“Our thanks,” replied Drizzt. “I think that it is time for my companions to rest. We have had a long ride, with much more before us.”
“Concerning the road before you,” said Harkle. “I have arranged for a meeting with DelRoy, the eldest of the Harpells now in Longsaddle. He, more than any of us, might be able to help steer your way.”
“Very good,” said Regis, leaning over to hear the conversation.
“This meeting holds a small price,” Harkle told Drizzt. “DelRoy desires a private audience with you. He has sought knowledge of the drow for many years, but little is available to us.”
“Agreed,” replied Drizzt. “Now, it is time for us to find our beds.”
“I shall show you the way.”
“What time are we to meet with DelRoy?” asked Regis.
“Morning,” replied Harkle.
Regis laughed, then leaned over to the other side of the table where Bruenor sat holding a mug motionless in his gnarled hands, his eyes unblinking. Regis gave the dwarf a little shove and Bruenor toppled, thudding into the floor without even a groan of protest. “Evening would be better,” the halfling remarked, pointing across the room to another table.
Wulfgar was underneath it.
Harkle looked at Drizzt. “Evening,” he agreed. “I shall speak to DelRoy.”
The four friends spent the next day recuperating and enjoying the endless marvels of the Ivy Mansion. Drizzt was called away early for a meeting with DelRoy, while the others were guided by Harkle on a tour through the great house, passing through a dozen alchemy shops, scrying rooms, meditation chambers, and several secured rooms specifically designed for conjuring otherworldly beings. A statue of one Matherly Harpell was of particular interest, since the statue was actually the wizard himself. An unsuccessful mix of potions had left him stoned, literally.
Then there was Bidderdoo, the family dog, who had once been Harkle’s second cousin—again, a bad potion mix.
Harkle kept no secrets from his guests, recounting the history of his clan, its achievements, and its often disastrous failures. And he told them of the lands around Longsaddle, of the Uthgardt barbarians, the Sky Ponies, they had encountered, and of other tribes they might yet meet along their way.
Bruenor was glad that their relaxation carried a measure of valuable information. His goal pressed in on him every minute of every day, and when he spent any time without making any gains toward Mithril Hall, even if he simply needed to rest, he felt pangs of guilt. “Ye have to want it with all yer heart,” he often scolded himself.
But Harkle had provided him with an important orientation to this land that would no doubt aid his cause in the days ahead, and he was satisfied when he sat down for supper at The Fuzzy Quarterstaff. Drizzt rejoined them there, sullen and quiet, and he wouldn’t say much when questioned about his discussion with DelRoy.
“Think to the meeting ahead,” was the drow’s answer to Bruenor’s probing. “DelRoy is very old and learned. He may prove to be our best hope of ever finding the road to Mithril Hall.”
Bruenor was indeed thinking to the meeting ahead.
And Drizzt sat back quietly throughout the meal, considering the tales and the images of his homeland that he had imparted to DelRoy, remembering the unique beauty of Menzoberranzan.
And the malicious hearts that had despoiled it.
A short time later, Harkle took Drizzt, Bruenor, and Wulfgar to see the old mage—Regis had begged out of the meeting in lieu of another party at the tavern. They met DelRoy in a small, torchlit, and shadowy chamber, the flickerings of light heightening the mystery in the aged wizard’s face. Bruenor and Wulfgar came at once to agree with Drizzt’s observations of DelRoy, for decades of experience and untold adventures were etched visibly into the features of his leathery brown skin. His body was failing him now, they could see, but the sheen of his pale eyes told of inner life and left little doubt about the sharp edge of his mind.
Bruenor spread his map out on the room’s circular table, beside the books and scrolls that DelRoy had brought. The old mage studied it carefully for a few seconds, tracing the line that had brought the companions to Longsaddle. “What do you recall of the ancient halls, dwarf?” he asked. “Landmarks or neighboring peoples?”
Bruenor shook his head. “The pictures in me head show the deep halls and workplaces, the ringing sound of iron on the anvil. The flight of me clan started in mountains; that’s all I know.”
“The northland is a wide country,” Harkle remarked. “Many long ranges could harbor such a stronghold.”
“That is why Mithril Hall, for all of its reputed wealth, has never been found,” replied DelRoy.
“And thus our dilemma,” said Drizzt. “Deciding where to even begin to look.”
“Ah, but you have already begun,” answered DelRoy. “You have chosen well to come inland; most of the legends of Mithril Hall stem from the lands east of here, even farther from the coast. It seems likely that your goal lies between Longsaddle and the great desert, though north or south, I cannot guess. You have done well.”
Drizzt nodded and broke off the conversation as the old mage fell back into his silent examination of Bruenor’s map, marking strategic points and referring often to the stack of books he had piled beside the table. Bruenor hovered beside DelRoy, anxious for any advice or revelations that might be forthcoming. Dwarves were patient folk, though, a trait that allowed their crafting to outshine the work of the other races, and Bruenor kept his calm as best he could, not wanting to press the wizard.
Some time later, when DelRoy was satisfied that his sorting of all the pertinent information was complete, he spoke again. “Where would you go next,” he asked Bruenor, “if no advice were offered here?”
The dwarf looked back to his map, Drizzt peering over his shoulder, and traced a line east with his stubby finger. He looked to Drizzt for consent when he had reached a certain point that they had discussed earlier on the road. The drow nodded. “Citadel Adbar,” Bruenor declared, tapping his finger on the map.
“The dwarven stronghold,” said DelRoy, not too surprised. “A fine choice. King Harbromm and his dwarves may be able to aid you greatly. They have been there, in the Mithril Mountains, for centuries uncounted. Certainly Adbar was old even in the days when the hammers of Mithril Hall rang out in dwarven song.”
“Is Citadel Adbar your advice to us, then?” Drizzt asked.
“It is your own choice, but as good a destination as I can offer,” replied DelRoy. “But the way is long, five weeks at the least if all goes well. And on the east road beyond Sundabar, that is unlikely. Still, you may get there before the first colds of winter, though I doubt that you would be able to take Harbromm’s information and resume your journey before the next spring.”
“Then the choice seems clear,” declared Bruenor. “To Adbar!”
“There is more you should know,” said DelRoy. “And this is the true advice that I shall give to you: Do not be blinded to the possibilities along the road by the hopeful vision at the road’s end. Your course so far has followed straight runs, first from Icewind Dale to Luskan, then from Luskan to here. There is little, other than monsters, along either of those roads to give a rider cause to turn aside. But on the journey to Adbar, you shall pass Silverymoon, city of wisdom and legacy, and the Lady Alustriel, and the Vault of Sages, as fine a library as exists in all the northland. Many in that fair city may be able to offer more aid to your quest than I, or even than King Harbromm. And beyond Silverymoon you shall find Sundabar, itself an ancient dwarven stronghold, where Helm, reknowned dwarf-friend, rules. His ties to your race run deep, Bruenor, tracing back many generations. Ties, perhaps, even to your own people.”