Exile: The Legend of Drizzt by R. A. Salvatore

corridors ending in a circular chamber no more than eight feet in diameter and with an uncomfortably low ceiling. The room was empty except for a single stone chair. As soon as he was placed in this, Drizzt understood its purpose. Iron shackles were built into the chair, and Drizzt was belted down tightly at every joint. The svirfnebli were not overly gentle, but when Drizzt flinched as the chain around his waist doubled up and pinched him, one of the deep gnomes quickly released then reset it, firmly but smoothly.
    They left Drizzt alone in the dark and empty room. The stone door closed with a dull thud of finality, and Drizzt could hear not a sound from beyond.
    The hours passed.
    Drizzt flexed his muscles, seeking some give in the tight shackles. One hand wiggled and pulled, and only the pain of the iron biting into his wrist alerted him to his actions. He was reverting to the hunter again, acting to survive and desiring only to escape.
    “No!” Drizzt yelled. He tensed every muscle and forced them back under his rational control. Had the hunter gained that much of a place? Drizzt had come here willingly, and thus far, the meeting had proceeded better than he had expected. This was not the time for desperate action, but was the hunter strong enough to overrule even Drizzt’s rational decisions?
    Drizzt didn’t find the time to answer those questions, for a second later, the stone door banged open and a group of seven elderly—judging from the extraordinary number of wrinkles crossing their faces—svirfnebli entered and fanned out around the stone chair. Drizzt recognized the apparent importance of this group, for where the guards had worn leather jacks set with mithral rings, these deep gnomes wore robes of fine material. They bustled about, inspecting Drizzt closely and chattering in their undecipherable tongue.
    One svirfneblin held up Drizzt’s house emblem, which had been taken from his neck purse, and uttered, “Menzoberranzan?”
    Drizzt nodded as much as his iron collar would allow, eager to strike up some kind of communication with his captors. The deep gnomes had other intentions, however. They went back to their private—and now even more excited—conversation.
    It went on for many minutes, and Drizzt could tell by the inflections of their voices that a couple of the svirfnebli were less than thrilled at having a dark elf prisoner from the city of their closest and most-hated enemies. By the angry tone of their arguing, Drizzt almost expected one of them to turn at any moment and slice his throat.
    It didn’t happen like that, of course; deep gnomes were neither rash nor cruel creatures. One of the group did turn from the others and walk over to face Drizzt squarely. He asked, in halting but unmistakably drow language, “By the stones, dark elf, why have you come?”
    Drizzt did not know how to answer that simple question. How could he even begin to explain his years of loneliness in the Underdark? Or the decision to forsake his evil people and live in accordance with his principles?
    “Friend,” he replied simply, and then he shifted uncomfortably, thinking his response absurd and inadequate.
    The svirfneblin, though, apparently thought otherwise. He scratched his hairless chin and considered the answer deeply. “You … you came in to us from Menzoberranzan?” he asked, his hawklike nose crinkling as he uttered each word.
    “I did,” Drizzt replied, gaining confidence.
    The deep gnome tilted his head, waiting for Drizzt to extrapolate.
    “I left Menzoberranzan many years ago,” Drizzt tried to explain. His eyes stared away into the past as he remembered the life he had deserted. “It was never my home.”
    “Ah, but you lie, dark elf!” the svirfneblin shrieked, holding up the emblem of House Do’Urden and missing the private connotations of Drizzt’s words.
    “I lived for many years in the city of the drow,” he replied quickly. “I am Drizzt Do’Urden, once the secondboy of House