Boundless

by R. A. Salvatore

  “He was happy,” Zaknafein concluded.

  Dab’nay nodded. “And now, he is again Duvon,” she admitted. “And you would have been justified in killing him. You still would be, and perhaps that is your wisest play.”

  “But you don’t want me to.”

  “I beg you not to.”

  “And again, I am left asking, ‘Why?’”

  “Because something even greater has changed within me,” she said. “Outside of my house, outside of the daily rituals of the Spider Queen and the constant reminders of the inferiority of males, and the constant reinforcement of the selfish nature of drow, I have come to see the world—not just Duvon, but the world around me—quite differently.” It was her turn to reach out and gently stroke Zaknafein’s face. “I find men much more pleasurable when they lie with me of their own accord and desire.”

  Zaknafein grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her hand away, holding it fast. “And again, I am left with the truth that you still retain great powers from Lady Lolth.”

  “Not so great,” Dab’nay humbly admitted. “Never that. Never spells powerful enough to require divine permission or interest. But yes, she still grants me my spells,” she conceded. “Why wouldn’t she?”

  “You just said why.”

  “Do not lie to yourself or deceive yourself, ever-angry Zaknafein,” she said. “Jarlaxle, too, is in the favor of the Spider Queen and always has been.”

  “I’ve never seen him pray to her or to anyone else.”

  Dab’nay offered no answer, other than another shrug.

  “You promise that there will be no retribution against me by Dab’nay?” Zaknafein bluntly asked.

  Another shrug. “That would depend upon whether or not you anger me,” she said coyly. “Or maybe if you fail to please me when we are at play.”

  “I am your servant again?”

  “Willingly!”

  Zaknafein found himself matching her grin.

  “Still, you did try to cheat in my fight with Duvon, and so would you have stayed his blade if your cheating had borne the expected results?”

  She appeared honestly perplexed by that. “My cheating?”

  “You do not admit that you would have preferred that Duvon win?”

  “I would have preferred that you did not fight, and not only because I lost a large bag of gold.”

  “You bet on Duvon.”

  “I did.”

  “But you know him well, and you know that he could not defeat me.”

  “That, too, is true.”

  “Because you cheated?”

  “I did nothing.”

  Zaknafein stared at her doubtfully, then came to understand her dodge. “Because you knew that someone else was cheating.”

  Dab’nay shrugged and did not deny it.

  “Who?”

  “The attack upon you in the fight was not divine, nor arcane,” Dab’nay stated.

  “It was similar to that which you tried this very night in the alleyway, I think.”

  “No. It was no spell of Lolth’s giving, and none cast by a mage.” When Zaknafein didn’t seem to understand, she stated it more clearly. “Who among us is in bed, quite literally, with an Oblodran?” Dab’nay asked.

  “The mind magic,” the weapon master whispered, more to himself than to Dab’nay. He hadn’t even considered a psionic attack, for the Oblodrans were not ones to bother with such matters as duels in the Braeryn, certainly.

  “Who?” Dab’nay asked again.

  Zaknafein could only shrug, as he had no idea.

  “Ah, of course, you have not been in the Clawrift in decades,” Dab’nay said. “An easier clue, then, my lover. Who among Bregan D’aerthe would most benefit from the death of Zaknafein Do’Urden?”

  “I am not of Bregan D’aerthe any—”

  “Oh, but you are,” Dab’nay insisted. “You are still the favorite of Jarlaxle, and you know it. And for one other, that remains unacceptable.”

  Zaknafein tried to keep his expression blank as he considered the reasoning. He found himself wincing more than once, though, and more than twice, as he tried to process the dire implications here. This could cost him his life, of course, but worse, to his thinking, this could force him to stay inside House Do’Urden!

  “Why do you tell me this?” he demanded.

  “Because I lost a large bag of gold.” Her expression was grim, one Zaknafein was far more used to seeing from a priestess of Lolth, and in that moment, had he been wearing a sword, he might have struck Dab’nay down.

