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  “I found it, elf,” he whispered, echoing the dwarf’s final declaration, and those quiet words were lost in the wind.

  Indeed, had it even been a century? Or had all these experiences, all of these impossible things, most notably the return of so many lost, been injected into his memory by the merciless Lolth, as Errtu had done to Wulfgar in those years when the balor had tormented the poor man?

  Aye, that was the truth of it, Drizzt knew.

  In that realization, he thought to simply slide off of Tazmikella’s back—though he feared he would just find himself on the floor of Lolth’s Abyssal palace.

  He pulled the onyx figurine from his belt pouch, barely glanced at the panther carving, and moved to hurl it into the sky.

  “She’s your constant, my love …”

  Catti-brie’s words echoed in his mind and he hugged the panther figurine close, and was ashamed that he had ever thought to so be rid of it.

  Gently, carefully, he replaced the figurine in his belt pouch, taking care to secure it, and in that moment, a great change swept over Drizzt.

  Yes, he decided, it was all a dream, a deception, and one to utterly destroy him. And for any preparation he might vainly try to do, this deception surely would. When the revelation was unmasked, when he saw the image of Catti-brie to be a grotesque lie, when Bruenor and Regis and Wulfgar and all the others were shown to be demon manes dressed up as his friends, then indeed would Drizzt Do’Urden shatter.

  But that wouldn’t be the end of it, he resolved. No, in that moment of his enemy’s greatest triumph, he would attack, relentlessly, until his body was more broken than his heart.

  He pictured it, throwing himself, likely naked and unarmed, at the Spider Queen. Clawing at her, biting at her, forcing her to fight back and put an end to it all.

  And he would laugh at her.

  In the end, yes, Drizzt would laugh at her.

  “And then I will know eternal peace,” he whispered.

  And he didn’t believe a word.

  CHAPTER 13

  Damaran Friends

  A FAR BETTER JOURNEY THAN OUR VOYAGE FROM SUZAIL TO Delthuntle,” Regis said to Wulfgar when the docks of New Sarshel, the northernmost port city of the Kingdom of Impiltur, came into view that midsummer morning. He looked up at the barbarian, but Wulfgar just shrugged and even shook his head a bit in apparent disagreement.

  “We did not encounter a single storm!” Regis protested.

  “I did not mind our winter diversion to the Tower of Stars on Prespur,” Wulfgar slyly replied. He leaned on The Aardvark’s rail and grinned.

  The halfling sighed and fell silent, and Wulfgar laughed boisterously.

  The ship anchored far out in the harbor. The water had become quite shallow here during the Sundering. Indeed, a few years earlier, they could have sailed another hundred miles to the north, to the Damaran port of Uthmere, but that port was now just a village surrounded by a flood plain.

  “First boat in to the docks,” Boyko, the first mate, said to the pair, motioning for Wulfgar and Regis to get to the netting so they could climb down into the small craft that was even then being lowered.

  The pair looked at him curiously, Regis even pointing to himself to confirm. “First?”

  “Aye, be on your way,” Boyko replied, moving over to them. “Well met and fare you well.” And in a lower voice, the gruff little man added, “Put up for the night in the Rolling Pig.”

  “The Rolling Pig?” Regis asked.

  Boyko nodded and moved away, barking orders at someone else.

  “We are expected, it would seem,” said Wulfgar.

  Soon after, the pair found the tavern in question, a small building within the wall of New Sarshel and not far from the docks. The place was nearly deserted when they entered, but by the time they sat at the bar and finished their first drink, other patrons had begun to congregate, including more than a few from The Aardvark.

  “Another round of Zzar for me and my friend, please,” Regis called to the bartender, hoping to catch him before the lines began forming.

  The barkeep nodded to indicate that he had heard, but went to serve another patron first, and indeed, it was none other than Boyko of The Aardvark. That struck Regis as curious, but the halfling reached into his purse and produced some silver coins.

  “Your silver’s no good here,” the bartender said with a wink, refilling their glasses. He turned back from the bar to glance at a board of notices he’d posted. He pulled a sheet of parchment from the board and slid it over to the pair. “Helgabal caravan looking for some guards.”

