But I find myself off-balance again, and the snakes slide past, teasing me. I cannot catch them, cannot sort through their intertwined bodies.

So it is with the ill person who suddenly must face mortality, when the paralyzing shackles of the concept of forever are sundered. As time diminishes, every moment crystallizes into one of importance. I have met several people in my travels who, when told by a cleric that they had not long to live, insisted to me that their disease was the greatest event of their existence, insisted that colors became more vivid, sounds more acute and meaningful and pleasurable, and friendships more endearing.

The shattering of the normal routine brings life to this person, so paradoxically, considering that the catalyst is, after all, the imminence of death.

But though we know, though we are seasoned, we cannot prepare.

I felt this rippling of the serene lake that had become my life when Cattibrie became afflicted by the Spellplague, and then, even more profoundly, when she and Regis were taken from me. All of my sensibilities screamed at me; it wasn’t supposed to be like that. So many things had been sorted through hard work and trial, and we four remaining Companions of the Hall were ready for our due and just reward: adventures and leisure of our choosing.

I don’t know that I took those two dear friends for granted, though losing them so unexpectedly and abruptly surely tore apart the serenity of calm waters I had found all about me.

A lake full of tumultuous cross-currents and slithering snakes of discordant thought, sliding all about. I remember my confusion, my rage, helpless rage . . . I grabbed Jarlaxle because I needed something to hold, some solid object and solid hope to stop the current from sweeping me away.

So too with the departure of Wulfgar, whose choice to leave us was not really unexpected.

So too with Bruenor. We walked a road together that we knew would end as it ended. The only question was whether he or I would die first at the end of an enemy’s spear.

I feel that I long ago properly insulated myself against this trap of simply accepting what was with the false belief that what was would always be.

In almost every case.

Almost, I see now.

I speak of the Companions of the Hall as if we were five, then four when Wulfgar departed. Even now as I recognize my error, I found at my fingertips the same description when I penned, “we four.”

We were not five in the early days, but six.

We were not four when Wulfgar departed, but five.

We were not two when Catti-brie and Regis were taken from us, but three.

And the one whom I seldom consider, the one whom I fear I have too often taken for granted, is the one most joined to the heart of Drizzt Do’Urden.

And now the snakes return, tenfold, twisting around my legs, just out of reach, and I stagger because the ground beneath my feet is not firm, because the sands buckle and roll beneath the crashing waves, because the balance I have known has been torn from me.

I cannot summon Guenhwyvar.

I do not understand—I have not lost hope!—but for the first time, with the onyx figurine in hand, the panther, my dear friend, will not come to my call, nor do I sense her presence, roaring back at me across the planescape. She went through to the Shadowfell with Herzgo Alegni, or went somewhere, disappearing into the black mist on the winged bridge of Neverwinter.

I sensed the distance soon after, a vast expanse between us, too far to reach with the magic of the idol.

I do not understand.

Was Guenhwyvar not eternal? Was she not the essence of the panther? Such essence cannot be destroyed, surely!

But I cannot summon her, cannot hear her, cannot feel her around me and in my thoughts.

What road is this, then, that I find myself upon? I have followed a trail of vengeance beside Dahlia—nay, behind Dahlia, for little can I doubt that it is she who guides my strides. So do I cross the leagues to kill Sylora Salm, and I cannot consider that an illegitimate act, for it was she who freed the primordial and wreaked devastation on Neverwinter. Surely defeating Sylora was a just and worthy cause.

And so back again have I traveled to Neverwinter to exact revenge upon this tiefling, Herzgo Alegni—and I know not the crime, even. Do I justify my battle with my knowledge of his enslavement of Artemis Entreri?

In the same breath, can I justify freeing Artemis Entreri? Perhaps it is that his enslavement was really imprisonment, atonement for a life ill-lived. Was this Alegni then a gaoler tasked with controlling the assassin? How can I know?

I shake my head as I consider the reality, that I have as my lover an elf I do not understand, and one who has no doubt committed acts beside which I would never willingly associate myself. To delve into Dahlia’s past would reveal much, I fear—too much, and so I choose not to probe.

So be it.

And so it is true with Artemis Entreri, except that I have chosen simply to allow for his redemption, to accept what he was and who he was and hope that perhaps, by my side, he will make amends. There was always within him a code of honor, a sense of right and wrong, though horribly stilted through the prism of his pained eyes.

Am I a fool, then? With Dahlia? With Entreri? A fool of convenience? A lonely heart adrift in waters too wide and too wild? An angry heart too scarred to linger on hopes I now know to be false?

There’s the rub, and the most painful thought of all.

These are the questions I would ask of Guenhwyvar. Of course she could not answer, and yet, of course she could. With her eyes, her simple glance, her honest scrutiny reminding me to look within my own heart with similar honesty.

The ripples, the waves, the wild cross-currents, lift me and drop me and twist me all around, and I cannot set my feet and direction. I should fear that unexpected winding, these turns left and right to places not of my own choosing.

