The Last Threshold: Neverwinter Saga, Book IV

by R. A. Salvatore

  The old warlock met that look with an unremarkable and disarming smile. He opened the door and he and the Shifter joined Erlindir in the side chamber, where, under a silken cloth not unlike that covering his crystal ball, paced Guenhwyvar, trapped in a miniaturized magical cage.

  Outside of Draygo Quick’s residence, Effron Alegni watched and waited. He had seen the Shifter go in—her appearance, at least, for one never knew when one might actually be looking at the tireless illusionist. He didn’t know her human companion, but the old man certainly was no shade, didn’t look Netherese, and didn’t look at all at home in the Shadowfell.

  This was about the panther, Effron knew.

  The thought gnawed at him. Draygo Quick had not given the panther back to him, but that cat was perhaps Effron’s greatest tool in seeking his revenge against Dahlia. The Shifter had failed him in her dealings with the drow ranger, trying to trade the panther for the coveted Netherese sword, but Effron would not fail. If he could get the cat, he believed he could remove one of Dahlia’s greatest allies from the playing board.

  But Draygo Quick had forbidden it.

  Draygo Quick.

  Effron’s mentor, so he had thought.

  The withered old warlock’s last words to him rang in his mind: “Idiot boy, I only kept you alive out of respect for your father. Now that he is no more, I am done with you. Be gone. Go and hunt her, young fool, that you might see your father again in the darker lands.”

  Effron had tried to return to Draygo, to remedy the fallout between them.

  He had been turned away by the old warlock’s student servants, in no uncertain terms.

  And now this—and Effron knew that the Shifter’s visit had been precipitated by the old warlock’s plans for the panther. Plans that did not include Effron. Plans that would not help Effron’s pressing need.

  Indeed, plans that would almost certainly hinder Effron’s pressing need.

  The twisted young tiefling, his dead arm swinging uselessly behind him, crouched in the dark brush outside of Draygo Quick’s residence for much of the day.

  Grimacing.

  “You play dangerous games, old warlock,” the Shifter said later that night, when she was collecting her coins from Draygo Quick.

  “Not if you have done your research and enchantments correctly. Not if this Erlindir creature is half the druid you claim him to be.”

  “He is quite powerful. Which is why I’m surprised that you will let him return to Toril alive.”

  “Am I to kill every powerful wizard and cleric simply because?” Draygo Quick asked.

  “He knows much now,” the Shifter warned.

  “You assured me that he did not know of Drizzt Do’Urden and was nowhere near to him in the vast lands of Faerûn.”

  “True, but if he harbors any suspicion, isn’t it possible that he put similar dweomers on himself as he did on you—to allow you to view the world through the panther’s eyes?”

  Draygo Quick’s hand froze in place halfway to the shelf where he kept his Silverymoon brandy. He turned to face his guest. “Should I demand my coin back?”

  The Shifter laughed easily and shook her head.

  “Then why would you suggest such a thing?” Draygo Quick demanded. He let that hang in the air as her smile became coy. He grabbed the bottle and poured a couple of glasses, setting one down on the hutch and taking a sip from the other.

  “Why, tricky lady,” he asked at length, “are you trying to pry motives from me?”

  “You admit that your … tactics would elicit my curiosity, yes?”

  “Why? I have an interest in Lady Dahlia and her companions, of course. They have brought great distress to me, and I would be remiss if I did not repay them.”

  “Effron came to me,” she said.

  “Seeking the panther.”

  She nodded, and Draygo Quick noted that she held the brandy he had poured for her, though he hadn’t handed it to her and she hadn’t come to get it—or at least, she hadn’t appeared to come and get it. “I know that Effron desperately wishes this Dahlia creature killed.”

  “More strength to him, then!” Draygo Quick replied with exuberance.

  But the Shifter wasn’t buying his feigned emotion, as she stood shaking her head.

  “Yes, she is his mother,” Draygo Quick answered her unspoken question. “From the loins of Herzgo Alegni. Dahlia threw him from a cliff immediately after his birth, the fiery elf. A pity the fall did not show mercy and kill him, but he landed amongst some pines. The trees broke his fall and broke his spine, but alas, he did not succumb to death.”

