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  Not even bothering to stand back up, Minolin Fey scrambled away, making curious mewling noises all the way to the door. She slammed that door behind her as she exited.

  “You dare!” Quenthel cried, unsteadily trying to stand, blood streaming from one nostril and from the side of her face.

  “I ‘dare’? You think that a simple trick?”

  “Some dimensional warp of space,” Quenthel spat, blood coming with every word.

  “Against the likes of a spectral hammer?” said the girl incredulously. “Do you not understand who I am?”

  Quenthel found solid footing then and hoisted her snake-headed scourge, replacing the hammer on her belt. She advanced, growling with every step.

  Yvonnel put her hands on her hips, as petulantly as she could manage, and shook her head and sighed.

  “Really, must it come to this?”

  “You are an abomination!” Quenthel retorted.

  “You have so quickly forgotten the Festival of the Founding in the House of Byrtyn Fey?”

  That stopped the advance of the matron mother, and she stood there, suddenly unsure, her eyes darting about.

  “Expecting a yochlol?” Yvonnel teased.

  They both knew the truth now.

  “Did you not tell your brother to marry Minolin Fey so that I would be born in and of House Baenre?” Yvonnel asked. “You even named me, did you not? Oh yes, except that you were instructed as such. Yvonnel the Eternal, born once more to be your successor, yes?”

  Now Quenthel was herself looking for an escape.

  “And here I am.”

  “You are a child!”

  “I am, in body.”

  “No!” Quenthel demanded. “Not now, not yet! You are not old enough—even with your magical physical advancement, you are but half the age to begin your training in Arach-Tinilith.”

  “My training?” Yvonnel asked with an incredulous laugh. “Dear Quenthel, who in this city will train me?”

  “Hubris!” Quenthel said, but there was not much conviction in the roar.

  “Yngoth is the wisest of the snakes on your scourge,” said Yvonnel. “Go ahead, High Priestess, ask her.”

  “High Priestess?” Quenthel yelled in protest. She came forward, closing the ground, lifting the scourge for a strike.

  “High Priestess Quenthel,” came the response, but not from Yvonnel. It came from one of the heads on her scourge, from Yngoth.

  Quenthel looked at the snake in shock.

  “She believes herself matron mother,” Yvonnel said to the snake. “Tell her the truth.”

  Yngoth bit Quenthel in the face.

  She staggered back, trying to sort it out, but not quickly enough understanding the terrible danger to her. Yngoth bit her again, and by that time, the other four scourge heads had also sunk their fangs into Quenthel’s tender flesh. Fires of poison burned through her. She should have thrown the scourge aside, of course, but she couldn’t think quickly enough in that terrible moment.

  The snakes struck again, and again after that, each bite filling her with enough venom to kill a score of drow.

  She stumbled, but still she held the scourge, and still the snakes bit at her.

  She fell backward, the weapon falling beside her, and as she writhed in fiery agony, the snakes bit her again.

  And again.

  She had never known such pain. She cried out for death to take her.

  And there was the child, Yvonnel, she saw through bleary, bloody eyes, standing over her, looking down at her, smiling down at her.

  Darkness closed in from the corners of her vision. She did see Yvonnel reaching down; she did feel Yvonnel grasping the gathering of her gown. She felt light as darkness engulfed her. She was light, she believed, because Yvonnel lifted her up with just that one hand, so easily hoisted her from the floor.

  A pinprick of light broke the darkness—perhaps the tunnel to the Demonweb Pits and eternity.

  But that pinprick widened, and Quenthel felt as if cool waters poured over the burning venom coursing in her veins. It was impossible! No spell could defeat that amount of deadly poison so quickly.

  But the light widened and Quenthel realized that she was in her chair again, in her throne, the throne of the matron mother. And there was the young woman, Yvonnel, staring at her, smiling at her.

  “Do you understand now?” Yvonnel asked.

  Quenthel’s mind wheeled—she was terrified that Yvonnel was reading her every thought. She should be dead. The poison of any of her snakes would kill a dark elf. The repeated bites of all five would kill a dark elf in mere moments.

  “You live,” Yvonnel answered the obvious question. “Yet no priestess could have administered enough healing, divine or alchemical, to pull you back from the death brought by your snakes’ venom.”

  Quenthel’s eyes widened as her gaze drifted lower, as her eyes focused on the scourge, her scourge, that Yvonnel carried. The five snakes wrapped lovingly around Yvonnel’s beautiful black arms.

  “Fear not, I will fashion my own scourge,” Yvonnel explained. “Indeed, I look forward to it.”

