With that, the yochlol-turned-drow began to transform again, not as dramatically as before-not physically, at least, but more fully, Yvonnel realized when she sensed the life energy of the yochlol departing.
But still, a naked drow woman stood there in Yiccardaria’s place, though only for a moment before the tiny, emaciated creature tumbled to the floor, seemingly too weak to even stand.
Yvonnel moved over and prodded the wretched and dirty drow with her foot, rolling her over just enough to look upon her face.
From the memories of Yvonnel the Eternal, this young Yvonnel knew this drow. Her first reaction was one of near murderous fury.
“K’yorl Odran,” she mouthed, hardly able to spit out the name in her abject shock.
CHAPTER 3
The woman chanted softly, her eyes closed. She dipped her fingers into the small bowl Ambergris had given her and pulled them forth dripping with ogre’s blood. Gently she stroked the black leather belt, singing to it, the blood streaking it and melting in, disappearing without a trace. Over and over she dipped and ran her bloodied fingers across the enchanted material. This item was for her beloved husband, a secret gift, and one she hoped would keep him alive.
A long time later, Catti-brie collapsed onto the floor in exhaustion, the belt still hanging from the rack where she had imbued it with its powers. The mithral buckle glistened in the torchlight.
The woman slept the night away, her creation above her.
The next day, Catti-brie wore her simple white robe and a black lace shawl, its loose hood upon her head, framing her face. She sat on the altar stone in the primordial chamber and stared up at the water pouring in from the tendrils above: living water, carrying the essence of the Elemental Plane of Water in the form of elementals to hold back the mighty primordial from the Plane of Fire. These were the roots of the distant Hosttower of the Arcane, the residual magic holding strong-for now.
The constant steam in the room felt wonderful and she inhaled it deeply, feeling rejuvenated after the powerful enchanting the day before. There was a great equilibrium to be found here, a profound reminder to her of the balance of Toril itself: the give and take of the seasons, the undulations of the tides. What a wonderful gift was this home, this world.
And what a wonderful creation was Gauntlgrym, built by dwarves and almost surely by elves. What other race could have powers great enough to forge the Hosttower of the Arcane and devise this elaborate subterranean aqueduct, enchanting the water with the stuff of that elemental plane all along its hundred-mile journey to this place?
She could not hope to replicate such a masterpiece, of course, even with the help of Archmage Gromph and the Harpells, and any and every other wizard or priestess they might pull in from thousands of leagues around. Magic was no longer as pure as in the long-lost days of Faerun, and ancient secrets were deeply hidden from the folk of the modern world.
But Catti-brie didn’t have to replicate the grandeur of the undertaking that had made Gauntlgrym possible, she reminded herself. She just had to repair it.
“Give me the wisdom, Goddess,” she whispered.
Someone cleared his throat behind her, and the woman twisted around.
Jarlaxle was into his respectful bow before she fully recognized him.
“Again?” she asked in disbelief. “How long have you been there?”
“You looked serious,” he said. “I did not want to disturb you.”
“But now you have.”
The drow mercenary laughed and bowed again.
Catti-brie apologized. “The task before me is daunting,” she admitted.
“We’ll find you allies in the undertaking,” Jarlaxle promised. “Do not underestimate the knowledge and power of Archmage Gromph. And the Harpells, for all their eccentricity, have been known to deliver well in those moments of dire need. And there are others.”
“Do tell.”
“A thousand dwarves.”
“Masons! That’s the easy part, even for a structure as beautiful and intricate as the former Hosttower.”
“There are many who would not wish to see the primordial escape its bindings,” the drow replied. “And I speak not of fools like Lord Neverember, or any other of the local nobles, who cannot see far enough past their own mirror to even realize there is a wider world out there.”
“More drow?”
“There are a few I would welcome,” Jarlaxle replied without hesitation. “And with House Xorlarrin wandering about, there are some fine wizards to be found to lend a hand. House Xorlarrin plans to retake Gauntlgrym in the distant future, of course, and so they will be most eager to help with keeping the beast in its pit.”
“Fine allies,” the woman said dryly.
“Common goals-for now.”
Catti-brie heaved a sigh, shook her head, and faced the pouring water again.
“But no, I wasn’t speaking of drow,” Jarlaxle said, walking over to stand beside her. “We already have the most learned of all the drow wizards in the person of Gromph. But there are others with knowledge of the ancient ways and magic. We will find them.”
He put his hand comfortingly on Catti-brie’s shoulder and she turned her head to regard him. She even managed a slight hopeful nod at his welcomed optimism.
Truly this was a daunting task!
“You will find these others, then, as we go about our work?”
“I hope. It is not in my best interest to let Gauntlgrym fall to the primordial, even beyond my friendship …” He paused and let that hang for a moment, staring hard at the woman.
“Is that the appropriate word?” he asked at length. “Am I considered a friend to the Companions of the Hall? To King Bruenor of Gauntlgrym?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“But I want to hear it from you,” he said. “And of you. Am I your friend, Catti-brie?”
The woman put her hand up to cover Jarlaxle’s, but turned back to watch the waterfall. “You perplex me,” she admitted. “I am never quite sure of your motives or your goals, and yet, those have aligned with my own enough times now that I have come to trust you.”
“As a friend?”
“Yes.” She was surprised by her quick admission, but even in reflection, she couldn’t deny that she did indeed consider Jarlaxle a friend. He always had ulterior motives, of course, but he had never given Catti-brie or any of them any reason to believe that he would betray them. She remembered that day, long, long ago, when she, Drizzt, and Entreri were trying to escape Menzoberranzan only to find Jarlaxle and his band waiting for them in the tunnels.
He had them caught, but let them go.
Certainly Drizzt was fond of the mercenary leader-with caution, of course.
“I have a grand stake in the matter of King Bruenor remaining in control of this wondrous place,” Jarlaxle said with a smile. “I will endeavor to make sure that the drow of Menzoberranzan do not try to displace him, and the trading opportunities this arrangement presents for me … well, let me just say that I am quite pleased that the dwarves have retaken Gauntlgrym.”
Now Catti-brie looked at the mercenary a bit more cautiously. Jarlaxle was ever the opportunist. Could he really facilitate the movement of goods from Menzoberranzan and the surface through Gauntlgrym? Menzoberranzan and Mithral Hall had been mortal enemies-indeed, was it not Menzoberranzan that had spurred the most recent war in the Silver Marches? It was King Bruenor himself who had cleaved the head of Matron Mother Baenre in the Time of Troubles, cementing their enmity.
She stared at Jarlaxle for a long while, and finally understood that he really was thinking of such possibilities. In the end, she just shook her head. If anyone could accomplish such a ridiculously improbable thing, it would be Jarlaxle.
“Where is my husband?” she asked, thinking it time to change the subject-and why had Jarlaxle come here to see her?