  “His injuries—”

  “Aye, Effron was, and remains, fairly broken,” the warlock explained. “But Herzgo Alegni would not let him go. Not physically, and not even emotionally, for many years, until it became clear what little Effron would be.”

  “Twisted. Infirm.”

  “And by that time—”

  “He was an understudy, a promising young warlock under the watchful eye of the great Draygo Quick,” the Shifter reasoned. “And more than that, he became your bludgeon to crumble the stubborn will of the ever-troublesome Herzgo Alegni. He became valuable to you.”

  “It’s a difficult world,” Draygo Quick lamented. “One must find whatever tools one can to properly navigate the swirling seas.”

  He raised his glass in toast and took another drink. The Shifter did likewise.

  “And what tools do you seek now, through the panther?” she asked.

  Draygo Quick shrugged as if it were not important. “How well do you know this Erlindir now?”

  It was the Shifter’s turn to shrug.

  “He would welcome you to his grove?”

  She nodded.

  “He is a disciple of Mielikki,” Draygo Quick remarked. “Do you know his standing?”

  “He is a powerful druid, though his mind has dulled with age.”

  “But is he favored by the goddess?” Draygo Quick asked, more insistently than he had intended, as the Shifter’s response—stiffening, her expression growing concerned—informed him.

  “Would one not have to be, to be granted powers?”

  “More than that,” Draygo Quick pressed.

  “Are you asking me if Erlindir is of special favor to Mielikki? Chosen?”

  The old warlock didn’t blink.

  The Shifter laughed at him. “If he was, do you think I would have ever attempted such trickery with him? Do you consider me a fool, old warlock?”

  Draygo Quick waved the silly questions away and took a sip, silently berating himself for so eagerly pursuing such a far-fetched idea. He was off his game, he realized. The intensity of his talks with Parise Ulfbinder were getting to him.

  “Would this Erlindir know of others who might be so favored with his goddess?” he asked.

  “The head of his order, likely.”

  “No—or perhaps,” the warlock said. “I seek those favored ones, the ones known as ‘Chosen’.”

  “Of Mielikki?”

  “Of all the gods. Any information you can gather for me on this matter will be well received and generously rewarded.”

  He moved to pour another drink when the Shifter asked with great skepticism and great intrigue, “Drizzt Do’Urden?”

  Draygo Quick shrugged again. “Who can know?”

  “Erlindir, perhaps,” the Shifter replied. She drained her glass and started away, pausing only to glance at the room where the captured Guenhwyvar paced.

  “Enjoy your time on Toril,” she remarked.

  “Enjoy.…” Draygo Quick muttered under his breath as she departed. It was not advice he often took.

  I did not think it possible, but the world grows grayer still around me and more confusing.

  How wide was the line twixt darkness and light when first I walked out of Menzoberranzan. So full of righteous certitude was I, even when my own fate appeared tenuous. But I could thump my fist against the stone and proclaim, “This is the way the world works best
. This is right and this is wrong!” with great confidence and internal contentment.

  And now I travel with Artemis Entreri.

  And now my lover is a woman of …

  Thin grows that line twixt darkness and light. What once seemed a clear definition fast devolves into an obfuscating fog.

  In which I wander, with a strange sense of detachment.

  This fog has always been there, of course. It is not the world that has changed, merely my understanding of it. There have always been, there will always be, thieves like farmer Stuyles and his band of highwaymen. By the letter of the law, they are outlaws indeed, but does not the scale of immorality sink more strongly at the feet of the feudal lords of Luskan and even of Waterdeep, whose societal structures put men like Stuyles into an untenable position? They hunt the roads to survive, to eat, finding a meager existence on the edges of a civilization that has forgotten—yea, even abandoned!—them.

  So on the surface, even that dilemma seems straightforward. Yet, when Stuyles and his band act, are they not assailing, assaulting, perhaps even killing, mere delivery boys of puppet masters—equally desperate people working within the shaken structures of society to feed their own?