  “Who are you?”

  “You know.”

  Quenthel shook her head helplessly.

  “You wonder why you are alive,” said Yvonnel. “Of course you do! Why would you not? Wouldn’t I be better served to let you die? Oh, I see,” she said with a perfectly evil grin. “You fear that I saved you from the snake poison so that I might make your death even more painful!”

  Despite herself, Quenthel began to tremble and to gasp for air.

  “Perhaps it will come to that, but it need not,” said Yvonnel. “You are fortunate, in that I do not wish to yet reveal myself to the Ruling Council and the city, and thus, I desire your services. You see, for all who look upon House Baenre, you will remain the matron mother. Only you and I will know better.”

  She paused there and cast a grin at Quenthel. “You do know better,” she said.

  Quenthel swallowed hard.

  “Who am I?” Yvonnel asked, and those five snake heads of Quenthel’s scourge unwrapped from the girl’s arm and came up hissing and swaying ominously, reaching Quenthel’s way.

  “The dau—” Quenthel started to reply, but stopped when she noted Qorra, the third and most potent viper, moving to strike.

  “Think carefully,” Yvonnel said. “Prove to me that you are not too stupid to properly serve my needs.”

  Quenthel forced herself to close her eyes, to reach into the memories and wisdom of Yvonnel the Eternal.

  “Take your time, my aunt, my sibling, my daughter. Who am I?”

  Quenthel opened her eyes. “You are the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan.”

  The girl’s smile sent a thousand waves of warmth cascading through Quenthel, and the snakes slithered back into the loving embrace of Yvonnel’s arm.

  “Only you and I will know that,” Yvonnel explained. “Prove your worth to me. I will be in need of powerful high priestesses, of course, and perhaps a new headmistress of Arach-Tinilith. Are you worthy of such a position?”

  Quenthel wanted to reply, indignantly, that she was already the matron mother. How could she not be worthy?

  But she said no such thing. She nodded meekly, and accepted the scourge when this young woman, this mere girl, handed it back to her.

  “Other Houses hold you in contempt,” Yvonnel explained, walking aside as Quenthel composed herself and straightened in her throne. “They hold the name Baenre in contempt. That cannot hold, of course. They will conspire, and if those conspiracies come to fruition, you will be their target, for now at least.” She spun gracefully on her heel, her smile wide. “Perhaps they will kill you,” she said happily. “But perhaps not. And in that event, and if you have served me well in the tendays coming, then you will survive this. You will serve in my House Baenre, and in my Academy, and you will know honor and glory and great power.

  “You see, I do not fear you, because you know now, do you not?”

 
Quenthel nodded.

  “You will never turn against me, because nothing any of them can do to you will be as awful as what I would happily do to you.”

  Yvonnel bounced over and kissed Quenthel on the cheek, and as she pulled back, the five snakes of Quenthel’s scourge came up beside her other cheek, their flicking tongues tickling her.

  “Go back to your matron mothering,” Yvonnel said, skipping away. “I will inform you when I need you and what I need from you.”

  And with that, she was gone.

  PART 1

  The

  Puppetmaster

  THERE COMES A POINT IN A LIFE WELL-LIVED WHERE THE GAZE GOES beyond the next horizon, to that inevitable time when this mortal coil feeds the worms. Life is a journey, a beauteous walk surrounded by such vastness of time and space that we cannot even truly comprehend, and so we make sense of what we can. We order our corner of the world and build security if we are fortunate, and perhaps, too, a family as part of a larger community.

  The immediate needs consume so much of our time, the day-to-day trials that must be overcome. There is a measure of satisfaction in every small victory, in every meal earned, in the warmth of shelter on a cold winter’s night.

  This is the climb of life, but for those who are lucky enough, there comes a place where the mountain is topped and the needs are satisfied, and so the view grows grander. It is a subtle shift in the omnipresent question of a rational being, from “What can I build?” to “What will I leave behind?”

  What will be the legacy of Drizzt Do’Urden? For those who remember my name when I am no more, what will they think? How much better might be the lives of those who follow me—my progeny, perhaps, if Catti-brie and I fruitfully go that route—because of my works here? I watched Bruenor bring forth the sarcophagi of King Connerad and King Emerus, the lava-encased bodies flanking the throne of Gauntlgrym. No less will they be remembered in Mithral Hall and Citadel Felbarr—all the Silver Marches for that matter—for many centuries to come.

  Am I destined to become such a statue?

