“We cannot know,” Jelvus Grinch said.
Drizzt dropped a hand on the man’s strong shoulder. “Hold your faith in your fellow citizens,” Drizzt advised. “The region is full of dangers, as you knew when first you returned.”
“And you’ll remain?” the man asked hopefully.
“Not too far for now, I expect,” Drizzt assured him.
“Then don’t remain a stranger to the folk of Neverwinter, I beg. You, all three, are ever welcome here.”
A great cheer arose behind him, affirming the sentiment.
The gathering followed the trio across the city, across the winged wyvern bridge.
“We will name it again the Walk of Barrabus!” Jelvus Grinch proclaimed, and the cheering renewed.
“Barrabus is dead,” Artemis Entreri replied, cutting Grinch’s grin off short. “I killed him. Don’t remind me of him with your foolish names.”
It sounded as a clear threat to everyone who heard it, and Entreri followed it by staring hard at Jelvus Grinch, by silently letting the man know that if he named the bridge as he’d just promised, Entreri really would come back and kill him.
Drizzt noted it all. He knew that look-frozen, utterly uncaring, uncompromisingly removed from sympathy-from a century before, and the poignant reminder of the truth of Artemis Entreri slapped the drow’s romantic nostalgia quite decidedly, and shook him profoundly in his current time and place.
Drizzt looked to Jelvus Grinch to view his reaction, and the way the blood drained from the strong man’s face revealed that Artemis Entreri had lost none of his charm.
The First Citizen of Neverwinter cleared his throat several times before mustering the courage to resume speaking, this time to Drizzt. “Have you found better fortune with your panther?”
Drizzt shook his head.
“I suggest you speak to Arunika,” said Jelvus Grinch. “She is investigating this, at my insistence. The woman is quite wise in the ways of magic, and knows the workings of the various planes.”
Drizzt glanced at his companions, who offered no obvious opinion.
“Where do I find her?” he asked.
“We’re ready for the road,” Artemis Entreri remarked.
“We can wait,” Dahlia said.
“No, we can’t,” said Entreri. “If you wish to go and find the red-haired woman, then do so, but we’ll be on our way up the northern road. I trust you’ll ride hard to find us.”
Drizzt turned to Jelvus Grinch, who indicated the inn behind him. “Arunika has been given a room there, that she could better tend to your companion.”
The drow turned and regarded Entreri and Dahlia one last time, to see Entreri’s harsh expression and obvious agitation at the thought of any delays, and conversely, Dahlia’s almost frantically-darting eyes, as if looking for some way to forestall this expedition. Drizzt had never expected anything quite like that from Dahlia, whether she wore her hard-visage braid and woad, or the softer image she now painted upon her pretty face.
Guenhwyvar’s plight was more important, and he rushed into the inn. He had barely said the name “Arunika,” before the innkeeper directed him to a room down the first floor hallway.
Arunika opened the door before he had even knocked, and he understood the reception when he entered, for her room looked out on the gathering in the street and the window was open. Even as Drizzt noted that, Arunika moved over and closed it.
“You believe that throwing the weapon into the mouth of the primordial will destroy it,” she said.
“I came to speak of Guenhwyvar.”
“That, too,” the red-haired woman agreed.
Drizzt found himself quite at ease as he regarded her disarming smile… truly disarming, with freckled dimples and a sweetness that went beyond all reason.
He determinedly shook that curious, and curiously stray, thought away.
“I agree with your assessment of the sword,” Arunika said, and she eased back into a soft cushioned couch, casually tossing her long and soft red hair from in front of her face.
“And our course?”
“Artemis Entreri thinks that destroying the blade will destroy him.”
“He does not fear…” Drizzt started to say, but he stopped short and stared hard at Arunika. How had she come to know Entreri’s real name? To everyone else in the city, save himself and Dahlia, the man was still known as Barrabus the Gray, and as far as he knew, none of them had uttered any hints of the assassin’s real identity.
