“No!” the sprite blurted. Roddy, not used to being disobeyed, eyed him dangerously.

“No-need,” Tephanis lied. “The-drow-is-dead, killed-by-a-worg.”

Roddy didn’t seem convinced.

“I-led-you-to-the-drow-once,” Tephanis reminded him.

Truly Roddy was disappointed, but he no longer doubted the quickling. If it hadn’t been for Tephanis, Roddy knew, he never would have located Drizzt. He would be more than a hundred miles away, sniffing around Morueme’s Cave and spending all of his gold on dragon lies. “What about the blind ranger?” Roddy asked.

“He-lives, but-let-him-live,” Tephanis replied. “Many-powerful-friends-have-joined-him.” He led Roddy’s gaze to Kellindil’s body. “Elves, many-elves.”

Roddy nodded his assent. He had no real grudge against Mooshie and had no desire to face Kellindil’s kin.

They buried Kellindil and all of the supplies they couldn’t take with them, found Roddy’s dog, and set out later that same night for the wide lands to the west.

Back at Mooshie’s grove, the summer passed peacefully and productively, with Drizzt coming into the ways and methods of a ranger even more easily than optimistic Montolio had believed. Drizzt learned the name for every tree or bush in the region, and every animal, and more importantly, he learned how to learn, how to observe the clues that Mielikki gave him. When he came upon an animal that he had not encountered before, he found that simply by watching its movements and actions he could quickly discern its intent demeanor, and mood.

“Go and feel its coat,” Montolio whispered to him one day in the gray and blustery twilight. The old ranger pointed across a field, to the tree line and the white flicking of a deer’s tail. Even in the dim light, Drizzt had trouble seeing the deer, but he sensed its presence, as Montolio obviously had.

“Will it let me?” Drizzt whispered back. Montolio smiled and shrugged.

Drizzt crept out silently and carefully, following the shadows along the edge of the meadow. He chose a northern, downwind approach, but to get north of the deer, he had to come around from the east. He knew his error when he was still two dozen yards from the deer. It lifted its head suddenly, sniffed, and flicked its white tail.

Drizzt froze and waited for a long moment while the deer resumed its grazing. The skittish creature was on the alert now, and as soon as Drizzt took another measured step, the deer bolted away.

But not before Montolio, taking the southern approach, had gotten close enough to pat its rump as it ran past.

Drizzt blinked in amazement. “The wind favored me!” he protested to the smug ranger.

Montolio shook his head. “Only over the last twenty yards, when you came north of the deer,” he explained. “West was better than east until then.”

“But you could not get north of the deer from the west,” Drizzt said.

“I did not have to,” Montolio replied. “There is a high bluff back there,” he pointed to the south. “It cuts the wind at this angle—swirls it back around.”

“I did not know.”

“You have to know,” Montolio said lightly. “That is the trick of it. You have to see as a bird might and look down upon all the region before you choose your course.”

“I have not learned to fly,” Drizzt replied sarcastically.

“Nor have I!” roared the old ranger. “Look above you.”

Drizzt squinted as he turned his eyes to the gray sky. He made out a solitary form, gliding easily with great wings held wide to catch the breeze.

“A hawk,” the drow said.

“Rode the breeze from the south,” Montolio explained, “then banked west on the breaking currents around the bluff. If you had observed its flight, you might have suspected the change in terrain.”

“That is impossible,” Drizzt said helplessly.

“Is it?” Montolio asked, and he started away—to hide his smile. Of course the drow was correct; one could not tell the topography of the terrain by the flight patterns of a hawk. Montolio had learned of the shifting wind from a certain sneaky owl who had slipped in at the ranger’s bidding right after Drizzt had started out across the meadow, but Drizzt didn’t have to know that. Let the drow consider the fib for a while, the old ranger decided. The contemplation, recounting all he had learned, would be a valuable lesson.

“Hooter told you,” Drizzt said a half-hour later, on the trail back to the grove. “Hooter told you of the wind and told you of the hawk.”

“You seem sure of yourself.”

“I am,” Drizzt said firmly. “The hawk did not cry—I have become aware enough to know that. You could not see the bird, and I know that you did not hear the rush of wind over its wings, whatever you may say!”

Montolio’s laughter brought a smile of confirmation to the drow’s face.

“You have done well this day,” the old ranger said.

“I did not get near the deer,” Drizzt reminded him.

“That was not the test,” Montolio replied. “You trusted in your knowledge to dispute my claims. You are sure of the lessons you have learned. Now hear some more. Let me tell you a few tricks when approaching a skittish deer.”

They talked all the way back to the grove and far into the night after that. Drizzt listened eagerly, absorbing every word as he was let in on still more of the world’s wondrous secrets.

A week later, in a different field, Drizzt placed one hand on the rump of a doe, the other on the rump of its speckle-coated fawn. Both animals lit out at the unexpected touch, but Montolio “saw” Drizzt’s smile from a hundred yards away.

Drizzt’s lessons were far from complete when the summer waned, but Montolio no longer spent much time instructing the drow. Drizzt had learned enough to go out and learn on his own, listening and watching the quiet voices and subtle signs of the trees and the animals. So caught up was Drizzt in his unending revelations that he hardly noticed the profound changes in Montolio. The ranger felt much older now. His back would hardly straighten on chill mornings and his hands often went numb. Montolio remained stoic about it all, hardly one for self-pity and hardly lamenting what he knew was to come.

He had lived long and fully, had accomplished much, and had experienced life more vividly than most men ever would.

“What are your plans,” he said unexpectedly to Drizzt one night as they ate their dinner, a vegetable stew that Drizzt had concocted.

The question hit Drizzt hard. He had no plans beyond the present, and why should he, with life so easy and enjoyable—more so than it had ever been for the beleaguered drow renegade? Drizzt really didn’t want to think about the question, so he threw a biscuit at Guenhwyvar to change the subject. The panther was getting a bit too comfortable on Drizzt’s bedroll, wrapping up in the blankets to the point where Drizzt worried that the only way to get Guenhwyvar out of the tangle would be to send it back to the astral plane.

Montolio was persistent. “What are your plans, Drizzt Do’Urden?” the old ranger said again firmly. “Where and how will you live?”

“Are you throwing me out?” Drizzt asked.

“Of course not.”

“Then I will live with you,” Drizzt replied calmly.

“I mean after,” Montolio said, growing flustered.

“After what?” Drizzt asked, thinking that Mooshie knew something he did not.

Montolio’s laughter mocked his suspicions. “I am an old man,” the ranger explained, “and you are a young elf. I am older than you, but even if I were a babe, your years would far outdistance my own. Where will Drizzt Do’Urden go when Montolio DeBrouchee is no more?”

Drizzt turned away. “I do not… ” he began tentatively. “I will stay here.”

“No,” Montolio replied soberly. “You have much more before you than this, I hope. This life would not do.”