Road of the Patriarch

I am not a king. Not in temperament, nor by desire, nor heritage, nor popular demand. I am a small player in the events of a small region in a large world. When my day is past, I will be remembered, I hope, by those whose lives I've touched. When my day is past, I will be remembered, I hope, fondly.

Perhaps those who have known me, or who have been affected by the battles I've waged and the work I've done, will tell the tales of Drizzt Do'Urden to their children. Perhaps not. But likely, beyond that possible second generation, my name and my deeds are destined to the dusty corners of forgotten history. That thought does not sadden me, for I measure my success in life by the added value my presence brought to those whom I loved, and who loved me. I am not suited for the fame of a king, or the grandiose reputation of a giant among men—like Elminster, who reshapes the world in ways that will affect generations yet to come.

Kings, like my friend Bruenor, add to their society in ways that define the lives of their descendants, and so one such as he will live on in name and deed for as long as Clan Battlehammer survives—for millennia, likely, and hopefully.

So, often do I ponder the ways of the king, the thoughts of the ruler, the pride and the magnanimity, the selfishness and the service.

There is a quality that separates a clan leader such as Bruenor from a man who presides over an entire kingdom. For Bruenor, surrounded by the dwarves who claim membership in his clan, kin and kind are one and the same. Bruenor holds a vested interest, truly a friendship, with every dwarf every human, every drow, every elf, every halfling, every gnome who resides in Mithral Hall. Their wounds are his wounds, their joys his joys. There isn't one he does not know by name, and not one he does not love as family.

The same cannot be true for the king who rules a larger nation. However good his intent, however true his heart, for a king who presides over thousands, tens of thousands, there is an emotional distance of necessity, and the greater the number of his subjects, the greater the distance, and the more the subjects will be reduced to something less than people, to mere numbers.

Ten thousand live in this city, a king will know. Five thousand reside in that one, and only fifty in that village.

They are not family, nor friends, nor faces he would recognize. He cannot know their hopes and dreams in any particular way, and so, should he care, he must assume and pray that there are indeed common dreams and common needs and common hopes. A good king will understand this shared humanity and will work to uplift all in his wake. This ruler accepts the responsibilities of his position and follows the noble cause of service. Perhaps it is selfishness, the need to be loved and respected, that drives him, but the motivation matters not. A king who wishes to be remembered fondly by serving the best interests of his subjects rules wisely.

Conversely, the leader who rules by fear, whether it be of him or of some enemy he exaggerates to use as a weapon of control, is not a man or woman of good heart. Such was the case in Menzoberranzan, where the matron mothers kept their subjects in a continual state of tension and terror, both of them and their spider goddess, and of a multitude of enemies, some real, some purposefully constructed or nurtured for the sole reason of solidifying the matron mother's hold on the fearful. Who will ever remember a matron mother fondly, I wonder, except for those who were brought to power by such a vile creature?

In the matter of making war, the king will find his greatest legacy—and is this not a sadness that has plagued the reasoning races for all of time? In this, too, perhaps particularly in this, the worth of a king can be clearly measured. No king can feel the pain of a soldier's particular wound, but a good king will fear that wound, for it will sting him as profoundly as it stings the man upon whom it was inflicted.

In considering the «numbers» who are his subjects, a good king will never forget the most important number: one. If a general cries victory and exclaims that only ten men died, the good king will temper his celebration with the sorrow for each, one alone repeated, one alone adding weight to his heart.

Only then will he measure his future choices correctly. Only then will he understand the full weight of those choices, not just on the kingdom, but on the one, or ten, or five hundred, who will die or be maimed in his name and for his holdings and their common interest. A king who feels the pain of every man's wounds, or the hunger in every child's belly, or the sorrow in every destitute parent's soul, is one who will place country above crown and community above self. Absent that empathy, any king, even a man of previously stellar temperament, will prove to be no more than a tyrant.

Would that the people chose their kings'. Would that they could measure the hearts of those who wish to lead them!

For if that choice was honest, if the representation of the would-be king was a clear and true portrayal of his hopes and dreams for the flock and not a pandering appeal to the worst instincts of those who would choose, then all the folk would grow with the kingdom, or share the pains and losses. Like family, or groups of true friends, or dwarf clans, the folk would celebrate their common hopes and dreams in their every action.

But the people do not choose anywhere that I know of in Faerûn. By blood or by deed, the lines are set, and so we hope, each in our own nation, that a man or woman of empathy will ascend, that whoever will come to rule us will do so with an understanding of the pain of a single soldier's wound.

There is beside Mithral Hall now a burgeoning kingdom of unusual composition. For this land, the Kingdom of Many-Arrows, is ruled by a single orc. Obould is his name, and he has crawled free of every cupboard of expectation that I or Bruenor or any of the others have tried to construct about him. Nay, not crawled, but has shattered the walls to kindling and strode forward as something beyond the limitations of his race.

Is that my guess or my observation, truly?

My hope, I must admit, for J cannot yet know.

And so my interpretation of Obould's actions to this point is limited by my vantage, and skewed by the risk of optimism. But Obould did not press the attack, as we all expected he certainly would, when doing so would have condemned thousands of his subjects to a grisly death.

Perhaps it was mere pragmatism; the orc king wisely recognized that his gains could not be compounded, and so he looked down and went into a defensive posture to secure those gains. Perhaps when he has done so, beyond any threat of invasion by the outlying kingdoms, he will regroup and press the attack again. I pray that this is not the case; I pray that the orc king is possessed of more empathy—or even of more selfishness in his need to be revered as well as feared—than would be typical of his warlike race. I can only hope that Obould's ambitions were tempered by a recognition of the price the commoner pays for the folly or false pride of the ruler.

I cannot know. And when I consider that such empathy would place this orc above many leaders of the goodly races, then I realize that I am being foolhardy in even entertaining these fantasies. I fear that Obould stopped simply because he knew that he could not continue, else he might well lose all that he had gained and more. Pragmatism, not empathy, ground Obould's war machine to a stop, it would seem.

If that is the case, then so be it. Even in that simple measure of practicality, this orc stands far beyond others of his heritage. If pragmatism alone forces the halt of invasion and the settling of a kingdom, then perhaps such pragmatism is the first step in moving the orcs toward civilization.

Is it all a process, then, a movement toward a better and better way that will lead to the highest form of kingdom? That is my hope. It will not be a straight-line ascent, to be sure. For every stride forward, as with Lady Alustriel's wondrous city of Silverymoon for example, there will be back-steps.

Perhaps the world will end before the goodly races enjoy the peace and prosperity of the perfect realm.

So be it, for it is the journey that matters most.

That is my hope, at least, but the flip of that hope is my fear that it is all a game, and one played most prominently by those who value self above community. The ascent to kingship is a road of battle, and not one walked by the gentle man or woman. The person who values community will oft be deceived and destroyed by the knave whose heart lies in selfish ambitions.

For those who walk that road to the end, for those who feel the weight of leadership upon their shoulders, the only hope lies in the realm of conscience.

Feel the pain of your soldiers, you kings.

Feel the sorrow of your subjects.

Nay, I am not a king. Not by temperament nor by desire. The death of a single subject soldier would slay the heart of King Drizzt Do'Urden. I do not envy the goodly rulers, but I do fear the ones who do not understand that their numbers have names, or that the greatest gain to the self lies in the cheers and the love fostered by the common good.

— Drizzt Do'Urden

CHAPTER 10 CASTLE D'AERTHE

The day had been mild of that time of year, though it was gray and with a persistent, soaking drizzle. The clouds had broken right before sunset, blown away by a north wind that reached down from the Great Glacier like the cold, dead fingers of the Witch-King himself. That clearing had afforded the townsfolk of Palishchuk a brilliant red sunset, but by the time the stars had begun to twinkle above, the air had grown so cold that all but a few had been driven indoors to their peat-filled hearths.

Not so for Wingham and Arrayan, though. They stood side by side on Palishchuk's northern wall, staring out and wondering. Before them on the dark ground, puddles and rivulets shone silver in the moonlight, like the veins of a great sleeping beast, frozen, as was the ground below.

"Do you think they will thaw again before the first snows?" Arrayan asked her much-older uncle.

"I have known the freeze to come earlier in the year than this," Wingham replied. "One year, it never actually thawed!"

"1337," Arrayan recited, for she had heard the stories of the two-year freeze many times from Wingham. "The Year of the Wandering Maiden."

The old half-orc smiled at her overly-exasperated tone and the roll of her eyes. "They say a great white dragon was behind it all," Wingham teased, the beginning of one of the many, many folktales that had arisen from that unusually cold summer.

Arrayan rolled her eyes again, and Wingham laughed heartily and draped his arm around her.

"Perhaps this winter will be one of which I will spin yarns in the decades hence," the woman said at length, and with enough honest trepidation in her voice to take the grin from Wingham's wrinkled and weathered face.

He hugged her closer, and she tucked her arms and pulled her fur-lined cowl tighter around her frosty cheeks.

"It has been an eventful year already," Wingham replied. "And one with a happy endin'…" He paused when she tossed him a fearful look. "A happy middle," he corrected.

For indeed, the adventure that they all had thought successfully concluded with the defeat of the dracolich had returned to them yet again with the arrival a few days earlier of Artemis Entreri and Jarlaxle. The pair had come riding in to Palishchuk on hellish steeds, coal black and with hooves pounding fire into the frozen tundra.

They had been welcomed warmly, as heroes, of course. They had earned the accolades for their work beside Arrayan and Olgerkhan, and they had been granted free room and board in Palishchuk at any time for the remainder of their lives. Indeed, when the pair had first arrived, several of the townsfolk had argued loudly over who would have the honor of boarding them for their stay.

How quickly things had changed from that initial meeting.

For the pair would not stay. They were merely passing through on their way to the conquered castle—Castle D'aerthe, Jarlaxle had named it. Their castle, the seat of their power, hub of the kingdom they planned to rule.

The kingdom they planned to rule.

A kingdom that by definition would surround or encompass Palishchuk.

There had been no answers forthcoming to the multitude of questions shot back at the surprising pair by the leaders of Palishchuk. Jarlaxle had nodded, and merely added, "We hold nothing but respect and admiration for Palishchuk, and we consider you great friends in this wondrous adventure upon which we now embark."

Then they had gone, the pair of them back on their impressive steeds, thundering out of Palishchuk's northern gate, and while some of the leaders had called for the pair to be detained and questioned, none had the courage to stand before them.

But they had returned, and the city's scouts had been filtering in and out with reports of shadowy figures moving about the castle's formidable walls, and of gargoyles taking flight only to crouch at another spot along the parapets and towers of the magical construct.

Arrayan glanced down the length of the wall, where a doubled number of guardsmen stood ready and nervous.

"Do you think they will come?" she asked.

"They?"

"The gargoyles. I have heard the tales of Palishchuk's fight while I was battling within the castle walls. Do you think this night, or tomorrow's, will bring another struggle to the city?"

