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  “But the Weave is not fully regained, and the Art of the time before is … well, this is our trial in trying to rebuild the Hosttower.”

  Jarlaxle conceded that and preceded Catti-brie into the Forge room, where Athrogate stood waiting by the Great Forge of Gauntlgrym.

  How his face brightened when Catti-brie handed him back his magical girdle, which he wasted no time in securing about his ample waist.

  “And for me?” Catti-brie asked.

  “Already in the oven,” the dwarf explained. “Ye got yer spells ready?”

  Catti-brie nodded and motioned to the glowing oven, and Athrogate gathered up his tongs, set the heavy leather apron over his head, and leaned in.

  Jarlaxle watched it all from behind, and his curiosity only heightened when the dwarf pulled forth, and quickly dipped in the water trough, a mithral piece, octagonal and about the size of Jarlaxle’s palm.

  Athrogate drew it back out and held it up in front of Catti-brie’s eyes, the woman already deep in spellcasting. A blue mist curled out of the sleeves of her multicolored, shimmering blouse.

  Jarlaxle edged closer, trying to get a better look. “A belt buckle?” he whispered under his breath. He noted a carving on its face of a bow, and one that looked like a tiny image of Taulmaril the Heartseeker, once Catti-brie’s bow, but now carried by Drizzt.

  Catti-brie finished her spell and raised her hand to touch the item, and when she did a blue spark burst forth, sizzling in the air, and the woman fell back.

  “Supposed to do that, is it?” Athrogate asked.

  “I hope,” Catti-brie said with a laugh. She bit it back quickly, though, and turned to Jarlaxle. “If you tell him, you and I will have a problem,” she warned.

  “Tell him? Tell who? And tell him what?”

  The woman smiled and nodded. “Good,” she said, and took the buckle from Athrogate and dropped it into her pouch.

  “Did you get the rest?”

  “The blood? Aye. Amber’s got it. She’ll get it to ye shortly.”

  “The blood?” Jarlaxle asked.

  “The less you know, the better the chances that we will remain friends,” Catti-brie pointedly told him. She pointed to the other end of the room, where the solemn procession of dwarves had begun. The trio fell in with them as they made their way to the highest level of the complex. They found Drizzt in the throne room, then went with him to find King Bruenor in his upper war room, not far away. He was meeting with Ragged Dain, Oretheo Spikes, the Fellhammer sisters, and the other dwarf commanders around a table set with a detailed map of the complex.

  “Ah, time for a ceremony, then,” Bruenor said upon seeing them.

  Catti-brie held up her hand. “Not just yet, me Da,” she replied. “Might we be speakin’ with ye?”

  Bruenor glanced all around and nodded. “Aye.”

  “Alone?” Catti-brie asked.

  Bruenor glanced around again. “It is about the hall, then?”

  The woman nodded.

  “Then here and now,” Bruenor said, motioning for the other dwarves to rest easy. “Any word o’ the hall is a word for all gathered to hear. We’re four clans in one here, aye?”

  “Aye,” said Shuggle Grunions of Mirabar, who led the Mirabarran members of Bruenor’s new kingdom. The others all nodded, as did Catti-brie’s companions. They had to know, after all, and better if they knew before they began emptying the halls of Mirabar, Adbar, Felbarr, and Mithral Hall as more and more flocked to the Delzoun homeland of Gauntlgrym.

  “We intend to rebuild the Hosttower of the Arcane in Luskan,” Catti-brie stated.

  “Aye, ye been whisperin’ as much,” Bruenor replied.

  “Archmage Gromph has agreed to aid us,” Jarlaxle added.

  Bruenor didn’t seem overly pleased by that. “Yer city,” he said. “Do what ye will. But be warned, drow, if ye’re thinking o’ rebuilding the tower as part o’ some plan to make me beholden …”

  “We’re rebuilding it to save Gauntlgrym,” Catti-brie blurted. “Only for that.”

  “Eh?” Bruenor and several others all said together.

  “The power of the Hosttower brings forth the water elementals,” the woman explained. “Only their combined power keeps the beast in its pit.”

  “Aye, and they’re swirling thick in there,” Bruenor replied.

  “The residual magic is strong,” Catti-brie explained. “But it is only that, residual. And already it is thinning.”

  “What’re ye saying?” Ragged Dain asked breathlessly.

