transition 01 The Orc King

by R . A. Salvatore

  She had never shown Catti-brie anything but kindness and friendship, and the two had been quite warm on occasion. But Catti-brie hadn’t seen Alustriel much of late, and she could not help but feel somewhat smaller in the great woman’s presence. Once she had been jealous of the Lady of Silverymoon, hearing rumors that Alustriel had been Drizzt’s lover, and she had never discerned whether or not that had been the case.

  Catti-brie smiled genuinely and laughed at herself, and pushed all of the negative thoughts aside. She couldn’t be jealous where Drizzt was concerned anymore, nor could she feel diminished by anyone when she thought of her relationship with the drow.

  What did it matter if the gods themselves bowed to Lady Alustriel? For Drizzt had chosen Catti-brie.

  To Catti-brie’s surprise, Alustriel walked right over and embraced her, and kissed her on the cheek.

  “Too many months pass between our visits, milady,” Alustriel said, moving Catti-brie back to arms’ length. She reached up and pushed back a thick strand of Catti-brie’s auburn hair. “How you manage to stay so beautiful, as if the dirt of the road cannot touch you, I will never know.”

  Catti-brie hardly knew how to reply.

  “You could fight a battle with a thousand orcs,” Alustriel went on, “slay them all—of course—and bloody your sword, your fist, and your boots. Not even that stain would diminish your glow.”

  Catti-brie gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Milady, you are too kind,” she said. “Too kind for reason, I fear.”

  “Of course you do, daughter of Bruenor. You are a woman who grew up among dwarves, who hardly appreciated your charms and your beauty. You have no idea of how tall you would stand among those of your own race.”

  Catti-brie’s face twisted a bit in confusion, not quite knowing how to take that.

  “And that, too, is part of the charm of Catti-brie,” said Alustriel. “Your humility is not calculated, it is intrinsic.”

  Catti-brie looked no less confused, and that drew a bit of laughter from Wulfgar. Catti-brie shot him a frown to silence him.

  “The wind whispers that you have taken Drizzt as your husband,” Alustriel said.

  Still glancing Wulfgar’s way as Alustriel spoke, Catti-brie noted a slight grimace on the barbarian’s face—or maybe it was just her imagination.

  “You are married?” Alustriel asked.

  “Yes,” Catti-brie replied. “But we have not celebrated in formal ceremony yet. We will wait for the darkness of Obould to recede.”

  Alustriel’s face grew very serious. “That will be a long time, I fear.”

  “King Bruenor is determined that it will not.”

  “Indeed,” said Alustriel, and she offered a hopeful little smile and a shrug. “I do hope you will celebrate your joining with Drizzt Do’Urden soon, both in Mithral Hall, and here in Silverymoon, as my honored guests. I will gladly open the palace to you, for many of my subjects would wish well the daughter of good King Bruenor and that most unusual dark elf.”

  “And many of your court would prefer that Drizzt remain in Mithral Hall,” Catti-brie said, a bit more harshly than she had intended.

  But Alustriel only laughed and nodded, for it was true enough, and undeniable. “Well, Fret likes him,” she said, referring to her favored advisor, a most unusual and uniquely tidy dwarf. “And Fret likes you, and so do I—both of you. If I spent my time worrying over the pettiness and posturing of court lords and ladies, I would turn endless circles of appeasement and apology.”

  “When you doubt, then trust in Fret,” Catti-brie said. She winked and Alustriel gave a hearty laugh and hugged her again.

  As she did, she whispered into Catti-brie’s ear, “Come here more often, I beg of you, with or without your stubborn dark elf companion.”

  She stepped up to Wulfgar then and wrapped him in a warm embrace. When she moved back to arms’ length, a curious look came over her. “Son of Beornegar,” she said quietly, respectfully.

  Catti-brie’s mouth dropped open in surprise at that, for only recently had Wulfgar been wearing that title more regularly, and it seemed to her as if Alustriel had somehow just discerned that.

  “I see contentment in your blue eyes,” Alustriel remarked. “You have not been at peace like this ever before—not even when I first met you, those many years ago.”

  “I was young then, and too strong of spirit,” said Wulfgar.

  “Can one ever be?”