  Where then does the moral scale tip?

  And perhaps more importantly, from my own perspective and my own choices, where then might I best follow the tenets and truths I hold dear?

  Shall I be a singular player in a society of one, taking care of my personal needs in a manner attuned with that which I believe to be right and just? A hermit, then, living among the trees and the animals, akin to Montolio deBrouchee, my long-lost mentor. This would be the easiest course, but would it suffice to assuage a conscience that has long declared community above self?

  Shall I be a large player in a small pond, where my every conscience-guided move sends waves to the surrounding shores?

  Both of these choices seem best to describe my life to date, I think, through the last decades beside Bruenor, and with Thibbledorf, Jessa, and Nanfoodle, where our concerns were our own. Our personal needs ranked above the surrounding communities, for the most part, as we sought Gauntlgrym.

  Shall I venture forth to a lake, where my waves become ripples, or an ocean of society, where my ripples might well become indistinguishable among the tides of the dominant civilizations?

  Where, I wonder and I fear, does hubris end and reality overwhelm? Is this the danger of reaching too high, or am I bounded by fear that will hold me too low?

  Once again I have surrounded myself with powerful companions, though ones less morally aligned than my previous troupe and much less easily controlled. With Dahlia and Entreri, this intriguing dwarf who calls herself Ambergris, and this monk of considerable skill, Afafrenfere, I have little doubt that we might insert ourselves forcefully into some of the more pressing issues of the wider region of the Sword Coast North.

  But I do not doubt the risk in this. I know who Artemis Entreri was, whatever I might hope he now will be. Dahlia, for all of those qualities that intrigue me, is dangerous and haunted by demons, the scale of which I have only begun to comprehend. And now I find myself even more off-balance around her, for the appearance of this strange young tiefling has put her mind into dangerous turmoil.

  Ambergris—Amber Gristle O’Maul of the Adbar O’Mauls—might be the most easily trusted of the bunch, and yet when first I met her, she was part of a band that had come to slay me and imprison Dahlia in support of forces dark indeed. And Afafrenfere … well, I simply do not know.

  What I do know with certainty, given what I have come to know of these companions, is that in terms of my moral obligations to those truths I hold dear, I cannot follow them.

  Whether I can or should convince them to follow me is a different question all together.

  —Drizzt Do’Urden

  ECHOES OF THE PAST

  DARK CLOUDS ROILED OVERHEAD, BUT EVERY NOW AND THEN, THE MOONLIGHT broke through the overcast and shined softly through the room’s window, splashing on Dahlia’s smooth shoulder. She slept on her side, facing away from Drizzt.

  The drow propped himself up on his elbow and looked at her in the moonlight. Her sleep was restful now, her breathing rhythmic and even, but shortly before she had flailed about in some nightmare, crying out, “No!”

  She seemed to be reaching out with her hands, to catch something perhaps or maybe to pull something back.

  Drizzt couldn’t decipher the details, of course. It reminded him that this companion of his was truly unknown to him. What demons did Dahlia carry on those smooth shoulders?

  Drizzt’s gaze lifted from her to the window, and to the wide world beyond. What was he doing here, back in the city of Neverwinter? Biding time?

  They had returned to Neverwinter after a dangerous journey to Gauntlgrym, and on that journey had found many surprises, and a pair of new companions, dwarf and human. Entreri had survived unexpectedly, for the sword, which he had been convinced was the cause of his longevity, had been destroyed.

  Indeed, when Drizzt had tossed Charon’s Claw over the rim of the primordial pit, he had done so with the near certainty that Artemis Entreri would be destroyed along with the blade. And yet, Entreri had survived.

  They’d ventured into the darkness and had come out victorious, yet neither Drizzt nor Dahlia had relished the adventure, or could now savor in the victory. For Drizzt, there remained lingering resentment and jealousy, because Dahlia and Entreri had shared much over the last days, an intimacy, he feared, even deeper than that which he knew with Dahlia. Drizzt was her lover, Entreri had merely kissed her—and that, when Entreri was certain that he was about to die. Yet it seemed to Drizzt that Dahlia had emotionally opened herself to Entreri more than she ever had to him.

