Passage to Dawn (Legacy of the Drow #4)

Passage to Dawn (Legacy of the Drow #4) Page 11

They came out of the cave to find Guenhwyvar sitting calmly atop a pinned Dunkin. Drizzt waved the cat off the man and they departed.

Drizzt was hardly conscious of the journey back across the island to the rowboat. He said nothing all the way, except to dismiss Guenhwyvar back to her astral home as soon as they realized that they would face no resistance on the beach this time. The ice was gone and so were the zombies. The others, respecting the drow's mood, understanding the unnerving information the hag had given him, remained quiet as well.

Drizzt repeated the blind seer's words over and over in his mind, vainly trying to commit them to memory. Every syllable could be a clue, Drizzt realized, every inflection might offer him some hint as to who might be holding his father prisoner. But the words had come too suddenly, too unexpectedly.

His father! Zaknafein! Drizzt could hardly breathe as he thought of the sudden possibility. He remembered their many sparring matches, the years they had spent in joyful and determined practice. He remembered the time when Zaknafein had

tried to kill him, and he loved his father even more for that, because Zaknafein had come after him only in the belief that his beloved Drizzt had gone over to the dark ways of the drow.

Drizzt shook the memories from his mind. He had no time for nostalgia now; he had to focus on the task so suddenly at hand. As great as was his elation at the thought that Zaknafein might be returned to him, so was his trepidation. Some powerful being, either a matron mother, or perhaps even Lloth herself, held the secret, and the hag's words implicated Catti-brie as well as Drizzt. The ranger cast a sidelong glance at Catti-brie, who was lost in apparently similar contemplations. The hag had intimated that all of this, the attack in Waterdeep and the journey to this remote island, had been arranged by a powerful enemy who sought revenge not only upon Drizzt, but upon Catti-brie.

Drizzt slowed and let the others get a few steps ahead as they dragged the rowboat to the surf. He released Catti-brie from his gaze, and, momentarily at least, from his thoughts, going back to privately reciting the hag's verse. The best thing he could do for Catti-brie, and for Zaknafein, was to memorize it, all of it, as exactly as possible. Drizzt understood that consciously, but still, the possibility that Zaknafein might be alive, overwhelmed him, and all the verses seemed fuzzy, a distant dream that the ranger fought hard to recollect. Drizzt was not alert as they splashed back off the beach of Caerwich. His eyes focused only on the swish of the oars under the dark water, and so intent was he that if a horde of zombies had risen up against them from the water, Drizzt would have been the last to draw a weapon.

As it turned out, they got back to the Sea Sprite without incident and Deudermont, after a quick check with Drizzt to assure that they were done with their business on the island, wasted no time in putting the ship back out to sea. Deudermont called for full sails the moment they got out of the enveloping fog of Caerwich, and the swift schooner soon put the misty island far, far behind. Only after Caerwich was out of sight did Deudermont call Drizzt, Catti-brie, and the two wizards into his private quarters for a discussion of what had just transpired.

"You knew what the old witch was speaking about?" the captain asked Drizzt.

"Zaknafein," the drow replied without hesitation. He noticed that Catti-brie's expression seemed to cloud over. The woman

had been tense all the way back from the cave, almost giddy, but it seemed to Drizzt that she was now merely crestfallen.

"And our course now?" Deudermont asked.

"Home, and only home," Robillard put in. "We have no provisions, and we still have some damage to repair from the storm that battered us before we made the Gull Rocks."

"After that?" the captain wanted to know, looking directly at Drizzt as he asked the question.

Drizzt was warmed by the sentiment, by the fact that Deudermont was deferring to his judgment. When the drow gave no immediate response, the captain went on.

" 'Seek the one who hates you most,' the witch said," Deudermont reasoned. "Who might that be?"

"Entreri," Catti-brie answered. She turned to a surprised Deudermont. "Artemis Entreri, a killer from the southlands."

"The same assassin we once chased all the way to Calimshan?" Deudermont asked.

"Our business with that one never seems to be finished," Catti-brie explained. "He's hating Drizzt more than any-"

"No," Drizzt interrupted, shaking his head, running a hand through his thick white hair. "Not Entreri." The drow understood Artemis Entreri quite well, too well. Indeed Entreri hated him, or had once hated him, but their feud had been more propelled by blind pride, the assassin's need to prove himself the better, than by any tangible reason for enmity. After his stay in Menzoberranzan, Entreri had been cured of that need, at least somewhat. No, this challenge went deeper than the assassin. This had to do with Lloth herself, and involved not only Drizzt, but Catti-brie, and the dropping of the stalactite mount into the Baenre chapel. This pursuit, this proverbial golden ring, was based in pure and utter hatred.