Wingham looked back to the north and shrugged, but was shaking his head by the time his shoulders slumped back down. "The scouts have claimed sightings of gargoyles in the dark of night," he said. "I can imagine their fear as they crouched outside of that formidable place."

Arrayan looked at him at the same time he was turning to her.

"Even if it is true and Jarlaxle and Artemis Entreri have brought the castle back to life, I fear no attack from them," Wingham went on. "Why would they have bothered to stop in Palishchuk to proclaim their friendship if they meant to attack us?"

"To put us off our guard?"

With a nod, Wingham directed her attention back to the doubled sentries lining the wall. "Our guard would have been nonexistent had they just ridden by the city, to animate the castle and attack while we played under the delusion that our battle was successfully completed, I expect."

Arrayan spent a moment digesting that as she looked back to the north. She smiled when she met Wingham's gaze yet again. "Are you not curious, though?"

"More than you are," the old barker replied with a mischievous grin. "Fetch Olgerkhan, will you? I would appreciate his sturdy companionship as we venture to the home of our former allies."

"Former?"

"And present, we must believe."

"And hope."

Wingham smiled. "Castle D'aerthe," he mumbled as Arrayan started for the ladder. Even more quietly, he added, "It can only portend trouble."

Two sets of eyes looked back in the direction of Wingham and Arrayan, from far away and with neither pair aware of the other. On the southern wall of the magical castle north of Palishchuk, Jarlaxle and Entreri did not huddle under heavy woolen cloaks—nothing that mundane for Jarlaxle, of course, who had taken out a small red globe, placed it on the stone between them, and uttered a command word. The stone glowed red, brightly for a moment, then dimmed and began to radiate heat comparable to that of a small campfire. The northern wind rushing off the Great Glacier still bit at them, for they were thirty feet up atop the wall, but the mediating warmth sufficed.

"What now?" Entreri asked, after they had been up there for many minutes, staring in silence across the miles to the dim glow of Palishchuk's nighttime fires.

"You started the fight," Jarlaxle replied.

"We ran from the Citadel. Better that we fight them in the streets of Heliogabalus, one alley at a time."

"It is a bigger fight than just the Citadel," Jarlaxle calmly explained—and indeed, it was that tone, so self-assured and reasonable, that had Entreri on his edge. Whenever Jarlaxle got comfortable about something, Entreri knew from experience, big trouble was usually brewing.

"We have stirred the nest," Entreri agreed, "between the king and Knellict. So now we must choose a side."

"And you would select?"

"Gareth."

"Conscience?"

"Practicality," Entreri countered. "If there is to be an open war between the Citadel of Assassins and King Gareth, Gareth will win. I've seen it before, in Calimport, and you've known this struggle in Menzoberranzan. When a guild pricks too sharply at the side of the open powers, they retaliate."

"So you believe that King Gareth will obliterate Knellict and the Citadel of Assassins? He will wipe them from the Bloodstone Lands?"

Entreri mulled that over for a few moments, then shook his head. "No. He will drive them from the streets and back into their remote hideouts. Some of those will likely fall, as well. Some of the Citadel's leaders will be killed or imprisoned. But Gareth will never truly be rid of them. That is never the way." He paused and considered his own words, then chortled, "He wouldn't wish to be completely rid of them."

Jarlaxle watched him out of the corner of his eyes, and Entreri noted the little grin spreading on the drow's face. "King Gareth is a paladin," the drow reminded. "Do you doubt his sincerity?"

"Does it matter? Having the Citadel of Assassins lurking in the shadows is good for Gareth and his friends, a reminder to the people of Damara of the alternative to their hero king.

"He is no Ellery, perhaps, in that he won't deal with the Citadel, but he uses them all the same. It is the nature of power."

"You have a cynical view of the world."

"It is well earned, I assure you. And it is accurate."

"I did not say it was not."

"Yet you seem to think Gareth above reproach because he is a paladin."

"No, I think him predictable because he is guided more by principle— ill-reasoned or not—than by pragmatism. Gareth's end plan is always known, is it not? He may be served well by the Citadel, but he is likely too blinded by dogma to see that truth."

"You still have not answered my question," said Entreri. "What now for us?"

"It seems obvious."

"Enlighten me."

"Always."

"Now."

Jarlaxle gave an exasperated sigh. "We declare our independence from King Gareth, of course," he replied.

Far below the pair, very near the room where the bones of Urshula the dracolich lay, Kimmuriel Oblodra conferred with his drow lieutenants, laying out plans for the defense of the castle, for assaults from the walls and gates, and most important of all, for orderly and swift retreat back to that very chamber. Not far from the drow, a magical portal glowed a light blue. Through it came more drow warriors of Bregan D'aerthe, driving mobs of goblins, kobolds, and orcs bearing supplies, armaments, and furniture, fashioned mostly of sturdy Underdark mushrooms.

A continual line passed through the gate, and other drow went through in the other direction, back to the corresponding magical portal set in the maze of tunnels along the great Clawrift in Menzoberranzan, the complex that Bregan D'aerthe called home.

"The sooner we are gone, the better," one of Kimmuriel's lieutenants remarked, and though others nodded their accord, Kimmuriel flashed the drow a dangerous look.

"Do say," the psionicist prompted.

"This place is uneasy," the drow replied. "It teems with an energy that I do not recognize."

"And thus, an energy you fear?"

"The portcullis on the front gate… grows," another soldier added. "It was damaged by unwanted entry, and now it repairs itself of its own accord. This is no inert construction, but a magical, living creature."

"Is this place any different than the towers of the Crystal Shard?" said the first lieutenant.

"Is Jarlaxle, you mean," Kimmuriel remarked, and neither of the pair disavowed him of that notion.

"I do not know," the psionicist answered honestly. "Though I believe that Jarlaxle is acting of his own volition and wisdom here. If I did not, I would not have marched us to this wretched place." He led their gazes to the portal, and another group of goblins trudging through, bearing several rolled tapestries and carpets. "He recognizes equivocation…"

"An easy egress," one of the others remarked.

Beside them, a quartet of goblins tripped and stumbled, spilling a mushroom-fashioned hutch across the floor. Drow drivers stepped up, cracking their whips against the flesh of the miserable creatures, who all fell to their hands and knees to try to collect the broken pieces.

The soldiers beside Kimmuriel nodded, recognizing the truth of it all, that they weren't bringing anything of real value to the castle, just utilitarian furniture and simple dressings.

And fodder, of course. Goblins, orcs, and kobolds, all as easily expendable to the dark elves as a cheap piece of mushroom furniture.

"Our independence?" Artemis Entreri answered after many stunned moments. "Could we not just leave the Bloodstone Lands?"

"And take this castle with us?"

Entreri went silent, finally understanding the drow's machinations. "You were serious when you warned Palishchuk to remain neutral?"

"We must pick a name for our kingdom," Jarlaxle said, ignoring the question and confirming it all at once. "Have you any suggestions?"

Entreri looked at him with complete incredulity.

"The gauntlet is down," Jarlaxle said. "You threw it at Knellict's feet when you did not kill the merchant."

Entreri looked away again, his lips going very tight.

"Was the man not worthy of your blade? Or was he not deserving of it?"

Entreri turned a hateful gaze the drow's way.

"I thought as much," Jarlaxle said. "You might have found a better moment to discover your conscience. But it does not matter, for it had to come to this in any event. Better now, I suppose, than when Knellict grew a better appreciation for what has truly come against him."

"And what might that be? A pair of impetuous fools, a small army of gargoyles and an undead dragon we can hardly control?"

"Look more closely," Jarlaxle said slyly, and he directed Entreri's attention to the watchtower off to the right of the gatehouse. A slender form moved there, silent as, and seeming no more substantial than, the shadows.

A drow.

Entreri snapped his gaze back over Jarlaxle. "Kimmuriel?"

"Bregan D'aerthe," Jarlaxle replied. "And ample slave fodder arrive regularly through magical gates. If you wish to start a war, my friend, you need an army."

"Start a war?"

"I had hoped that we could do this more easily, and more by proxy," Jarlaxle admitted. "I had hoped that we could get the two beasts—the king and the Grandfather of Assassins—to devour each other. You played our hand too quickly."

"And now you wish to start a war?"

"No," Jarlaxle corrected. "But it is not beyond the realm of possibility. If Knellict comes, we will drive him back."

"With the drow and Urshula and all the rest?"

"With everything at our disposal. Knellict is not one to be bargained with."

"Let us just leave."

That seemed to catch Jarlaxle off guard. He leaned on the wall, staring out at the south and the darkness that was interrupted only by the glow of a few fires burning in Palishchuk and the starlight. "No," he finally answered.

"There is a big world out there, where we might get lost—sufficiently so. It would seem that we have worn out our welcome."

"With Knellict."

"That is enough."

Jarlaxle shook his head. "We can leave whenever we wish, thanks to Kimmuriel. As of now, I do not desire to go. I like it here." He paused there and let his smile fall over Entreri until the man finally acknowledged it—with a derisive snort, of course. "Consider Calihye, my friend. Remind yourself that some things are worth fighting for."

"We make a stand where we need not. Calihye is not a plot of ground or a magically created castle. There is nothing to stop her from coming with us. Your analogy cannot hold."

Jarlaxle nodded, conceding the point. His smile told Entreri, however, that the point was moot. Jarlaxle liked it there; for the drow, apparently, that was enough.

Entreri looked over to the corner tower again, and though he saw no movement there, he knew that Jarlaxle's friends had come. He thought of Calimport and the catastrophe Bregan D'aerthe had wrought there, eliminating guilds that had stood for decades and altering the balance of power within the city with relative ease.

Would the same occur in the Bloodstone Lands?

Or was Jarlaxle's ambition even more ominous? A kingdom to rival Damara. A kingdom built on an army of drow and slave fodder, on undead servants and animated gargoyles, and forged in a bargain with a dracolich?

Entreri shuddered, and it was not from the cold northern wind.

"A gargoyle," Arrayan remarked, nodding toward the dark castle wall where a humanoid, winged creature had taken flight, moving from one guard tower to another. "The castle is alive."

"Curse them," Olgerkhan grunted, while Wingham only sighed.

"We should have known better than to trust a drow," Arrayan said.

"How often have I heard those words about our own half-orc race," Wingham was quick to answer, drawing surprised looks from both of his companions.

"The castle is alive," Olgerkhan reiterated.

"And Palishchuk has not been threatened," said Wingham. "As Jarlaxle promised."

"You would trust the word of a drow?" Olgerkhan asked.

Wingham's answer came in the form of a shrug and the simple reply of, "Have we a choice?"

"We beat the castle once," Olgerkhan growled in defiance, and he held a clenched fist up before him, the muscles in his arm bulging and knotting.

"You beat an unthinking animation," Wingham corrected. "This time, it has a brain."

