The first task then, the ranger decided, was to teach this drow the common tongue.

“We cannot speak”—There was no word for “properly” in Goblin, so Montolio had to improvise—“…well… in this language,” he explained to Drizzt, “but it will serve us as I teach you the tongue of humans—if you wish to learn.”

Drizzt remained tentative in his acceptance. When he had walked away from the farming village, he had decided that his lot in life would be as a hermit, and thus far he had done pretty well—better than he had expected. The offer was tempting, though, and on a practical level, Drizzt knew that knowing the common language of the region might keep him out of trouble. Montolio’s smile nearly took in the ranger’s ears when the drow accepted.

Hooter, the owl, however, seemed not so pleased. With the drow—or, more particularly, with the drow’s panther—about, the owl would be spending less time in the comforts of the evergreens’ lower boughs.

“Cousin, Montolio DeBrouchee has taken the drow in!” an elf cried excitedly to Kellindil. All the group had been out searching for Drizzt’s trail since the winter had broken. With the drow gone from Dead Orc Pass, the elves, particularly Kellindil, had feared trouble, had feared that the drow had perhaps taken in with Graul and his orc minions.

Kellindil jumped to his feet, hardly able to grasp the startling news. He knew of Montolio, the legendary if somewhat eccentric ranger, and he knew, too, that Montolio, with all of his animal contacts, could judge intruders quite accurately.

“When? How?” Kellindil asked, barely knowing where to begin. If the drow had confused him through the previous months, the surface elf was thoroughly flustered now.

“A week ago,” the other elf answered. “I know not how it came about, but the drow now walks in Montolio’s grove, openly and with his panther beside him.”

“Is Montolio… ”

The other elf interrupted Kellindil, seeing where his line of concern was heading. “Montolio is unharmed and in control,” he assured Kellindil. “He has taken in the drow of his own accord, it would seem, and now it appears that the old ranger is teaching the dark elf the common tongue.”

“Amazing,” was all that Kellindil could reply.

“We could set a watch over Montolio’s grove,” the other elf offered. “If you fear for the old ranger’s safety—”

“No,” Kellindil replied. “No, the drow once again has proven himself no enemy. I have suspected his friendly intentions since I encountered him near Maldobar. Now I am satisfied. Let us get on with our business and leave the drow and the ranger to theirs.”

The other elf nodded his agreement, but a diminutive creature listening outside Kellindil’s tent was not so certain.

Tephanis came into the elven camp nightly, to steal food and other items that would make him more comfortable. The sprite had heard of the dark elf a few days earlier, when the elves had resumed their search for Drizzt, and he had taken great pains to listen to their conversation ever since, as curious as any about the whereabouts of the one who had destroyed Ulgulu and Kempfana.

Tephanis shook his floppy-eared head violently. “Drat-the-day-that-that-one-returned!” he whispered, sounding somewhat like an excited bumblebee. Then he ran off, his little feet barely touching the ground. Tephanis had made another connection in the months since Ulgulu’s demise, another powerful ally that he did not want to lose.

Within minutes he found Caroak, the great, silver-haired winter wolf, on the high peak that they called their home.

“The-drow-is-with-the-ranger,” Tephanis spouted, and the canine beast seemed to understand. “Beware-of-that-one-I-say! It-was-he-who-killed-my-former-masters. Dead!”

Caroak looked down the wide expanse to the mountain that held Montolio’s grove. The winter wolf knew that place well, and he knew well enough to stay away from it. Montolio DeBrouchee was friends with all sorts of animals, but winter wolves were more monster than animal, and no friend of rangers.

Tephanis, too, looked Montolio’s way, worried that he might again have to face the sneaky drow. The mere thought of encountering that one again made the little sprite’s head ache (and the bruise from the plowshare had never completely gone away).

As winter eased into spring over the next few weeks, so did Drizzt and Montolio ease into their friendship. The common tongue of the region was not so very different from the goblin tongue, more a shift of inflection than an alteration of complete words, and Drizzt caught on to it quickly, even learning how to read and write. Montolio proved a fine teacher, and by the third week, he spoke to Drizzt exclusively in the common tongue and scowled impatiently every time Drizzt reverted to using goblin to get a point across.

For Drizzt, this was a fun time, a time of easy living and shared pleasures. Montolio’s collection of books was extensive, and the drow found himself absorbed in adventures of the imagination, in dragon lore, and accounts of epic battles. Any doubts Drizzt might have had were long gone, as were his doubts about Montolio. The shelter in the evergreens was indeed a castle, and the old man as fine a host as Drizzt had ever known.

Drizzt learned many other things from Montolio during those first weeks, practical lessons that would aid him for the rest of his life. Montolio confirmed Drizzt’s suspicions about a seasonal weather change, and he even taught Drizzt how to anticipate the weather from day to day by watching the animals, the sky, and the wind.

In this, too, Drizzt caught on quickly, as Montolio had suspected he would. Montolio never would have believed it until he had witnessed it personally, but this unusual drow possessed the demeanor of a surface elf, perhaps even the heart of a ranger.

“How did you calm the bear?” Montolio asked one day, a question that had nagged at him since the very first day he had learned that Drizzt and Bluster were sharing a cave.

Drizzt honestly did not know how to answer, for he still did not understand what had transpired in that meeting. “The same way you calmed Guenhwyvar when first we met,” the drow offered at length.

Montolio’s grin told Drizzt that the old man understood better than he. “Heart of a ranger,” Montolio whispered as he turned away. With his exceptional ears, Drizzt heard the comment, but he didn’t fully comprehend.

Drizzt’s lessons came faster as the days rolled along. Now Montolio concentrated on the life around them, the animals and the plants. He showed Drizzt how to forage and how to understand the emotions of an animal simply by watching its movements. The first real test came soon after, when Drizzt, shifting the outward branches of a berry bush, found the entrance to a small den and was promptly confronted by an angry badger.

Hooter, in the sky above, issued a series of cries to alert Montolio, and the ranger’s first instinct was to go and help his drow friend. Badgers were possibly the meanest creatures in the region, even above the orcs, quicker to anger than Bluster the bear and quite willing to take the offensive against any opponent, no matter how large. Montolio stayed back, though, listening to Hooter’s continuing descriptions of the scene.

Drizzt’s first instinct sent his hand flashing to his dagger. The badger reared and showed its wicked teeth and claws, hissing and sputtering a thousand complaints.

Drizzt eased back, even put his dagger back in its sheath. Suddenly, he viewed the encounter from the badger’s point of view, knew that the animal felt overly threatened. Somehow, Drizzt then further realized that the badger had chosen this den as a place to raise its soon-coming litter of pups.