"Who then?" Deudermont asked after a lengthy silence.

Drizzt could not give a definite answer. "A Baenre, most likely," he replied. "I have made many enemies. There are dozens in Menzoberranzan who would go to great lengths to kill me."

"But how do you know it is someone from Menzoberranzan?" Harkle interjected. "Do not take this the wrong way, but you have made many enemies on the surface as well!"

"Entreri," Catti-brie said again.

Drizzt shook his head. "The hag said, 'A foe made in the home that was first,'" Drizzt explained. "An enemy from Menzoberranzan."

Catti-brie wasn't sure that Drizzt had correctly repeated the witch's exact words, but the evidence seemed irrefutable.

"So where to start?" Deudermont, playing the role of moderator and nothing more, asked them all.

"The witch spoke of otherworldly influence," Robillard reasoned. "She mentioned the Abyss."

"Lloth's home," Drizzt added.

Robillard nodded. "So we must get some answers from the Abyss," the wizard reasoned.

"Are we to sail there?" Deudermont scoffed.

The wizard, more knowledgeable in such matters, merely smiled and shook his head. "We must bring a fiend to our world," he explained, "and extract information from it. Not so difficult or unusual a task for those practiced in the art of sorcery."

"As you are?" Deudermont asked him.

Robillard shook his head and looked to Harkle.

"What?" the distracted Harpell said dumbly as soon as he noticed every gaze upon him. The wizard was deep in thought, also trying to reconstruct the blind witch's verse, though from his vantage point in the cave, he hadn't heard every word.

"As you are," Robillard explained, "practiced in matters of sorcery."

"Me?" he squeaked. "Oh, no. Not allowed at the Ivy Mansion, not for twenty years. Too many problems. Too many fiends walking around eating Harpells!"

"Then who will get us the answers?" Catti-brie asked.

"There are wizards in Luskan who practice sorcery," Robillard offered, "as do some priests in Waterdeep. Neither will come cheaply."

"We have the gold," Deudermont said.

"That is the ship's gold," Drizzt put in. "For all crew of the Sea Sprite."

Deudermont waved a hand at him as he spoke, the captain shaking his head with every syllable. "Not until Drizzt Do'Urden and Catti-brie came aboard have we enjoyed such a business and such a profit," he told the drow. "You are a part of the Sea Sprite, a member of her crew, and all will donate their share as you would donate yours to help another."

Drizzt could find no argument against that offer, but he did note a bit of grumbling when Robillard added, "Indeed."

"Waterdeep or Luskan, then?" Deudermont asked Robillard. "Do I sail north of the Moonshaes, or south?"

"Waterdeep," Harkle unexpectedly answered. "Oh, I would choose the priest," the wizard explained. "A goodly priest. Better with fiends than a wizard because the wizard might have other duties or questions he wishes to ask of the beast. Not good to get a fiend too involved, I say."

Drizzt, Catti-brie and Deudermont looked at the man curiously, trying to decipher what he was talking about.

"He is right," the Sea Sprite's wizard quickly explained. "A goodly priest will stick to the one task, and we can be sure that such a person will call to a fiend only to better the cause of good, of justice." He looked at Drizzt as he said this, and the drow got the feeling that Robillard was suddenly questioning the wisdom of this search, the wisdom of following the blind witch's words. Questioning the course, and perhaps, Drizzt realized, the motive.

"Freeing Zaknafein from the clutches of Lloth, or of a matron mother would be a just act," Drizzt insisted, a bit of anger seeping into the edges of his voice.

"Then a goodly priest is our best choice," the Sea Sprite's wizard replied casually, no apologies forthcoming.

Kierstaad looked into the black, dead eyes of the reindeer lying still, so very still, upon the flat tundra, surrounded by the colorful flowers that rushed to bloom in Icewind Dale's short summer. He had killed the deer cleanly with one throw of his great spear.

Kierstaad was glad of that. He felt little remorse at the sight of the magnificent beast, for the survival of his people depended upon the success of the hunt. Not a bit of this proud animal would be wasted. Still, the young man was glad that the kill, his first kill, had been clean. He looked into the eyes of the dead animal and gave thanks to its spirit.

Berkthgar came up behind the young hunter and patted him on the shoulder. Kierstaad, too overwhelmed by the spectacle, by the sudden realization that in the eyes of the tribe he was no more a boy, hardly noticed as the huge man strode past him, a long knife in hand.

