My previous malaise embarrasses me. When I returned to this life, I did so without the proper appreciation of . . . this life! And with that shortcoming, so, too, did I pass that malaise onto those around me—not intentionally, no! But my actions and words, my detachment from the very responsibilities of friendship, of partnership, of parenting, could not be ignored, even as I worked harder to cover them up.
That which I had witnessed in what I believe is next existence had brought upon me a great despair, and an almost overwhelming sense of the smallness of this existence. Not outwardly, but within my own consciousness.
I could not have been more wrong.
How could I have allowed myself to be so tempted by that which might come next, to ignore that which is here and now? It took a ferocious battle, a great victory, a great personal loss, and a moment of shared exultation to show me my errors.
Callidae was more than I could have ever hoped for—for all of us who were born and raised in Menzoberranzan, the journey through that city among the aevendrow was the fulfillment of our (almost always secret) hopes and visions and lamentations of what Menzoberranzan might have been.
For me, it also ended a personal debate that, from the beginning, seemed an obvious answer—yet still, it was immensely satisfying to see my beliefs proven so dramatically.
It was Lolth. Always Lolth.
Not the religion of her worshippers—for how can anyone rightly call it a religion, after all, since the “divine being” for whom you’re supposed to take on as a matter of faith is, in fact, a dictatorial menace who’s often meddling directly, and surely doling out extreme punishments directly? Worshipping Lolth in Menzoberranzan isn’t a matter of faith, hardly! It’s not even obeisance, or any expression of deserved respect or gratitude or any such thing. No, it is blind obedience, and obedience stemming from either a hunger for power—such as with many of the ruling matrons—or simple, logical terror for almost everyone else.
I will shake my head until it clears, until I somehow come to understand this notion of fear as a great motivation.
But I also must examine my own thoughts and feelings regarding Callidae, and that is the most pressing thing.
And I must admit my foolishness in allowing the beauty of transcendence to almost steal so much from me. For if the journey from this life to the next is what I now believe it to be, then yes, had I remained in that higher state, outside of this mortal body, dead to this life and alive in the next, I would have learned of Callidae and of all the other drow cities and clans the aevendrow told me existed throughout the surface world of Faerun. I would have known them in that oneness, in that complete and beautiful understanding.
But would I have felt them? Would I have felt Callidae with the living sensations that overwhelmed me up there on the icy shelf when first I looked over the city? Would I have held Catti-brie for support, and kissed her so dearly for bringing me to that place? Would my joy have multiplied by the look on her face in sharing this discovery she and the others had made with me? Or would my joy have multiplied in seeing Jarlaxle’s smile, Zaknafein’s nod, and even the glow that emanated so clearly from Artemis Entreri?
Or by the look on the face of Jarlaxle as he, at long last, found what he had spent much of his life seeking? We shared a lot on that high ledge when he nodded knowingly to me.
Would my joy have multiplied by the sublime calm of Kimmuriel, who at long last had found a measure of value and caring that he before could only hope existed?
Or by the sobs of Gromph (though he did well to hide them), the great and powerful archmage at long last humbled into admitting his own feelings, overwhelmed as he had never before allowed, by something beyond his control, by something that had brought him such joy that was not of his own making?
As much as the sight of Callidae had meant to me—and I cannot understate the importance of realizing that place and those aevendrow—sharing that moment with the others, absorbing their myriad expressions and emotions and taking them as my own and giving to them my own, made it all the more wonderful.
And that is the rub of transcendence. That is the fear I hold of losing something, if indeed, there is no individuality. But this I cannot yet know, this fear I cannot yet dismiss. But so be it.
Now, finally, I understand.
I am in this moment of my journey, in this forming word of my story.
The present will not be a prisoner of the past.
The present will not be a servant for the future.
In the weight of it all, it is the journey that matters, the moment, the forming word.
* * *
In walking the streets of Callidae, in talking to the aevendrow, the contrast with Menzoberranzan could not be more stark. This was the answer, for me and for Jarlaxle, at least, and likely for the other companions from Menzoberranzan, as well, although I do not know if Zaknafein, Kimmuriel, Dab’nay, or certainly Gromph, had ever so directly pondered the question: Was there something within me, within all drow, a flaw in our nature, a predetermination, a damning fate, of all the evils of our culture for which the other cultures of Faerun cast blame and aspersions?
Certainly, I never felt such inner urges or demons or wishes to cause harm. Nor, I am sure, did my sisters—at least two—or my father. I never saw such natural malice in Jarlaxle, or even in Kimmuriel, though he often frightened me.
But still, even knowing that, it was ever hard for me to fully dismiss the opinions that the peoples of other lands and races and cultures placed upon the drow, upon me. Catti-brie once said to me that perhaps I was more constrained by the way I saw other people seeing me than by the way those other people viewed me, and there is truth to that little semantic twist. But the truth went deeper, went to the core of who Drizzt Do’Urden truly was, or, more importantly, of who I ever feared I might be or might become.
The expectation of others is an often-crippling weight.
