The man’s laugh erupted straight from his belly. “Of course,” he answered, and he sprang from the desk and clapped Wulfgar hard on the shoulder. “I prefer a guest who does not cover his feelings with rosy words!” he cried. He walked past the stunned barbarian toward the door—and the boy.

“Did you speak to them?” he demanded of the lad.

The boy blanched even more than before and shook his head emphatically.

“Not a single word?” Malchor yelled.

The boy trembled visibly and shook his head again.

“He said not a—” Drizzt began, but Malchor cut him off with an outstretched hand.

“If I find that you uttered even a single syllable, ….” he threatened. He turned back to the room and took a step away. Just when he figured that the boy might have relaxed a bit, he spun back on him, nearly causing him to jump from his shoes.

“Why are you still here?” Malchor demanded. “Be gone!”

The door slammed even before the wizard had finished the command. Malchor laughed again, and the tension eased from his muscles as he moved back to his desk. Drizzt came up beside Wulfgar, the two looking at each other in amazement.

“Let us be gone from this place,” Wulfgar said to Drizzt, and the drow could see that his friend was fighting a desire to spring over the desk and throttle the arrogant wizard on the spot.

To a lesser degree, Drizzt shared those feelings, but he knew the tower and its occupants would be explained in time. “Our greetings, Malchor Harpell,” he said, his lavender eyes boring into the man. “Your actions, though, do not fit the description your cousin Harkle mantled upon you.”

“I assure you that I am as Harkle described,” Malchor replied calmly. “And my welcome to you, Drizzt Do’Urden, and to you, Wulfgar, son of Beornegar. Rarely have I entertained such fine guests in my humble tower.” He bowed low to them to complete his gracious and diplomatic—if not entirely accurate—greeting.

“The boy did nothing wrong,” Wulfgar snarled at him.

“No, he has performed admirably,” Malchor agreed. “Ah, you fear for him?” The wizard took his measure of the huge barbarian, Wulfgar’s muscles still knotted in rage. “I assure you, the boy is treated well.”

“Not by my eyes,” retorted Wulfgar.

“He aspires to be a wizard,” Malchor explained, not ruffled by the barbarian’s scowl. “His father is a powerful landowner and has employed me to guide the lad. The boy shows potential, a sharp mind, and a love for the arts. But understand, Wulfgar, that wizardry is not so very different from your own trade.”

Wulfgar’s smirk showed a difference of opinion.

“Discipline,” Malchor continued, undaunted. “For whatever we do in our lives, discipline and control over our own actions ultimately measure the level of our success. The boy has high aspirations and hints of power he cannot yet begin to understand. But if he cannot keep his thoughts silent for a single month, then I shan’t waste years of my time on him. Your companion understands.”

Wulfgar looked to Drizzt, standing relaxed by his side.

“I do understand,” Drizzt said to Wulfgar. “Malchor has put the youth on trial, a test of his abilities to follow commands and a revelation to the depth of his desires.”

“I am forgiven?” the wizard asked them.

“It is not important,” Wulfgar grunted. “We have not come to fight the battles of a boy.”

“Of course,” said Malchor. “Your business presses; Harkle has told me. Go back down to the stables and wash. The boy is setting supper. He shall come for you when it is time to eat.”

“Does he have a name?” Wulfgar said with obvious sarcasm.

“None that he has yet earned,” Malchor replied curtly.

Though he was anxious to be back on the road, Wulfgar could not deny the splendor of the table of Malchor Harpell. He and Drizzt feasted well, knowing this to be, most probably, their last fine meal for many days.

“You shall spend the night,” Malchor said to them after they had finished eating. “A soft bed would do you well,” he argued against Wulfgar’s disgruntled look. “And an early start, I promise.”

“We will stay, and thank you,” Drizzt replied. “Surely this tower will do us better than the hard ground outside.”

“Excellent,” said Malchor. “Come along, then. I have some items which should aid your quest.” He led them out of the room and back down the decline of the corridor to the lower levels of the structure. As they walked, Malchor told his guests of the tower’s formation and features. Finally they turned down one of the darkened side-passages and passed through a heavy door.

Drizzt and Wulfgar had to pause at the entrance for a long moment to digest the wondrous sight before them, for they had come to Malchor’s museum, a collection of the finest items, magical and otherwise, that the mage had found during the many years of his travels. Here were swords and full suits of polished armor, a shining mithril shield, and the crown of a long dead king. Ancient tapestries lined the walls, and a glass case of priceless gems and jewels glittered in the flicker of the room’s torches.

Malchor had moved to a cabinet across the room, and by the time Wulfgar and Drizzt looked back to him, he was sitting atop the thing, casually juggling three horseshoes. He added a fourth as they watched, effortlessly guiding them through the rise and fall of the dance.

“I have placed an enchantment upon these that will make your steeds run swifter than any beasts in the land,” he explained. “For a short time only, but long enough to get you to Waterdeep. That alone should be worth your delay in coming here.”

“Two shoes to a horse?” Wulfgar asked, ever doubting.

“That would not do,” Malchor came back at him, tolerant of the weary young barbarian. “Unless you wish your horse to rear up and run as a man!” He laughed, but the scowl did not leave Wulfgar’s face.

“Not to fear,” Malchor said, clearing his throat at the failed joke. “I have another set.” He eyed Drizzt. “I have heard it spoken that few are as agile as the drow elves. And I have heard, as well, by those who have seen Drizzt Do’Urden at fight and at play, that he is brilliant even considering the standards of his dark kin.” Without interrupting the rhythm of his juggling, he flipped one of the horseshoes to Drizzt.

Drizzt caught it easily and in the same motion put it into the air above him. Then came the second and third shoes, and Drizzt, without ever taking his eyes off Malchor, put them into motion with easy movements.

The fourth shoe came in low, causing Drizzt to bend to the ground to catch it. But Drizzt was up to the task, and he never missed a catch or a throw as he included the shoe in his juggling.

Wulfgar watched curiously and wondered at the motives of the wizard in testing the drow.

Malchor reached down into the cabinet and pulled out the other set of shoes. “A fifth,” he warned, launching one at Drizzt. The drow remained unconcerned, catching the shoe deftly and tossing it in line.

“Discipline!” said Malchor emphatically, aiming his remark at Wulfgar. “Show me, drow!” he demanded, firing the sixth, seventh, and eighth at Drizzt in rapid succession.

Drizzt grimaced as they came at him, determined to meet the challenge. His hands moving in a blur, he quickly had all eight horseshoes spinning and dropping harmoniously. And as he settled into an easy rhythm, Drizzt began to understand the wizard’s ploy.

Malchor walked over to Wulfgar and clapped him again on the shoulder. “Discipline,” he said again. “Look at him, young warrior, for your dark-skinned friend is truly a master of his movements and, thus, a master of his craft. You do not yet understand, but we two are not so different.” He caught Wulfgar’s eyes squarely with his own. “We three are not so different. Different methods, I agree. But to the same ends!”