Starlight Enclave

by R. A. Salvatore

  “No, no,” Jarlaxle assured them both. “She would more likely destroy it than heighten its enchantment, for she has no love of this sword. I do hope to make a change to Khazid’hea in the journey we will find before us, but the Great Forge of Gauntlgrym will not be needed.”

  “What are you talking about?” Entreri asked.

  “Our friend Kimmuriel has spent many long hours with the sword,” Jarlaxle answered. “Let us just say that he has learned many secrets contained within, including a way that I might break the sword’s will, once and for all. That I might excise the demonic magic within it.”

  “That magic has guided many a hand to great heights of swordplay,” the man reminded him.

  “Novice hands. But that is nothing that Zaknafein Do’Urden would ever need,” Jarlaxle explained. “Ah, to have Cutter’s fine edge and sentient wariness, but without its malignant bent!”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Entreri surrendered. “Enjoy your journey.”

  “Our journey,” Jarlaxle corrected. “Khazid’hea ruined a previous wielder and brought great harm upon her family and great turmoil in the land. I have recently learned that in no small way, this sword’s malignant sentience was responsible for the War of the Silver Marches. I intend to make sure that can never happen again, and at the same time, to bring peace to one who did not deserve her fate.”

  “Doum’wielle Armgo?” Zak asked.

  “She is alive, and lost, and I believe that using this very cursed weapon to save her will help us to break the spirit of the sword and so remove the demonic magic.”

  “When you’re done speaking in riddles, let me know what you’re talking about,” Zak replied.

  “No riddle,” Jarlaxle promised. “The sword can lead us to Doum’wielle—I believe she is alive. Saving her would be an act of great heroism, and more than that, Doum’wielle would almost certainly prove a potent ally for us, for House Baenre in their struggle against the Melarni and the other Lolthians. She is Armgo, of the Second House. She will be our ears and eyes.”

  “I thought Gromph threw her to the far north?” Entreri asked.

  “Indeed, and there she likely remains.”

  “Likely?”

  “We can know. Kimmuriel has found a way that we can know. And so we can get to her and bring her back. Pick up the sword. Hold it tightly, send your thoughts into it, and demand answers.”

  “Take great care,” Entreri warned as Zak reached for Cutter. “The sword is thick with pride, powerful of will, and clever.”

  “Not clever,” Jarlaxle insisted. “It manipulates with emotion, but not with concocted, thought-out falsehoods.”

  His expression showing that he wasn’t sure what either of the two might be talking about, Zaknafein grabbed the sword and pulled it in close against his chest. He put it through some sudden and unexpected maneuvers, and Jarlaxle nodded and smiled, understanding that what Zak was doing here was putting the proud sword off its guard, for now Khazid’hea was where it always longed to be: in the hands of a true weapon master.

  When Zak smiled, Jarlaxle knew that the sword was smiling, too, in its own way.

  Finally, Zak lowered the blade. “So you once wielded it,” he said to Entreri.

  “It learned to hate me,” the former assassin dryly replied, “because it could never control me.”

  “Perhaps because you were already vicious enough without its help,” Jarlaxle said with a laugh, and Entreri tapped his brow in salute.

  “It knows my daughter, too, I have heard,” Zak said. “Catti-brie wielded the blade and it got the best of her, to near calamity.”

  “That was a long time ago,” Jarlaxle said. “She was young and inexperienced in the way of the warrior, and trained not at all as a wizard or priestess.”

  “And Doum’wielle?” Jarlaxle asked.

  “Little Doe?” Zak returned after concentrating on the sentient weapon.

  “Yes, that is what her father called her.”

  “Tos’un Armgo,” Zak said, nodding.

  “He, too, wielded the sword.”

  “I do not sense that,” said Zak. He closed his eyes and brought the sword close, but then shook his head. “Not at all.”

  “Yet he did. So tell me, who else does Khazid’hea know?” Jarlaxle asked.

  “You,” Zak replied. “And my son.”

  “And?”

  Zak shrugged.

  “But not Tos’un, because Tos’un is dead, and no others, because all others who have wielded the sword are dead,” Jarlaxle explained. “Which means that Doum’wielle, Little Doe, is not. She was thrown through a portal into the northern wastes by Gromph years ago, but she lives, it would seem. And I intend to go get her, with the two of you by my side.”

