The smile that was stamped upon Drizzt's face was as genuine as any he had ever worn. The tears on his cheeks were wrought of joy and contentment.
He knew that a troubled road lay ahead for him and for his friends. The ores remained, and he had to deal with a dark elf wielding the ever-deadly Khazid'hea.
But those obstacles seemed far less imposing to Drizzt Do'Urden that morning, and when Innovindil-the whole and unpossessed Innovindil-came to him and wrapped him in a hug, he felt as if nothing in all the world was amiss.
For Drizzt Do'Urden trusted his friends, and with the forgiveness and serenity of Ellifain, Drizzt Do'Urden again trusted himself.
TEARS SO WHITE
Firelight played a gentle dance across the old, faded map of Faerun painted on Storm Silverhand's kitchen ceiling. Rathan Thentraver lowered his gaze from idle study of familiar coastlines and forests to growl happily, "Ahhh, that was wonderful! The sauce…"
The burp that erupted through Rathan's rhapsodizing just then was as violently sudden as it was unintended. Wherefore it left him momentarily speechless.
His best friend Torm sat at his elbow-and Torm, by far the most sly of the Knights of Myth Drannor, was a man who'd never needed more than half a moment to launch anything in all his life.
"Certainly had a certain something to it, Storm," he grinned, finishing the sputtering priest's sentence. "Care to share just this one cauldron-secret?"
Their hostess gave him a smile over her shoulder, not turning from the sink. "Boiled serpents' eyes-two heaping handfuls, and they must be fresh. Vipers only, mind."
All around the gleaming table, full-bellied Knights, lounging contentedly over mugs of hot greenleaf tea, chuckled good-naturedly. All except Dove and Merith, who arched eloquent eyebrows at each other, knowing the Bard of Shadowdale told the plain truth.
Torm was also a man who missed little. He saw their traded glances, and his grin faded a little. "You're not jesting, are you?"
Storm turned around, long silver tresses playing about her shoulders like so many restless snakes, and said, "No."
Florin winced, Rathan gaped in open-mouthed astonishment, and Jhessail sighed and regarded the ceiling.
Rathan's next belch, arriving in the moment of silence that followed, was rather less contented.
"And fair even to ye, Master Thentraver," an old and gruff voice made reply to it, adding a hearty belch- almost before its owner faded into visibility. The Knights around the table blinked, but no one swore or snatched for weapons. The speaker was all too familiar.
The wizard Elminster, as beak-nosed and bright-eyed as ever, stood just inside the west door of Storm's kitchen-a stout old oval of crossbraces, eye-windows, and entwined berry-vines that had been closed all evening against the icy Alturiak chill, and even then remained quiet and closed behind him.
The Old Mage of Shadowdale wore his preferred garb: robes, breeches, and boots of worn, soft leather, as weather-torn as those of any vagabond. He was clad like a lack-coin wayfarer-but dominated the room like a king.
The six Knights who'd feasted under Silverhand's roof all stared at him. Not one of them-Florin, Dove, Jhes-sail, Merith, Torm, nor Rathan-had ever seen the Old Mage look quite so grim before. Moreover, one of his eyes glimmered as if it held liquid fire, or a twinkling star restless to spill forth. Grim, indeed.
So were his next words: "I need ye. Now. With whate'er weapons ye've ready. Spells matter not."
Torm sighed and set down his empty tallglass. "Care to tell us what particular corner of Faerun we're rushing off to save this time, Oldbeard, or are you playing Mage Most Mysterious, as usual?"
Elminster raised a hand. Two of its long, bony fingers pointed at Torm and Rathan.
"Not ye two. Thy sort of mischief is best worked here- keeping Fzoul at bay, trouncing any daemonfey foolish enough to come skulking hereabouts; that sort of thing. Ye know."
Then the great archmage strode forward, tiny stars winking out of the empty air around him as he went. Everyone watched them drift into the shapes of two long sword blades in his hands.
Elminster rounded the table, followed by curious stares, to nod at Storm and add gruffly, "Bide ye safe here, lass. Someone has to protect the dale against yon prize pair of fools." He inclined his head in the direction of Torm and Rathan, walked right up to the great trunk of the shadowtop tree that grew in the heart of Storm's kitchen, and stepped into it as if it was made of mere shadow.
Dove was on her feet in an instant, murmuring, "Hurry. 'Ere yon way closes again. Just pluck up and carry your boots."
The Knights hastened, plunging into the dark nothingness of the tree after Elminster in a few swift moments, leaving Torm and Rathan staring rather crossly at each other.
"Now what was all that about?"
"Aye, tell us nothing, as usual. We happy dancing fools never need to know anything important."
With one accord, they turned to Storm Silverhand- and fell silent, jaws dropping open in unison.
Storm Silverhand stared in dismay at the tree five friends had just vanished through, and her face was as white as the fresh-fallen snow outside her kitchen windows.
The world was white. Not the cold, wet heavy white of Shadowdale snow, but drifting mists amid an endless web of smooth strands, some large, some small, all curving… and all thrumming with tireless force that made teeth ache and skin itch. All white, and nothing else-no sky, no horizon, no keeps nor trees, nor anything else to make for.
"Is it permitted," Florin asked quietly beside Elminster's ear, as the Knights hauled their boots on, "to ask where we are?"
The ranger was startled by his lady Dove taking his head in both her hands and kissing him deeply. Through the faint lace of the firewine she'd been drinking in Storm's kitchen, her mouth seemed hot, her tongue like fire against his own.
Before Florin had time to feel real surprise, she drew back to look longingly into his eyes, their noses almost touching, and murmur, "Remember me always."
And she was gone, stepping back from him to stand with her back pressed against the nearest large strand- one of countless thousands within his view that rose like leafless trees in the misty, endless web. Spreading her arms and legs wide into a great X, Dove slapped them against the thrumming whiteness, her eyes steady on his.
Florin made a small sound of bewilderment and stepped forward, raising a hand toward her-even as she gasped, shivered, arched her back, and… went white all over, her curves thrumming like the strand she had become part of. The ranger watched his wife's face… and the rest of her
… melt into smooth featurelessness, in utter silence and within mere moments becoming no more than a suggestive prow on the strand.
And as quietly and easily as that, a Chosen of Mystra was gone.
Florin turned to Elminster, shaken. "My lady spoke as if she did not expect to see me again. So one or both of us will likely die here?"
"We all die, lad," the Old Mage said, peering into the distance with his two swords of twinkling stars raised and ready. "More than that, I cannot say."
Jhessail's sigh of exasperation was sharper than usual. "Where are we?"
"The Tshaddarna. What some call the 'Worlds of the Weave.'"
"Oh, well" Merith said, "that explains everything." The raven-haired moon elf drew his slender sword. Its silvery blade went sapphire-blue and started to thrum.
He gave it a look of disgust and set his jaw, marched up to Elminster, and stepped right in front of him, drawing himself erect to try to block the Old Mage's view with his own slender, leather-clad bulk. "Now just what, by Mystra's whispered secrets, is or are the Tshaddarna, and what does our being here mean? Straight answers for once, wizard."