"And one who has marched several steps ahead of us," Arrayan agreed. "Even inside, when they saved me from Canthan. When they brought you back to life through the vampirism of Entreri's dagger," she said to Olgerkhan, stealing much of his bluster. "Jarlaxle understood it all where I, and the wizard Canthan, did not. I wonder if even then his goal was not to destroy the construct, but to control it."

"His castle stands here, alive and strong, and King Gareth's is to the south," Wingham remarked. "And Palishchuk is in between them."

"Again," Arrayan said with great resignation, "as it was with Zhengyi."

"I am no longer surprised by the clumsiness of the surface races," Kimmuriel Oblodra said to Jarlaxle. The two were very near the same spot on the wall where Jarlaxle had held his conversation with Artemis Entreri a short while before, and as with then, they looked out to the south. Not to Palishchuk, though, for Kimmuriel had directed Jarlaxle's attention to a copse of leafless trees a bit to the right, in the shadow of a small hill. Neither drow could make out the forms that Kimmuriel had promised his former leader lurked in there, a trio of half-orcs.

"There is a wizard among them," Kimmuriel said. "She is of little consequence and no real power."

"Arrayan," Jarlaxle explained. "She has her uses, and is comfort to weary eyes—as much as any with orc heritage could be, of course."

"Your promises did not hold much sway in the town, it seems."

"They are being careful, and who can blame them?"

"They will know that the construct is awakening," said Kimmuriel. "The gargoyles fly about."

Jarlaxle nodded, making it obvious that they did so at his behest. "Have they seen any of your scouts? Are they aware of any drow about other than myself?"

Kimmuriel scoffed at the ridiculous notion. Drow were not seen by such pitiful creatures as these unless they wanted to be seen.

"Show them, then," Jarlaxle instructed.

Kimmuriel stared hard at him, to which Jarlaxle nodded a confirmation.

"You would use terror to hold them at bay?" Kimmuriel asked. "That speaks of diplomatic weakness."

"Palishchuk will have to choose eventually."

"Between Jarlaxle—"

"King Artemis the First," Jarlaxle corrected with a grin.

"Between Jarlaxle," the stubborn Kimmuriel insisted, "and King Gareth?"

"I surely hope not—not for a long while, at least," Jarlaxle replied. "I doubt that Gareth will be quick to charge to the north, but the Citadel of Assassins is likely already infiltrating Palishchuk. It is my hope that the half-orcs will think it unwise to provide aid to Knellict's vile crew."

"Because they will be more fearful of Jarlaxle and the dark elves?"

"Of course."

"Your fear tactics will work against you when King Gareth comes calling," Kimmuriel warned, and he knew that he had struck a chord there by Jarlaxle's long pause.

"By that time, I hope to have Knellict long dispatched," Jarlaxle explained. "We can then build a measure of trust to the half-orcs. Enough trust coupled with the fear that will force them to keep King Gareth at arm's length."

Kimmuriel was shaking his head as he looked back to the southwest.

"Show them," Jarlaxle said to him. "And allow them to go on their way."

Kimmuriel wasn't about to question Jarlaxle just then, for his words to his doubting lieutenants just a short while before had been spoken sincerely. It was Jarlaxle's scheme, and in truth, Kimmuriel, for all of his growing confidence, recognized that standing beside him was a drow who had survived the intrigue of Menzoberranzan and elsewhere for several centuries. With the notable exception of the near-disaster in Calimport, had Jarlaxle's schemes ever failed?

And that near-disaster, Kimmuriel pointedly reminded himself, had been caused in no small part by the corrupting influence of the artifact known as Crenshinibon.

The psionicist could not manage a reassuring expression to his companion, though. For all of the history of successful manipulations Jarlaxle brought to the table, Kimmuriel had familiarized himself quite extensively with the recent events in the region known as the Bloodstone Lands, and had come to understand well the power King Gareth Dragonsbane could wield.

Jarlaxle's own actions showed him clearly that he was not alone in his fears, he realized. Jarlaxle had not reclaimed control of Bregan D'aerthe, though he had bade Kimmuriel to garner all of their resources. For all of his outward confidence, Jarlaxle was hedging his bets by allowing Kimmuriel complete control. He was protecting himself from that very confidence.

Understanding the compliment that Jarlaxle was once again paying to him, Kimmuriel offered a salute before going on his way.

CHAPTER 11 THE LURE

Jureemo Pascadadle put his back against the wall just inside the door of the tavern and heaved a great sigh of relief. Out in the street, several of his companions lay dead or incapacitated, and several others had been dragged off by the thugs from Spysong.

Glad indeed was Jureemo that he had been given the rear guard position, watching the back of his Citadel crew as they had closed in on the dark elf and the assassin. "Spysong," he muttered under his breath, his throat filling with bile.

The door burst open beside him and the man fell back with a shriek. In stumbled Kiniquips the Short, a slender—by halfling standards—little rogue of great renown within the organization. Kiniquips was a master of disguise, actually serving as a trainer of such at the Citadel, and was often the point halfling on Citadel of Assassins operations in Heliogabalus. He had spent the better part of two years creating his waif alter-ego. Watching him stumble through the common room, though, Jureemo knew that the halfling's cover had been blown. His shirt was ripped and a bright line of blood showed across his left shoulder, and it looked like a substantial part of his dark brown hair had been torn away, as well.

He glanced at Jureemo and the man nearly fainted. But Kiniquips was too much the professional to betray an associate, even with a glance, and so the halfling looked away immediately and stumbled on.

The air erupted with a shrill whistling in Kiniquips's wake, though, and a most unusual missile, a trio of black iron balls spinning at the ends of short lengths of rope flew past the startled Jureemo and caught the fleeing halfling around the waist and legs. The balls wrapped around the poor fellow and came crunching together with devastating efficiency, cracking bones and thoroughly tangling him up.

Kiniquips hit the floor in a heap, ending up on his side, writhing in pain and whimpering pitifully. Tables skidded every which way as the patrons of the tavern scrambled to get as far from him as possible.

For in came a pair of dangerous-looking characters, an elf and a human woman, both dressed in dark leather. The elf had thrown the bolos, obviously, and moved steadily to retrieve them, his fine sword set comfortably on his hip. The woman wore a pair of bandoliers set full of gleaming throwing knives and moved with the same grace as her companion, betraying a lifetime of training.

With brutal efficiency, the elf unwound and yanked the bolos free, and the halfling shrieked again in pain.

Jureemo looked away and headed for the open door. The woman called after him, but he put his head down and hurried around the open door, turning fast for the street.

And there he was blocked by a man in plain, dirty robes. Jureemo tried to push by, but with a single hand, the man stopped him fully.

Jureemo offered a confused expression and looked down at the hand.

With a subtle shift and short thrust, the man in robes sent Jureemo stumbling back into the room, uncomfortably close to the dangerous woman.

"Wh-what attack is this?" he stammered, looking plaintively about. His continuing protests stuck in his throat, though, as he locked stares with the woman.

"This one?" she asked, turning to the elf behind her.

In response, the elf leaned on the fallen Kiniquips's broken hip, and the halfling yelped.

"That one?" the elf asked Kiniquips.

The halfling grimaced and looked away, and grunted again as the elf pressed down on his hip.

"What is the meaning of this?" Jureemo demanded, and he cautiously stepped back from the woman. Others in the tavern stirred at that display of brutality, and it occurred to Jureemo that he might garner some assistance after all.

The woman looked from him to the man in the robes. "This one, Master Kane?" she asked.

The stirring stopped immediately, and a palpable silence, almost a physical numbness, fell over the tavern.

Jureemo had to remind himself to breathe, then he gave up trying when Master Kane walked over to stand before him. The monk stared at him for a long time, and though Jureemo tried to look away, for some reason he could not. He felt naked in front of that legendary monk, as if Kane looked right through him, or right into his heart.

"You are of the Citadel of Assassins," Kane stated.

Jureemo babbled incoherently for a few moments, his head shaking and nodding all at once.

And Kane just stared.

The walls seemed to close in on the trembling assassin; he felt as if the floor was rushing up to swallow him, and he hoped it would! Panic bubbled through him. He knew that he had been discovered—Kane had stated the fact, not asked him. And those eyes! The monk didn't blink. The monk knew all of it!

Jureemo didn't reach for his own knife, set in his belt at the small of his back. He couldn't begin to imagine a fight with that monster. His sensibilities darted in every different direction, instincts replacing rational thought. He cried out suddenly and leaped for the door… or started to.

A white wooden walking stick flashed up before him, cracking him under the chin. He vaguely felt the sensation, the sweet and warm taste, of blood filling his mouth, and he sensed that walking stick sliding under his armpit. He didn't see Kane grab its free end, behind his shoulder-blade, but he did realize, briefly, that he was airborne, spinning head-over-heels, then falling free. He hit the floor flat on his back and immediately propped himself up on his elbows—

—right before the walking stick, that deadly jo stick, cracked him again across the forehead, dropping him flat to the floor.

"Take them both to the castle," Kane instructed his minions.

"This one will require the attention of a priest, perhaps even Friar Dugald," replied the elf standing over the halfling.

Kane shrugged as if it did not matter, which of course it did not. Certainly the priests would make the little one more comfortable.

Perhaps he would even be able to walk up the gallows steps under his own power.

The creature was well-dressed by the standards of Damaran nobles, let alone the expectations aroused by his obvious orc heritage. And he carried himself with an air of dignity and regal bearing, like a royal courier or a butler at one of the finer houses in Waterdeep. That fact was not lost on the half-orcs manning Palishchuk's northern wall as they watched the orc's graceful approach. He walked up as if without the slightest concern, though several arrows were trained upon him, and he dipped a polite bow as he stopped, swinging out one arm to reveal that he held a rolled scroll.

"Well met," he called in perfect Common, and with an accent very unlike anything the sentries might have expected. He seemed almost foppish, and his voice held a nasal quality, something quite uncommon in a race known for flat noses and wide nostrils. "I pray you grant me entrance to your fair city, or, if that is not to be, then I bid you to fetch your leadership."

"What business ye got here?" one of the sentries barked at him.

"Well, good sir, it is an announcement of course," the orc replied, holding forth his hand and the scroll. "And one I am instructed by my master to make once, and once only."

"Ye tell it to us and we might let ye in," the sentry replied. "Then again, we might not."

"Or we might be getting Wingham and the council," a second sentry explained.

"Then again, we might not," the first added.

The orc straightened and put one hand on his hip, standing with one foot flat and the other heel up. He made no move to unroll the scroll, or to do anything else.

"Well?" the first sentry prompted.

"I am instructed by my master to make the announcement once, and once only," the orc replied.

"Well then ye've got yerself some trouble," said the sentry. "For we aren't letting ye in, and aren't bothering our council until we know what ye're about."

"I will wait," the orc decided.

"Wait? Ack, fullblood, how long are ye to wait, then?"

The orc shrugged as if it did not matter.

"We'll leave ye to freeze dead on the path before the gate, ye fool."

"Better that than disobey my master," the orc replied without the slightest hesitation, and that made the sentries exchange curious, concerned looks. The orc pulled a rich, fur-lined cloak tightly around his shoulders and turned slightly to put his back to the wind.