  Catti-brie took a deep breath and was glad indeed when Drizzt squeezed her hand. “If we canno’ rebuild the Hosttower and bring forth its magic once more, ye’re not to have many years in Gauntlgrym. The magic will diminish and the water elementals will sweep away.”

  “And then the beast is free,” said Drizzt. “And we have seen that before.”

  Bruenor grumbled indecipherably. He looked as if he was chewing on a pile of sharp rocks.

  “How many years?” he finally asked, and all eyes turned to Catti-brie.

  “I do’no know,” she replied. “Less than yer life, to be sure, and suren less than me own.”

  “And ye know this?”

  “Aye.”

  “Because the beast telled ye?”

  “More than just that, but aye.”

  “And so ye’ll fix the durned tower,” Ragged Dain stated more than asked.

  Catti-brie kept looking at Bruenor.

  “Well?” the king of Gauntlgrym finally asked her.

  “We are going to try, good King Bruenor,” Jarlaxle unexpectedly interjected. “Between your daughter and the Harpells, and all the forces I can muster, we will try.”

  “And what’s yer play in this?” Bruenor demanded.

  “You know my stake in Luskan. I have not hidden that from you.”

  “So ye’re thinkin’ the volcano’d blow that way, are ye?”

  “I have no idea, and suspect that Luskan is far enough out of its reach in any event,” Jarlaxle replied. “And no, I’ll not deny that rebuilding the Hosttower will be of great benefit to me, and in part because it will keep you here in Gauntlgrym, and that, good dwarf king, I prefer.”

  Bruenor looked for a moment as if he would question that claim, but he rocked back on his heels and let it go with a nod.

  “But to do this, we will need your help,” Jarlaxle added. “Send a thousand of your best builders to the City of Sails, I beg, that we can put them to use in physically reconstructing the Hosttower.”

  “A thousand?” Bruenor balked.

  “We got walls to build here,” Oretheo Spikes protested.

  “Aye, and tunnels yet to secure,” added Ragged Dain.

  “And to what point might we be doin’ that if the damned volcano’s to blow?” Mallabritches Fellhammer said above them all, and indeed, that quieted the ruckus before it could gather momentum.

  “Ye’re askin’ me to walk a thousand o’ me boys into a city o’ pirates and drow?” Bruenor said.

  “I will guarantee their safety, of course. Indeed, I will build barracks and all accommodations right there on Cutlass Island, which cannot be reached by land except by going through Closeguard Island, upon which sits the fortress of High Captain Kurth.”

  “Yer boy?”

  Jarlaxle confirmed that with a nod.

  Bruenor looked around the room, and each dwarf in turn came to nod his or her agreement.

  “And we might find that we will need more than a thousand,” Jarlaxle warned.

  Bruenor’s nostrils flared, but Catti-brie interjected, “If we fail in this you will have no halls worth defending. Not here, at least.

  “But if we succeed …” she added, as the dwarves began to grumble. “The primordial is secure and we will understand so much more of the magic that built Gauntlgrym. It might well be that the Hosttower’s the secret to getting the magical gates up and running, too.”

  That ended the meeting on an upbeat note, as Catti-brie had hoped
, but by the time Bruenor and the other dwarves emerged from the war room into the throne room for the ceremony committing Pwent’s statue, they wore dour expressions once again.

  Bruenor went right to the throne and hopped upon it, settling back with his hairy chin in his hand as he stared at the sarcophagus of Thibbledorf Pwent being set in its final, heroic pose on the wall a dozen strides away, about ten feet above the floor on a shelf the dwarves had carved. From there, Pwent would look over the hall, a guardian just above the fray, overlooking and protecting his king.

  King Bruenor did gain some comfort from that sight, and was comforted, too, by the sensations of the godly throne. He had the distinct feeling, as clear as a whisper in his ear, that the sentient spirits within the Throne of the Dwarven Gods agreed with his decision to aid in the reconstruction of the Hosttower.

  Between that and looking at Pwent, Bruenor felt strangely calm, given the shock of this day’s news. He knew that he was not alone here, and that his friends, even including Jarlaxle, were no small matter.

  He let other dwarves speak of Pwent at the dedication, and hardly listened. He did not need to hear tales of Thibbledorf Pwent to know the truth of that most wonderful shield dwarf. When they were done Bruenor brought the cracked silver horn up to his lips on impulse and blew a discordant note, summoning the battleraging specter of Pwent.