“Oh, he fears it, of course,” Arunika replied, apparently missing the drow’s shocked response-or ignoring it. “He just has too much hatred within him to admit it. Everyone fears death, ranger. Everyone.”
“Then perhaps some simply fear living more.”
Arunika shrugged as if it did not matter. “If you deign to destroy Charon’s Claw, your best path is to the primordial, I agree,” she went on. “Oh, there are better ways-surer ways… the breath of an ancient white dragon comes to mind-but I expect that time is not your ally. Charon’s Claw is a Netherese blade, and those unbearable despots will go to such lengths to protect and retrieve their artifacts that would impress any githyanki zealot.”
Drizzt wasn’t quite sure of the analogy. He had heard of the githyanki. They were sometimes seen in Menzoberranzan and the few he had viewed did seem to possess unduly decorated armor and weapons. The reference seemed clear enough, though.
“Since I know of no cooperative ancient white dragons in the area, my advice to you would be the primordial in Gauntlgrym.”
“You seem to know quite a bit of quite a bit,” Drizzt replied. “Charon’s Claw? Gauntlgrym? Even the assassin’s real name. I expect that little of that information is general throughout Neverwinter.”
“I survive by being smarter than those around me,” Arunika replied.
“And you have ways of seeing things others cannot discern, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” the woman replied, and she patted the cushion beside her on the couch.
Drizzt grabbed a wooden chair instead, and set it before her, drawing a cute- too cute-little laugh from Arunika as he did.
“Does my insight, or perhaps, my other-sight, disappoint you?” she asked coyly.
Drizzt considered that for a moment, and then answered, “Not if it aids me.”
“Your beloved Guenhwyvar,” Arunika stated. “May I have the figurine?”
Before he even considered the movement, Drizzt produced the onyx statuette and reached it out toward Arunika, hesitating only when she similarly stretched to retrieve it from him. Few had held this figurine, few would the drow trust to ever touch it, let alone take it from his grasp. Yet here he was, giving it to a curiously knowledgeable woman he hardly knew! His grip instinctively tightened.
“If you wish my advice and insight, it would be better for you to allow me to study it properly,” the woman remarked, and Drizzt perked up as if coming out of a slumber and handed Guenhwyvar over.
“It will take some time for me to properly inspect the aura around the magical statue,” Arunika explained, rolling it over in her hands before her sparkling, pretty eyes.
Incredibly pretty, Drizzt thought, and it wasn’t until her words registered that he was able to get that thought out of his mind.
“I have little time,” he said. “My friends have already departed Neverwinter, likely, and I will not leave without Guenhwyvar.”
“Without the statue, you mean,” Arunika corrected, and the reality of that stung Drizzt profoundly.
“You’re welcome to stay and watch,” the woman said. She rose from the couch and moved to a desk at the side of the room, pulling open the largest, lowest drawer and producing a satchel. She placed it on the table and rummaged through it, bringing forth assorted candles and powders, a silver bowl, a phial of clear liquid, and a silvery scroll tube.
Drizzt watched from across the room and said not another word as Arunika set up her scrying table. She chanted under her breath as she lit the candles, spa
cing them appropriately around the bowl, then began a different incantation as she poured the liquid into the bowl, splashing it over the onyx figurine in the process.
She set her hands on the table, palms up, tilted her head back, and let her eyes roll up as she began to chant louder and more insistently.
It went on for a long, long while, and Drizzt constantly glanced out the window to try to gauge the passing hours. He knew that Dahlia and Entreri couldn’t go into Gauntlgrym without him-he had the sword, after all! But the thought of them out on the road alone bit at his sensibilities in no good way.
The sun was low in the sky when Arunika abruptly stood up from her seat and rubbed her eyes. Casually, she tossed the onyx figurine back to Drizzt.
“What do you know?” he asked, not liking that almost dismissive toss, or the resigned look on the woman’s face.
“I sense no connection to the creature you call Guenhwyvar,” Arunika admitted.
“What does that mean?” Drizzt asked, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice, though a primal scream was surely bubbling within him.
The red-haired woman shrugged.