"And who might yer master be, that ye're so willing to freeze?" the first sentry asked.

"King Artemis the First, of course," the orc replied.

The sentry mouthed the name silently, his eyes widening. He glanced at his companions, to see them similarly struggling to digest the words.

"Artemis Entreri sent ye?"

"Of course not, peasant," the orc replied. "I am not of sufficient significance to speak with King Artemis. I serve at the pleasure of First Citizen Jarlaxle."

The two lead sentries slipped back behind the wall. "Damned fools meant it," one said. "They built themselves a kingdom."

"There's a difference between building one and just saying ye built one," the first replied.

"Well, where'd they find the page?" the other asked. "And look at him, and listen to him. He isn't one to be found wandering about in a fullblood hunting party."

A third guard moved up to the huddled pair. "I'm going for Wingham and the councilors," he explained. "They'll be wanting to see this." He glanced out over the wall at their unexpected visitor. "And hear it."

In less than half an hour, Wingham, Arrayan, Olgerkhan, the leadership of Palishchuk, and most of the town's citizens were gathered at the northernmost square, watching the strange courier prance in through the gate.

"I almost expect to see flowers dropping in his wake," Wingham whispered to Arrayan, and the mage giggled despite the obvious gravity of the situation.

Taking no apparent notice of any of the many titters filtering about the crowd, the fullblood orc moved to the center of the gathering, and with great dramatic flourish, an exaggerated flip of his wrist, he unrolled the scroll before him, holding it up in both hands.

"Hear ye! Hear ye!" he called. "And hear ye well, O good citizens of Palishchuk, in the land formerly known as Vaasa."

That started some stirring.

"Formerly?" Wingham whispered.

"Never trust a drow," Olgerkhan added, leaning past Arrayan, who was no longer giggling, to address Wingham.

"King Artemis the First doth proclaim full and unfettered rights to Palishchuk and the people therein," the orc went on. "His Greatness makes no claim over your fair city, nor a demand of tithing, nor does he deny any of you any passage over any road, bridge, or open land in the entirety of D'aerthe."

"D'aerthe?" Wingham echoed with a shake of his head. "Drow name."

"Excepting, of course, those roads, bridges, and open land within Castle D'aerthe itself," the orc added. "And even in there, Palishchukians are welcome… by specific grant of entrance, of course.

"King Artemis sees no enemy when he looks your way, and it is his fondest wish that his reign will be marked with fair trade and prosperity for D'aerthian and Palishchukian alike."

"What is he talking about?" Olgerkhan whispered to Wingham.

"War, I expect," the wizened and worldly old half-orc replied.

"This is insanity," Arrayan said.

"Never trust a drow," Olgerkhan lectured.

Arrayan looked to Wingham, who merely shrugged as the fullblood finished his reading, mostly reciting titles and adjectives—excellence, magnificent, wondrous—to accompany the name of King Artemis the First of D'aerthe.

As he finished, the orc flicked his wrist and let go with his bottom hand, and the formed parchment rolled up tight. With a swift and graceful movement, the orc tucked it under one arm, and stood again, hand on hip.

Wingham glanced across the way to a group of three of the town's leading councilors, and waited for them to nod deferentially for him to lead the response—a not surprising invitation, for the half-orcs of Palishchuk often looked to the worldly Wingham for guidance in matters outside of their secluded gates. At least, for matters that did not entail the immediate threat of battle, as was usually the case.

"And what is your name, good sir?" Wingham addressed the courier.

"I am of no consequence," came the reply.

"Would you have me speak to you as fullblood, orc, or D'aerthian Courier, perhaps?" Wingham asked as he stepped out from the gathering, trying to get a better take on the odd creature.

"Speak to me as you would to King Artemis the First," said the orc. "For I am but the ears and mouth of His Greatness."

Wingham looked to the town councilors, who had no insight to offer other than smirks and shrugs.

"We beg you look past our obvious surprise… King Artemis," Wingham said. "Such an announcement is hardly expected, of course."

"You were told as much less than two tendays ago, when King Artemis and the first citizen rode through your fair city."

"But still…"

"You did not accept his word?"

Wingham paused, not wanting to cross any unseen lines. He remembered well the battle Palishchuk had fought with the castle construct's gargoyles, and neither he nor any of the others wanted to replay that deadly night.

"You must admit that the claim of Vaasa—"

"D'aerthe," the orc interrupted. "Vaasa is to be used only when speaking of what was, not of what is."

"The claim of a kingdom here, by a king and a first citizen until recently unknown to all in the Bloodstone Lands, is unprecedented, you must agree," Wingham said, avoiding any overt concurrence or disagreement. "And yes, we are surprised, for there is another king who has claimed this land."

"King Gareth rules in Damara," the orc replied. "He has made no formal claim on the land once known as Vaasa, excepting his insistence that the land be 'cleansed' of vermin, including one race that you claim as half your heritage, good sir, in case you had not noticed."

That ruffled some feathers among the gathered half-orcs, and more than a few harsh whispers filtered about the uneasy crowd.

"But yes, of course, and your surprise was not unforeseen," the orc went on. "And it is a minor reaction compared to that which the first citizen expects will greet your courier when he travels to the D'aerthian, formerly the Vaasan, Gate and through Bloodstone Pass to the village of the same name." He snapped his arm out, handing Wingham a second scroll, sealed with a wax mark.

"All that King Artemis the First bids you, and of course it is in your own interest as well, is that you send a courier forthwith to King Gareth to deliver news of the birth of D'aerthe. It would do well for King Gareth to cease his murderous activities within the borders of D'aerthe at once, for the sake of peace between our lands.

"And truly," the orc finished with a great and sweeping bow, "such harmony is all that King Artemis the First desires."

Wingham hardly had an answer to that; how could he? He took the rolled parchment, glanced again at the strange seal, which was formed of some green wax that he did not recognize, and glanced again at the puzzled councilors.

By the time he looked back, the orc was already swaggering well on his way to the city's northern gate.

And no one made a move to intercept him.

"You enjoyed that," Jarlaxle said with a wry grin that was not matched by his psionicist counterpart.

"I will itch for a tenday from wearing the shell of an orc," Kimmuriel replied.

"You wore it well."

Kimmuriel scowled at him, a most unusual show of emotion from the intellectually-locked dark elf.

"News will travel fast to Damara," Jarlaxle predicted. "Likely Wingham will send Arrayan or some other magic-user to deliver the announcement before the way is sealed by deep snows."

"Then why did you not wait until the snows began?" asked Kimmuriel. "You will grant Gareth the time to facilitate passage."

"Grant him?" Jarlaxle asked, leaning forward on his castle parapet. "My friend, I am counting on it. I do not desire to have the fool Knellict here uncontested, and I expect that King Gareth will be more reasonable than the betrayed wizard of the Citadel of Assassins. With Gareth, it will be politics. With Knellict, it is already personal."

"Because you travel with a fool."

"I would not expect patience from a human," said Jarlaxle. "They do not live long enough. Entreri has moved the situation along, nothing more. Whether now before winter's onslaught, or in the cold rain of spring, Gareth will demand his answers. Better to pit him against Knellict outside our gates than to deal with each separately."

Athrogate's misery at being jailed was mitigated somewhat by the generous amounts of mead and ale his gaolers provided. And Athrogate never let it be said that he couldn't sublimate—well, he used the words, 'wash down, since 'sublimate' was a bit beyond him—his misery with a few pounds of food and a few gallons of ale.

So he sat on his hard bed in his small but not totally uncomfortable cell, filling his mouth with bread and cake and washing it down with fast-overturned flagons of liquid, golden and brown alternately. And to pass the time, between bites and gulps and burps and farts, he sang his favorite dwarven ditties, like "Skipping Threesies with an Orc's Entrails" and "Grow Your Beard Long, Woman, or Winter'll Freeze yer Nipples."

He saved the latter for those times when a female elf or a human woman was set as guard outside his door, and he took special care to raise his voice to a thunderous level whenever he happened upon the refrain about "shakin' them by the ankles, so ye're seein' up their skirts."

For all of his bluster and belch-filled outward joviality, though, Athrogate could not truly ignore the continual hammering outside of his cell's small, high window. Late one moonlit night, when the lone guard outside his cell door breathed in the smooth rhythms of sleep, the dwarf had propped his angled cot against the wall and managed to get up high enough to peek out.

They were building a gallows, with a long trap door and no less than seven noose-arms.

Athrogate had been told his crime against King Gareth, and he knew well the penalty for treason. And though he was cooperating, and had surrendered several of Knellict's spies placed in Heliogabalus—men he had never really liked anyway—none of Gareth's representatives had given him any hint that his sentence might be put aside or even reduced.

But he had ale and mead and plenty of food. He figured he might as well be fat if the door dropped out beneath him so that his neck would get a clean break and he wouldn't be flailing about and peeing himself in front of all the spectators. He had seen that a few times, and decided it would not be a fitting end for one of so many accomplishments as he.

Perhaps he could even bargain to have his name kept on the plaque at the Vaasan Gate….

He had that very thought in mind late one afternoon when his cell door swung open and a familiar figure strode into the room.

"Ah, Athrogate, it will take more than a Bloodstone winter to make you lean for the spring," said Celedon Kierney.

"Lean's for elfs," the dwarf grunted at the charming rogue who had more than a bit of elf blood in him. "For them who're needin' to twist and turn to get out o' the hammer's way."

"You don't think that wise?"

"Bah!" Athrogate blustered and puffed out his chest, smacking his balled fist against it.

"And what if that hammer was instead a fine elven sword?"

"I'd grab it and snap it, then take yer hand and pull ye close for a fine Athrogate hug."

Celedon grinned widely.

"Ye're not for believin' me, then? Well go and get yer fine elven blade. And bring a bow, and not the shooting kind, when ye do. I'll bend yer sword over and play ye a tune that'll put ye in a dancing mood afore I give ye the big hug."

"I do not doubt that you could do just that, Athrogate," Celedon replied, and the dwarf looked at him with complete puzzlement. "Your exploits in Vaasa have been sung across all the Bloodstone Lands. A pity it is, as I'm sure King Gareth will agree when he arrives this very night, that one so accomplished as Athrogate chose to collude with the likes of Timoshenko."

"The Grandpappy? Bah, never met him."

"Knellict then, and voice no denials."

"Bah!" Athrogate snorted again. "Ye got no course to hang me."

"Hang you?" Celedon Kierney replied with exaggerated incredulity—the animated rogue was good at that particular ploy, Athrogate recognized. "Why, good dwarf, we would never deign to do such a thing. Nay, we intend to celebrate you, in public, to honor you for your aid in capturing so many criminals of the dreaded Citadel of Assassins."

Athrogate stared hatefully at the man, at the threat that made hanging seem quite pleasant by comparison. The mere thought of an angry Knellict in that moment sent a shiver coursing up the dwarf's sturdy spine.