  Entreri and Zaknafein exchanged curious looks, but neither argued.

  “The northern wastes is a large area, yes?” Entreri said at length.

  “We’ll find her,” Jarlaxle said. “The sword holds a strong bond with those who have wielded it and been overcome by its influence. Kimmuriel believes that any so dominated for any length of time will forever carry a bit of Khazid’hea’s magic within them. A bond of those enslaved by it, so to speak.”

  “So the sword will find Doum’wielle?” Entreri asked doubtfully.

  “Khazid’hea would not even desire such a thing, not when it can be in the hands of a warrior of Zaknafein’s caliber.”

  “Then what are you babbling about?”

  “As I said, Kimmuriel insisted to me that the bond likely extends to others who have been similarly coerced, possessed even, by the will of the sword,” Jarlaxle explained. “Khazid’hea won’t lead us to Doum’wielle, but one who was similarly dominated by the sword might well be able to do so.”

  “That sword never held me in thrall,” Entreri was quick to say.

  “Not you.”

  “If you think I’m going to submit to a wizard’s trick in a sword—” Zak started, but Jarlaxle interrupted him.

  “Not you.”

  “No,” Entreri said suddenly. “She won’t do it.”

  “She will.”

  “Who?” Zak asked.

  “Catti-brie.”

  Artemis Entreri shook his head, but Zak asked, “So we three and Catti-brie are going into the wastelands of the frozen north?”

  “Why not?” Jarlaxle said. “Whatever might happen in Menzoberranzan is a long time off, it would seem. Luskan is secured, Gauntlgrym is secured, Bleeding Vines is mostly rebuilt. Beniago and Bruenor do not need me to intervene in their dealings any longer and Lord Neverember is no more a threat. Nor are the Margasters. Are we to sit here and watch the world turn about us when a grand adventure awaits?”

  “The last time you told me such a tale, I wound up in the company of dragons and in the prison of a Damaran king,” Entreri reminded.

  “And you are a better man for it! And so was King Gareth, for that matter. And Kane the Grandmaster of Flowers. Did you get a chance to speak with him when last—”

  “Shut up, Jarlaxle,” Entreri grumbled.

  “I think the adventurous woman would love the chance to see the road again,” Jarlaxle said, getting the conversation back on track.

  “She has a young child,” said Zak.

  “And a husband more than capable of taking care of that child, to say nothing of Bruenor and his queens, who spend more time with Brie than they do at governing,” Jarlaxle said.

  “So, Drizzt will not join us on this journey, then?” Zak asked.

  Jarlaxle chuckled. “He is in no mood for such follies. Perhaps you’ve noticed.”

  Zak nodded, for he had indeed.

  “Besides, we will need a mighty priestess or a powerful wizard, and I tend to trust a priestess more,” Jarlaxle explained. “I do not intend to walk all the way back from wherever Gromph sends us.”

  “You presume an awful lot,” said Entreri.

  “Of course I do. That is my charm. And you know that you will both agree! So then
, let me get these adventurers prepared for the road,” Jarlaxle said, and held out his hand.

  Shaking his head, Zak handed over the sentient sword.

  “Do practice with your whip and sun blade,” Jarlaxle told him. “I had it specially crafted because I expect that it, too, will prove invaluable when we are in the frozen north, surrounded by the monsters that thrive in those extremes and will not be pleased by the opposite extreme.” He smiled, tipped his hat, and turned away.

  “I doubt Catti-brie will join us,” Entreri remarked, “even if you can convince her to hold that sword.” When Jarlaxle looked back at him, he only added, “She and I have a history on the road, from long ago.”

  Jarlaxle only shrugged and turned away once more. But he paused again, smiled widely at Entreri, and produced a familiar jeweled dagger, tossing it to the floor before the man.

  Entreri recoiled.

  “The souls within it were cleansed,” Jarlaxle reminded him. “And this weapon, too, was deeply inspected by my friends at the Hosttower of the Arcane. It is still brilliant, still vampiric—”

  “Then I want nothing to do with it! Throw it to the primordial.”