“That the magic has been dispelled?” Drizzt demanded. “Or that the panth-or that Guenhwyvar has been destroyed? Is that even possible?”
“Of course,” Arunika said, and Drizzt swallowed hard.
“She is the astral essence of the panther, akin to a goddess,” Drizzt protested.
“Even gods can be destroyed, Drizzt Do’Urden. Though we do not know that such is the case. Somehow, some way, the connection between the panther and the statuette has been severed-understand that they are not the same thing! Artemis Entreri carries the token of the nightmare, indeed you wear one of a unicorn, but these are magical creations affixed to magical implements. Your whistle is your steed. To destroy the whistle would be to obliterate the magical construct you call Andahar. The same is true of Entreri’s mount. These are not life forms, but enchantments cleverly disguised as such. Without the disguise, you could ride your whistle across the leagues, though I doubt your sensibilities would find much comfort in that, to say nothing of your arse.”
Drizzt could hardly keep up with her, given the enormity of the woman’s proclamation regarding Guenhwyvar. His blank stare brought Arunika over to him, where she dropped a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“Guenhwyvar is different from your whistle,” she explained. “Different from Entreri’s hell steed. Guenhwyvar is a living, breathing creature of another dimension, an essence not captured by the statuette, but one called by the statuette. It is an old enchantment-one from the days of the great mythals, I expect! — and one not easily replicated by any living mage, not even Elminster himself.”
“You think her dead,” Drizzt remarked.
Arunika shrugged and patted his shoulder again. “I think we cannot know. What we, what I, know, is that there is no connection I can sense between your statuette and that creature, Guenhwyvar. Your figurine still radiates magic-that much I can easily see, but it is a beacon without a viewer.”
Drizzt swallowed hard and slowly shook his head, not wanting to hear it.
“I’m sorry, Drizzt Do’Urden,” Arunika said, and she went up to her tip-toes and kissed Drizzt on the cheek.
He pulled back. “Keep looking!” He thought back to a fateful day in Mithral Hall, so long ago, when he had grabbed Jarlaxle by the collar and similarly implored him, only on that occasion, to find Catti-brie and Regis.
Arunika just fixed him with that sympathetic, calming smile and nodded.
Drizzt stumbled out of the room and the inn and back onto the street, where only a few folks milled around, all looking his way curiously.
“He’s been to the red-headed one’s bed,” one woman snickered to her friend as they hustled by, clearly mistaking the drow’s wobbly gait.
“Guenhwyvar,” he whispered, rolling the onyx statue over in his hand. A burst of rage came over him. He blew into his silver whistle, and leaped upon Andahar’s strong back as the unicorn thundered up to join him, then urged the mighty steed away at a full gallop.
He needed the exertion; he sought exhaustion. Only in action could he find solace at that dark moment.
He thundered out of Neverwinter’s main gate, Andahar’s hooves churning the northern road, the wind bringing moistness to the drow’s lavender eyes.
Or maybe it wasn’t the wind.
“I thought that I hated Alegni,” Entreri said, standing across the small cooking fire from Dahlia. Prudence dictated that they should have no such firelight out in the unsettled wilds of Neverwinter Wood, but these two didn’t often listen to such moderate voices; or perhaps it was that very voice that compelled the two troubled souls to light such a beacon, inviting danger and battle.
“You did not?” the elf sarcastically replied.
Entreri laughed. “Of course I did, with all of my heart, so I believed-until I measure my hatred of him to your own.”
“Perhaps your heart is not as big as mine.”
“Perhaps my heart is not as dark as yours.” The assassin managed a little grin as he uttered the quip, expecting a rejoinder from the quick-witted woman. To his surprise, though, Dahlia simply looked down at the fire and stirred it a bit with a stick she had retrieved. She poked and prodded at the embers, drawing bursts of small flames which made her eyes sparkle in their dancing and darting reflections.
There was pain in Dahlia’s pretty eyes, along with a simmering anger-no, something more than anger, like the purest outrage crystallized into a sharp and stabbing point of light.
