privileged information, beyond the scope of his spell. The fog of fate facilitated what would be, but if Harkle used the information that the spell privately gave to him, then he might be altering fate. What that might mean, catastrophe or better conclusion, the wizard could only guess.
Cadderly nodded, not disagreeing with Drizzt’s reasoning, but wondering where he might fit in all of this, wondering what role the visitors expected him to play.
“I expect it is a handmaiden,” Drizzt went on. “An extraplanar being of the Abyss.”
“You wish me to use my powers to confirm this,” Cadderly reasoned. “Perhaps to bring forth the beast that you might bargain or battle for your father’s soul.”
“I understand the depth of my request,” Drizzt said firmly. “A yochlol is a powerful being ...”
“I learned long ago not to fear evil,” Cadderly calmly assured him.
“We have gold,” Deudermont offered, thinking the price would be high.
Drizzt knew better. In the short time he had been with Cadderly, the drow understood the man’s heart and motivations. Cadderly would not take gold, would take no payment at all. He was not surprised when Cadderly answered simply, “One soul is worth saving.”