  “Helgabal?” Wulfgar asked innocently. “Why would you presume that we …?”

  But the barkeep just turned away to tend to some others and Regis grabbed Wulfgar’s arm. He motioned with his chin at the exit, and both glanced that way just in time to see Boyko depart.

  “To Donnola,” Regis said quietly, lifting his glass in toast.

  A TRANSFIXED DRIZZT watched the transformation of Ilnezhara and Tazmikella, the sisters polymorphing from their graceful serpentine dragon bodies to those of willowy human women, equally graceful and with a beauty different, but no less magnificent, than the glorious copper dragons.

  Could he possibly create such a thing within his own imagination?

  “Come,” Jarlaxle called to him, motioning the other way, to the edge of the forest and the long, clear hill beyond.

  “Fare you well, Drizzt Do’Urden,” Tazmikella said.

  “We hope that here you will find peace and enlightenment,” added Ilnezhara. “Do understand that we would not have offered such insight, nor our wings, to simply any mortal creature. Nay, and to whom so much is given, much is expected.”

  Drizzt stared at the tall, copper-haired woman curiously, trying to sort out any hidden meaning behind her curious remark. What might any dragon ever want from him?

  Jarlaxle grabbed Drizzt’s arm then and pulled him away.

  “They are wondrous creatures, yes?” he asked.

  “I do not understand them.”

  “That doesn’t mean you cannot appreciate them,” Jarlaxle replied. “They did much for you, my friend. I hope that you will come to fully appreciate that.”

  “Why?” Drizzt asked. He stopped and pulled from Jarlaxle’s grasp. The mercenary took another step and turned to regard him, but Drizzt didn’t meet that gaze. Instead, he looked over Jarlaxle’s shoulder, through the remaining trees, and up the long hill to a magnificent structure set atop it. The massive stone building looked as if it had been built over the course of many generations, with different stones and different architectural styles all blending together like an enormous tapestry. Turrets, balconies, and grand windows of all shapes and sizes were capped by a crenelated tower.

  “Why do I hope you will appreciate them?” Jarlaxle asked.

  “Why did they do so much for me?” Drizzt clarified.

  “Because they are my friends, and I am your friend. Is that not what friends do for each other? Is that not the entire reason Drizzt Do’Urden was forced by his own conscience to leave Menzoberranzan those many decades ago?”

  Drizzt’s face tightened, and he couldn’t suppress his wince. To him, Jarlaxle’s words sounded like the greatest taunt he could imagine.

  “Everything, yes?” Jarlaxle asked, nodding at the expression. “Everything that is said is taken in your thoughts as a deception? A trap?”

  Drizzt didn’t soften his look.

  “Come,” Jarlaxle bade him. “I give you great credit that you have found the courage to agree to this, even though you surely have nothing left to lose.”

  “Only because I have nothing left to lose,” Drizzt emphasized. He followed the mercenary out of the forest and to the base of the grassy hill.

  “My dear friend, there is always more to lose.”

  “A threat?”

  “Hardly,” said Jarlaxle. “You fear your footing lost, that all beneath your feet is the shifting sands of a grand deception. Yet now yo
u come to face that fear openly, forcing the truth, however horrible it might prove. It is, perhaps, a concession to desperation, like going to a cleric to confirm that you are afflicted with a malady that you privately know cannot be cured. But even then, I applaud your bravery.”

  Drizzt cast his gaze downward, then closed his eyes to steady himself, and to convince himself not to draw blades and leap upon Jarlaxle—that would force the truth, after all.

  Up the hill they went, but before they ever neared the Monastery of the Yellow Rose, a bevy of monks dressed in simple brown robes appeared on every balcony, staring down intently, and many with crossbows held at the ready.

  “Pray tell Brother Afafrenfere that his friends have arrived for a visit,” Jarlaxle shouted to them.

  “There is no Brother Afafrenfere anymore,” one woman shouted back a few moments later.

  That brought a concerned look from Jarlaxle, but one that shifted to curiosity when that very man Jarlaxle had known came out from the monastery’s grand central doorway, bounding down the steps to stand in front of the two drow.

  “Well met, again!” Afafrenfere said, bowing low and smiling widely.

