“It could be anywhere.”
“It could be Icewind Dale.”
Lady Avelyere shrugged, for the name meant nothing to her.
“A stretch of barren tundra through the Spine of the World Mountains north of the DesaiIsummon of the city of Luskan,” Parise explained. “Few live there, fewer still travel there, but it was once the home of Drizzt Do’Urden, Bruenor Battlehammer, and his adopted daughter, Catti-brie.”
“As was Mithral Hall …”
“And the towns of Icewind Dale are built in the shadow of a singular mountain, rising from the tundra.”
Lady Avelyere licked her lips and digested the news. It could be.
“Direct your search between Shade Enclave and Icewind Dale,” Parise commanded. “You will likely find this missing girl.”
“And then?”
“Watch her. Do not return her to Shade Enclave. Let us learn what we may, but safely from afar.”
“We remain five years from her appointed meeting,” Lady Avelyere reminded him.
“A speck of time in the cosmic calendar. But more than enough time for clever Lady Avelyere and her Coven to find this wayward child, yes?” The woman nodded.
“The libraries of Shade Enclave are being opened to all practitioners,” Parise added as Lady Avelyere turned to go. “We must once again adapt our magic, it would seem.”
“The old ways?”
The lord shrugged. “Who can know?”
“Ruqiah, perhaps,” Lady Avelyere quipped, and she shook her head and smiled resignedly, helplessly, and Parise responded in kind.
Catti-brie felt much better the next day, even before she bathed herself once more in the healing magic of Mielikki. Her arcane spells remained a jumble and she discovered that she could barely understand the delicate inflections of the incantations outlined in her spellbook. She felt as if everything magical had shifted several degrees, with different pieces going in different directions. She couldn’t make any sense of it.
“So be it,” she said, and she walked out from under the pine tree boughs that had served as her bedroom. She looked at the rising sun, then all around, to the distant Crags and north, where sat the high peaks of the towering Spine of the World, though she could not see them from this vantage.
She considered her approximate location and the year and season. She had plenty of time to get to Icewind Dale-years even-so perhaps a change of course would be in order here.
“Waterdeep?” she whispered. The lords of that greatest of cities would certainly be investigating the strange happenings-but how might she, a dirty girl from another part of the world, garner any information from those haughty ones? For she was not Princess Catti-brie of Mithral Hall any longer, but merely little Ruqiah of the Desai, and no one of note.
She thought of Candlekeep, the famed library along the coast south of Waterdeep. If any in all the Realms were going to figure out what was going on here, it would be the sages of that most learned of places. But again, how might she gain entrance to such a place?
She lifted her arms and shook them, her sleeves falling back. Her spellscars? Would they get her in?
But they didn’t even look like scars any longer. Any skilled tattooist along the Sword Coast could create the markings inside Catti-brie’s forearms.
The wom a long while to realize ees …onan blew out a deep breath and called upon the spellscars then, thinking to shapeshift and be on her way, whichever way she might decide. Catti-brie closed her eyes and focused on the markings, willing herself to again become a great eagle.
Nothing happened.
She opened her eyes and looked down at her arms. No mist began to form, no hint of magic to be found.
She couldn’t shapeshift. She couldn’t become an eagle, a mouse, or a wolf. The notion struck her profoundly. She remained hundreds of miles from Icewind Dale, and now, so suddenly, the road appeared much more perilous and uncertain.
Catti-brie forced herself to calm down, and rationally played through her options. Even without the shapeshift, and without the storm calling and lightning bolts, she was a disciple of Mielikki, with powers divine. And she was a mage, trained in Silverymoon, trained in Shade Enclave. She was not a lost little child on the open road. She was Catti-brie, who had passed this way before, in another life. She could fight and she could enact magic both divine and arcane. She glanced around, then began to climb one of the pines for a better view. Her injured leg ached for the effort and the deep bending, despite the magic she had enacted upon it.
She thought back to the previous day, when she had been flying on high. Just to the west of her lay a road, she recalled, and she nodded, for she knew that road, the Long Road, it had once been named.