Berkthgar crouched beside the animal and shifted its legs out of the way. His cut was clean and perfect, long practiced. Only a moment later, he turned about and stood up, holding his bloody arms out to Kierstaad, holding the animal's heart.

"Eat it and gain the deer's strength and speed," the barbarian leader promised.

Kierstaad took the heart tentatively and brought it near to his lips. This was part of the test, he knew, though he had no idea that this would be expected of him. The gravity in Berkthgar's voice was unmistakable, he could not fail. No more a boy, he told himself. Something savage welled in him at the smell of the blood, at the thought of what he must do.

"The heart holds the spirit of the deer," another man explained. "Eat of that spirit."

Kierstaad hesitated no longer. He brought the blackish-red heart to his lips and bit deeply. He was hardly conscious of his next actions, of devouring the heart, of bathing in the spirit of the slain deer. Chants rose around him, the hunters of Berkthgar's party welcoming him to manhood.

No more a boy.

Nothing more was expected of Kierstaad. He stood impassively to the side while the older hunters cleaned and dressed the reindeer. This was indeed the better way for he and his people, living free of the bonds of wealth and the ties to others. In that, at least, Kierstaad knew that Berkthgar was right. Yet, the young man continued to bear no ill will toward the dwarves or the folk of Ten-Towns, and had no intention of allowing any lies to diminish his respect for Wulfgar, who had done so much good for the tribes of Icewind Dale.

Kierstaad looked to the harvesting of the reindeer, so complete and perfect. No waste and no disrespect for the proud animal. He looked to his own bloody hands and arms, felt a line of blood running down his chin to drip onto the spongy soil. This was his life, his destiny. Yet what did that mean? More war with Ten-Towns, as had happened so many times in the past? And what of relations with the dwarves who had returned to their mines south of Kelvin's Cairn?

Kierstaad had listened to Berkthgar throughout the last few weeks. He had heard Berkthgar arguing with Revjak, Kierstaad's father and the accepted leader of the Tribe of the Elk, at present

the one remaining tribe on Icewind Dale's tundra. Berkthgar would break away, Kierstaad thought as he looked at the gigantic man. Berkthgar would take the other young warriors with him and begin anew the Tribe of the Bear, or one of the other ancestral tribes. Then the tribal rivalry that had for so long been a way of life for Icewind Dale's barbarians would begin anew. They would fight for food or for good ground as they wandered the tundra.

It was one possibility only, Kierstaad reasoned, trying to shake the disturbing thoughts away. Berkthgar wanted to be the complete leader, wanted to emulate and then surpass the legend of Wulfgar. He could not do that if he splintered the remaining barbarians, who in truth were not yet numerous enough to support any separate tribes of any real power.

Wulfgar had united the tribes.

There were other possibilities, but as he thought about it, none of them sat well with him.

Berkthgar looked up from the kill, smiling widely, accepting Kierstaad fully and with no ulterior motives. Yet Kierstaad was the son of Revjak, and it seemed to him now that Berkthgar and his father might be walking a troubled course. The leader of a barbarian tribe could be challenged.

That notion only intensified when the successful hunting party neared the deerskin tent encampment of the tribe, only to intercept one Bruenor Battlehammer and another dwarf, the priestess Stumpet Rakingclaw.

"You do not belong here!" Berkthgar immediately growled at the dwarven leader.

"Well met to yerself too," Stumpet, never the one to sit back and let others speak for her, snarled at Berkthgar. "Ye're forgettin' Keeper's Dale, then, as we've heard ye were?"

"I do not speak to females on matters of importance," Berkthgar said evenly.

Bruenor moved quickly, extending an arm to hold the outraged Stumpet back. "And I'm not for talking with yerself," Bruenor replied. "Me and me cleric have come to see Revjak, the leader of the Tribe of the Elk."

Berkthgar's nostrils flared. For a moment, Kierstaad and the others expected him to hurl himself at Bruenor, and the dwarf, bracing himself and slapping his many-notched axe across his open palm, apparently expected it, too.

But Berkthgar, no fool, calmed himself. "I, too, lead the hunters of Icewind Dale," he said. "Speak your business and be gone!"

Bruenor chuckled and walked past the proud barbarian, moving into the settlement. Berkthgar howled and leaped, landing right in Bruenor's path.

"Ye led in Settlestone," the red-bearded dwarf said firmly. "And ye might be leadin' here. Then again, ye might not. Revjak was king when we left the dale and Revjak's king still, by all word I'm hearing." Bruenor's judging gray eyes never left Berkthgar as he walked past the huge man once more.