  A moment later, though, she merely shrugged again, a reminder to him that this was the way of the drow, even among allies, and despite himself, Zaknafein was glad that he didn’t have a sword in hand. He wasn’t going to stay mad at Dab’nay because she had tried to profit over some inside information. Would he have done anything differently if their roles had been reversed?

  Jarlaxle was surprised to see Zaknafein returning to the Oozing Myconid that night, but when he noted the man’s scowl as he approached the table, he was able to guess the reason.

  “You knew,” Zaknafein said with a growl, standing, pointedly not sitting, right beside the mercenary leader.

  “I know much.”

  “No games, Jarlaxle.”

  “My friend, it is all a game. Would you care to narrow the horizon of your question?”

  “I would care to take you out in the alley and cut you apart.”

  “I wouldn’t care much for that.”

  “Jarlaxle!”

  Jarlaxle held up his hands for Zaknafein to see, showing him that they were empty, then slowly rose. “Let us go in the back.”

  Zaknafein started to argue, but then motioned for Jarlaxle to lead and followed the man into a room just off the common room. No doubt, ears were pressed against the door, but Jarlaxle produced his portable hole and motioned for Zaknafein to go in.

  The weapon master hesitated, eyeing Jarlaxle with open suspicion.

  Jarlaxle heaved a heavy sigh, then placed his belt pouch to the side and entered the hole, and when Zaknafein finally entered behind him, he pulled in the edges, creating an extradimensional pocket.

  “Be quick,” he said. “I do not wish to have my pouch stolen.”

  “You knew—you know—who did it,” Zaknafein stated.

  “Did what?”

  “Attacked my mind in my fight with Duvon Tr’arach,” Zaknafein spat. “Arathis Hune.”

  “Quavylene Oblodra, more likely.”

  “Hired by Arathis Hune,” the weapon master said through gritted teeth.

  “That would be my guess, yes,” Jarlaxle confirmed.

  “Where is he?”

  “Nowhere that matters to you, Weapon Master of House Do’Urden.”

  Zaknafein stared at him with his jaw hanging open.

  “I’m sorry for being so formal, but you leave me no choice. If you strike at Arathis Hune, then House Do’Urden will have struck hard at Bregan D’aerthe, and Matron Mother Baenre will likely have a word, or more like a scourge, with Matron Malice in that event.”

  “Do not play that game!”

  “It is all a game.”

  “Shut up!” Zaknafein growled in frustration. “Just shut up. Why haven’t you punished him? Why is he still alive?”

  “Because he is valuable to me.”

  “He tried to kill me.”

  Jarlaxle’s shrug deflated Zaknafein, visibly so.

  “We are drow, my friend Zaknafein. We are all drow. You are drow. This is our lot, this is our way. So, we are ever on our guard, and so we survive.”

  “And if treachery is revealed?”

  “By whom? To what court? Would you have me take your charges to the Ruling Council? I am sure the matrons will give it proper consideration.”

  “Don’t be foolish. He tried to have me killed, and so I will kill him myself.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “We’ve been through this. He is valuable to me, and I need him n
ow, with you spending your days in the service of Matron Malice. You cannot kill him.”

  Zaknafein stared at him hard.

  “Are you intending to kill every drow who might use your own demise as a manner of personal gain?” Jarlaxle asked. “If so, you’ll be dead or you’ll be alone.”

  “Does that include Jarlaxle?”

  “Fair point, my friend. You’d then be alone, except for my wonderful company.”

  “Which is what you’d have to say to stay alive, isn’t it?”

  “Ah, Zaknafein, I promise you, if we two were trapped in a cave alone and starving, I would not kill you. But if you died first, I cannot promise that I wouldn’t eat you.”

  Zaknafein just shook his head, the hints of a smile impossible to stymie.

  “You will find no allies, not even me, if you pursue this to your desired end,” Jarlaxle warned in all seriousness. “Let it go.” Jarlaxle rose and moved toward the common room, aware the whole time of Zaknafein’s eyes on his back.

  Part 2

  Every Front

  If I am to believe the wisdom of Grandmaster Kane, then I am made of the same stuff as all around me, then we are one. All of us, everything.

