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were afoot in the North, so it was said, with upheavals in Waterdeep and grumblings that Lord Neverember had angered more than King Bruenor with his blustery ways.
    “I miss him,” Catti-brie said to Penelope on the second morning out from Longsaddle. Drizzt had urged his unicorn ahead to scout, leaving the two women alone. The auburn-haired woman glanced back over her shoulder and cast a wistful grin. “I did not know him much in the latter days of his life. I saw him not at all, alive at least, in these years of my rebirth. And still, I cannot but feel a sense of loss with him back there in that box.”
    “Never a more loyal friend than Thibbledorf Pwent, so claims King Bruenor,” Penelope replied, and she put a comforting hand on Cattibrie’s forearm.
    “So he truthfully claims,” said Catti-brie. “Pwent would have caught a ballista spear flying for any of us. His life was to serve.”
    “A good life, then, if after all these years you still feel the pang of loss at his passing.”
    “I do.” She gave a helpless little chuckle. “It is a strange thing of this second life I know. Many of those dearest to me are here again. My beloved husband, the Companions of the Hall, but still there are times when I feel out of place, as if the world I knew has been left behind and this new world is meant not for me, but for those who have yet to write their tales.”
    “You are half my age,” Penelope reminded her. “There is a large book in front of you, dear Catti-brie, and one with half the pages yet blank.”
    Catti-brie laughed again and nodded. “It just feels strange sometimes, out of place.”
    “I understand.”
    “What does?” Drizzt asked, riding back to join them.
    “The world,” said Penelope.
    “Particularly you,” Catti-brie teased.
    “It would seem as if I have missed a profound discussion,” Drizzt said, falling into line beside the wagon. “One worthy of repeating?”
    “Not really,” Catti-brie said. “Just the lament of a silly young woman.”
    “Bah, but you’re not so young,” Drizzt teased, and Catti-brie shot him a phony glare.
    “We were discussing the books we write of our lives,” Penelope explained. “It would seem that Catti-brie has a few chapters to add.”
    Drizzt nodded. “I understand,” he said, and he did indeed. “We have just climbed a great mountain in reclaiming Gauntlgrym. The scope of that achievement remains hard to fathom. Perhaps now is the time to let out our breath and to wonder what the next great adventure might be.”
    Catti-brie and Penelope exchanged a glance then, tipping the drow off.
    “So you are plotting your course,” Drizzt said.
    “We know what we must do,” Penelope said seriously.
    “The Hosttower?”
    “It must be rebuilt, or Gauntlgrym will prove a short-lived victory,” said Catti-brie. “There is no doubt that without the power of the ancient magic delivering the water elementals to the prison, the fiery primordial will soon enough break free. The resulting eruption will ruin Bruenor’s kingdom . . . and what else? Will Neverwinter again be buried under a mountain of ash? Waterdeep, perhaps?”
    “You know this?”
    “I know this.” Catti-brie held up her hand to display the Ring of Elemental Command that Drizzt had taken from the body of the drow wizard, Brack’thal Xorlarrin, and given to her.
    “How long do we have?”
    “A decade?” She didn’t seem very certain.
    “And how long to rebuild the Hosttower of the Arcane?” Drizzt asked. “Can you even hope to accomplish such a task? Is the magic still understood? Do the spells remain to access? It was built many ages ago, by all that I have heard, and we have since passed the Time of Troubles, the Spellplague, the return of Abeir . . .”
    “I do not know,” Catti-brie bluntly admitted.
    “We cannot know until we begin,” Penelope added. “But all of the Ivy Mansion will join in as we can. We will open our library and cast our spells as needed.”
    “We