  “But she just said …” Jarlaxle started to protest.

  “Master Afafrenfere!” the woman called back. “Afafrenfere, Master of the South Wind!”

  “Are they known to you, and trusted, Master?” another monk called out.

  Master Afafrenfere turned and nodded to the man. “I give you Drizzt Do’Urden, hero of the north!” He swept his arm out to Drizzt and many on the balconies nodded, some cheered, and others clapped.

  “I feel so small,” Jarlaxle quipped to Drizzt.

  Drizzt could only shake his head.

  “Master Afafrenfere, may we speak privately?” Jarlaxle asked. “Or better still, will you take me inside that I can address the leaders of this wondrous place?”

  “Master Perrywinkle Shin?”

  Jarlaxle nodded. “This is not merely a visit, but a desperate request.”

  “The two of you follow,” Afafrenfere said, turning for the door.

  “Just me,” Jarlaxle said, looking to Drizzt and nodding.

  Both drow turned to see Afafrenfere wearing a curious and skeptical expression. He motioned for Jarlaxle to head for the door, then called out, “Take him to Master Shin at once!” and then he turned back to Drizzt.

  “We will talk,” the monk said to Drizzt in an inviting and pleasant manner. It has been far too long! I wish to hear of our old companions, and your new ones!”

  “Take great care,” Jarlaxle quietly warned him, walking past and heading swiftly for the door.

  A clearly surprised Afafrenfere swung around to watch the mercenary go, then turned back to Drizzt with a most puzzled expression.

  “What has happened?” he asked Drizzt.

  “Nothing or everything,” the emotionally defeated ranger replied.

  “With nothing in between?”

  “Nothing worth talking about,” the surly Drizzt replied.

  “Truly?” asked Afafrenfere, and he grew a wide smile and boisterous nod. “Not even a battle between four dragons and their riders? Not even of the shot that sundered the saddle of Tiago Baenre, or the rush that sent the white wyrm Aurbangras crashing to the side of Fourthpeak?”

  Despite himself, Drizzt couldn’t help but flash a grin at that reminder. It had indeed been a remarkable fight, as thrilling as any battle Drizzt had ever known. He could almost feel the wind upon his face in simply recalling it.

  “I am not too proud to admit that I was terrified on the side of that mountain, facing a dragon,” Afafrenfere said.

  “But you held your calm and won.”

  “Not alone,” the monk said. “Not alone.”

  Drizzt stared at him curiously then, but only for a moment. Jarlaxle was already back out the door, now followed by a high-ranking female monk.

  “Mistress of the East Wind Savahn,” Afafrenfere said, nodding his chin that way.

  “You have met with Master Shin already?” a confused Afafrenfere addressed Jarlaxle when the pair approached.

  “In time,” Savahn answered. “This visit was anticipated, the gist of Jarlaxle’s request known, and accepted, before they arrived.”

  “Anticipated?” Afafrenfere asked, clearly at a loss. “Master Shin?”

  “At least,” Savahn replied, and she turned to Drizzt. “You are welcome inside, ranger. There are many eager to meet you.”

  Drizzt looked to Jarlaxle, who nodded. “Fare you well, my friend,” the mercenary leader answered that expression. “I may soon return to this place, though perhaps you will, even then, be too deep in your new studies to take note. I do hope that we will meet again in this lifetime, but if that is not to be, then please always know that my thoughts to you are good ones, full of hope that you will find your way.”

  “Wait,” Afafrenfere said as Jarlaxle clasped Drizzt’s hand briefly, then hugged him, then started back down the hill. “You are leaving?”

  “The world turns swiftly beyond the walls of your home, Master Afafrenfere,” Jarlaxle replied. “I would be remiss if I was not there to steer it, eh?”

  He laughed, tipped his hat, and added, “I will return soon enough.” Then he started away, and Mistress Savahn took Drizzt by the hand and led him into the Monastery of the Yellow Rose.

  Master Afafrenfere stood in place for a long while, looking from Jarlaxle back to Drizzt, and when both disappeared from view—one into the monastery, the other into the forest—he continued to stand there, trying to sort out this most curious turn of events.

