She thought of that woman. She had gone to the graveyard and raised a zombie. She had desecrated a grave and disturbed the sleep of the dead.
The notion grated on her uncomfortably, for surely such an action was not a goodly deed. But it was a necessary one, and the zombie had been raised through the power of Mielikki, though such a spell was anathema to the very tenets the goddess represented, that of the natural cycle of life and death.
These were extraordinary circumstances, and Catti-brie had to accept the granted power of animating the dead as confirmation that Mielikki understood and approved of her choice. The mission was paramount and the mission had been severely compromised. Charmed and hypnotized, Catti-brie had revealed far too many secrets to Lady Avelyere. That recollection reminded the young woman that she could be caught again, and would be helpless in such an event. She sprouted larger wings from her rodent form, transforming yet again. Within a few moments, an eagle fluttered down to the desert floor and became a wolf, loping off on padded paws, silently into the night. Catti-brie couldn’t keep this up for much longer, she knew, for her magical energy was fast depleting, so she had to find a sheltered spot and properly ward it from intrusive, magical eyes.
She would say a prayer to the poor woman whose corpse she had abused with magical animation, of course.
As she settled in for the night within the shadows of a rocky overhang, she hoped that the many blessings and wards she had placed on the dead woman would hold against Avelyere’s certain magical intrusions, for her own sake as well as for the dignity of the deceased.
“I do not believe it,” Lady Avelyere remarked, standing on the edge of the smoldering ruin. “That was no coincidental lightning strike. We have seen this play before!”
“We had compromised her, and all that she meant to do,” Rhyalle dared to say. “Perhaps Ruqiah became worthless … nay, less than worthless, even dangerous, to the designs of her professed goddess, Mielikki.”
“So she went into a tinder keg and obliterated herself with a blast inspired by the goddess?”
“A divine blast greatly enhanced by the elements contained within that location, it would seem,” said Rhyalle.
But Lady Avelyere was shaking her head through every word of the feeble explanation. “That would be more the play of A’tar, or Lady Lolth. I doubt that Mielikki would support …” She paused, hardly able to throw out the word, and waved her arm out at the blasted and burning building, and finished, “… this.”
A thin form approached through the hazy smoke.
“We have found her, Lady,” Eerika said quietly, and she glanced over her shoulder toward the far corner of the blasted building. “What is left of her.”
Lady Avelyere took the lead and strode across the smoking rubble, joining a trio of her other disciples at the spot Eerika had indicated. She followed their gazes and glanced down, then looked away quickly from the disgusting sight.
Blackened and blistered and shrunk to half its size, the ruined corpse rested on its side, one arm splayed out, one apparently burned to nothingness.
Lady Avelyere took a deep breath, which, she quickly realized, was not a good idea, as the smell of charred flesh nearly doubled her over with nausea. “Get a blanket and collect … this thing,” she ordered. “Bring it to the Coven.”
“Ruqiah?” Eerika asked, clearly confused by the reference. Lady Avelyere waved her arm angrily at the corpse. “That!” she stated flatly, and she rushed away, unwilling to tag it with Ruqiah’s name.
Yes, she had seen this trick before, outside the encampment of the Desai. A thin smile cracked through Lady Avelyere’s angry and disgusted expression, for she knew indeed that the dead did tell tales.
Wings spread wide, the eagle glided on the updrafts of hot air, circling lazily above the Desai encampment. The form afforded Catti-brie enhanced vision, so even from this great height, she could clearly make out the faces of those moving around below her. She had already noted the tent of Niraj and Kavita, and focused on it most of all. She had arrived early in the morning, after all, and it was unlikely that the two were already out and about.
How she wanted to go down there, revert to her human form, and accept one last warm hug from her parents!
But she could not, she understood. Lady Avelyere would surely visit the couple, and would wield her insidious magic to get into their thoughts. If they tried to cover for Catti-brie, they would be discovered and heinously punished, no doubt, and in either case, just letting them know the truth, that she was alive, would likely put Avelyere back on her trail.
