Part 4 KINGDOMS
Whether a king's palace, a warrior's bastion, a wizard's tower, an encampment for nomadic barbarians, a farmhouse with stone-lined or hedge-lined fields, or even a tiny and unremarkable room up the back staircase of a ramshackle inn, we each of us spend great energy in carving out our own little kingdoms. From the grandest castle to the smallest nook, from the arrogance of nobility to the unpretentious desires of the lowliest peasant, there is a basic need within the majority of us for ownership, or at least for stewardship. We want to-need to-find our realm, our place in a world often too confusing and too overwhelming, our sense of order in one little corner of a world that oft looms too big and too uncontrollable.
And so we carve and line, fence and lock, then protect our space fiercely with sword or pitchfork.
The hope is that this will be the end of that road we chose to walk, the peaceful and secure rewards for a life of trials. Yet, it never comes to that, for peace is not a place, whether lined by hedges or by high walls. The greatest king with the largest army in the most invulnerable fortress is not necessarily a man at peace. Far from it, for the irony of it all is that the acquisition of such material wealth can work against any hope of true serenity. But beyond any physical securities there lies yet another form of unrest, one that neither the king nor the peasant will escape. Even that great king, even the simplest beggar will, at times, be full of the unspeakable anger we all sometimes feel. And I do not mean a rage so great that it cannot be verbalized but rather a frustration so elusive and permeating that one can find no words for it. It is the quiet source of irrational outbursts against friends and family, the perpetrator of temper. True freedom from it cannot be found in any place outside one's own mind and soul.
Bruenor carved out his kingdom in Mithral Hall, yet found no peace there. He preferred to return to Icewind Dale, a place he had named home not out of desire for wealth, nor out of any inherited kingdom, but because there, in the frozen northland, Bruenor had come to know his greatest measure of inner peace. There he surrounded himself with friends, myself among them, and though he will not admit this-I am not certain he even recognizes it-his return to Icewind Dale was, in fact, precipitated by his desire to return to that emotional place and time when he and I, Regis, Catti-brie, and yes, even Wulfgar, were together. Bruenor went back in search of a memory.
I suspect that Wulfgar now has found a place along or at the end of his chosen road, a niche, be it a tavern in Luskan or Waterdeep, a borrowed barn in a farming village, or even a cave in the Spine of the World. Because what Wulfgar does not now have is a clear picture of where he emotionally wishes to be, a safe haven to which he can escape. If he finds it again, if he can get past the turmoil of his most jarring memories, then likely he, too, will return to Icewind Dale in search of his soul's true home.
In Menzoberranzan I witnessed many of the little kingdoms we foolishly cherish, houses strong and powerful and barricaded from enemies in a futile attempt at security. And when I walked out of Menzoberranzan into the wild Underdark, I, too, sought to carve out my niche. I spent time in a cave talking only to Guenhwyvar and
sharing space with mushroomlike creatures that I hardly understood and who hardly understood me. I ventured to Blingdenstone, city of the deep gnomes, and could have made that my home, perhaps, except that staying there, so close to the city of drow, would have surely brought ruin upon those folk.
And so I came to the surface and found a home with Montolio deBrouchee in his wondrous mountain grove, perhaps the first place I ever came to know any real measure of inner peace. And yet I came to learn that the grove was not my home, for when Montolio died I found to my surprise that I could not remain there.
Eventually I found my place and found that the place was within me, not about me. It happened when I came to Icewind Dale, when I met Catti-brie and Regis and Bruenor. Only then did I learn to defeat the unspeakable anger within. Only there did I learn true peace and serenity.
Now I take that calm with me, whether my friends accompany me or not. Mine is a kingdom of the heart and soul, defended by the security of honest love and friendship and the warmth of memories. Better than any land-based kingdom, stronger than any castle wall, and most importantly of all, portable.
I can only hope and pray that Wulfgar will eventually walk out of his darkness and come to this same emotional place.
Chapter 19 CONCERNING WULFGAR
Delly pulled her coat tighter about her, more trying to hide her gender than to fend off any chill breezes. She moved quickly along the street, skipping fast to try and keep up with the shadowy figure turning corners ahead of her, a man one of the other patrons of the Cutlass had assured her was indeed Morik the Rogue, no doubt come on another spying mission.
She turned into an alleyway, and there he was. He was standing right before her, waiting for her, dagger in hand.
Delly skidded to a stop, hands up in a desperate plea for her life. "Please Mister Morik!" she cried. "I'm just wantin' to talk to ye."
"Morik?" the man echoed, and his hood slipped back revealing a dark-skinned face-too dark for the man Delly sought.
"Oh, but I'm begging yer pardon, good sir," Delly stammered, backing away. "I was thinking ye were someone else." The man started to respond, but Delly hardly heard him, for she turned about and sprinted back toward the Cutlass.
When she got safely away, she calmed and slowed enough to consider the situation. Ever since the fight with Tree Block Breaker, she and many other patrons had seen Morik the Rogue in every shadow, had heard him skulking about every corner. Or had they all, in their fears, just thought they had seen the dangerous man? Frustrated by that thought, knowing that there was indeed more than a little truth to her reasoning, Delly gave a great sigh and let her coat droop open.