Stumpet turned up her nose and didn't bother to eye the giant barbarian.

For Kierstaad, who liked Bruenor and his wild clan, it was a painful meeting.

The wind was light, the only sound the creaking timbers of the Sea Sprite as it glided quietly eastward on calm waters. The moon was full and pale above them as it crossed a cloudless sky.

Catti-brie sat on the raised platform of the ballista, huddled near to a candle, every so often jotting something down on parchment. Drizzt leaned on the rail, his parchment rolled and in a pocket of his cloak. On Deudermont's wise instructions, all six who had been in the blind witch's cave were to write down the poem as they remembered it. Five of them could write, an extraordinary percentage. Waillan, who was not skilled with letters would dictate his recollection to both Harkle and Robillard, who would separately pen the words, hopefully without any of their own interpretations.

It hadn't taken Drizzt long to write down the verse, at least the parts he remembered most clearly, the parts he considered vital. He understood that every word might provide a necessary clue, but he was simply too excited, too overwhelmed to pay attention to minute details. In the poem's second line, the witch had spoken of Drizzt's father, and had intimated at Zaknafein's survival several times thereafter. That was all that Drizzt could think of, all that he could hope to remember.

Catti-brie was more diligent, her written record of the verse far more complete. But she, too, had been overwhelmed and surprised, and simply couldn't be certain of how accurate her recording might be.

"I would have liked to share a night such as this with him," Drizzt said, his voice shattering the stillness so abruptly that the young woman nearly jabbed her quill through the fragile parchment. She looked up to Drizzt, whose eyes were high, his gaze focused on the moon.

"Just one," the drow went on. "Zaknafein would have loved the surface night."

Catti-brie smiled, not doubting the claim. Drizzt had spoken to her many times about his father. Drizzt's soul was the legacy of his father's, not of his evil mother's. The two were alike, in combat and in heart, with the notable exception that Drizzt had found the courage to walk away from Menzoberranzan, whereas Zaknafein had not. He had remained with the evil dark elves and had eventually come to be sacrificed to the Spider Queen.

"Given to Lloth and by Lloth given."

The true line came suddenly to Catti-brie. She whispered it once aloud, hearing the ring and knowing it to be exact, then went back to her parchment and located the line. She had written, "for" instead of "to," which she quickly corrected.

Every little word could be vital.

"I suspect that the danger I now face is beyond anything we have ever witnessed," Drizzt went on, talking to himself as much as to Catti-brie.

Catti-brie didn't miss his use of the personal pronoun, instead of the collective. She too was involved, a point that she was about to make clear, but another line came to her, jogged by Drizzt's proclamation.

"That thee might seek the darkest of trails."

Catti-brie realized that was the next line and her quill went to work. Drizzt was talking again, but she hardly heard him. She did catch a few words, though, and she stopped writing, her gaze lifting from the parchment to consider the drow. He was speaking again of going off alone!

"The verse was for us two," Catti-brie reminded him.

"The dark trail leads to my father," Drizzt replied, "a drow you have never met."

"Yer point being?" Catti-brie asked.

"The trail is for me to walk ..."

"With meself," Catti-brie said determinedly. "Don't ye be doing that again!" she scolded. "Ye walked off once on me, and nearly brought ruin upon yerself and us all for yer stupidity!"

Drizzt swung about and eyed her directly. How he loved this woman! He knew that he could not argue the point with her, knew that whatever arguments he might present, she would defeat them, or simply ignore them.

"I'm going with ye, all the way," Catti-brie said, no compromise in her firm tone. "And me thinkin's that Deudermont and Harkle, and maybe a few o' the others're coming along, too. And just ye try to stop us, Drizzt Do'Urden!"

Drizzt began to reply, but changed his mind. Why bother? He would never talk his friends into letting him walk this dark course alone. Never.

He looked back out to the dark sea and to the moon and stars, his thoughts drifting back to Zaknafein and the "golden ring," the witch had held out to him.

"It will take at least two weeks to get back to port," he lamented.

"Three, if the wind doesn't come up strong," Catti-brie put in, her focus never leaving the all-important parchment.

Not so far away, on the main deck just below the rail of the poop deck, Harkle Harpell rubbed his hands eagerly. He shared Drizzt's lament that all of this would take so very long, and had no stomach for another two or three weeks of rolling about on the empty water.

"The fog of fate," he mouthed quietly, thinking of his new, powerful spell, the enchantment that had brought him out to the Sea Sprite in the first place. The opportunity seemed perfect for him to energize his new spell once more.