  Wulfgar shrugged. “Too anxious, then,” he corrected.

  “You hold your strength deeper now, because you are more secure in it, and in how you wish to use it.”

  Wulfgar’s nod seemed to satisfy Alustriel, but Catti-brie just kept looking from the large man to the tall woman. She felt as if they were speaking in code, or half-saying secrets, the other half of which were known only to them.

  “You are at peace,” said Alustriel.

  “And yet I am not,” Wulfgar replied. “For my daugh—the girl, Colson, is lost to me.”

  “She was slain?”

  Wulfgar shook his head immediately to calm the gentle woman. “Delly Curtie was lost to the hordes of Obould, but Colson lives. She was sent across the river in the company of refugees from the conquered northern lands.”

  “Here to Silverymoon?”

  “That is what I would know,” Wulfgar explained.

  Alustriel nodded and stepped back, taking them both in with her protective stare.

  “We could go from inn to inn,” Catti-brie said. “But Silvery-moon is no small city, nor is Sundabar, and there are many more villages about.”

  “You will remain right here as my guests,” Alustriel insisted. “I will call out every soldier of Silverymoon’s garrison, and will speak with the merchant guilds. You will have your answer in short time, I promise.”

  “You are too generous,” Wulfgar said with a bow.

  “Would King Bruenor, would Wulfgar or Catti-brie, offer any less to me or one of mine if we similarly came to Mithral Hall?”

  That simple truth ended any forthcoming arguments from the two grateful travelers.

  “We thought that we might travel to some of the common inns and ask around,” Catti-brie said.

  “And draw attention to your hunt?” Alustriel replied. “Would this person who has Colson wish to give the child back to you?”

  Wulfgar shook his head, but Catti-brie said, “We don’t know, but it is possible that she would not.”

  “Then better for you to remain here, as my guests. I have many contacts who frequent the taverns. It is important for a leader to hear the commoners’ concerns. The answers you seek will be easily found—in Silverymoon, at least.” She motioned to her attendants. “Take them and make them comfortable. I do believe that Fret wishes to see Catti-brie.”

  “He cannot suffer the dirt of the road upon me,” Catti-brie remarked dryly.

  “Only because he cares, of course.”

  “Or because he so despises dirt?”

  “That too,” Alustriel admitted.

  Catti-brie looked to Wulfgar and offered a resigned shrug. She was pleasantly surprised to see him equally at ease with this arrangement. Apparently he understood that their work was better left to Alustriel, and that they could indeed relax and enjoy the respite at the luxurious palace of the Lady of Silverymoon.

  “And she came without proper clothing, I’ll wager!” came an obviously annoyed voice, a chant that sounded both melodic and sing-song like an elf, and resonant like the bellow of a dwarf—a most unusual dwarf.

  Wulfgar and Catti-brie turned to see the fellow, dressed in a fine white gown with bright green trim, enter the room. He looked at Catti-brie and gave a disapproving sigh and a wag of his meticulously manicured stubby finger. Then he stopped and sighed again, and put his chin in one hand, his fingers stroking the thin line of his well-trimmed silver beard as he considered the task of transforming Catti-brie.

  “Well met, Fret,” Alustriel said. “It would seem that you have your work cut out for
you. Do try not to break this one’s spirit.”

  “You confuse spirit with odor, milady.”

  Catti-brie frowned, but it was hard for her to cover her inner smile.

  “Fret would put perfume and bells on a tiger, I do believe,” Alustriel said, and her nearby attendants shared a laugh at the dwarf’s expense.

  “And colored bows and paint for its nails,” the tidy dwarf proudly replied. He walked up to Catti-brie, gave a “tsk tsk,” and grabbed her by the elbow, pulling her along. “As we appreciate beauty, so it is our divine task to facilitate it. And so I shall. Now come along, child. You’ve a long bath to suffer.”

  Catti-brie flashed her smile back at Wulfgar. After their long and arduous journey, she planned to “suffer” it well.

  Wulfgar’s returned smile was equally genuine. He turned to Alustriel, saluted, and thanked her.

  “What might we do for Wulfgar while my scouts seek word of Colson?” Alustriel asked him.

  “A quiet room with a view of your fair city,” he replied, and he added quietly, “One that faces to the west.”