Catti-brie repeatedly reminded herself of that dark reality, but then she saw the brown, bald head of Niraj come out of the tent, and before she even realized it, she had dipped her wings and circled lower.
She caught herself and fought back, truly heartbroken. The feeling only intensified when the raven-haired Kavita came out beside Niraj.
He draped his arm around her casually, affectionately, and the two turned to stare out to the north, Kavita shading her eyes against the morning glare.
They were looking toward Shade Enclave, Catti-brie realized. They were thinking of their daughter. As with every morning, she sincerely believed.
The eagle circled lower, but tried to stay behind the couple, that Catti-brie might hear their conversation without distracting them.
“She is well,” she heard Niraj assert, and he hugged Kavita closer.
A second cry demanded Catti-brie’s attention, from a tribesman who had noted her, soaring just above the tops of the tent poles. She couldn’t stay, she knew—the farmers would treat her as a threat to the livestock.
She swooped across the encampment, issuing a loud shriek as she closed in on Niraj and Kavita. They swung around, eyes going wide as the large eagle bore down upon them.
Catti-brie dipped her wings one after the other, then broke fast to her right and pumped her wings, gaining speed and height. She heard Kavita gasp, “Ruqiah?”
Catti-brie was satisfied with that. She had to be, for she could offer no more than the hint, for their sakes and for her own. She raced out across the desert, flying west, quickly leaving the Desai encampment far behind.
She doubted she would ever look upon it, ever look upon Niraj and Kavita, again.
When she landed in a sheltered dell, her magic exhausted, she came back to human form with tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Try harder,” Lady Avelyere implored her warlock friend.
“Lady, I have nothing more to offer,” the older man said with a wheezing laugh. “I have used every spell at my disposal. The corpse will not speak to me!”
“Pry her spirit back from the netherworld then,” the woman argued.
“Look at the wounds! It would just fall over dead again, in short order.”
“Do it anyway,” Lady Avelyere coldly ordered.
“You should hire a priest,” the dark magic-user replied.
“I already have,” the woman assured him. Lady Avelyere had gone after the corpse with her own spells, to no avail. She could get no communication at all from the curled and charred body. Then the priestess had come—at no small expense—and that woman, too, could only shake her head, unable to communicate with the deceased. And when that had failed, the priestess had tried unsuccessfully to resurrect the charred corpse. Resurrection was among the most powerful spells in the repertoire of any priest, and indeed, very few could even try to perform such a divinely brilliant dweomer. It was not a spell expected to fail, and yet it had, and failed miserably, not a movement or flicker of life within the charred corpse.
“The corpse has been warded,” the priestess had claimed. “Consecrated and mightily blessed.” Lady Avelyere had implored her to try again, but she would have no part of it and had abruptly departed. Indeed, the priestess had gone further than her personal refusal, so Lady Avelyere had learned, for no other priest would subsequently come to her call and perform any rituals over this particular corpse.
And now th
is man, Derenek the Dark, known throughout Shade Enclave for his expertise in the handling of undead, had proven similarly useless.
“And what did the priest say?” Derenek inquired.
“Priestess,” Lady Avelyere corrected, but otherwise just stared at the body and did not elaborate or answer.
“Sanctified?” the warlock asked. “This body has been powerfully warded against desecration.”
“Ruqiah’s spells,” Lady Avelyere said sourly.
“Or Ruqiah herself,” came an unexpected voice from the door, and the diviner and the warlock turned to see Lord Parise Ulfbinder enter the room. “One would expect that a Chosen of a god would be so protected in death, correct?”
“Of course, Lord Ulfbinder,” Derenek said deferentially, and he bowed low.
“Stay with her,” Lady Avelyere instructed the necromancer. “Find a way.”
“I have attempted all of the appropriate spells, Lady,” Derenek replied.
