claw, beckoning. And it was a call Doum’wielle wanted to answer, then and now. Her eyes drifted up to the heavens, to a million million stars twinkling in the cold night.
There were no stars in the Underdark, in Menzoberranzan. It had its own beauty, surely, with the faerie fire limning the stalactites and stalagmites. But it didn’t have stars.
And the elves of Menzoberranzan didn’t lift their voices as one to the heavens.
Patience, Little Doe, the woman heard in her mind. Images of great glory and greater power filled her thoughts, and she lost sight of the stars above as surely as if a heavy cloud front had swept in and stolen the eternal mystery. Two tendays later, Tiago and Doum’wielle were awakened one bright morning by the sound of drums. Remembering the significance of this day, the pair rushed to a high vantage point on a steep-sided hillock, and peered against the glare of the rising sun to the southeast. There marched the dwarves, under a banner of a living fire in humanoid form, its arms uplifted and holding a great anvil and throne. The leading troupe crossed to the south of Tiago and Doum’wielle’s position, their line stretching far back, with many pack mules, heavily laden.
And with a drow on a white unicorn trotting easily beside an auburnhaired woman astride a similar mount, but one that seemed made of the essence of light itself, spectral and sparkling.
Doum’wielle looked at Tiago, the drow fixated on the vision. His every dream marched in front of him.
“Well, that was unnecessary,” Jarlaxle quipped when Gromph warped into the room where he and Kimmuriel waited.
“You think me frivolous?” There was a decidedly deadpan tone to Gromph’s voice, as if the words were simply a prelude to a storm. “Or foolish,” Jarlaxle replied. “Why would you taunt an ancient wyrm?"
“You think me weak?” Gromph asked, with that most sinister edge to his voice that he had perfected over the centuries. And the storm clouds seemed closer to Jarlaxle. And darker.
“I think a dragon mighty, and fear you underestimate—”
“So now I am a fool?”
Jarlaxle sighed.
“He knew that he could escape instantly,” Kimmuriel interjected, as he psionically imparted to Gromph, Jarlaxle thinks it was truly you standing before the wyrm, and not merely a clever image. In that regard, you must admit that his concerns are valid. A dragon is, after all, a dragon.
Gromph let his amusement flow back to the drow psionicist.
“With the psionic teleport you have taught him,” said Jarlaxle.
“Taught?” Kimmuriel replied. “That is not the correct word. I have opened possibilities. The archmage has learned how to walk through those less-than-tangible doors.”
“It is not the first time I have used this new ability,” Gromph reminded them. “I find it . . . interesting.”
“That you were able to concentrate so fully as to succeed speaks well of your discipline, Archmage,” Kimmuriel said with a bow. “I am impressed that one of your meager training has come so far.”
“I wanted to see if I could perform the teleport under extreme duress,” Gromph said, his gaze darting back and forth at both of his companions, gauging their reactions.
“Well played, then,” said Jarlaxle.
“You heard my conversation with the wyrm?”
Jarlaxle nodded.
“Tiago is almost certainly alive. Find him.”
“I would hope to find his body. For that task, I would actually . . . well, search,” said Jarlaxle.
“It was not a request,” Gromph said. “Find Tiago. Put out your scouts, all of them. Tiago is alive and in the North. Find him.”
“So that you can retrieve him for Quenthel and all will be forgiven?” Jarlaxle dared to reply. “And will you then betray my actions to our sister, brother, to better your own prospects in her court?”
He expected a tirade, of course, but surprisingly, Gromph did not react angrily.
“I’m not going to betray you for your role in bringing the copper wyrms to
There were no stars in the Underdark, in Menzoberranzan. It had its own beauty, surely, with the faerie fire limning the stalactites and stalagmites. But it didn’t have stars.
And the elves of Menzoberranzan didn’t lift their voices as one to the heavens.
Patience, Little Doe, the woman heard in her mind. Images of great glory and greater power filled her thoughts, and she lost sight of the stars above as surely as if a heavy cloud front had swept in and stolen the eternal mystery. Two tendays later, Tiago and Doum’wielle were awakened one bright morning by the sound of drums. Remembering the significance of this day, the pair rushed to a high vantage point on a steep-sided hillock, and peered against the glare of the rising sun to the southeast. There marched the dwarves, under a banner of a living fire in humanoid form, its arms uplifted and holding a great anvil and throne. The leading troupe crossed to the south of Tiago and Doum’wielle’s position, their line stretching far back, with many pack mules, heavily laden.
And with a drow on a white unicorn trotting easily beside an auburnhaired woman astride a similar mount, but one that seemed made of the essence of light itself, spectral and sparkling.
Doum’wielle looked at Tiago, the drow fixated on the vision. His every dream marched in front of him.
“Well, that was unnecessary,” Jarlaxle quipped when Gromph warped into the room where he and Kimmuriel waited.
“You think me frivolous?” There was a decidedly deadpan tone to Gromph’s voice, as if the words were simply a prelude to a storm. “Or foolish,” Jarlaxle replied. “Why would you taunt an ancient wyrm?"
“You think me weak?” Gromph asked, with that most sinister edge to his voice that he had perfected over the centuries. And the storm clouds seemed closer to Jarlaxle. And darker.
“I think a dragon mighty, and fear you underestimate—”
“So now I am a fool?”
Jarlaxle sighed.
“He knew that he could escape instantly,” Kimmuriel interjected, as he psionically imparted to Gromph, Jarlaxle thinks it was truly you standing before the wyrm, and not merely a clever image. In that regard, you must admit that his concerns are valid. A dragon is, after all, a dragon.
Gromph let his amusement flow back to the drow psionicist.
“With the psionic teleport you have taught him,” said Jarlaxle.
“Taught?” Kimmuriel replied. “That is not the correct word. I have opened possibilities. The archmage has learned how to walk through those less-than-tangible doors.”
“It is not the first time I have used this new ability,” Gromph reminded them. “I find it . . . interesting.”
“That you were able to concentrate so fully as to succeed speaks well of your discipline, Archmage,” Kimmuriel said with a bow. “I am impressed that one of your meager training has come so far.”
“I wanted to see if I could perform the teleport under extreme duress,” Gromph said, his gaze darting back and forth at both of his companions, gauging their reactions.
“Well played, then,” said Jarlaxle.
“You heard my conversation with the wyrm?”
Jarlaxle nodded.
“Tiago is almost certainly alive. Find him.”
“I would hope to find his body. For that task, I would actually . . . well, search,” said Jarlaxle.
“It was not a request,” Gromph said. “Find Tiago. Put out your scouts, all of them. Tiago is alive and in the North. Find him.”
“So that you can retrieve him for Quenthel and all will be forgiven?” Jarlaxle dared to reply. “And will you then betray my actions to our sister, brother, to better your own prospects in her court?”
He expected a tirade, of course, but surprisingly, Gromph did not react angrily.
“I’m not going to betray you for your role in bringing the copper wyrms to
Similar Books