  Catti-brie caught up to Wulfgar early that evening on a high balcony of the main turret—one of a dozen that adorned the palace.

  “The dwarf has his talents,” Wulfgar said.

  Catti-brie’s freshly washed hair smelled of lilac and springtime. She almost always kept it loose to bounce over her shoulders, but she had one side tied up and the other had a hint of a curl teased into it. She wore a light blue gown that enhanced and highlighted the hue of her eyes, its straps revealing the smooth skin of her delicate shoulders. A white and gold sash was tied around her waist at an angle and a place to accentuate her shapely body. The dress did not go all the way to the floor, and Wulfgar’s surprise showed as a smile when he noted that she wasn’t wearing her doeskin boots, but rather a pair of delicate slippers, all lace and fancy trim.

  “I found meself a choice to let him do it to me or punch him in the nose,” Catti-brie remarked, her self-deprecation exaggerated because she allowed just a hint of her Dwarvish accent to come through.

  “There is not a part of you that enjoys it?”

  Catti-brie scowled at him.

  “You would not wish for Drizzt to see you like this?” the barbarian pressed. “You would take no pleasure in the look upon his face?”

  “I’ll take me pleasure in killing orcs.”

  “Stop it.”

  Catti-brie looked at him as if he had slapped her.

  “Stop it,” Wulfgar repeated. “You need not your boots or your weapons here in Silverymoon, or your dwarf-bred pragmatism and that long-lost accent. Have you looked in the mirror since Fret worked his magic on you?”

  Catti-brie snorted and turned away, or started to, but Wulfgar held her with his gaze and his grin.

  “You should,” he said.

  “You are talking foolishness,” Catti-brie replied, and her accent was no more.

  “Far from that. Is it foolish to enjoy the sights of Silverymoon?” He half-turned and swept his arm out to the deepening gloom in the west, to the twilit structures of the free-form city, with candles burning in many windows. Glowing flames of harmless faerie fire showed on a few of the spires, accenting their inviting forms.

  “Did you not allow your mind to wander as we walked through the avenues to this palace?” Wulfgar asked. “Could you help but feel that way with beauty all around you? So why is it any different with your own appearance? Why are you so determined to hide behind mud and simple clothes?”

  Catti-brie shook her head. Her lips moved a few times as if she wanted to reply but couldn’t find the words.

  “Drizzt would be pleased by the sight before him,” Wulfgar stated. “I am pleased, as your friend. Quit hiding behind the gruff accent and the road-worn clothing. Quit being afraid of who you are, of who you might dare to be, deep inside. You do not care if someone sees you after a hard day of labor, sweating and dirty. You don’t waste your time primping and prettying yourself, and all of that is to your credit. But in times like this, when the opportunity presents itself, do not shy from it, either.”

  “I feel…vain.”

  “You should simply feel pretty, and be happy with that. If you really are one who cares not what others may think or say, then why would you hide from pleasant thoughts?”

  Catti-brie looked at him curiously for a moment, and a smile spread on her face. “Who are you, and what have you done with Wulfgar?”

  “The doppelganger is long dead, I assure you,” Wulfgar replied. “He was thrown out with the weight of Errtu.”

  “I have never seen you like this.”

  “I have never before felt like this. I am content and I know my road. I answer to no one but myself now, and never before have I known such freedom.”

  “And so you wish to share that with me?”

  “With everyone,” Wulfgar replied with a laugh.

  “I did look in a mirror…or two,” Catti-brie said, and Wulfgar laughed harder.

  “And were you pleased by what you saw?”

  “Yes,” she admitted.

  “And do you wish that Drizzt was here?”

  “Enough,” she bade him, which of course meant “yes.”

  Wulfgar took her by the arm and guided her to the railing of the balcony. “So many generations of men and elves have built this place. It is a refuge for Fret and those akin to him, and it is also a place where we all might come from time to time to simply stand and look, and enjoy. That, I think, is the most important time of all. To look inside ourselves honestly and without regret or fear. I could be battling orcs or dragons. I could be digging mithral from the deep mines. I could be leading the hunt in Icewind Dale. But there are times, too few I fear, when this, when standing and looking and just enjoying, is more important than all of that.”