  As always when there was no enemy apparent, the defending spirit hopped about wildly, scouring every shadow and nook.

  The others thought nothing of it and turned their attention to Bruenor, who led them in a toast to Pwent.

  Except for Jarlaxle, who watched the spirit and noted that this thing, supposedly unconnected to Thibbledorf Pwent’s actual spirit and soul, supposedly a simple and little-thinking manifestation of a bodyguard, paused and let its stare linger on the sarcophagus statue that had just been set on the wall.

  And in those nearly translucent eyes, Jarlaxle noted something.

  Recognition?

  CHAPTER 2

  House Do’Urden

  IS SHE COMING FORTH?” SARIBEL ASKED WHEN TIAGO RETURNED FROM Matron Mother Darthiir Do’Urden’s private chambers.

  “She is barely awake, as usual,” the warrior spat in reply, his voice full of contempt, as it always was now when he spoke to his wife. Saribel had become more resolute and forceful of late, particularly concerning Tiago’s disastrous obsession with the rogue Drizzt Do’Urden, and clearly that had not set well with Tiago.

  Because he thought her his lesser, Saribel knew, despite the fact that she was a woman and a high priestess. She was not a Baenre by blood, and that, to Tiago, was all that mattered.

  He would learn differently, Saribel mused.

  “Ravel and the others await us in the chapel,” Saribel said. “We are quite tardy.”

  “Is Braelin Janquay in attendance?” Tiago asked, referring to the newest noble of House Do’Urden, gifted by Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre to serve as the garrison commander.

  It was not a gift that Tiago had appreciated, nor Saribel for that matter. Braelin had come to them from Bregan D’aerthe, reputedly as a stand-in for Jarlaxle himself, who was now nowhere to be found. Much of House Do’Urden’s cobbled-together garrison was composed of Bregan D’aerthe soldiers. In that reality, how much power might the newcomer wield?

  Too much, likely, as far as Tiago and Saribel were concerned.

  When the couple entered the chapel to find the other House nobles waiting, Saribel was greeted by another of the new leaders, one whose arrival had greatly mitigated her fears of Braelin Janquay—and also exacerbated Tiago’s misgivings.

  “It is good to see you once more,” Jaemas Xorlarrin, Saribel’s cousin, said with a bow. He took her hand and kissed it.

  Saribel looked past Jaemas to her brother Ravel, a fellow wizard and good friend of Jaemas. It was clear that Ravel was glad that cousin Jaemas had joined House Do’Urden.

  “Is Faelas to number among our ranks soon, as well?” Saribel asked.

  “Shall we rename Do’Urden to Xorlarrin, then,” Tiago answered before Jaemas could, “that we might suffer the same grim fate as that doomed and fallen House?”

  “Ah, well met again, young Master Baenre,” Jaemas said, and he pointedly left it at that, turning his attention immediately back to Saribel.

  “Matron Mother Zeerith and High Priestess Kiriy send their regards and trust that you are well,” he said.

  “I am,” she replied, though she couldn’t help but give a little wince at the mention of Kiriy, the highest ranking priestess of House Xorlarrin, just below Matron Mother Zeerith. Whispers spoke of Kiriy, who was also Matron Mother Zeerith’s eldest daughter, possibly joining House Do’Urden as well, in which case, so much for Saribel’s designs on ascending to the position of Matron Mother of House Do’Urden.

  “Where are they now?” Tiago asked.

  “Quite well and quite safe,” said Jaemas. “Planning the next moves of House Xorlarrin, of course.”

  “You mean, of what is left of House Xorlar—”

  “Do not think that we suffered great losses when the dwarves came for Gauntlgrym,” Jaemas interrupted.

  “None but your city.”

  “For now. But we are stronger.” He looked back at Saribel and offered just enough of a wink to let her know that he made these claims just to anger Tiago. “Much stronger. So many wondrous items came from the Forge before we were forced back because of the failures in the Silver Marches.

  “The dwarves emptied their citadels and swept across the land,” he continued, somewhat dramatically. “It would have taken much of Menzoberranzan’s combined strength to hold them off, as they were led by King Bruenor Battlehammer himself, and by that rogue from this very House.”

