Doum’wielle enjoyed the respite, and the training time it afforded her with Khazid’hea. The sword understood Drizzt, and she was being trained specifically to fight him, she knew. She soon came to recognize that she had not been the first one the sentient Cutter had trained in this manner, and for the same purpose.
“You have a vendetta against that particular dark elf,” she whispered to the sword one sunny afternoon. Tiago had remained inside the house, out of the uncomfortable sun, while Doum’wielle wanted to bask in the bright sunlight, well aware that she might not again know this sensation for many years, perhaps never again.
I was once wielded by Catti-brie, the sword explained. She was not worthy. Doum’wielle digested the thoughts, not disagreeing, but still unable to make the connection, considering the sword’s obvious anger toward the drow ranger. This preparation and training, this plan Khazid’hea had formulated, wasn’t just about her, Doum’wielle had come to believe. There was something else here, something personal. But why would a sword care?
He rejected you, she thought, and the sensation returned by Khazid’hea told her that she had indeed sorted out the riddle.
“You wished Drizzt to wield you when Catti-brie could not properly do so,” she whispered.
She felt the sword’s anger-not directed at her.
Doum’wielle understood clearly then that she had just confirmed that she was not the first the sentient blade had trained specifically to kill Drizzt Do’Urden. She was about to inquire of that when a noise to the side, along with a warning from Khazid’hea, put her on her guard. She backstepped to the house’s door, expecting a group of werewolves, or perhaps a dwarf patrol, to leap out upon her.
But it was not a werewolf that came forth, nor a dwarf, but a drow, and one Doum’wielle did not recognize.
“Well met, Little Doe,” he said, but then put his hand to his lips and gasped. “Pardon, Doum’wielle Armgo,” he corrected with a low and respectful bow. “Or should I call you Doum’wielle Do’Urden now?”
“Who are you?”
“I am of Bregan D’aerthe,” the drow answered.
“The mercenary band?”
“Who serve at the pleasure of Matron Mother Baenre,” the drow clarified. “Like your partner, I am Baenre. Beniago, at your service.”
Doum’wielle thought she had heard the name before, but she couldn’t be sure.
“I am here at the command of the matron mother, and of Archmage Gromph,” Beniago went on. “They tasked Bregan D’aerthe with finding you-well, to be honest, with finding Tiago, who is a noble son of House Baenre. But we expected that you would not be far from his side.”
“You have come to bring us back to Menzoberranzan?”
“No. Not immediately, at least. I know nothing of that. I was tasked with finding you and delivering to you a gift from the archmage.”
He began to approach, and held up his hands as if he were holding something, a cape or a cord, perhaps, though Doum’wielle could see nothing. She shied back a step or two.
He is no enemy, Khazid’hea imparted to her and she let Beniago catch up to her, and only flinched a bit as his hands went up high. He moved them out over her head, as if he were placing a crown, or perhaps a necklace upon her, and indeed as he brought his hands down, Doum’wielle felt the weight of a heavy chain.
“Wh-what. .?” she stammered, falling back and reaching up, and indeed feeling a chain around her neck, as thick as a finger, and with a circular pendant hanging low between her breasts.
“With that around your neck, Archmage Gromph can know your place,” Beniago explained.
“Know my place?”
“The matron mother will send him to retrieve you and Tiago when she so chooses,” Beniago bluntly replied. “She is not one to forgive tardiness.”
Despite the warning, this whole scenario seemed an invasion to Doum’wielle, and she reflexively went to remove the invisible necklace.
“Do not,” Beniago warned, the tone of his voice changing dramatically. “You are instructed to wear it, and to say nothing of it to Tiago, and nothing of this visit at all. To Tiago or anyone else.”
At the mention of Tiago, Doum’wielle glanced back at the house, where all was quiet.
“Nothing,” Beniago warned her again.
Doum’wielle was about to protest, but Beniago cut her short, and stole any argument she might have offered, by saying, “On penalty of. .” He paused and smiled. “You can well imagine. The Archmage of Menzoberranzan is already aware of your location, bastard darthiir of House Do’Urden. Gromph Baenre is already aware that you wear the necklace. And he will know if you try to remove it.”
Doum’wielle understood then that this wasn’t a request. It was a command, and one that carried great and deadly consequence if it was not followed. She looked down and cupped the pendant in her hand, trying to make out some slight reflection of the thing. But it was perfectly invisible.
Doum’wielle looked back up, but Beniago was already gone.
She turned back to the house and considered Tiago.
He cannot protect you from the wrath of Archmage Gromph, Khazid’hea said in her thoughts, and if the sword had been reading her mind, it would have known that she understood that truth very, very well.
They have likely been searching for Tiago since he fell from the wyrm, Khazid’hea explained.
Then he should wear the necklace.
You would tell that to Archmage Gromph?
The necklace seemed heavier to Little Doe, then, and its chain, a shackle.
“Well, where would you like to go?” Kipper asked.
“I know not,” a flustered and somewhat nervous Catti-brie answered.
Old Kipper had just taught her the basics of a spell she feared, one that she wanted to spend some more time studying, and here he was prodding her to give it a try!
“Just think of a place, girl!” Kipper scolded. “Imagine a place of safety and security, a place where you could hide and feel as if nothing in the world could harm you.”
Catti-brie looked at him curiously.
“Best for a teleport,” Kipper explained. “For there, in your most secure hearth and home, is a place you know best. Every corner, every finger of it is locked into your mind’s eye so perfectly that you won’t miss with your spell. And so you can trust that you’ll never appear too high up in the air and take a nasty fall, or, shudder to say it, magically appear too low, in the midst of stone and dirt!” He paused and scrutinized her carefully.
“Mithral Hall, perhaps?”
But Catti-brie’s thoughts, spurred by Kipper’s description were not, to her surprise, recalling a place anywhere near Mithral Hall. No, she pictured a place she had cultivated, a place of Mielikki. She had known violence in that place, and had once been discovered there, and yet, to her, the secret garden she had cultivated as the child Ruqiah seemed to her the place of her spirit’s warmest rest.
She saw it now, so clearly that she felt as if she could touch it. She began reciting the spell, though she was hardly aware of the words spilling forth.
She could smell the flowers, she could touch them.
Indeed, she was touching them before she even realized that she had successfully cast the spell, and was then standing in the secret garden in the lands that had been Netheril-and indeed, still might be, for Cattibrie had not been there in several years, and on that occasion had only passed through.
She stood there for a long while, remembering Niraj and Kavita and the Desai tribe. She hoped they were well, and vowed to find them again when she was done with Bruenor’s war.
She glanced back at the narrow entrance to the place, through the shielding stones, and thought of Lady Avelyere, who had called to her from that very entrance, angry that her student had so deceived her. Catti-brie smiled, for that was not really a bad memory, though surely she had been startled and afraid when powerful Avelyere had caught her.