  Catti-brie wrapped her arm around Wulfgar’s waist and leaned her head against his strong shoulder, standing side-by-side, two friends enjoying a moment of life, of perception, of simple pleasure.

  Wulfgar draped his arm across her shoulders, equally at peace, and both of them sensed, deep inside, that the moment would be one they would remember for all their days, a defining and lasting image of all they had been through since that fateful day in Icewind Dale when Wulfgar the young warrior had foolishly smacked a tough old dwarf named Bruenor on the head.

  They lingered for some time, but the moment was lost as Lady Alustriel came out onto the balcony. The two turned at the sound of her voice, to see her standing with a middle-aged man dressed in the apron of a tavernkeeper.

  Alustriel paused when she looked upon Catti-brie, her eyes roaming the woman’s form.

  “Fret is full of magic, I am told,” Catti-brie said, glancing at Wulfgar.

  Alustriel shook her head. “Fret finds the beauty, he does not create it.”

  “He finds it as well as Drizzt finds orcs to slay, or Bruenor finds metal to mine, to be sure,” said Wulfgar.

  “He has mentioned that he would like to search for the same in Wulfgar, as well.”

  Catti-brie laughed as Wulfgar chuckled and shook his head. “I’ve not the time.”

  “He will be so disappointed,” said Alustriel.

  “Next time we meet, perhaps,” said Wulfgar, and his words elicited a doubting glance from Catti-brie.

  She stared at him deeply for a long while, measuring his every expression and movement, and the inflections of his voice. His offer to Fret may or may not have been disingenuous, she knew, but it was moot in any case because Wulfgar had decided that he would never again visit Silverymoon. Catti-brie saw that clearly, and had been feeling it since before they had departed Mithral Hall.

  A sense of dread welled up inside her, mingling with that last special moment she had shared with Wulfgar. There was a storm coming. Wulfgar knew it, and though he hadn’t yet openly shared it, the signs were mounting.

  “This is Master Tapwell of the Rearing Dragon, a fine establishment in the city’s lower ward,” Alus
triel explained. The short, round-bellied man came forward a step, rather sheepishly. “A common respite for visitors to Silverymoon.”

  “Well met,” Catti-brie greeted, and Wulfgar nodded his agreement.

  “And to yerselves, Prince and Princess of Mithral Hall,” Tapwell replied, dipping a few awkward bows in the process.

  “The Rearing Dragon played host to many of the refugees that crossed the Surbrin from Mithral Hall,” Alustriel explained. “Master Tapwell believes that a pair who passed through might be of interest to you.”

  Wulfgar was already leaning forward eagerly. Catti-brie put her hand on his forearm to help steady him.

  “Yer girl, Colson,” Tapwell said, rubbing his hands nervously over his beer-stained apron. “Skinny thing with straw hair to here?” He indicated a point just below his shoulder, a good approximation of the length of Colson’s hair.

  “Go on,” Wulfgar bade, nodding.

  “She came in with the last group, but with her mother.”

  “Her mother?” Wulfgar looked to Alustriel for an explanation, but the woman deferred to Tapwell.

  “Well, she said she was her mother,” the tavernkeeper explained.

  “What was her name?” Catti-brie asked.

  Tapwell fidgeted as if trying to fathom the answer. “I remember her calling the girl Colson clear enough. Her own name was like that. Same beginning, if ye get my meaning.”

  “Please remember,” Wulfgar prompted.

  “Cottie?” Catti-brie asked.

  “Cottie, yeah. Cottie,” said Tapwell.

  “Cottie Cooperson,” Catti-brie said to Wulfgar. “She was with the group Delly tended in the hall. She lost her family to Obould.”

  “And Delly gave her a new one,” said Wulfgar, but his tone was not bitter.

  “You agree with this assessment?” Alustriel asked.

  “It does make sense,” said Catti-brie.

  “This was the last group that crossed the Surbrin before the ferry was closed down, and not just the last group to arrive in Silvery-moon,” Alustriel said. “I have confirmed that from the guards of Winter Edge themselves. They escorted the refugees in from the Surbrin—all of them—and they, the guards, remain, along with several of the refugees.”