But now I have the answer. Now we all have the answer, even those companions who perhaps never directly asked the question.
We drow are not flawed. We are not lesser. We are not malignant by any measure of nature. I do not know how high the ladder of evil deeds such truth climbs, honestly. I have seen wicked dictators of every race and culture to match the vileness of the most zealous Lolthian priestess. I have witnessed truly evil people, from dwarves to halflings to humans to elves to drow, and everything in between and every race or culture only a bit removed. So perhaps there are some individuals who have within them a natural evil.
Or perhaps even with them, even with the most wicked, like Matron Zhindia Melarn or the magistrates of Luskan’s carnival who torture accused criminals with such glee, there were steps in the earlier days of their personal journey which corrupted them and brought them to their present state. That is a question that I doubt will ever show an answer, nor is that answer truly the most important factor, for in the present, in the moment, in their own actions, these folk, as with us all, bear responsibility.
The more important question to me in all of this is how can an entire city—nearly all within the city—be so held in thrall, be twisted to the will of a demon queen so completely that they lose all sense of what is right and what is wrong? Because surely that basic understanding is something that any reasoning being should possess!
In Menzoberranzan, I am coming to understand, there were far more akin to me than those gladly embracing the tenets of Lolth and her vicious clergy. Even Dab’nay, who long ago realized how much she despised all that was Lolth (and yet, remained a priestess and was still being granted magical spells from that being she despised!).
The answer, I now know, is fear. Of all the inspirations, the motivations, any leader can give, the easiest is fear, and it is perhaps the most difficult to push aside. Dab’nay could secretly hate Lolth, but to proclaim it openly would have meant her death, if she was lucky. More likely, she would have been turned into a drider, sentenced to an eternity of unrelenting anguish.
Fear is a powerful weapon, and the tragic result of a vile king or lord is a tale too often told, and easy to see in the more transient societies of the shorter-living races. I have seen kingdoms of humans taken to bad end by a lord with evil designs—we saw this with Neverember and the Waterdhavian houses he corrupted for his personal gain. These are among the most predictable and saddest tales in the annals of the human societies, where one state or another decides to wage war, to steal land or resources from a neighbor. And also, thankfully, along with being the common, such states are often the most transient. Kingdoms that were once avowed enemies are now grand allies and friends, sharing markets, inter-marrying, prospering together.
The difference in Menzoberranzan, most obviously, is that the power there, the wicked lord with evil designs, was, and remains, not transient. A human leader will die—perhaps their successor will be of a better and more generous heart. Nor is the simple physical geography of the surface kingdoms conducive to any lasting and debilitating autocracy, for many of the people will come to know folk of other lands, and so will learn of the shortcomings of their society when placed against the aspirations and hopeful visions of their neighbors.
Such is not the case in the cavern of my birth. Not only is Lolth eternal and ever-present, a dictator who will not unclench her talons, but the city itself is secluded. I am not unique in my desire to flee, nor am I the only drow who did run from Menzoberranzan through the millennia of Lolthian control. Perhaps I am not the only one who made it out of there, who somehow, with good fortune, survived the wilds of the Underdark, and with better fortune, found a home, a true place within a family. But for every drow like me who somehow escaped, I take heart in knowing that there are thousands who would like to escape, who see the wrongs before them.
Lolth’s method is lying.
Lolth’s inspiration is fear.
Lolth’s full damnation of the drow in Menzoberranzan is that she is eternal, clutching tighter at every generation.
Now, we have a chance to break that hold, to free the city, to turn the whispers of the drow into open shouts of denial.
That is why I could not stay in Callidae. That is why I could not stay in the comfort of my homes in Longsaddle or Gauntlgrym, my wife and daughter beside me.
Because now, only now, we have a chance.
* * *
Of all the traits I find more important in those with whom I surround myself, the one that matters more to me is the value of that person’s word. Without that, there is no trust. Without trust, there is no chance at any true relationship. People who know me and see that I am friends with Jarlaxle might wonder about this, but the truth of Jarlaxle is that he has honor, that he would not coerce or lie or cheat on any matter of importance. He is a gameplayer, but he is not a malicious person.
His effect on Artemis Entreri cannot be overstated. Entreri was possessed of many of these same qualities, though they were buried beneath great pain and unrelenting anger, mostly self-loathing. Jarlaxle coaxed him from that state.
When these two—add Kimmuriel, as well—give me their word, I have learned that I can trust that word.
So many times, I have heard someone labeled a brilliant tactician in battle or in debate or in commerce, whether with armies or weapons or goods or words, only to see that person up close and then shake my head and sigh in resignation—a sigh that once would have been disgust, but now I know it in response to something so common that I cannot hold that much disgust! For as I see the workings of their words and tactics, what I see is not brilliance, but in fact, nothing more than immorality. For these very often powerful individuals, their true gift is a curse: they are simply not bound by decency.
They are foul beyond the expectations of those they dupe.