“Then try them again!” Lady Avelyere demanded. “And again after that! I will have my answers.” She moved from the room, collecting the grinning Lord Ulfbinder in her wake.
“Terribly smelly,” he remarked when they were out of the chamber.
“That is not Ruqiah,” Lady Avelyere insisted.
“But you agree that she would be so protected from desecration.”
“No,” the woman reflexively responded, though she quickly changed it to, “Yes, but it is not her!”
“How do you know?”
“I have seen this ruse before. It would seem to be the way of the Desai. They used a dead child to hide the truth of Ruqiah those years ago.” She offered a derisive snort. “And that, too, was a death supposedly caused by a random stroke of lightning.”
“The bolt that hit the warehouse was no coincidence,” Parise agreed.
“Nor was it suicide,” Lady Avelyere insisted. “She would not do that. What goodly goddess would accept such a thing?”
“If her purpose was greater than her life,” Parise remarked leadingly, “would she not willingly sacrifice herself for the greater good?”
“We were no threat to that.”
“But how could she know that?”
“She should know none of it!” Lady Avelyere insisted. “Not that I discovered the truth of Ruq—Catti-brie, or that she had divulged any hint of the coming rendezvous under my magical influence.”
“If you think her ignorant of it all, then why would she kill herself? Or why would she create such an elaborate ruse? Isn’t this more likely a tragic accident, then? Perhaps not a coincidence, but a miscalculation by the confused young woman? And if she had somehow unwound the mental webbing of Lady Avelyere, is it not as likely that she would kill herself rather than jeopardize the entire purpose of her return to Toril? She had been reborn precisely for that reason, so you declared.”
“She had,” Lady Avelyere admitted. She paused and glanced back at the door to the room, trying to sort it all out. She couldn’t deny Parise’s reasoning; whether this was a fake suicide or an actual one, in either case, it would have to have been precipitated by Catti-brie discovering her own breach of secrecy.
“That is not Ruqiah,” she stated flatly a moment later. She turned and faced Parise directly, her expression set, strong and determined. “She has tried to trick us, and has set out from Shade Enclave.”
Parise shrugged, not ready to argue the point.
“And I will find her,” Lady Avelyere vowed.
“I certainly won’t dissuade you from trying,” said Parise. “If the goddesses Lolth and Mielikki wish to do battle over the soul of Drizzt Do’Urden, I would dearly love to bear witness.”
“And you shall,” Lady Avelyere promised. “And if she survives that trial, know that our little Ruqiah will answer to me.”
Summer had begun to blossom in the Silver Marches, lines of cherry trees lining the banks of the great rivers, their petals all fluffy and white.
The image struck a tender chord in Catti-brie’s heart, reminding her of days long past, of times long lost, and for a moment, the first in a long time, the woman was free of the emotional burden. For a moment, just a few heartbeats, Catti-brie was able to move her fears and regrets for Niraj and Kavita into the back of her mind and bask in the promise of the Companions of the Hall, of her father Bruenor and friend Regis, and most of all, in the arms of Drizzt.
She was a great bird again, a graceful hawk, perched on the branch of a naked, dead tree hanging over the eastern bank of the Surbrin just a short distance downstream of the stone bridge that spanned the river. She could see the decorated walls bordering the road beyond that bridge, winding back toward the rocky hillsides, leading to, Catti-brie knew so very well, the eastern gate of her beloved Mithral Hall.
She wanted to go in there! How she would have loved to see again the hallowed rooms she had called home for so many years.
She shuddered as she considered the possibility of standing before her own grave and that of Regis. Her previous body would be in that grave, though no doubt rotted to bones.
The thought weighed heavily on her, but only for a few moments. For she was a favored child of Mielikki now, and had seen the world through the philosophy of the goddess, the endless cycle, the eternal existence within physical boundaries to hold the spirit and give it substance and shape.
The rotting corpse within the cairn in Mithral Hall could not define her. Not anymore.