I should, and yet I cannot deny the thrill of it all, of Dahlia, more wild than the road, and of Entreri, that tie to another life, it seems, in another world and time. The presence of Artemis Entreri surely complicates my life, and yet it brings me to a simpler time.

I have heard their banter and seen their glances to each other. They are more alike, Entreri and Dahlia, than either to me. They share something I do not understand.

My heart tells me that I should leave them.

But it is a distant voice, as distant, perhaps, as Guenhwyvar.

—Drizzt Do’Urden

Chapter 12: Artifacts

Drizzt winced and reflexively pulled away. He hadn’t been expecting Dahlia’s touch, particularly not on his wounded shoulder. Stripped to the waist, he sat on a stool in a room at the inn in Neverwinter. Outside Drizzt’s window, the sounds of battle could still be heard, though intermittently. The few remaining Shadovar in the city had been cornered.

“It is a salve to clean the wound,” the elf explained. Perturbed by his inattentiveness, Dahlia grabbed Drizzt’s arm none too gently and straightened him where he sat.

That had to hurt, she knew, but the drow didn’t flinch. She braced his shoulder then, keeping it still, and moved his arm out to the side and back, separating the wound, opening it wide.

Still Drizzt didn’t blink. He sat staring at the onyx figurine set on the table before him, as if it were his long-lost lover. A combination of disgust and anger filled Dahlia’s thoughts.

“It’s just an artifact,” she muttered. She wore her hair in the bob now, her braid and the warrior woad were gone. She had become softer for the wounded Drizzt, and all he did was stare at that onyx figurine.

Still, Dahlia couldn’t suppress some degree of sympathy as she examined the wound. Entreri’s sword had slipped under the short sleeve of the drow’s mithral shirt and had penetrated fairly deeply. With the blood now washed away and the arm tilted back, she could see right through the layers of flesh to the torn muscles within.

Dahlia shook her head. “That you could even lift your weapon again after this cut is remarkable,” she said.

“He betrayed us,” Drizzt said without turning to look at her.

“I told you to kill him in the forest or to send him away at least,” Dahlia snapped back, more angrily than was called for, certainly.

“And in the end, he saved us,” Drizzt said.

“I wounded Alegni,” she said. “And I took his mighty sword. Even without Artemis Entreri on that bridge, Herzgo Alegni would have died.”

Drizzt turned to look at Dahlia, and his expression, so full of sarcasm, made the elf want to thrust a finger into his open wound, just to bring him to his knees.

Instead she roughly applied the salve-covered cloth, pressing it tight. When Drizzt didn’t wince, Dahlia pressed it more tightly, and finally, one lavender eye did narrow in pain.

“The priests will be in presently,” Dahlia said, trying to cover her rough handling as a pragmatic matter.

Drizzt wore his stoic expression again. “Where is Entreri?”

“In the other room with that red-haired whore,” Dahlia said. The drow tilted his head and his expression turned sly, if somewhat annoyed.

Her animosity toward this citizen, Arunika, was uncalled for, she knew. And yet, there it was, hanging in the air between them and worn clearly on her unblemished face.

She tied off the bandage and let go of Drizzt’s arm, then reached for the onyx figurine.

He caught her by the wrist.

“Leave it.”

Dahlia pulled back, but Drizzt would not let go.

“Leave it,” he repeated, and then he released her.

“I was only trying to learn if I might sense the cat,” she said.

“I will sense the return of Guenhwyvar before any others,” Drizzt assured her, and he pulled the figurine in closer to him.

Dahlia heaved a great sigh and turned her attention to the other artifact in the room, the red-bladed sword standing against the wall.

“Is it a mighty weapon?” she asked, moving toward it.

“Don’t touch it.”

Dahlia stopped short and swung around to face the drow, cocking her head.

“So you command?” she asked.

“So I warn,” Drizzt corrected.

“I’m no novice to sentient weapons,” said the wielder of Kozah’s Needle.

“Charon’s Claw is different.”

“You carried it from the river,” said Dahlia. “Did it steal your soul in that journey, or merely your humor?”

That brought a smile to the drow’s face, albeit a small and brief one.

Dahlia walked right beside the weapon, and even dared to touch the counterweight ball at the base of the pommel with one finger.

“Do you think it still controls him? Entreri?” she asked, purposely acting quite pleased by that possibility.

“I think that anyone who lifts that blade will be consumed by it.”

“Unless they are strong enough, like Drizzt Do’Urden,” Dahlia added.

The drow half-nodded and half-shrugged. “And even one strong enough not to be so consumed would invoke the wrath of Entreri.”

“The sword controls him.”

“Only if the wielder of the sword knows how to make the sword control him,” Drizzt warned. “If not, one who tries would likely be dead long before she learned how to make Entreri her puppet.”

Dahlia laughed as if Drizzt’s reasoning were absurd, and most especially at his use of the female pronoun in his warning.