  Is this observation merely a philosophical bend or the truth of it? For surely this is not how the matrons of Menzoberranzan view the world, nor the dwarves of Gauntlgrym, nor even my beloved wife, who foresees her future in the Grove of the Unicorns within the House of Nature, wherein resides the goddess Mielikki.

  So is it that Grandmaster Kane has seen the truth, beyond the religions and dogma of the material world? Or is it that his truth is not in opposition to the others; that his truth is, perhaps, a different angle viewing the same image?

  It gives me great pleasure and satisfaction to recognize that this ancient human who has taken me as his student would not bristle at my question. Nay, he would celebrate it, indeed demand it of me, for this oneness of all he envisions requires inquisitiveness and curiosity, open heart and open mind. I cannot deny the power of Kane’s truth. I have seen a blade pass through him without disturbing his mortal flesh.

  He can walk through a stone wall. In the body of Brother Afafrenfere, he vanished to sparkling nothingness before the breath of a dragon, only to soon reconstitute in the mortal corporeal form and slay the beast.

  It occurs to me that a wizard or high priestess might do the same with their varying spells, and I know that Kimmuriel can replicate much of what Grandmaster Kane accomplishes with the use of his strange mind magic.

  Yes, perhaps Kimmuriel Oblodra and Grandmaster Kane are more alike than either of them would wish to admit. Neither consciously calls upon the elements or some godlike being for his powers. For Kimmuriel, it is the power of a trained mind, and so it is with Grandmaster Kane.

  I wonder, then, are their philosophies joined? Or are they accessing some hidden power from different directions?

  I do love these puzzles, I admit, but also, I am troubled by the seeming contentment and acceptance shown by my mentor. Once more, if I am to believe the wisdom of Grandmaster Kane, then I am made of the same stuff as all that is around me, then we are one. All of us, everything. Is it sentience and reasoning that gives us form? What then of the stones and clouds? Is it our sentience that gives them form?

  I am not sure that even Grandmaster Kane could answer those questions, but there is another inescapable question to his philosophy that seemed not to bother him at all: If we are all one, all of the same stuff, and our ultimate fates are thus joined, then to what point do we make determinations of good and evil? Why should I care for such concepts if we are all of the same stuff, if we are all to be joined in the eternity of everything? Am I to meld with ogre pieces, then? Or demon bits?

  But Kane cares about this question, and his answer is simple, and one I find satisfying. To him, the universe bends toward goodness and justice, and the ultimate reward for us all is that place of brotherhood and tranquility. There is indeed a philosophical and moral compass to it all, say the sisters and brothers of the Yellow Rose, and so such gains are not merely temporary conveniences but lasting measurements in a universal scale.

  Perhaps they’re correct. Perhaps it’s all for nothing, and there is no ultimate reward or punishment beyond this mortal coil. These are answers for those who, to our experience, are no more, who have returned to whatever eternity or emptiness there might be for us all. For now, says Kane, and so say I, we must follow that which is in our heart and soul. A belief in universal, eternal harmony and oneness does not discount a belief in goodness, in love, in joy, in friendship and sisterhood.

  I found my peace here in this monastery nestled in the Galena Mountains of Damara. True peace and contentment, and in that light, when I return home to Longsaddle or Gauntlgrym, on those occasions when I am beside Catti-brie or any of the others, I know that I will be a better friend.

  —Drizzt Do’Urden

  Chapter 8

  Commander Zhindia

  The Year of Dwarvenkind Reborn

  Dalereckoning 1488

  “We will meet with them?” Kyrnill Melarn, the first priestess of House Melarn, asked Matron Zhindia. They and their charges, the 350 soldiers of House Melarn—half that number of goblin and kobold slaves, and more than a hundred driders—had come out of the Underdark in the midst of the rocky and hilly region known as the Crags, just a few miles from the now ruined halfling city of Bleeding Vines and the back entrance to the dwarven complex where Bruenor Battlehammer was king.