And she smiled as she considered where that road might take her, and what she might learn when she got to that particular destination.
She found an appropriate length of wood to use as a walking stick and set out determinedly. She was Catti-brie. She had returned by the will of Mielikki and for a great purpose, and she would not falter.
She made the road, or what was left of it-for now it was an old and little-used trail-that afternoon and turned to the north. Her leg ached, but she did not stop and did not slow.
The sunlight began to fade, the night descending upon the land, and Catti-brie began to search for an appropriate campsite. She moved off the road, up the side of a small hillock. She had just begun to construct a fire pit, complete with rocks around its edges to shield flames from distant eyes, when the sky to the north lit up suddenly with a great burst of orange flames.
Catti-brie rushed to the northern edge of the hillock and peered off into the distance.
A lightning bolt split the night sky. A fireball followed, and then a star-burst of multicolored sparks and flares of such magnificence that it made the woman giggle in appreciation.
She heard the distant sound of the explosions a few moments later, along with what sounded like a cacophony of cheers.
Another fireball ignited, this one lower to the ground, illuminating the land below to reveal a large mansion set upon a hill.
“Longsaddle!” Catti-brie cried, and it wasn’t so far. All thoughts of camping flew from her then, and she started off with renewed determination.
The night darkened around her, the Long Road seemed in places little more than a wagon rut, but the explosions continued in the north, guiding her way, and soon after she entered the village of Longsaddle, home of the Harpells, a place she had visited in her previous life on several occasions.
All of the townsfolk were outside, it seemed, hundreds of people cheering and dancing at the spectacle on the hill, the spectline-height: Isummonacle on the grounds of the Ivy Mansion, home of the Harpells, where the wizards plied their trade in a grand celebration, it seemed, throwing fire and lightning and all sorts of spectacular dweomers up into the air in a great and splendid display.
“What is it?” Catti-brie asked a young couple she encountered at the base of the hill.
“None seem to know,” the man answered. “But our Harpell wizards appear to be in a festive and fine mood this evening!”
Catti-brie moved around the gathering, gaining the road that led up to the gate of the house on the hill. It appeared as no more than a ten-stride reach of fence, unattached on either end, but Catti-brie knew better. For stretching out from either side was an invisible wall encircling the whole of the hill and mansion.
She arrived at the gate and called out, but none heard or reacted. She could see them, then, wizards atop the hill, many on the mansion’s roof, cheering and throwing their spells, one after another.
Catti-brie called out again, and when that didn’t work, the woman began to whisper a spell of her own. Up in the air above flew the fiery pea, erupting into a fireball of her own making.
The people below her cried out and fell back in surprise-and fear, no doubt. And from above her came shouts and warnings, and the wizards scrambled. In short order, she was confronted by the tow
n guard from below, and soon after that, by a group of Harpells from the other side of the gate.
“Who are you, who throws magic unbidden in Longsaddle?” one wiry old mage in rumpled robes asked.
In response, Catti-brie lifted her arms and shook them, her sleeves falling clear of the markings. “A friend,” she said. “Though I’ve not been here in many years.”
The wiry old mage came closer and looked her over. “I don’t know you.”
“No,” she agreed, shaking her head. “But I know of you, of the Harpells, at least, and some once knew me as a friend. When I tell you my tale, you will understand.”
“Go on, then!” he demanded.
Catti-brie glanced over her shoulder at the town guard, then back at the mage doubtfully.
“Come along then!” demanded a man behind her, but as he approached, the wiry wizard held up his hand.
“Once I knew of Harkle,” Catti-brie dared to admit, hoping that name from yesteryear would spark some recognition. “Once I knew of Bidderdoo.”
“The Bidderdoos?” the man behind her gasped, and fell back, shaking his head.
Catti-brie glanced at him curiously, not quite understanding the reference, or why he had used the plural form of the name. She shook her head and looked back to the mage, to find him already fumbling with the gate. He and the others waved her in and escorted her up the hill.