Artemis Entreri recognized it, had felt the same, and when he, too, was very young.
“You presume much,” Dahlia said. “We went to kill Alegni, and so we did, and you attacked him no less than I.”
This, too, this avoidance, Entreri knew well.
“I had no choice. I had no escape from the man,” he said. “He carried the sword and the sword owned me. My choice was to fight-”
“To die,” Dahlia interrupted.
“Preferable to what came before.”
The woman looked up, her eyes meeting his, but only for a heartbeat before she turned again to the safety of the distracting firelight.
“This was the easier, and the safer path,” Entreri said. “A prisoner attempts to break free, or he accepts his servitude. But not so for you. Herzgo Alegni had no hold over Dahlia, yet you drove us there, to that bridge and to that fight.”
“I pay back my debts.”
“Indeed, and what a great debt this must have been, yes?”
She glanced at him again, but this time, not in shared recognition, but with a warning scowl. And again, she returned her gaze to the firelight.
“And when all seemed lost, Alegni’s army closing in around us, Drizzt downed by my own sword, and myself helpless beneath Alegni’s blade, Dahlia was free.”
She did look up, then, and stared at him hard.
“Free to fly away.”
“What friend would I be…?” she started to ask, but Entreri’s quiet snicker mocked her.
“I know you better than that,” he declared.
“You know nothing,” she said, but without conviction, for as she stared at Entreri and he at her, the connection between them could not escape either.
“You did not fly back onto the bridge out of loyalty, but out of something so deep within you and so dark inside that you could not leave. I said I would die before returning to my servitude, but Dahlia was no less captured than I. I by a sword, and you by…”
Dahlia looked away abruptly, her gaze to the fire, where she kicked at it to send a rush of embers into the air, obviously needing the distraction, the change of subject, anything.
“A memory,” Artemis Entreri finished, and Dahlia’s shoulders slumped so profoundly that she seemed as if she would simply topple over into the fire.
And despite himself, despite everything he had spent nearly a century and a half perfecting, Artemis Entreri went to h
er, right beside her, and put his arm around her to hold her steady. Her tears streamed down her face and dropped to the ground below, but he did not wipe them away.
She tensed, and inhaled deeply to steady herself. As she stood straight once more, Entreri took a step to the side. He looked at the fire, giving her this moment of privacy as she passed through the darkness.
“You hated him more than I ever could,” Entreri admitted.
“He’s dead,” Dahlia stated flatly.
“And a pity that he fell through the dimensions as he breathed his last,” said Entreri. “I would have tied his corpse to my nightmare and dragged it through the streets of Neverwinter until the skin fell from his broken bones.”
He felt Dahlia looking at him, though he did not return the stare.
“For me?” she asked.
“For both of us,” he replied. Given what he knew now about Dahlia, such an act might have brought him a deeper peace from a more profound scar-with Herzgo Alegni substituting for one who betrayed him so many decades before.
Dahlia managed a little chuckle then, and said, “I would have liked watching that.”
In the brush not so far away, Drizzt Do’Urden couldn’t make out many of the words the two exchanged. He had dismounted and dismissed Andahar far back, when first he had spotted the fire. Somehow, he knew that it would be the camp of Dahlia and Entreri.
And still, Drizzt had not openly approached. He tried to tell himself that he wasn’t sneaking up on them.
He had watched their discussion for some time, and could have moved closer without being detected, perhaps close enough to hear their words.
But those words didn’t seem to matter. Drizzt found himself more interested in their movements, particularly the way they looked at each other, and more poignantly, how they looked away from each other.
There was nothing sexual between them, no hint that Entreri had made a cuckold of him or anything of the sort.
Strangely, Drizzt had a feeling that such a crude revelation might have stung less profoundly.
For he knew now what he had long suspected: Artemis Entreri knew something of Dahlia, understood something of Dahlia, which he did not and could not. Some cord wound between them. In her tears and in her quiet chuckle, Dahlia had shared more with Artemis Entreri then she had with Drizzt in all their nights of lovemaking.
Charon's claw tns-3 Page 24