But still, the thought unnerved her. Despite her devotion and faith in the song she had learned in Iruladoon, the way of Mielikki, Catti-brie didn’t want to stand before that grave.
Not then. She simply wasn’t ready.
The hawk spread its wings and lifted off into the air, across the river and beyond.
To the west, ever west.
Catti-brie was barely out of sight, flying off, when a caravan rolled along the road on the eastern bank.
The dwarves across the bridge called out as the lead wagon made the bridge, but they were cheering, not demanding identification. For the lead wagon flew a pennant well-known to the folk of Mithral Hall.
Beside the driver of the fourth wagon sat a young red-bearded dwarf who had to remind himself to breathe as they rolled across that bridge, as they wound their way to the great doors of Mithral Hall, the kingdom he had twice ruled.
PART FOUR
THE ROAD TO KELVIN’S CAIRN
Is there any greater need within the social construct than that of trust? Is there any more important ingredient to friendship or to the integrity of a team?
And yet, throughout a person’s life, how many others might he meet who he can truly trust? The number is small, I fear. Yes, we will trust many with superficial tasks, but when we each dig down to emotions that entail true vulnerability, that number of honest confidants shrinks dramatically.
That has ever been the missing ingredient in my relationship with Dahlia and in my companionship with Artemis Entreri. As I consider it now, I can only laugh at the reality that I trust Entreri more than Dahlia, but only in that I trust him with matters of mutual benefit. Were I in dire peril, would either rush to my aid?
I think they would if there were any hope of victory, but if their help meant true sacrifice, wherein either of them had to surrender life to save mine … well, I would surely perish.
Is it possible that I have grown so cynical that I can accept that?
Who am I, then, and who might I become? I have forgotten that I have known friends who would push me out of the way of a speeding arrow, even if that meant catching the missile in their own bodies. So it was with the Companions of the Hall, all of us for each of us.
Even Regis. So often did we tease Regis, who was ever hiding in the shadows when battle was joined, but we knew with full confidence that our halfling friend would be there when the tide turned against us, and indeed, I have no doubt that my little friend would leap high to intercept the arrow before it reached my bosom at the willing price of his own life.
&
nbsp; I cannot say the same of this second group with whom I adventured. Entreri would not give his life for me, nor would Dahlia, I expect–though in truth, with Dahlia I never know what to expect. Afafrenfere the monk was capable of such loyalty, as was Ambergris the dwarf of Adbar, though whether I had earned that level of companionship with them or not I do not know. And Effron, the twisted warlock? I cannot be certain, though I surely doubt that one who dabbles in arts so dark is a man of generous heart.
Perhaps with time, this second adventuring group will grow as close as the Companions of the Hall, and perhaps in that tightening bond there would come selfless acts of the highest courage.
But should I spend a hundred years beside them, might I ever expect the same level of sacrifice and valor that I had known with Bruenor, Catti-brie, Regis, and Wulfgar? In a desperate battle against seemingly unwinnable odds, could I move ahead to flank our common enemy with full confidence that when it came to blows, these others would be there beside me, all in to victory or death?
No. Never.
This is the bond that would never materialize, the level of love and friendship that rises above all else—all else, even the most basic instinct of personal survival.
When I learned of Dahlia’s affair with Entreri, I was not surprised, and not merely because of my own role in driving her away. She made of me a cuckold, something Catti-brie would never have done, under any circumstance. And I was not surprised at the revelation, for this basic difference between the two women was clear for me to see all along. Perhaps I deluded myself in the beginning with Dahlia, blinded by intrigue and lust, or by the quaint notion that I could somehow repair the wounds within her, or most likely of all, by my need to replace that which I had lost.
But I always knew the truth.
When Effron told me of her dalliance with Entreri, I believed him immediately because it resonated with my honest understanding of my relationship and of this woman. I was neither surprised nor terribly wounded. However I lied to myself, however I tried to believe the best of the woman, this was who I knew Dahlia to be.
The Companions: The Sundering, Book I Page 30