“I am Penelope,” the middle-aged woman introduced herself, coming into a comfortable room where the others had left Catti-brie, bidding her to be at ease. Catti-brie started to rise from her chair, but the older woman waved at her to remain seated and took the seat opposite.
“Ca-Ru-” Catti-brie started to respond, but she had to pause and laugh at herself, for what should have been a simple greetinline-height: Isummong apparently was not. To use her real name would be to open potential questions much larger than her arrival here at the Ivy Mansion, and to use her Desai name might well make it easier for Lady Avelyere to regain her trail.
“Delly,” she replied with an inviting smile, borrowing another name from her distant past. “Delly Curtie.”
“Well met, then, Ca-ru-delly,” Penelope Harpell replied, smiling knowingly.
“Delly Curtie,” Catti-brie said flatly.
“And what brings Delly Curtie to Longsaddle, pray tell?”
“Your display of magic this night, mostly. I was on the road and noted it, and since I, too, am practiced in the Art-”
“Then you already knew of Longsaddle, no doubt, and needed no fire and lightning display to lure you here.”
Catti-brie stared hard at the woman, who returned the look. She started to concoct some explanation, but realized that she was only digging herself deeper with her lies, beneath the careful gaze of Penelope. These were the Harpells, Catti-brie reminded herself, goodly folk, if quite … eccentric. Ever had the Harpells been allies of the Companions of the Hall, and of Mithral Hall. Indeed, they had come running to Bruenor’s aid when the drow had invaded the dwarf tunnels.
“I was bound for the coast,” Catti-brie said. “But recent events slowed me, and perplexed me, I admit.”
“Do go on.”
“Changes,” Catti-brie replied. “With magic.” She shrugged and threw in her chips, once again pulling up the sleeves of her robe to reveal her two spellscars, now seeming as different colored tattoos.
Penelope’s eyes narrowed as she stared at the woman’s marked forearms, and she leaned out of her seat and moved closer, even reaching down to turn Catti-brie’s arm a bit to get a better look at the seven-pointed star on the left arm.
“What artist did this?” Penelope asked.
“No artist.”
Penelope looked her in the eye once more. “They are spellscars?”
“Or were.”
Penelope stood straight and glanced around. She moved to the door and closed it, then walked back to stand before Catti-brie. She hiked up her robe and turned sideways, revealing a marking on her left hip, a blob of brown and blue discolored skin.
“Would that my own had taken a more attractive appearance, as have yours!” she said. “You did nothing to touch up the scar?”
“It only just happened, when I was alone on the road.”
“And what were you doing alone on the road?”
“Heading for the coast, as I told you.”
“These are dangerous lands for anyone to be traveling alone, even a mage.”
“I was flying,” Catti-brie admitted. “Through the power of the scars, I was flying as a bird. And then I was falling.”
Penelope sucked in her breath.
“What is happening?” Catti-brie asked.
“Are you going to tell me your real name, Delly Curtie?”
“You asked, and Catti-brie nodded. bpa"› expect would not believe me, so no, not yet. In time, perhaps, when we have both come to a place of greater trust.”
Penelope walked around her chair. “You mentioned the Bidderdoos, I am told.”
“Bidderdoo,” Catti-brie corrected.
“A Bidderdoo, then. Which?”
Catti-brie gave a confused little laugh. “Bidderdoo,” she replied. “Bidderdoo Harpell.”
“There is no Bidderdoo Harpell.”
“There was. And what are Bidderdoos, then?”
“Bidderdoo has been dead for a century,” Penelope answered. “His legacy lives on, in the forest around Longsaddle.”
Catti-brie thought about that for a few moments. “Werewolves,” she whispered.
“Yes, the Bidderdoos, so we call them. The townsfolk are quite afraid of them, but in truth, they guard the town and do us no harm. I am surprised that you were not confronted on the road, coming in at night so suspiciously, as you were. But then, perhaps the Bidderdoos were enjoying our celebration.”
“It was quite extraordinary,” Catti-brie agreed.