  “Drizzt?” Saribel asked, and she glanced at her husband. When Tiago and Doum’wielle came tumbling back into House Do’Urden at the end of one of Archmage Gromph’s teleport spells, Tiago had told her that the half-drow Doum’wielle had stolen his kill, and so had slain Drizzt back in Gauntlgrym.

  “He is dead,” said Tiago.

  Jaemas laughed. “Nay, he is quite alive. Indeed, it was he who defeated the demons Marilith and Nalfeshnee, with the help of his black panther. I witnessed it myself in the battle for the lower halls of Gauntlgrym.”

  “You are mistaken!” Tiago insisted.

  Saribel shook her head at the anger evident in Tiago’s voice. Such obsession would never end well.

  “Braelin Janquay can confirm, I expect,” Ravel chimed in, turning to Braelin, who remained silent. His position as a known associate of Jarlaxle, who was almost certainly still loyal to Jarlaxle, did not encourage him to speak.

  “Jarlaxle was in the cavern during that fight,” Jaemas confirmed, instead. “Indeed, it was he and Kimmuriel Oblodra who suggested that it was time for a withdrawal, and with good cause. Both of them knew of Drizzt Do’Urden’s presence in the battle.”

  All eyes turned again to Braelin Janquay, with Tiago’s gaze predictably intense.

  “I was instructed by Jarlaxle to report to House Do’Urden, and it was made clear to me that my time in Bregan D’aerthe had come to its end,” he answered, to a few snickers.

  But Tiago wasn’t laughing. He strode defiantly up to Braelin, his eyes flaring threateningly. “What do you know?”

  Braelin matched his stare. “I just told you.”

  “Perhaps your corpse would tell my priestess wife differently.”

  “Surely such an event would tell much to Jarlaxle.”

  “You think I fear Jarlaxle?”

  “I had always assumed you to be intelligent.”

  A little snarl escaped Tiago’s lips and his hand went to the hilt of Vidrinath. But another hand, Ravel’s hand, settled on his forearm. When Tiago turned to the House wizard, he found Ravel shaking his head. Jaemas similarly warned Tiago away from this dangerous course.

  “I know what I saw, and what I saw was surely the rogue named Drizzt Do’Urden,” Jaemas said. “Faelas
will confirm. Drizzt was there, very much alive, in the battle of the lower chambers. There is no reason to believe him dead, no reason at all, whatever you might have seen when you were removed from Gauntlgrym.”

  Saribel scrutinized her husband carefully now, watching his expression go from murderous rage to something else. Intrigue, perhaps.

  The high priestess shook her head, knowing where this new path would soon enough lead. She half expected Tiago to run from the House right then and charge off for Gauntlgrym in pursuit of the rogue.

  “You do understand that Demogorgon cut a swath of destruction across Menzoberranzan before departing to the open Underdark?” Ravel remarked, which told Saribel that he, too, had noted Tiago’s rather naked intentions. “And that the Prince of Demons is out there in the tunnels, likely not far?”

  “And so many other demons, as well,” Braelin Janquay added, “including other demon lords if the reports are to be believed.”

  “Do you purport to instruct me?” Tiago asked with a derisive snort of incredulity.

  “No, but now is not the time,” Ravel bluntly stated.

  Saribel did well not to sigh out loud with relief that her brother was taking the lead. Tiago would listen to him, and no one else in this room.

  “Matron Mother Baenre is vulnerable because of the disaster wrought by Archmage Gromph—or at least, one that is being attributed to him,” Ravel reminded them all. “And if she is vulnerable, then so are we.”

  “You think House Baenre vulnerable?” Tiago scoffed.

  “I think that they need to close up and concern themselves with their own situation right now,” Ravel argued, and from his tone it was clear that he, like so many others, was becoming quite weary of Tiago’s obsession. “Matron Mother Baenre did not construct House Do’Urden with such distinguished nobles as we see here in this very room in order for us to rely upon her for our own security. Our eyes must be turned nowhere but to the corridors and walls of House Do’Urden in this dangerous time. We have been graced by the matron mother in adding Jaemas Xorlarrin and Braelin Janquay to our ranks, one a Master of Sorcere and the other a senior member of Bregan D’aerthe and confidant of mighty Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel. Our foot soldiers here once knew loyalty to Bregan D’aerthe, and they are an ally that will serve us well now.