  More curious, he thought, when he saw the copper dragons emerge from the forest, flying into the summer sky, heading to the east with Jarlaxle astride Ilnezhara, the same mount Afafrenfere had ridden in the fight with the white wyrms above Mithral Hall.

  “HERE’S WHERE YOU get off,” the caravan leader ordered Wulfgar and Regis.

  “Here?” Regis asked as Wulfgar bristled. The halfling looked around at the empty road and rolling hills, still some distance south of the city of Helgabal. “Where is here?”

  “Where I’m dropping you,” replied the leader. These were the first words other than grunting commands the man had spoken to the pair since they’d signed on in New Sarshel a tenday before, ostensibly as guards to the five wagons rolling north to Helgabal. That duty, strangely, had involved nothing more than sitting on the back of a wagon, and one instance where one of the wagons had gotten bogged in some mud, where Wulfgar went out and lifted the thing clear to keep them moving.

  “We were to go to Helgabal,” Regis protested.

  “Less than a day’s march,” the leader replied. “Half a day, more like.”

  “And a shorter ride than that!”

  “Not to doubt.”

  “Then why …?” Wulfgar began to ask.

  ‘Because this is what I was told to do,” the leader interrupted. “Now kindly get off my wagon.”

  The companions looked to each other, neither having the beginning of an answer. But this had been coordinated from the outside. Obviously under orders from Donnola, Boyko had arranged for the tavern keeper to direct Wulfgar and Regis to this caravan, and so it seemed a good bet indeed that this man was getting his orders from the same chain of command.

  Regis shrugged and hopped off the back of the wagon. “Some food, at least?” he asked.

  The man motioned for him to take what he wanted from the supply wagon, which was third in line.

  Soon after, Wulfgar and Regis sat in the shade under a tree, eating a lunch of biscuits and potatoes, and watching the caravan disappear over a hill far to the north.

  “To be fair, we haven’t walked more than a few short strides all the way from Morada Topolino,” Regis remarked between bites.

  “You do not need to defend her,” Wulfgar replied. “Your taste in women is superb, I must admit. Lady Donnola is a fine lass.”

  “Grandmother Donnola,” Regis corrected, but Wulfgar shook his he
ad.

  “It seems a silly title for such a young beauty as that!”

  “It is a title of respect, and a necessary one among—” he paused and looked around—“assassins.”

  “I will remember that if ever she is near to Artemis Entreri.” There was no mistaking the tone of disapproval in Wulfgar’s voice.

  “She is not a killer,” Regis protested, not catching on to the ruse until Wulfgar smiled wide. “Well, unless she has to be—but can any less be said of any of us?”

  Wulfgar laughed. “Be at ease, my friend. I already told you that I find your Lady Donnola quite charming.”

  Regis nodded and smiled at that, until his face turned to a scowl once more. “Do not tempt her,” he warned.

  Wulfgar looked as if he had been slapped. “I?”

  “You!” Regis said, poking a stubby finger Wulfgar’s way.

  They shared a laugh—interrupted by hoof beats—and sprang up from the grass, hands fast to weapons.

  They relaxed when the rider came into sight, though. It was a halfling on a gray pony, moving in their direction with apparent purpose.

  “Donnola,” Wulfgar remarked, nodding.

  The rider pulled up in front of them soon after. And a splendid fellow he appeared, dressed in fine chainmail and riding cloak, with a plumed leather hat, one side pinned up. He was quite a bit older than Regis and Wulfgar in physical appearance, probably in his sixties, which was still youthful for a halfling, and showed no gray in his long brown hair. He pulled his pony to an abrupt halt. Before the mount had even stopped moving, he threw his leg over the saddle and slipped down gracefully to the ground.

  “Well met,” he said, dipping a bow and extending a hand.

  “And to you,” said Regis, taking the offered hand, and then wincing with surprise at the little one’s strength. He was actually shorter than Regis.

  “Tecumseh Bracegirdle, at your service,” said the newcomer, offering his hand to Wulfgar, who shook it—and so began a silent struggle of strength. It seemed ridiculous to witness, surely, but Tecumseh held his own against the barbarian, each squeezing powerfully and smiling knowingly, for many seconds.