  Drizzt glanced back at Dahlia.

  Was he here in Neverwinter distracting himself? Had his life become nothing more than a series of distractions until at long last he would find his own grave?

  Many times in his past, Drizzt had given himself to the Hunter, to the fighter inside seeking battle and blood. The Hunter smothered pain. Many times in the past, the Hunter had kept Drizzt safe from his torn heart as the days passed and the wounds mended a bit, at least.

  Was that what he was doing now, Drizzt wondered? The notion seemed obscene to him, but was he, in fact, using Dahlia the way he had used battlefield enemies in times past?

  No, it was more than that, he told himself. He cared for Dahlia. There was an attraction based on more than sexuality and more than a need for companionship. The many layers of this elf woman teased him and intrigued him. There was something within her, hidden—even from her, it seemed—that Drizzt found undeniably appealing.

  But as his gaze again lifted toward the window and the wider world, Drizzt had to admit that he was indeed doing nothing more than biding his time—to let the sting of the final dissolution of the Companions of the Hall fade away. Or likely it went even deeper.

  He was afraid, terrified even.

  He was afraid that his life had been a lie, that his dedication to community and his insistence that there was a common good worth fighting for was a fool’s errand in a world too full of selfishness and evil. The weight of darkness seemed to mock him.

  What was the point of it all?

  He rolled to the side of the bed and sat up. He thought of Luskan and Captain Deudermont’s terrible fall. He thought of Farmer Stuyles and his band of highwaymen, and the gray mist in which they lived, caught somewhere between morality and necessity, between the law and the basic rights of any living man. He thought of the Treaty of Garumn’s Gorge, which had established an orc kingdom on the doorstep of the dwarven homeland—had that been King Bruenor’s greatest achievement or his greatest folly?

  Or worse, did it even matter?

  For many heartbeats, that question spun in the air before him, out of reach. Had his life been no more than a fool’s errand?

  “No!” Dahlia said again and rolled around.

  The denial rang o
ut within Drizzt even as it reached his ear. Drizzt glanced back over his shoulder. She lay on her back, at peace in slumber again, the moonlight splashing across her face, bright enough to hint at her blue woad tattoo.

  No! Drizzt heard again inside his heart and soul, and instead of the failures and the losses, he forced himself to remember the victories and the joys. He thought of young Wulfgar, under his and Bruenor’s tutelage, who grew straight and strong and who brought together the barbarian tribes and the folk of Ten-Towns in peace and common cause.

  Surely that had been no pyrrhic victory!

  He thought of Deudermont again, not of the final defeat, but of the many victories the man had known at sea, bringing justice to tides run wild with merciless pirates. The final outcome of Luskan could not erase those efforts and good deeds, and how many innocents had been saved by the good captain and crew of Sea Sprite?

  “What a fool I’ve been,” Drizzt whispered.

  He threw aside his indecision, threw aside his personal pain, threw aside the darkness.

  He rose and dressed and moved to the door. He looked back at Dahlia, then walked back to her side, bent low, and kissed her on the forehead. She didn’t stir, and Drizzt quietly left the room, and for the first time since the fall of King Bruenor, he walked with confidence.

  Down the hall, he knocked on a door. When there came no immediate response, he knocked again, loudly.

  Wearing only his pants, his hair a mess, Artemis Entreri pulled the door open wide. “What?” he asked, his tone filled with annoyance, but also a measure of concern.

  “Come with me,” Drizzt said.

  Entreri looked at him incredulously.

  “Not now,” Drizzt explained. “Not this night. But come with me when I leave the city of Neverwinter behind. I have an idea, a … reason, but I need your help.”

  “What are you plotting, drow?”

  Drizzt shook his head. “I cannot explain it, but I’ll show you.”

  “A ship sails for the south in two days. I plan to be on it.”

  “I ask you to reconsider.”