"There may even be a knighthood in it for Athrogate, hero of Vaasa, and now hero of the crown in Heliogabalus."

The dwarf spat on the floor. "Ye're a wretched one, ain't ye."

Celedon laughed at him, and walked out of the small cell. He paused at the door and turned back to the dwarf. "I will have a ladder brought with your breakfast," he said, glancing at the window. "Better than a leaning cot. We have prepared a ceremony for King Gareth, of course, as is right and just."

"Pleasure for ye, elf?"

"Practicality, good dwarf, and grim resolve. We've not enough cells, nor are they really called for on this occasion." He gave a wink and half-turned, before adding, "They attacked a knight of the order—an apprentice knight, to be honest. The case is clear enough, is it not?"

"Ye know it's more muddled than that," said Athrogate. "Ye know what happened at that castle, and what allegiances yer own king's niece struck on her own."

"I know of no such thing," Celedon replied. "I know only that order must be maintained, and that the Citadel of Assassins has brought this fate upon itself."

"And yer Lady Ellery's still dead."

"And Gareth is still the king."

On that definitive note, Celedon Kierney exited the room, banging the door closed behind him.

True to his word, Celedon had a ladder delivered to Athrogate that morning, along with his voluminous breakfast. The dwarf munched his food loudly, trying to drown out the ceremony playing outside his window, trying to ignore the reading of charges and the demands for confession, many of which were offered in pathetic, whining tones.

"Bah, just go with yer dignity, ye dolts," Athrogate muttered more than once, and he chomped down all the harder on his crusty cake.

Like a moth to the flame, though, the dwarf could not deny his curiosity, and he managed to set and climb the ladder just in time to see seven of the Citadel's men drop from the platform and sway at the end of a rope. Most died right away, Jureemo Pascadadle among them, and two, including a halfling Athrogate knew as Kiniquips the Short—Master Kiniquips—struggled and kicked for some time before finally going still.

Master Kiniquips, Athrogate thought as he climbed back down to his remaining portions.

Master of the Citadel.

Athrogate winced as he considered Celedon's threats.

Suddenly, and for perhaps the first time in his life, the dwarf didn't feel the desire to eat.

CHAPTER 12 CAT AND MOUSE

What do I do?" the nervous woman asked the great mage.

Knellict eyed her sternly and she shrank away from him. It was not her place to ask such questions. Her duties at the Vaasan Gate were simple enough, and hadn't changed in five years, after all.

The woman chewed on her lower lip as she summoned the courage to press on—and she knew that if she did not, the danger to her would be greater than that of invoking the anger of the mage. "Pardon, sir," she said, working her way around the damaging words. "But people are hanging by their necks, o' course. Spysong's all about… here, too. They're finding our like and turning them on others, and them that don't turn're getting the hemp collar in the south, so it's said."

Knellict's returned stare was utterly cold, devoid of emotion. The woman, despite her fears, couldn't hold firm under that gaze and she lowered her eyes and assumed a submissive and contrite posture, and managed to whisper, "Beggin' yer pardon, sir."

"Consider that it is good that you know of no one here against whom you might turn," Knellict said to her. He reached over and cupped her chin in his hand and gently tilted her head up.

The woman's knees wobbled when she looked into the archmage's cruel face.

"Because of course nothing that Spysong might do to you would approach the exquisite agony you would suffer at my vengeful hands. Do not ever forget that. And if you find the noose about your slender neck, will yourself to sleep, to relax completely when the trap door falls out beneath you. The clean break is better, I am told."

"B-but sir…" The poor woman stammered. She trembled so badly that had it not been for Knellict's hand against her chin, she would have wobbled across the room.

Knellict stopped her by placing the index finger of his free hand over her lips. "You have served me well again today," he said, and no words ever sounded more like a condemnation to the fitful and terrified tavern girl. "As you have since you chose to enter my employ those years ago," he added, emphasizing her complicity.

"A little extra this time," the mage went on, smiling now—and that seemed even more cruel. He let the woman go and reached to his belt, producing a small pouch that rattled with coins. "All of it gold."

For a brief moment, the woman's eyes flashed eagerly. Then she swallowed hard, though, considering how she might explain such a treasure if Spysong came calling.

Still, she took the pouch.

A cloud of smoke and the sound of coughing told King Gareth and his friends that Emelyn the Gray had at last arrived in Heliogabalus. Surprisingly, the old wizard had chosen to teleport to the king's audience hall in the city's Crown Palace, rather than in the safer—for teleportation purposes—wizard's guild on the other side of the city. And even more surprisingly, Emelyn was not alone.

All eyes—Gareth, Celedon, Kane, Friar Dugald, and Baron Dimian Ree—turned to the pair, the old wizard and a pretty young woman with a round, flat face and fiery red hair.

"Well met, troublesome one," Celedon remarked dryly. "As always, your timing nears the point of perfection."

"I did not ask for your advice, and that alone would make any of my actions less than perfect in your self-centered thinking," Emelyn countered. "If all the world obeyed only Master Kierney, then all the world would be… perfect."

"He's learning, now isn't he?" Celedon asked the others, turning back to Gareth.

Emelyn grumbled and waved his hands at the rogue, and coughed again.

"In truth, I find your timing quite favorable," Gareth said. He looked from Emelyn to his guest, the Baron of Heliogabalus, who had long been a quiet adversary. For Dimian Ree, who led Damara's most populous and important barony, was rumored to be in league with the Citadel of Assassins to some extent, and so it didn't surprise Gareth and his friends to find the agitated man banging on their door that morning to complain vociferously about the multiple hangings that Gareth's men were carrying out in his fair city.

"Baron Ree," Emelyn said, rather coldly, and he did not dip a bow.

"Gray one," Ree responded.

"Our friend the baron has come to protest the justice we have brought to his city," Friar Dugald explained.

"I only just arrived," Emelyn prompted.

"Spysong has encountered many agents of the Citadel of Assassins," King Gareth explained. "They brazenly attacked an apprentice knight of the order."

"That Entreri creature?"

"Precisely him," said Gareth. "But our enemies overplayed their hand this time. They did not know that Master Kane and Celedon were about, along with many allies."

"And you're hanging them? Well, good! And what of this matter might Baron Ree find objectionable, I must ask? Are any of his former lovers swinging by their necks?"

"You would do well to weigh carefully your words before uttering them, gray one," Dimian Ree said, drawing a dismissive scoff from the archmage.

"And you would do better to remember that the only reason I did not utterly destroy you with the fall of Zhengyi was because of the mercy of that man sitting on the throne before you," Emelyn countered, beside him the woman shuffled and glanced about, nervous.

"Enough, Emelyn," commanded King Gareth. "And the rest of you." He looked at them all alternately and sternly, letting his gaze fall at last over the angry baron. "Baron Ree, Heliogabalus is your city, to be sure. But your city lies within my kingdom. I do not ask for your permission to enter."

"And you would always be welcomed as my guest, my king."

"I am not your guest when I come to Heliogabalus," Gareth answered. "That is your basic misunderstanding here. When your king comes to Heliogabalus, you are his guest."

That brought a widening of eyes all around the room, and Dimian Ree began stepping nervously from foot to foot, like a fox caught against a stone wall with dogs fast approaching.

"And when I offer my resources, as with Spysong, to aid you in keeping your fair city safe, you would do well to express your appreciation."

Dimian Ree swallowed hard and didn't blink.

But Gareth didn't blink, either. "Pray do so and be gone," he said.

Ree glanced about, mostly at Kane then Emelyn, the two members of Gareth's band most antagonistic toward him—openly at least.

"The king is waiting for you, fool," came a booming voice from the back of the hall, and all turned to see the bearlike figure of Olwen Forest-friend and the lithe Riordan Parnell, the missing two of Gareth's band of seven, standing by the door.

"Go on, then," Olwen commanded, coming forward with great, long strides, and seeming even more ominous because he carried his mighty axe Treefeller in one of his large hands. "Tell your king how grateful you be, and how all your city will dance the streets tonight knowing they are more safe because of his arrival."

Dimian Ree turned on Gareth. "Of course, my king. I only wish I had been invited to the hangings, or that my city guards had been informed of the many battles before they were waged about our streets."

"And they'd be flipping gold pieces to see what side to join," Emelyn muttered to the woman at his side, but loud enough for the others to hear, drawing muted chuckles from all—except for Gareth, and Dimian Ree, of course, who glared at him.

"And it would have been even more interesting to see how many of the doomed prisoners looked to their baron for clemency," Emelyn said, taking up the dare of that look.

"Enough," Gareth demanded. "Good Baron Ree, I pray you be on your way, and I thank you for your… advice. Your complaints are duly noted."

"And discarded," said Emelyn, and Gareth glared at him.

"And how long might Heliogabalus be honored by your presence, my king?" Dimian Ree asked too sweetly.

Gareth looked to Kane, who nodded. "Our time here is nearly ended, I expect," Gareth answered.

"Indeed," Emelyn added, turning Gareth his way yet again. The mage tilted his head to indicate the woman at his side, and Gareth got the message. "Baron," he said, and he stood and motioned toward the door.

Dimian Ree paused for just a moment, then bowed, turned, and walked from the hall. Before he had even departed, all of the friends descended on Olwen, patting him on the back and offering their condolences over the loss of Mariabronne the Rover, the ranger who had been as a son to him.

"I will know Mariabronne's final tale, in full," Olwen promised.

"And I have brought with me one who might tell you some of that tale," said Emelyn, and he led the others to look at the woman, who still stood off to the side. "I give you Lady Arrayan of Palishchuk."

"That's a half-orc?" Olwen blurted, and he cleared his throat and coughed repeatedly to cover his rather blunt observation.

"Arrayan?" said Gareth. "Ah, good lady, please approach. You are most welcome here. I had hoped to be in Palishchuk by now to present you with your well-deserved honors, but the situation here intervened, I fear."

Arrayan skittishly moved toward the imposing group, though she relaxed visibly when Riordan offered her a confident wink.

"We had been told that you would not be journeying south to the gates," Gareth said.

"And so I was not, good king," Arrayan replied, her voice barely above a whisper. She bowed, then curtsied, halfway at least, before turning it into another uncomfortable bow.

"Pray be at rest, fair lady," said Gareth. "We are honored by your presence." He turned to Dugald and Kane and added, "Surprised, but honored nonetheless."

Arrayan's glance at Emelyn, one full of nervousness, clued in Gareth and the others that she wasn't there merely as a courtesy.

"I did as you bade and traveled to the gates to see if our friends Jarlaxle and Artemis Entreri were there," Emelyn explained. "I found them."

"At the gate?" Gareth asked.

"Nay, they had already passed through, within hours of the skirmish here in Heliogabalus, so it seems."

"There is more magic about that pair than we know," Friar Dugald remarked, and no one disagreed.

"North?" Gareth and Celedon asked together.

"To Palishchuk?" Gareth added.

"Beyond," said Emelyn, and he looked to Arrayan.