Coercing a populace to get behind you by lying to them isn’t brilliant. Great orators playing an audience based on their predisposed beliefs, or worse, fears, by telling them lies or making promises they know they cannot keep isn’t a sign of brilliance or intelligence, nay. It’s merely a clear indication of a lack of ethics and character.
Cheating in a physical competition, as I learned most painfully in my years at the academy, doesn’t make you a better swordsman—in fact, the result might prove quite the opposite.
Selling someone a miracle cure or coaxing them into a transaction that is meant to simply take their gold makes not a titan of business in any moral universe. Sadly, though, in simple practical terms, it often will make exactly that, a person who sacrifices their moral character and inflicts pain on others in exchange, almost always, for excess.
This, too, is the battle for Menzoberranzan, a war for the commonwealth and the soul of my people. Lolth is lies and Lolth is terror, nothing more. But those indecent traits have brought her to unquestioning power in the houses of Menzoberranzan and stripping her of that power may well prove impossible.
It is a try, though, that most of us have come to see as worth the fight, and the inevitable sacrifice. It is a battle for what is right, a war that will resonate to all who survive it and to their children and descendants who come after.
We shall see.
* * *
How many hours have I spent penning these essays, clearing my thoughts in lines of words, winding and weaving until I know what I know?
And knowing, too, that what I now know is not what I might believe as the story continues, as my journey teaches me new truths—and I pray that I will never close my heart off to such insights.
For that is what this is: a story. I think of my life as a story I am writing. It is in my control. I am the author, for only I can be the author of this story.
As it is for all of us. I am the author of my story, as anyone who may one day be reading this . . . as you, are the author of your own story. Whatever twist, whatever station, whatever circumstance, the story remains yours to write, yours to feel, yours to make. There are, of course, so many things that cannot be controlled, but regardless of those, the outlook, the emotions, the handling of the offered journey is the lifebook that is written.
The journey. For me, from my earliest days, my earliest memories, the journey has always been more important than the goal. Learning to fight and to navigate the drow academy was more important than becoming a great warrior, as the former would lead to the latter, to whatever level I might elevate.
I cannot determine if the sunrise will be brilliant or one dulled by clouds too heavy, but I can always control my own reaction to it. I can always find the hope in those early rays or misty glow. I can always smile in response and remind myself that I am blessed to witness whatever the dawn has shown to me. That, I know, is better than lamenting the clouds, after all.
I cannot control the clouds. As I cannot control so much regarding the circumstances around me.
But my reactions to them, and my choices because of them . . . those are my own, and mine alone. That is my journey and no one else’s.
I rarely, very rarely, go back and read these essays I have penned. Or perhaps I should call them “sorts,” for that is what they are: a sorting, an unwinding of the complicated and tangled threads that block my path through my journey. One might think, I might think, that perhaps I would refer to them often. But no. Such a read is rare, and never for more than one sort at a time. On those infrequent visits to the epiphanies of my past, it is simple curiosity, I know, which takes me there. Curiosity and not some re-realization of an epiphany as I seek answers to any knots in the life-threads currently before me. Perhaps I might measure some growth with any new perspectives that I bring to the read, as my experiences have thickened.
But always on those occasions, I read with great care and decided detachment, for I do not wish this chapter of my lifebook to be determined consciously—or worse, completely—by any former insight. Not in that way. The experiences are there, settling in my heart and soul, but my guidepost must be that which is now before me, the present. To do otherwise would be to catch myself up in those very fears of change that I have recently noted as one of the driving inspirations of our enemies in Menzoberranzan.
Now, though, with the dramatic changes that have swirled about me, the discovery of Callidae, the raging war in Menzoberranzan, I have changed the play. I have given myself permission to go back and read these essays, all.
Perhaps it is because of my training with Grandmaster Kane.
Perhaps it is because of transcending this mortal body.
Perhaps it is because of Callidae and the aevendrow, for in learning of them, the world has changed for me so suddenly and in so many ways.
Perhaps it is because of Brie—aye, that possibility rings most true. I will want her to read these, and hope that we will speak of them, both so that she can know me, can know her father, more completely, and because any help these might give her in finding ways to unwind her own threads would bring to me great joy.
To teach what we have learned, to share what we have come to believe, to pass on the stories that taught us . . .
That is immortality.
That is a good and comforting thought when war rages all around me, when I place my hopes against a seemingly impossible army of demons and powerful zealots.
Whatever the case, this is my life, my story, my journey, mine alone. Perhaps it is nearing the end—the fighting is all around me, ferocious and formidable.
But no, I cannot think that way, else I stop writing this tale!
So much has changed, and yet, so much has remained the same. I stayed true to that which was in my heart. Yea, I have clarified my feelings repeatedly, but the core of it all, the hopes, the desires, the truths, have remained solidly and inextricably a part of the heart of Drizzt Do’Urden.
This is my story. This is my journey.
Is that story fully told?
I think not!
There remains too much possibility, too much joy—joy that I alone can create within this life I am living, within this personal book, this lifebook, my story and mine alone that I am writing.
I will see the next sunrise until . . .