"Selling your wares, then, Delly Curtie?" came a question from the side.
Belly's eyes widened as she turned to regard the shadowy figure against the wall, the figure belonging to a voice she recognized. She felt the lump grow in her throat. She had been looking for Morik, but now that he had found her on his terms she felt foolish indeed. She glanced down the street, back toward the Cutlass, wondering if she could make it there before a dagger found her back.
"You have been asking about me and looking for me," Morik casually remarked. "I've been doing no such-"
"I was one of those whom you asked," Morik interrupted dryly. His voice changed pitch and accent completely as he added, "So be tellin' me, missy, why ye're wantin' to be seein' that nasty little knife-thrower."
That set Delly back on her heels, remembering well her encounter with an old woman who had said those very words in that very voice. And even if she hadn't recognized the phrasing or the voice, she wouldn't for a moment doubt the man who was well-known as Luskan's master of disguise. She had seen Morik on several occasions, intimately, many months before. Every time he had appeared differently to her, not just in physical features but in demeanor and attitude as well, walking differently, talking differently, even making love differently. Rumors circulating through Luskan for years had claimed that Morik was, in fact, several different men, and while Delly thought them exaggerated, she realized just then that if they turned out to be correct, she wouldn't be surprised.
"So you have found me," Morik said firmly.
Delly paused, not sure how to proceed. Only Morik's obvious agitation and impatience prompted her to blurt out, "I'm wanting ye to leave Wulfgar alone. He gave Tree Block what Tree Block asked for and wouldn't've gone after the man if the man didn't go after him."
"Why would I care for Tree Block Breaker?" Morik asked, still using a tone that seemed to say that he had hardly given it a thought. "An irritating thug, if ever I knew one. Half Moon Street seems a better place without him."
"Well, then ye're not for avenging that one," Delly reasoned. "But word's out that ye're none too fond o' Wulfgar and looking to prove-"
"I have nothing to prove," Morik interrupted.
"And what of Wulfgar then?" Delly asked.
Morik shrugged noncommittally. "You speak as if you love the man, Delly Curtie."
Delly blushed fiercely. "I'm speaking for Arumn Gardpeck, as well," she insisted. "Wulfgar's been good for the Cutlass, and as far as we're knowing, he's been not a bit o' trouble outside the place."
"Ah, but it seems as if you do love him, Delly, and more than a bit," Morik said with a laugh. "And here I thought that Delly Curtie loved every man equally."
Delly blushed again, even more fiercely.
"Of course, if you do love him, then I, out of obligation to all other suitors, would have to see him dead," Morik reasoned. "I would consider that a duty to my fellows of Luskan, you see, for a treasure such as Delly Curtie is not to be hoarded by any one man."
"I'm not loving him," Delly said firmly. "But I'm asking ye, for meself and for Arumn, not to kill him."
"Not in love with him?" Morik asked slyly.
Delly shook her head.
"Prove it," Morik said, reaching out to pull the tie string on the neck of Dolly's dress.
The woman teetered for just a moment, unsure. And then for Wulfgar only, for she did not wish to do this-she nodded her agreement.
Later on, Morik the Rogue lay alone in his rented bed, Delly long gone-to Wulfgar's bed, he figured. He took a deep draw on his pipe, savoring the intoxicating aroma of the exotic and potent pipeweed.
He considered his good fortune this night, for he hadn't been with Delly Curtie in more than a year and had forgotten how marvelous she could be.
Especially when it didn't cost him anything, and on this nigh, it most certainly had not. Morik had indeed been watching Wulfgar but had no intention of killing the man. The fate of Tree Block Breaker had shown him well how dangerous a proposition that attempt could prove.
He did plan to have a long talk with Arumn Gardpeck, though, one that Delly would surely make easier now. There was no need to kill the barbarian, as long as Arumn kept the huge man in his place.
Delly fumbled with her dress and cloak, all in a fit after her encounter with Morik, as she stumbled through the upstairs rooms of the inn. She turned a corner in the hallway and was surprised indeed to see the street looming in front of her, right in front of her, and before she could even stop herself, she was outside. And then the world was spinning all about.
When she at last re-oriented herself, she glanced back behind her, seeing the open street under the moonlight, and the inn where she had left Morik many yards away. She didn't understand, for hadn't she been walking inside just a moment ago? And in an upstairs hallway? Delly merely shrugged. For this woman, not understanding something was not so uncommon an occurrence. She shook her head, figured that Morik had really set her thoughts to spinning that night, and headed back for the Cutlass.
On the other side of the dimensional door that had transported the woman out of the inn, Kimmuriel Oblodra almost laughed aloud at the bumbling spectacle. Glad of his camouflaging piwafwi cloak, for Jarlaxle had insisted that he leave no traces of his ever being in Luskan, and Jarlaxle considered murdered humans as traces, the drow turned the corner in the hallway and lined up his next spatial leap.
He winced at the notion, reminding himself that he had to handle this one delicately; he and Rai'gy had done some fine spying on Morik the Rogue, and Kimmuriel knew the man to be dangerous, for a human, at least. He brought up his kinetic barrier, focused all his thoughts on it, then enacted the dimensional path down the corridor and beyond Morik's door.