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 her, 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.

How could it be that this quiet conversation about a campfire in the nighttime forest felt more intimate than making love?

It made no sense.

But there it was before him.

Chapter 13: Where the Shadows Never End

The wounds were considerable,” the shade priest explained. “He will be many tendays in repair.”

“Then get more priests to tend him,” Draygo Quick answered sharply. “He does not have tendays.”

The priest rocked back, surprised, obviously, at being treated so. He and his brethren had just pulled the tiefling from the very edge of the grave, after all.

“Few had thought that Lord Alegni would survive, though your great action in destroying the vicious feline was brilliantly performed,” the priest replied, a stinging rebuttal, though one couched, prudently, with proper compliment to the powerful Netherese lord.

The words were true enough—regarding Alegni at least, Draygo Quick had to admit. The tiefling’s skin had been hanging in tatters, after all, and one of his eyes had been plucked from its socket, left hanging by a cord on his cheek.

And those had been the least of his wounds.

“I need him, quickly,” Draygo Quick demanded.

“He will live,” was all the priest could respond.

“He must do more than live,” the warlock warned. “He must return to Faerûn in mere days to retrieve that which he has lost.”

“The sword.”

“Our sword,” the withered old warlock replied.

“You could send others . . .”

“It is not my responsibility. It is Herzgo Alegni’s. Summon other priests—as many as you can find. Mend every wound and stand him up.”

The priest looked at him doubtfully.

“For his own sake,” Draygo Quick answered that stare. “Now be gone.”

The priest knew better than to argue with the likes of Draygo Quick, and he bowed curtly and hustled away.

Draygo Quick took a wheezing breath. He had sponsored Herzgo Alegni to a position of great power in Netherese society. He was not responsible for the tiefling, of course, but Alegni’s actions—his victories and his failures—surely played upon the well-guarded reputation of Draygo Quick.

Herzgo Alegni had lost a Netherese artifact, a powerful and prized sword, and one that Draygo Quick had given to him. Herzgo Alegni had to get it back. That would always be the case in Netherese custom and law, but it was even more poignant this time, Draygo Quick knew, for the recent history of Alegni had not been one of shining triumph. His expedition to the region known as Neverwinter should have been secured years before. True, the unexpected cataclysm of the volcanic eruption had occurred at a terrible time, but excuses could only carry one so far among the strict and demanding Netheril Empire.

Now the loss of the sword seemed even more profound, because it had come at a time of even higher expectation and because it had not been the only loss. Despite Draygo Quick’s controversial decision to send scores of reinforcements to Alegni’s Neverwinter garrison, the city of Neverwinter itself had been lost to the Netherese.

Even with the Thayans in disarray and on the run, the city had been lost.

Draygo Quick had heard the whispers that morning, hints that he had given too much—in terms of gifts and responsibilities—to a failed leader. He had even overheard a pair of powerful nobles questioning his own abilities, wondering if perhaps age had dulled his mind, for would Draygo Quick had ever made such a terrible misjudgment in his earlier days?

They had to get Herzgo Alegni on his feet, and Alegni had to go and retrieve that sword in short order. Neverwinter was lost to them, but so be it.

The loss of Charon’s Claw was another matter entirely.

The long room glowed with firelight and teemed with magical, primal energy, as two-score primordial-powered forges glowed with hot life. The sound of hammers rang clear, echoing about the stones.

“Thinking in the past?” Tiago Baenre remarked when he caught up to Ravel, who stood with eyes closed, as if basking in the more subtle sensations. “Or considering the potential, perhaps?”

“Both,” the spellspinner admitted. “This is how Gauntlgrym must have sounded and smelled and seemed at the height of dwarven power.”

“You approve of the height of dwarven power?” Tiago asked with sly grin.

“I can appreciate it,” Ravel admitted. “Particularly now that said power works for me.”

That drew an awkward look from Tiago, and he directed Ravel’s gaze to the main forge, the central oven, where a drow bent over a silvery blade lying on a table, a large backpack of ingredients—magical powders and elixirs—close at hand. Not far to the side rested a djinni bottle. Looking at it, Tiago couldn’t help but lick his lips eagerly. What blades might Gol’fanin create for him with such implements, and in such a forge as this magnificent creation?

“Now that it works for House Xorlarrin,” Ravel corrected, but not correct enough for Tiago, who nodded again toward that particular drow, Gol’fanin, Tiago’s own assistant in this journey.