“An extraordinary display for exciting times,” Penelope admitted. “Strange things have been happening all across the Ivy Mansion.”
Catti-brie laughed at that understatement. “The reputation of the Harpells precedes you, good lady.”
Penelope paused as if to consider her reply, then couldn’t suppress her own grin. “Yes, I expect it does. A well-earned reputation.” She sat in the chair again, her expression growing serious.
“How could you know of Bidderdoo Harpell? And you mentioned another at the gate.”
“Harkle.”
“How could you know of Harkle?”
“I was raised in Mithral Hall.”
Penelope sat up straight and took note. “Raised among the Battlehammer dwarves? And you learned the ways of magic?”
“I am fairly trained,” said Catti-brie. “No archmage, certainly!”
“I saw your fireball,” Penelope replied. “You favor evocation?”
“I like blowing things up,” Catti-brie said with a wry grin. “Spoken like a Harpell!”
“I like blowing things up when I’m not standing next to those things I blow up,” Catti-brie clarified, and Penelope laughed aloud and slapped her knee.
“Maybe not a true Harpell, then,” she replied. “Tell me, have you any other spells in your repertoire this day?”
Catti-brie thought for a moment, then nodded. “A fan of flames,” she said, tapping her thumbs together and waggling her fingers.
Penelope looked around, then motioned for Catti-brie to follow her to a clear spot in the room, where she might enact burning hands without setting the place on fire. “One moment,” the older woman said, then left the room, returning a short time later with two others, a man around the same age as Penelope and one much older.
“My husband, Dowell, and Kipper Harpell, the olde looked at her curiously. o he decidedimst of the clan.”
Both nodded cordially, and Dowell unrolled a parchment, holding it up before Kipper with a nod to Penelope.
Penelope motioned to the empty space before Catti-brie and bade her, “Please proceed with your spell.”
; Catti-brie lifted her hands and began the incantation.
“Louder, please, dear child,” Kipper requested.
Catti-brie cleared her throat and went at it again, and a few moments later, a fan of flames spread out from her fingers, a solid dweomer, if not overpowering. She turned to regard the three witnesses, to find them all grinning, and Kipper nodding.
“And look at her arm!” Penelope said, noting the blue mist gathered around Catti-brie’s left forearm. She rushed over and tugged Catti-brie back to the others, pulling back the sleeve to show the seven-starred marking.
“What?” Catti-brie asked.
“Mystra,” Kipper said reverently and bowed his head.
“It is true, then,” Dowell added, grinning widely.
“What?” Catti-brie asked again.
“Your spellcasting,” Penelope started to explain, but Kipper cut her short.
“You drew your power from the old ways,” he said. “Is this how you were trained?”
Catti-brie didn’t know how to respond. It was how she had been trained, but in another life. In this one, not so. “What does it mean?” she asked, deflecting the other’s question.
“The Weave, girl,” Kipper asked, “do you feel it?”
Catti-brie thought back to the moment when her spellscar magic had failed, that flash in the sky, like an eclipse, like a web. Like the Weave of Magic.
She looked at Penelope, her expression quite dumbfounded. “Your celebration,” she managed to whisper, and she put it all together. “Has the effect of the Spellplague ended?”
Penelope hugged her suddenly and unexpectedly. “So we pray,” she whispered. “So we pray.”
Catti-brie glanced out the window of her room at the Ivy Mansion months later, looking back to the east, toward Netheril. Her spellscar powers, the shapeshifting and storm-calling, like those of the other marked wizards at the Ivy Mansion, had not returned, and by all indications, the Spellplague was indeed no more. At long last.
But what did that mean for Niraj and Kavita? Or, Catti-brie wondered, for Avelyere and the Coven?
The Harpells seemed quite overjoyed by the news, even though they had all begun retraining. The library of the Ivy Mansion dated far back before the Spellplague, of course, and so they were well-equipped for this strange shift of magic. And when she thought about it, Catti-brie realized that she was better equipped than almost any! For she had been trained in the old ways initially, after all, and could any other mages in the Realms, other than elves and drow, say the same?
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