When she hesitated, the old mage put his arm around her shoulders and practically shoved her forward to stand directly before the throne. Arrayan took a long moment to collect her wits then produced a parchment from a loop under a fold of her robes.

"I was bid travel here and read this to you, my king," she said in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. "But I do not wish to speak the words." As she finished, she reached out with the parchment.

Gareth took it from her and unrolled it, arching his thick eyebrows curiously and looking briefly to his friends. He silently read the proclamation of the Kingdom of D'aerthe and the rule of King Artemis the First, and his face grew dark.

"Well, what is it?" Olwen demanded of Emelyn.

The old wizard looked to King Gareth, who seemed to feel his gaze and at last lifted his eyes from the parchment. He regarded all of his six friends alternately and said, "Rouse the Army of Bloodstone, all major divisions. Within a fortnight, we march."

"March?" said a confused Olwen, perfectly echoing the thoughts of the others, other than Emelyn, who had seen the proclamation, and Kane, who, principal among them, was beginning to understand the complexity of the web.

Gareth handed the parchment to Dugald. "Read it to them. I go to pray."

"There is nowhere to run, I assure you," Knellict said to Calihye, after simply appearing before her in her private quarters. "And I would advise against going for the sword," he added when the woman's eyes betrayed her and glanced at her weapon, which lay against the far wall. "Or for the dagger you keep at the back of your belt. In fact, Lady Calihye, if you make any movement against me at all, I can promise you the most exquisite of deaths. You know me, of course?"

Calihye had to force the words past the lump in her throat. "Yes, archmage," she said deferentially, and she only then remembered to avert her gaze to the floor.

"You wanted to kill Entreri for what he did to your friend," Knellict said matter-of-factly. "I share your feelings."

Calihye dared to look up.

"But of course, you buried that honest desire for vengeance, silly girl." The archmage gave a great and exaggerated sigh. "The flesh is too, too weak," he said, and he reached out to stroke the trembling woman's cheek.

Calihye instinctively recoiled—or tried to, but Knellict waggled his fingers and a wind came up behind her, pushing her back to his waiting hand. She didn't dare resist any more overtly.

"You have taken one of my mortal enemies for your lover," Knellict said, shaking his head, and he added a few mocking "tsks."

Calihye's mouth moved weirdly, trying vainly to form words.

"Perhaps I should simply incinerate you," Knellict mused. "A slow burning fire, carefully controlled, that you might feel your skin rolling up under the pressure of its heat. Oh, I have heard strong men reduced to whimpering fools under such duress. Crying for their mothers. Yes, it is a most enjoyable refrain.

"Or perhaps for such a one as pretty as you—well, as you once were before a blade reduced you to medusa-kin…" He paused and mocked her with laughter.

Calihye was too terrified to respond, to show any emotion at all. She knew enough of Knellict to understand that they were by no means idle threats.

"Still, you are a woman," Knellict went on. "So you are possessed of great vanity, no doubt. So for you, perhaps I will summon a thousand-thousand insects, that will bite at your tender flesh, and some that will break through. Yes, your eyes will reveal your terror no matter how stubbornly you choke back your screams when you see the bulge of beetles boring underneath your pretty skin."

It proved too much for the warrior woman. She exploded into action, leaping forward at Knellict with raking fingers aimed at his smug expression.

She went right through him and stumbled forward. Stunned, off balance, Calihye tried quickly to re-orient. She spun around, focusing on the image, which was even then fading to nothingness.

"It was so easy to fool you," came the wizard's voice, over by her sword. She looked that way, but he was not to be seen. "You were so terrified by the thought of my presence that a simple illusion and an even more simple ventriloquism had you feeling my touch."

Calihye licked her lips. She shifted her feet beneath her, setting her balance for a spring.

"Can you get to the sword, do you think?" Knellict's disembodied voice asked, and it still seemed to be coming from very near the weapon.

Before he had even finished the sentence, Calihye's hand reached behind her, grabbed the dagger, and whipped forward, launching the missile at the voice. It seemed to stutter in its progress for just a moment, before pressing on with a flash of bluish light. Then it hung there, in mid-air, hilt tilted down as if it had struck into some fabric or other flimsy material.

"Oh, and it is a magical dagger," Knellict said. "It defeated the weakest of my wards!"

His position confirmed, Calihye swallowed her fear and darted for her sword. Or tried to, for even as she started, the archmage materialized. Her dagger hung limply, caught in a fold of his layered robes. He extended his arm toward her, finger pointing, and from that digit came a green flash of light. A dart shot forth to strike the woman in the midsection.

"My dart is magical, as well," Knellict explained as Calihye doubled over and clutched at her belly. Her grimace became a loud groan, then a continual scream, as the dart began to pump forth acid.

"I have found gut wounds to be the most effective at neutralizing an enemy warrior," Knellict said with detached amusement. "Would you agree?"

The woman staggered forward a step.

"Oh please, do press on, valiant warrior woman," Knellict teased. He stepped aside, leaving the path to her sword clear and visible before her.

With a growl of defiance, Calihye grasped the dart and tore it free of her belly with a bit of intestine, yellow-green acid, and bile dripping forth from the hole, followed by the bright red of blood. She threw the dart to the ground and grabbed for her sword.

As soon as her fingers touched the blade, a jolt of lightning arced from it and through her body, launching her back across the room and to the floor. She tried to curl, but her spasms allowed her no control of her body. Her hair stood out wildly, dancing from the shock. Her teeth chattered so violently that her mouth filled with blood, and her joints jolted repeatedly and painfully. She wet her breeches, as well, but was too agonized to even realize it.

"How did you ever survive the trials of Vaasa?" the archmage taunted her, and the sound of his voice told her that he stood right over her. "A first-year apprentice could destroy you."

The words faded along with Calihye's consciousness. She felt Knellict reach down and grab her hair. She had the thought that he would kill her conventionally—a knife across the throat, perhaps.

She hoped it would come that quickly, at least, and was relieved indeed when darkness descended.

The heavy cavalry were the first to come through the open gates into the frozen marshland of Vaasa. Four abreast they rode, breaking off two-by-two to the left and right, the plated armor of knight and horse alike gleaming dully under the heavy gray sky. The clatter of hooves continued for a long while, until a full square of cavalry, seven ranks of seven, had formed at each flank of the gate. Forty-five of the riders in each square were veteran warriors, trained in lance, bow, spear, and sword, and tested in battle. But every other row, one, three, five, and seven, was centered by a man in white robes, which, like the chestplates of the warrior's metal armor, was emblazoned with the White Tree symbol of the king. They were Emelyn's warriors, the wizards of the Army of Bloodstone, well-versed in defensive magic and well-trained to keep the magical trickery of an enemy at bay, while the superior warriors of Bloodstone won the day. Well-respected by the armored warriors who surrounded them, the wizards were affectionately known as the Disenchanters.

Behind the cavalry came the armored infantry, ten abreast, marching in unison and presenting a deliberately ominous cadence by thumping their maces against their shields with every other step. They did not veer to either side, but continued their straightforward march, until fifty full ranks had cleared the gate. There too, the ranks were speckled with Disenchanters, and few wizards in all the region could hope to get a spell, even a sorely diminished spell, through the web of defensive magic protecting King Gareth's men-at-arms.

Then came more riders, the mounted guard of King Gareth Dragonsbane, encircling the paladin king and his entourage of six trusted advisors, including the greatest wizard of all in the Bloodstone Lands, Emelyn the Gray.

The rest of the heavy infantry, fifty more ranks often, the core of the Army of Bloodstone, followed in tight and disciplined formation, similarly playing the cadence of mace and shield. As they passed out onto the field, the cavalry began its march again, riding wide and stretching the line to aptly protect the flanks of the core group, eleven hundred men and women, many the children of warriors who had fought with Gareth against the Witch-King.

If the infantry was the backbone of the force, and the cavalry its arms, and King Gareth and his six friends its head, then next came the legs: a second cavalry force, less armored and with swifter mounts. They were Olwen's men, rangers and scouts trained to act more independently. And behind them came still more infantry, lightly armored spearmen, mostly, serving as protection for the batteries of longbowmen.

On and on it went. More light infantry, battalions of priests with carts full of bandages, caravans of supply wagons, lines of strong men carrying ladders, horses towing rams and beams for siege towers….

Men and women lined the top of the wall, watching the procession as it issued forth from the Vaasan Gate for hours, and when at last those great gates swung closed, the sun was beginning its western descent and more than eight thousand soldiers, the heart and soul of the Army of Bloodstone, marched out to the north.

"It surprises me that Gareth moved so quickly and decisively on this," Riordan Parnell said to Olwen and Kane, the three of them bringing up the rear of Gareth's diamond set between the main ranks of heavy infantry.

"That has always been his strength, as Zhengyi learned," Kane replied.

"To his great dismay," Riordan agreed with a wide grin. "Zhengyi's, I mean," he added when he saw that his two companions were not similarly smiling.

While the others rode, Kane walked, his face as stoic as always, his eyes set with his typical grim determination. On the far side of Kane, on his lightly-armored but large horse, Olwen obviously stewed, and his great black beard was wet around his mouth from chewing his lip.

"Still," Riordan argued, "we have merely a simple piece of paper. It might mean little or nothing at all."

Kane motioned forward with his chin, directing Riordan's gaze to Gareth and Dugald, and the two wizards, Emelyn and Arrayan.

"The half-orc woman was very clear that the castle had returned to life," the monk reminded. "Our apprentice knight and his dark elf cohort meddle with the artifacts of Zhengyi. That is not 'nothing at all. »

"True," Riordan admitted, "but is it sufficient to rouse the Army of Bloodstone and abandon Damara at a time when we have gone to open war against the Citadel of Assassins?"

"The Citadel has been dealt a severe blow—" Kane began to answer, but Olwen cut him short.

"It's worth it all just to get the answers on the death of Mariabronne," he said, a throaty growl behind every word, so that it seemed to his companions as if he might use some ranger magic and turn into a bear at that moment.

It occurred to Riordan that the ranger's horse might not enjoy that experience, but the bard kept the thought to himself—though he did begin composing a song about it.

"Those two were involved, I'm sure," Olwen went on.

"Our information says they were not," said Kane. "Mariabronne scouted forward of his own volition, and contrary to the orders of Ellery. It is a convincing tale, particularly given Mariabronne's reputation for risk-taking."

Olwen snorted and looked away, his meaty hands working the knuckles white by clenching at the reins.

"Well, they are two people, and foolish ones at that," Riordan quickly put in, trying to get the conversation away from a subject that was obviously too painful for his ranger friend. "Even if they are dabbling in Zhengyian magic, as this report from Palishchuk and the words of the dragon sisters might indicate, are they truly such a threat that we should open our flank and our kingdom to the retribution of Knellict and Timoshenko?"

"Nothing is open," Kane assured him. "Spysong's network is fully ready to repel any moves by the Citadel, and if we are needed Emelyn can get us back with a wave of a wand."