  “But the true curse of it is gone,” Jarlaxle continued. “Its taste remains for the physical health of the victim, but that alone. No more will it take the souls.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters,” Jarlaxle countered. “That was your sin—you said it yourself. Sharon showed it to you clearly in that wasp-filled cocoon. Now that curse is gone, but what remains is worthy of who Artemis Entreri has become. Take it, for it far exceeds the dagger you now wear on your hip, in its beauty, in its deadliness, and in its ability to heal you as it defeats your foes. You cannot deny the utility.”

  Entreri stared long and hard at the dagger lying on the floor right before his foot.

  “It is just a weapon now, and nowhere near as malignant as that sword you so easily dominate.” The drow rogue grinned as he noted Entreri’s expression. He wanted to pick up the dagger, that much was clear.

  He looked up at Jarlaxle. “You are sure?”

  “As sure as I am that Thibbledorf Pwent is no longer a vampire,” Jarlaxle answered. “Wondrous and glorious was the web of Yvonnel and Quenthel. You witnessed its work on this very dagger on that field, and now you know that the curse is forever gone. Take it.”

  Entreri licked his lips.

  He took the dagger.

  Quite pleased, Jarlaxle nodded at that and went on his way to Catti-brie, confident that he could persuade the powerful priestess to join them, and that she would be able to use the bond of Khazid’hea like a divining rod to point them toward Doum’wielle Armgo. If only Gromph could get them somewhere near to where he had dumped the poor woman.

  But Jarlaxle was confident he could make that happen, too.

  “Yes, the poor Doum’wielle,” Jarlaxle whispered to himself, and he meant it. He wanted to save her, just for the sake of doing so, for her and for her family. More than that, he truly believed that he would show Doum’wielle a way to make amends for all that she had done, and in doing so, perhaps prevent utter catastrophe in Menzoberranzan, and facilitate an end to the domination of Lolth over his kin and kind.

  Even if not, Jarlaxle would still go, and that truth sang sweetly in his heart. For this was not merely self-serving. He was sincere about his desire to rescue Doum’wielle from the injustice, indignity, and terrible wrongs that had been precipitated upon her. For her, and for lovely Sinnafein, who had been played such a cruel trick by the malignant sword.

  Even that, he now understood, was for a perfectly selfish reason, he finally admitted to himself, as with his freeing the prisoners from Captain Arrongo’s hold.

  It felt good.

  It felt really good.

  A reward greater than baubles and magical toys.

  “You’ve cursed me, Drizzt Do’Urden,” Jarlaxle said when he came out of Ship Kurth onto the streets of Closeguard Island, heading for the Hosttower of the Arcane and a meeting he had arranged with Kimmuriel and Gromph. “And I love you all the more for it.”

  “We should speak about Brevindon Margaster,” Zak said to Jarlaxle when the mercenary leader had returned to Ship Kurth.

  “What about him?”

  “We’ll be gone for tendays?”

  “Months, more likely,” Jarlaxle replied. “It will be no easy task, finding Doum’wielle, even with Catti-brie’s help.”

  “Worse, then,” said Zak. “I don’t trust him.”

  “You’d be a fool to trust him,” Jarlaxle agreed.

  “He’s vile to his bones,” Zak went on. “Aye, a demon had hold of him from that phylactery he wore, as with the other Margasters and their associates, but he embraced that demon.”

  “He desired what the fiend offered, and he was not the head of his family, in any case,” Jarlaxle explained. “If he had stood against Inkeri and Lord Neverember, even if he’d survived, what would have been left for him? Was he really unlike so many of our kin in Menzoberranzan in that regard? We embrace a demon, too, because not embracing her is—or was, before this time of revelation—too terrible to imagine. I don’t think our own lives all that different from the choice of many of those who joined with the demon horde in the Luskan war, and who are we to judge them?”

  “Brevindon cooperates with us now only because of the power that affiliation offers.”

  Jarlaxle shrugged.

  “Is that enough?” Zak asked.

  “Isn’t it?” Jarlaxle retorted. “Isn’t that enough for the folk of Luskan? Having Brevindon seated beside Beniago as a second captain in thrall to Bregan D’aerthe strengthens our play here. It was his house, House Margaster of Waterdeep and Luskan and not Ship Kurth, which commissioned Revenge, yes?”