  On a practical level, I doubt it, since I expect that much of my remaining life will be spent outside of Bruenor’s domain. I will never forget him, nor he me, I am sure, but I sense that my days beside him are nearing their end. For all the love and respect I hold for King Bruenor, I would not plan to raise my children in a dwarven mine. Nor would Catti-brie, I am sure.

  The road is wide open in front of us—to Longsaddle, of course, but only for now. One thing I have come to know in my two centuries of life is that the span of a few years is not a long time, and yet it is often an eventful time, with unanticipated twists and turns. Wherever that meandering road might take me, though, beside me goes an understanding now that my journey is less and less often what I need to do, and much more about what I want to do.

  So many options, unbound by the shackles so many must wear. I am a fortunate man—that, I do not deny! I have sufficient wealth now and I am at peace. I have love all around me and am responsible to myself alone—and responsible to my wife only because I choose to be.

  And so what will I do? What road shall I choose? What legacy shall I foment?

  These are good questions, full of the promise of sublime reward, and I only wish that every man and woman of all the goodly races could find a moment such as this, a time of opportunities and of options. That I am here in this place of luxury is nothing short of remarkable. I do not know the odds of such an outcome for a homeless drow, a hunted rogue in the wilds of the Underdark, but I would bet them long indeed. So many fortunate twists and turns have I found on my journey, encounters with grand friends and marvelous mentors: Zaknafein, my father, and Montolio deBrouchee! And Catti-brie, who helped me to find my heart and a courage of a different sort—the courage to stubbornly exist in a place where my people are not welcome.

  And Bruenor, yes Bruenor—perhaps Bruenor above all others. It is incomprehensible that I was befriended by a dwarf king and taken in as a brother. Yes, it has been a reciprocal friendship. I helped Bruenor regain his throne, and walked beside him on his wider journey to bring his people together under the great homeland of Gauntlgrym. Between us, it seems, sits the very definition of friendship.

  With all of this, here I am. So many battles I have fought, so many obstacles overcome, yet I cannot deny that good fortune has played a tremendous role in leading me to this place and this time. Every man, every woman, will find battles, will find enemies to overcome, be they goblins or disease, an ill child, a wound that will not heal, a dearth of food, the chill of winter, unrequited love, the absence of a friend. Life is a journey from trial to test, from love to hate, from friendship to grief. We each deal with unsettling uncertainty and we each march on, ever on, following the road that will ultimately lead to our grave.

  What grand things might we do along that road? What side avenues will we build, which might start our children on their own walk, perhaps?

  So I have found this turn of perspective. I have scaled the peak and look now upon a grand, grand view. I can thank a woman whose warm embrace brings me peace. I can thank the greatest friends any man might ever know. I can thank a dwarf king who found a rogue on the side of a lonely mountain in a forsaken land and called him friend, and took him in.

  But I am an elf, and lo, there looms another mountain, I fear. I think often of Innovindil, who told me to live my life in shorter spans, in the expected days of those shorter-lived races about me. Should Catti-brie and I have children, I will likely outlive them, as I will almost surely outlive Catti-brie.

  It is a confusing thought, a paradox entwining the greatest joy with the most excruciating agony.

  And so here, on this mountaintop, surveying the grand view, I remain aware that I might witness the dawn of another few centuries. By the counting of elves, I have lived but a fraction of my life, yet at this still-early moment, it feels so full!

  I am a fortunate man.

  Should I see those distant dawns, there are surely dark valleys ahead, and after such certain moments of profound loss will I find the strength to climb the next mountain, and the one after that, and the one after that?

  I will, I know, because in my grief the first time, when I thought these friends lost, my love lost, my life lost, I came to understand the truth: that the road will roll beneath your feet whether you step lightly with hope and swiftly with determination, or whether you plod in misery, scraping the dirt with heavy boots.

  Because the perspective of that journey is a choice, and I choose happiness, and I choose to climb the next mountain.

  —Drizzt Do’Urden

  CHAPTER 1

  Tidying

  THE WAGON BOUNCED ALONG THE WEST ROAD, THE COFFIN, TIED down as it was, still managing to grumble and bang—so much like the battlerager it carried. They had collected Thibbledorf Pwent for his final journey.

  Penelope Harpell and Catti-brie drove the wagon, with Drizzt astride his magical unicorn, Andahar, close beside them. They were bound for Gauntlgrym, after four tendays spent in Longsaddle, where they had dropped old Kipper and the other Harpells who had helped King Bruenor retake and secure the dwarven homeland.

  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.”

&nb
sp; “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.