"Then why didn't Emelyn just take us six there, leaving Gareth and the soldiers in place?"

"Because this is the opportunity our king has been patiently awaiting, to fully reveal his influence in Vaasa," answered another voice, that of Celedon Kierney. The eavesdropper slowed his horse to bring him in line with the three. "Gareth's aim here is not the castle—or at least, not the castle alone."

Riordan paused and considered that for a moment, then said, "Palishchuk." He glanced at Kane, who nodded knowingly. Olwen gave no indication that he was even listening. "He's showing Palishchuk that they are vital to his designs, and that when they are threatened, he will take that as seriously as if it were Heliogabalus itself under the Zhengyian shadow," Riordan reasoned on the fly.

The looks from Celedon and Kane showed him that he had correctly sorted the puzzle.

"That's why he's the king," Riordan added with a self-deprecating chuckle.

"I expect that by the time we return through the Vaasan Gate, the Kingdom of Bloodstone will be whole, Vaasa and Damara united under the banner of Gareth Dragonsbane," said Celedon.

Suddenly, to Riordan, the day seemed just a bit brighter.

CHAPTER 13 A BET HEDGED

The half-orc city was on edge. And why not? Word had reached Jarlaxle, and so it had reached Palishchuk as well, that King Gareth was on the march, his formidable army rolling northward across the Vaasan bog to challenge the claim of King Artemis the First. The news had surprised Jarlaxle—who didn't much like being surprised. He hadn't thought Gareth would move so decisively, or so boldly. Winter was coming on, which alone could destroy an army in Vaasa, and Gareth was dealing with drow, after all. Gareth had no idea what Jarlaxle had arrayed against him—how could he? And yet he had marched out at once, and in force.

Jarlaxle's respect for the man had multiplied with the news. Rarely had he encountered humans with such confidence and determination.

He made certain his boots clicked loudly even on the slick, rain-soaked stones on the side of the hill. He did not want a fight with Wingham, and did not want to startle any of the nervous sentries surrounding the half-orc.

Wingham stood near a small fire at the center of the hillock's flat top, with another, larger half-orc—Olgerkhan, Jarlaxle realized—close beside him. They noticed Jarlaxle's noisy approach and turned to greet him.

As he neared the pair, Jarlaxle recognized the anxiety in their expressions. A bit of fear, a bit of anger, all very clearly revealed in the way they, particularly Olgerkhan, kept glancing around them. Olgerkhan even had his burly arms crossed over his chest, as sure a sign of resistance as could be offered. The differences in racial habits occurred to Jarlaxle at that moment. In Menzoberranzan, when a drow male crossed his arms over his chest, it was a sign of obedience and respect. On the World Above, though, and as with the drow matrons, it was a signal of steadfast defiance, or at least defensiveness.

"Master Wingham," he greeted sweetly. "I am honored that you answered my call."

"You knew I would come out," Wingham replied, his tone less diplomatic than usual. "How could I not, with the winds of war stirring about my beloved Palishchuk?"

"War?"

"You know that King Gareth has marched."

"To celebrate the coronation of King Artemis the First, of course."

Wingham put on a sour expression that seemed even more exaggerated in the dancing shadows of the small fire.

"Well, we shall learn of his intent soon enough," Jarlaxle offered. "Let us both hope that King Gareth is as wise as his reputation indicates."

"Why have you done this?"

"I serve the king."

"You challenge the rightful king," Olgerkhan interjected.

From under the great brow of his ostentatious hat, Jarlaxle narrowed his red-glowing eyes and thinned his lips, locking Olgerkhan in a stare that surely reminded the burly warrior of his recent adventure beside the drow. Olgerkhan's crossed arms slipped down to his side and he even stepped back a bit, the aggressiveness melting from his posture. With that one look, Jarlaxle had reminded him of Canthan, to be sure.

"The Bloodstone Lands were opened to you and Artemis Entreri both," Wingham said, forcing the drow to look back his way. "Opportunity awaited you. With respect and song, and the appreciation of all the people, you and Entreri could have had much of what you desire without this confrontation. Would King Gareth have denied you the castle?"

"I doubt he would approve of the magic it offers," the drow replied.

"Even without it! A knight of the order can lay claim to a barony that is as yet unclaimed and untamed. Negotiations with Gareth would have handed the castle to you, and would have earned you the allegiance of Palishchuk, as well, a friendship we were all too willing to extend. Likely, King Gareth would have been grateful to have such worthy warriors helping him to tame the northern wilderness."

"And why should we help Gareth extend his claim? Are you so willing to kneel, Wingham?"

Both half-orcs stiffened at the insult, but Wingham didn't back away. "Kneel?"

"If King Gareth tells Wingham to kneel, his knees will soil, no doubt."

"It is respect freely given."

Jarlaxle laughed at him. "It is the obedience of resignation."

Olgerkhan grumbled something indecipherable, shaking his head, and Jarlaxle wasn't really surprised that he had confused that one. Wingham, though, just continued to stare, his expression showing clearly that he wasn't buying the premise one bit.

"Ah well, it is a sad state, is it not?" Jarlaxle asked. "It is the way. The way it has been for millennia uncounted, and the way it will be until the end of time."

"And you accuse me of resignation?"

"I accept the truisms of ambition," he explained. "What is resignation to you is relished by me." He looked down and pulled his fine piwafwi open a bit to reveal his black leather trousers. "I do not dirty my fine clothes. Not for any man. Not for any king."

"King Gareth will tarnish them with your own blood!" Olgerkhan promised.

Jarlaxle shrugged as if it did not matter.

"You called us out here," said Wingham. "Is there more a point to it than this banter? When you came through Palishchuk, you asked nothing of us, and we were glad to offer you the same."

"But now King Gareth marches," Jarlaxle replied. "The situation is changed, of course. Palishchuk finds herself caught between the breaking waves of possibility. To remain between them as they crest is to be crushed by both. It is time to swim, Wingham."

Olgerkhan stood with his tusky jaw hanging open, a look upon his ugly face so perfectly blank that Jarlaxle nearly laughed out loud. Wingham, though, nodded as he grasped the analogy and its dire implications all too clearly.

"You would have us war with King Gareth, who saved us from the Witch-King and has been a great friend to us?" the worldly old half-orc asked.

Jarlaxle grinned knowingly as he weighed the determination in Wingham's words—a resolve that he knew he would not weaken however great the threat of Kimmuriel's drow armies. In fact, it was a resolve that he had counted on since he had learned of Gareth's bold initiative against the new King of Vaasa.

"Palishchuk will not betray King Gareth," Wingham stated, and the drow knew that he was speaking truth.

"We do not forget the time of Zhengyi," Wingham went on, and his need to justify his position amused Jarlaxle. "We remember well the darkness of the Witch-King and the light named Gareth who risked all, who risked his life, his friends, and all of Damara to ensure that we were not out here all alone against a foe we could not defeat."

"It is a fine tale," the drow agreed.

"We will not betray King Gareth," Wingham said again.

"I never said that you should," Jarlaxle replied, and Wingham's steely gaze melted into one of confusion. "The Army of Bloodstone has marched, with their fine glittering weapons and shining armor. A most impressive sight, to be sure. They come armed and armored, and with wizards and priests aplenty.

"And yet, on the other side, you are faced with the unknown," Jarlaxle continued. "Other than the reputation of my kin and what you so painfully learned of the powers of the Zhengyian castle. I do not make your choice for you, my friend. I only seek to explain to you that the waves are closing and you must swim into one or the other or be destroyed. The time of neutrality has passed. I had not thought it would come to this—not so quickly, at least—but it has, and I would be remiss as a friend if I did not help you to understand."

"A friend?" Olgerkhan roared. "A friend who brings war to Palishchuk's door?"

"My army is not marching," Jarlaxle remarked, and at his reference to an army, he noted Wingham's eyebrows arching just a bit.

"But you come with threats," said Olgerkhan.

"Nay, far from it," Jarlaxle was quick to reply. "King Artemis is a man of peace. Look to the south for the winds of war, not to the north." He turned from the brutish Olgerkhan to Wingham's doubting expression, and added, "It would seem that King Gareth is not a man who shares."

"With thieves?" Wingham dared to ask. "Who take that which is not theirs? Who lay claim to a kingdom without cause of blood or deed?"

"Deed?" Jarlaxle replied as if wounded. "We conquered the castle, did we not? It was King Artemis who slew the dracolich, after all. Your friend beside you can testify to that, though he lay on the ground helplessly when Artemis struck the fateful blow."

Olgerkhan bristled and seemed stung by the simple truth, but did not reply.

"So claim the castle, and bargain with King Gareth for a barony," Wingham suggested. "Avert the war, for the sake of all."

"A contract that would entail our fealty to Gareth, no doubt," the drow said.

"And did you not promise exactly that when you accepted the honors bestowed upon you at King Gareth's court?"

"A moment of duress."

Wingham's expression soured. "You have no claim."

Jarlaxle shrugged, again as if it did not matter. "Perhaps you will be proven correct. Perhaps not. Ultimately, the claim goes to the strongest, does it not? In the final sort of things, I mean. He who remains alive, remains alive to write the histories in a light favorable to him and his cause. Surely as worldly as you are, you know well the histories of the world, Master Wingham. Surely you recognize that armies carrying banners are almost always thieves—until they win."

Wingham didn't flinch, and Jarlaxle knew enough about him, about people in general, to understand that he clutched at the rather pitiful—from Jarlaxle's perspective—ideal of a higher justice, of a universal truism of right and wrong. No man could be more broken, after all, than he who at last must face the truth that his king, his living god, is flawed.

"Look forward, good Wingham," Jarlaxle offered. "The outcome is not known to you, but the result after the battle is indeed. The victor will determine which king rules the land of Vaasa. One wave will overtake the other, and will flatten all the water under its weight. That is the truth facing Palishchuk, however we might feel about it. And in that light, I would caution you to withhold your judgment about who rightfully—and more importantly, who practically—will rule in Vaasa."

Wingham seemed to blanch for just a moment, but he squared his shoulders and firmed his jaw, his round, flat face tightening with admirable determination. "Palishchuk will not battle against King Gareth," he stated.

"Neutrality, then?" asked the drow, and he let his expression sour. "Rarely is the course of the coward rewarded, I fear. But perhaps King Artemis will forgive—"

"No," Wingham interrupted. "You are right in one thing, Jarlaxle. Palishchuk must not let the events around her bury her under their weight. Not without a fight. We have survived by the sword for all of our history, and so it will be again. Kill me now if you will. Kill us all if you are so thirsty for blood, but understand that if King Gareth's horn calls out for allegiance, the warriors of Palishchuk will answer that call."

Jarlaxle's sudden smile took the half-orc off his guard, and the drow dipped a sincere and respectful bow. "I never said that you should not," Jarlaxle offered, and he turned and walked off into the night.

He knew that the half-orc would misinterpret him, would think that his carefree attitude regarding any alliance Palishchuk might choose was a sign of supreme confidence. Jarlaxle loved irony.

