We will go to this place, this hole in the ground in a barren pass in the west. We will go and find Gauntlgrym, whatever that may truly mean. Perhaps Bruenor’s instincts are correct—could it be that Moradin told him of this in his days of near death? Perhaps we will find something entirely different, but that will still bring to us, to Bruenor, the clarity he needs to find the answers for Mithral Hall.
Fixated and desperate as he is, and as his people are, Bruenor doesn’t yet understand that the name he has affixed to our savior is not the point. The point is the search itself, for solutions and for the truth, and not the place he has determined as our goal.
“Gauntlgrym, elf.”
Indeed.
— Drizzt Do’Urden
CHAPTER 8
THE FIRST STRIDES HOME
The gates of Silverymoon, shining silver and with bars decorated like leafy vines, were closed, a clear signal that things were amiss in the Silver Marches. Stern-faced guards, elf and human, manned all posts along the city’s wall and around a series of small stone houses that served as checkpoints for approaching visitors.
Catti-brie—limping more profoundly from her days on the road—and Wulfgar noted the tense looks coming their way. The woman merely smiled, though, understanding that her companion, nearly seven feet tall and with shoulders broad and strong, could elicit such trepidation even in normal times. Predictably, those nervous guards relaxed and even offered waves as the pair neared, as they came to recognize the barbarian in his trademark wolf-skin cloak and the woman who had often served as liaison between Mithral Hall and Silverymoon.
There was no call for the pair to stop or even slow as they passed the stone structures, and the gate parted before them without request. Several of the sentries near that gate and atop the wall even began clapping for Wulfgar and Catti-brie and more than a few “huzzahs” were shouted as they passed.
“With official word or for pleasure alone?” the commander of the guard asked the couple inside the city gates. He looked at Catti-brie with obvious concern. “Milady, are you injured?”
Catti-brie replied with a dismissive look, as if it did not matter, but the guard continued, “I will provide a coach for you at once!”
“I have walked from Mithral Hall through snow and mud,” the woman replied. “I would not deny myself the joy of Silverymoon’s meandering ways.”
“But…”
“I will walk,” Catti-brie said. “Do not deny me this pleasure.”
The guard relented with a bow. “Lady Alustriel will be pleased by your arrival.”
“And we will be pleased to see her,” said Wulfgar.
“With official word from King Bruenor?” the commander asked again.
“With word more personal, but equally pressing,” the barbarian answered. “You will announce us?”
“The courier is already on his way to the palace.”
Wulfgar nodded his gratitude. “We will walk the ways of Silvery-moon, a course not direct, and will arrive at Lady Alustriel’s court before the sun has passed its zenith,” he explained. “Pleased we are to be here—truly Silverymoon is a welcomed sight and a welcoming city for road-weary travelers. Our business here might well include you and your men as well, commander….”
“Kenyon,” said Catti-brie, for she had met the man on many occasions, though briefly at each.
“I am honored that you remember me, Lady Catti-brie,” he said with another bow.
“We arrive in search of refugees who have come from Mithral Hall and may have crossed into your fairest of cities,” said Wulfgar.
“Many have come,” Kenyon admitted. “And many have left. But of course, we are at your disposal, son of Bruenor, on word of Lady Alustriel. Go and secure that word, I bid you.”
Wulfgar nodded, and he and Catti-brie moved past the guard station.
With their road-weathered clothes, one with a magical bow as a crutch and the other a giant of a man with a magnificent warhammer strapped across his back, the pair stood out in the city of philosophers and poets, and many a curious look turned their way as they walked the winding, seemingly aimless avenues of the decorated city. As with every visitor to Silverymoon, no matter how many times one traversed the place, their eyes were continually drawn upward, studying the intricate designs and artwork that covered the walls of every building, and upward still, to the tapering spires that topped every structure. Most communities were an expression of utility, with structures built suitable to the elements of their environment and the threats of regional monsters. Cities of commerce were built with wide avenues, port cities with fortified harbors and breakwaters, and frontier towns with thick walls. Silverymoon stood above all of these, for it was an expression of utility, of course, but more than that, an expression of spirit. Security and commerce were facilitated, but they were not paramount to the needs of the soul, where the library was grander than the barracks and the avenues were designed to turn visitors and residents to the most spectacular of views, rather than as efficient straight lines to the marketplace or the rows of houses and mercantiles.
It was hard to arrive in Silverymoon with urgent business, for few could walk swiftly through those streets, and fewer still could focus the mind sufficiently to defeat the intrusions of beauty.
Contrary to Wulfgar’s stated expectations, the sun had passed its zenith before Wulfgar and Catti-brie came in sight of Lady Alustriel’s wondrous palace, but that was all right, for the experienced guards had informed the Lady of Silverymoon that such would be the case.
“The finest humans of Clan Battlehammer,” said the tall woman, coming out from behind the curtains that separated this private section of her palatial audience chamber from the main, public promenade.
There was no overt malice in her humorous remark, though of course the couple standing before her, the adopted son and daughter of King Bruenor, were the only humans of Clan Battlehammer. Wulfgar smiled and chuckled, but Catti-brie didn’t quite find that level of mirth within her.
She stared at the great woman, Lady Alustriel, one of the Seven Sisters and leader of magnificent Silverymoon. She only remembered to offer a bow when Wulfgar dipped beside her, and even then, Catti-brie did not lower her head as she bent, staring intently at Alustriel.
For despite herself, Catti-brie was intimidated. Alustriel was nearly six feet tall and undeniably beautiful, by human standards, by elven standards—by any standards. Even the creatures of the higher planes would be pleased by her presence, Catti-brie knew in her heart, for there was a luminescence and gravity about Alustriel that was somehow beyond mortal existence. Her hair was silver and lustrous, and hung thick to her shoulders, and her eyes could melt a man’s heart or strip him of all courage at her will. Her gown was a simple affair, green with golden stitching, and just a few emeralds sewn for effect. Most kings and queens wore robes far more decorated and elaborate, of course, but Alustriel didn’t need any ornamentation. Any room that she entered was her room to command.
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.