  “He likes the power. With us gone, there will be more for him to take, particularly if he is successful in opening any other trade agreements with Waterdeep,” Zak warned.

  “True enough.”

  “Take him with us?”

  “No, he will stay here. But so will Kimmuriel be here,” said Jarlaxle. “I’ll advise him to visit Brevindon often, right there in the man’s thoughts. I don’t disagree with you that Luskan will face some trials in the coming months, but understand this, as I have come to understand it over these long decades: to build anything—any organization, any city, any ship and crew—worth having, one must bring it to a point where it can operate without the builder. I do not yet trust Captain Bonnie Charlee on Revenge without some trusted informant among her crew. That ship offers her great power and great opportunity to abuse that power far from Luskan’s lights. But I do trust that I will be able to trust her soon enough, you see? And in that event, when Revenge can run the waves and do that which is good for Luskan, and therefore good for me, without my oversight, then, only then, will I have created something good.

  “I don’t doubt your assessment of Brevindon Margaster’s heart,” Jarlaxle went on. “I don’t know him enough to trust him and don’t like him enough to want to get to know him well enough to trust him! And I expect that if we took him with us, somewhere along the way, I’d discard him. For now, though, the play is his, and when he moves his piece, be it a knight or a pawn or his queen itself, we will counter if necessary, in a most appropriate way. If necessary, though, and I hope it will not be.”

  “But we’ll likely be gone, far away on the road in the north.”

  “As you’ve noted. And as I’ve said, Kimmuriel will be here. You don’t know Kimmuriel well enough, my friend, even though you worked together in the Underdark. Trust me on this: if Brevindon Margaster makes a move against Beniago and Bregan D’aerthe while we are on the road and Kimmuriel holds Luskan, then Brevindon will wish that he had waited for my return. Yes, I am not above killing my enemies. Kimmuriel does much worse than that. He’ll serve the fool to a hive of illithids for their dining pleasure.”

  Zak smiled, and shuddered—he couldn’t help it. He knew that Jarl
axle wasn’t lying. He also wasn’t overly sad about the prospect Jarlaxle had just painted, as he truly despised that particular man.

  “Now, come along,” Jarlaxle said. “Let us find Artemis and gather our gear. We’ll be going to Gromph in the morning, I expect. Summer is running long and we’ll want to be done with our business in the far north and back before autumn sets in.”

  “Catti-brie is really coming?”

  Jarlaxle shrugged. “I do believe so. She understands all that is at stake, and while our own concerns for Menzoberranzan likely weigh more heavily upon us, the idea of both saving Doum’wielle and forever removing such dominating powers from the sword you carry that she so hates weigh more heavily upon her. If not, if she decides against the adventure, we’ll take Dab’nay, since we’ll need a priestess. But then our journey may prove much longer still, since our link to Doum’wielle through Khazid’hea will be lost to us.”

  “I held the sword again,” Catti-brie told Drizzt. “I asked Khazid’hea about her. I believe that Jarlaxle is correct. Doum’wielle is alive.”

  “It would have to be an elaborate ruse to fool both you and Jarlaxle, I expect,” Drizzt said, nodding. He lowered his eyes, reflecting on Doum’wielle and her tragic tale. He knew Sinnafein quite well, and had known Tos’un Armgo in those days when Tos’un lived in the Moonwood with the elves. He had watched their family grow from afar, thinking it a good thing, a hopeful joining and perhaps a vision of a better future.

  And then, so abruptly, it had all ended in tragedy, with a son murdered by the runaway daughter and Sinnafein betrayed.

  “So she is alive, perhaps,” Drizzt said. “Why is that a concern for Jarlaxle?”

  “Because she is of House Barrison Del’Armgo and will want a chance at redemption. Jarlaxle thinks her a critical ally in working his will upon Menzoberranzan.”

  “Hmm,” Drizzt replied, pondering the possibilities. He knew well that Jarlaxle survived and thrived through information and informants.

  “It would be a good thing, would it not?” Catti-brie asked him. “If Doum’wielle so terribly sinned because of Khazid’hea, is she not worth saving?”