  More important than where he ruled was the fact that Bruenor was the best friend of the heretic Drizzt Do’Urden, whom Zhindia meant to capture or kill, along with Drizzt’s father, Zaknafein, who had been mysteriously taken from his grave and returned to life.

  To Zhindia, that act of soul-stealing had been the greatest insult to her dear Lady Lolth imaginable.

  “We must,” Zhindia told the priestess. “They are our fodder to bring the dwarves out of their holes.”

  “Why do we need them?” Kyrnill asked, turning about to view the other “soldiers” House Melarn had brought to the surface with them: a pair of gigantic golems fashioned in the shape of spiders. The truly monstrous beasts, retrievers, were among the most prized constructs of the lower planes, used by demon lords and demon goddesses, created with single-minded purpose at tremendous expense and sacrifice. A retriever was built to bring back, dead or alive, a single being.

  Only the most valuable of outlaws would warrant such an expense as this, and the Spider Queen, the goddess Lolth, through her yochlol handmaidens, had clearly agreed with Zhindia’s estimation that Drizzt and Zaknafein qualified in that regard.

  “Can the dwarves stop our . . .” Kyrnill fumbled around for a word to properly describe the powerful creatures before them, and finally settled on “blessed spiders? Can anything?”

  “Never be imprudent,” Matron Zhindia scolded her. “We are entrusted by our goddess with the most precious constructs of the Abyss. Arrogance is uncalled for.”

  “What can stop them, other than the completion of their mission?”

  “They are not invincible. No,” she said, staving off another protest, “I do not underestimate their power. They were created by the greatest of the demon lords, and so they are mighty allies to be treasured, and beyond the power of anything else we can bring to bear against our enemies. But they are not immortal, and never think of them as such. Yes, they will capture or kill Drizzt Do’Urden and Zaknafein, no doubt, but then they will be gone, back to the Abyss, and we will still be here facing a formidable and entrenched enemy.”

  “But you will have achieved greatness, my matron,” Kyrnill said, bowing. “You will have done what the Baenres failed to do, and when we return . . .”

  “When we have defeated the two heretics, then conquered the dwarven city and all lands about it, we will return in true victory. Only then will I enact that which Lolth most deserves: that her most devout and loving matron becomes, at long last, matron mother of Menzoberran
zan. The time of the Baenres is nearing its end. It is past time to return to pure devotion to the Lady of Chaos, past time for the drow to become the unquestioned rulers of the Underdark, with tendrils ever rising to the surface to remind the heretics above that we, not they, are the chosen beings of the true god.

  “But first,” she continued sharply, “we must protect what we have. The retrievers have sensed that Drizzt and Zaknafein are nearby, down below. Without my control—and indeed it wavers!—they will run straightaway for the tunnels to crash against King Bruenor’s walls.”

  “And they will knock those walls down.”

  “They will, if we are clever. Our allies among the humans and dwarves, with the army of demons seeded by House Hunzrin merchants, will wound the dwarves and show us their strengths and weaknesses, and through those weaknesses, the abyssal retrievers will deliver a scalding blow to King Bruenor and his friends.”

  “Forgive my imprudence,” Kyrnill begged with another bow.

  Matron Zhindia gave an atypical smile, since it was an honest one. First Priestess Kyrnill, who had been matron of House Kenafin and could have fought for the same position when that house had merged with House Horlbar, had never really offered sincere and honest respect to her rival, Zhindia. Things had changed, though, since Zhindia had properly and mercilessly punished Ash’ala, Kyrnill’s third daughter. Ever since they had left Ash’ala in the milk bath, being slowly eaten by maggots, Kyrnill had at long last come to understand the true balance of power here. That was one of the reasons Zhindia had decided to be so cruel, of course. Ash’ala had surely deserved her gruesome and painful fate, but equally important to Zhindia, the ever-dangerous First Priestess Kyrnill needed to see it.

  “It is easy to become arrogant, even complacent, with such power in our grasp,” Zhindia said, a rare offer of understanding. “We must all properly guard when the future seems so wonderful.”