"King Gareth has reached Palishchuk," Kimmuriel informed Jarlaxle the following afternoon in large and airy foyer of the main keep of Castle D'aerthe. The room had become his audience chamber, in effect, though Artemis Entreri, the man Jarlaxle had named as king, hardly spent any time in the place. He was always out along the walls, in some odd corner with a stone wall sheltering him from the increasingly cold north wind. Jarlaxle understood that his human friend was trying to keep as far away as possible from Kimmuriel and the scores of other dark elves who had come in through the magical gate the psionicist and the wizards of Bregan D'aerthe had created.

The king's absence had not deterred Jarlaxle from playing the games of court fashion, however. Bregan D'aerthe had brought in furnishings that soon adorned every room of the keep. Jarlaxle sat on Entreri's throne, a purple and blue affair fashioned of a giant mushroom stalk and with the cap used as a fan-like backdrop. Other smaller chairs were set about, including the one directly before the throne, in which sat Kimmuriel.

All around them, dark elves tacked tapestries up on the walls, both to defeat the intrusion of stinging daylight and to steal some of the bluster of the biting breeze. Those tapestries showed no murals to the onlookers, however, just fine black cloth, for they were folded in half, their bottom hem tacked up with the top, Kimmuriel's expression, and those of the other dark elves, reminded Jarlaxle keenly that he was asking quite a bit of his former band in making them come up to such an inhospitable environment.

"He has made good time, given the size of his force," Jarlaxle replied. "It would seem that our little announcement made an impression."

"You waved a wounded rothe before a hungry displacer beast," Kimmuriel remarked, an old Menzoberranyr saying. "This human, Gareth, strikes with the surety of a matron mother. Most unusual for his race."

"He is a paladin king," Jarlaxle explained. "He is no less fanatical to his god than my mother, Lolth torment her soul eternally, was to the Spider Queen. More so than the dedication one might expect out of fallen House Oblodra, of course."

Kimmuriel nodded and said, "Thank you."

Jarlaxle laughed aloud.

"You anticipated this move by Gareth, then," Kimmuriel reasoned, and there was an edge to his tone. "Yet you allowed me to expend great resources in opening the many gates to this abysmal place? The price of the cloth will come out of your fortune, Jarlaxle. Beyond that, I have only a minimal crew operating in Menzoberranzan at the height of the trading season, and almost all of my wizards have been fully engaged in transporting goods, warriors, and fodder for your expedition."

"I did not know that he would march, no," Jarlaxle explained. "I suspected that it could come to this, though the speed of Gareth's response has surprised me, I must admit. I expected this decisive encounter to occur no earlier than next spring, if at all."

Kimmuriel stroked his smooth, narrow black chin and looked away. After a moment of mulling it over, the psionicist offered a deferential nod to his former master.

"There was great potential gain, and nothing to lose," Jarlaxle added.

Kimmuriel didn't disagree. "Yet again I am reminded of why Bregan D'aerthe has not seen fit to kill you," he said.

"Though you have come to see me as an annoyance?"

Kimmuriel smiled—one of the very few expressions Jarlaxle had ever seen on the soulless face of that one. "This will rank as no more than a minor inconvenience, with perhaps some gain yet to be found. Whenever Jarlaxle has an idea, it seems, Bregan D'aerthe is stretched."

"Dice have six sides for a reason, my friend. There is no thrill in surety."

"But the win must come from more than one in six," said Kimmuriel. "The Jarlaxle I knew in Menzoberranzan would not wager unless four of the sides brought a profit."

"Do you think I have so changed my ways, or my odds?"

"There was the matter of Calimport."

Jarlaxle conceded that point with a nod.

"But of course, you were caught in the thrall of a mighty artifact," said Kimmuriel. "You cannot be blamed."

"You are most generous."

"And, as always, Jarlaxle won out in the end."

"It is a good habit."

"And he chose wisely," said Kimmuriel.

"You have a high opinion of yourself."

"Little of what I say or think is opinion."

True enough, Jarlaxle silently conceded. Which was exactly why he had made certain that Rai-guy, the temperamental and unpredictable wizard, was dead and Kimmuriel was still alive and in charge of Bregan D'aerthe during Jarlaxle's sabbatical.

"And I must admit that your recent scheme has intrigued me," Kimmuriel said. "Though I know not why you insist on even visiting this Lolth-forsaken wilderness." He wrapped his arms around him as he spoke and cast a disparaging glance to the side, at a tapestry that lifted out from the wall under the weight of the howling wind rushing in through the cracks in the stone.

"It was a good chance," Jarlaxle said.

"It always is, when there is nothing truly to lose."

Jarlaxle sensed the hesitance in his voice, almost as if Kimmuriel was expecting a confrontation, or an unpleasant surprise. The psionicist feared, of course, that Jarlaxle meant to challenge him and order Bregan D'aerthe into battle against King Gareth.

"There are ways around Gareth's unexpectedly bold move," he said to reassure his former, and likely future, lieutenant.

"There are ways through them, as well," Kimmuriel replied. "Of course."

"The point of this wager is not to place too much on the table. I'll not lose a drow soldier here—and though I do believe that our fodder serve us well by charging into the chewing maw of Gareth's able army, in even that endeavor we must be stingy. I am not Matron Baenre, obsessed with the conquest of Mithral Hall. I do not seek a fight here—far from it."

"Gareth will grant you nothing in a parlay," said Kimmuriel. "You say that he is acting boldly, but no less so than you did when you sent word of the rise of King Artemis."

"He will not parlay," Jarlaxle agreed, "because we have nothing to offer to him. We will remedy that, in time."

"So what will you say to him now?"

"Not even farewell," Jarlaxle answered with a grin.

Kimmuriel nodded with contentment. He glanced again at the waving tapestry, and squeezed his arms just a bit more tightly around himself, but Jarlaxle knew him well enough to realize that he was at peace.

A few miles to the south of the castle, on a field outside of Palishchuk, another warrior was anything but at peace. Olwen Forest-friend stalked about the encampment, speaking encouragement to the men and women of the Army of Bloodstone. His forest-green cloak whipped out behind him as he strode briskly from campfire to campfire. His face flushed with passion and eagerness and his legendary war axe gleamed in the firelight. For many years, his favorite weapon had been the bow, but as his agility had decreased with age, he found that running along the fringes of the battlefield no longer suited him. It hadn't taken long for Olwen to discover the thrill of close combat, nor to perfect the technique.

"We press the walls tomorrow," he promised one group of young soldiers, who stared up at him in awe. "We'll be home through the Galenas in a matter of days."

Their eager and grateful responses followed Olwen as he moved on to the next group, dragging a second, far thinner and more graceful figure in his wake.

Riordan Parnell was usually charged with maintaining morale. Often in the calm before battle, the bard would entertain with stirring tales of heroic deeds and darkness shattered. But his planned performance had been sidetracked by the overwhelming presence of his ranger friend.

He caught up to Olwen before the ranger reached the next group in line, and even dared tug on the man's sleeve to halt him, or slow him at least. That brought a warning glare, Olwen locking his bright eyes on Riordan's grasping hand then slowly lifting his gaze to meet that of the bard.

"We have much yet to learn," Riordan said as he gently pulled away.

"I've not the time or the desire to read the history of King Artemis."

"It is all vague."

"They're for taking King Gareth's hard-won land," said Olwen. "They locked themselves in a castle, and we'll knock that castle down. I see nothing vague here. But don't you worry, bard. I'll give you a song or two to write." As he made the promise, Olwen brought his war axe over his shoulder and held it firmly before him. With a nod, the ranger turned to go.

But Riordan caught him again by the sleeve. "Olwen," he said.

The ranger cocked his head to consider the man.

"We do not know all of the details of Mariabronne's death," said Riordan.

Olwen's expression hardened. "Why are you bringing Mariabronne into this?"

"Because he fell in that castle, and you know that well. Nothing you do in there tomorrow will change that sad reality."

Olwen turned to face Riordan squarely, his muscular chest puffed out. He slipped the axe down at the end of one arm, but the movement did little to diminish his imposing posture. "I march to King Gareth's call, and not that of a ghost," he said, "to defeat a pretender named Artemis Entreri."

"Emelyn has been inside the castle," said Riordan. "And I have spoken with Arrayan and Olgerkhan of Palishchuk, and with Wingham. All of the indications and all of the stories—consistent tales, one and all—do not indicate treachery, but misjudgment, in the death of Mariabronne the Rover. We believe that he was felled by a monster's blow, and not due in any way to the actions, or even the inactions, of Artemis Entreri or the drow Jarlaxle."

"And of course, it wouldn't be the way of a dark elf to create any mischief."

It was hard for Riordan to hold his stance against that simple logic.

"Nor for the Witch-King," the bard finally managed to counter. "From all that we have learned, Mariabronne was slain by the enduring and dastardly legacy of Zhengyi."

"Speak not that name!" Olwen ground his teeth and the considerable muscles on his arms twisted as he rolled tight the fingers of his hands, one fist clenched on his right, the knuckles of his other hand whitening as they clamped on the axe handle.

Riordan offered a sympathetic look, but Olwen scowled all the more.

"And it might be that the dastardly and enduring legacy of Zhengyi is now in the hands of King Artemis," Olwen said and he brought his axe up before him to catch it again in both hands. He pulled it back a bit and slapped it hard into his right mitt for effect. "I've grown weary of that legacy."

As much as he wanted to argue that point, Riordan Parnell found himself without an answer. Olwen nodded gruffly and spun away, then launched into another rousing cheer as he approached the next group of soldiers in line, all of whom lifted their flagons to the legendary ranger and shouted out in unison, "For Mariabronne the Rover!"

Riordan watched his friend for a moment, but sensed the approach of another and turned to greet his cousin, Celedon Kierney.

"It is a cheer that will rush us to bloodshed," Celedon remarked. "Olwen will be in no mood for delay when we reach this Castle D'aerthe on the morrow."

"I cannot imagine his pain," said Riordan. "To lose a man who was as a son to him."

"I wish Gareth had bid him stay in Damara," Celedon replied. "He is as fine a warrior as I have ever known, but he is in no humor for this."

"You fear his judgment?"

"As I would fear yours, or my own, if I had just lost a son. And Mariabronne was exactly that to Olwen. When word reached his ears, he cast about like a lion on the rampage, so the story claims. He went to the druids of Olean's Grove outside of Kinnery and bade them to reveal the tale in full, and even, it is rumored, to inquire about the possibilities of reincarnation."

Riordan blanched, but was not really surprised. "And he was refused, of course."

"I do not know," said Celedon, "but I trust that the Great Druid of Olean's would not entertain such a notion."

"So he will assuage his pain with his axe instead," said the bard. "I hope that King Artemis has not grown too fond of his title."

"Or his head."

The next morning, Entreri and Jarlaxle stood on the southern wall of Castle D'aerthe, near the western tower that flanked the castle's main, south-facing gate. Behind and below them in the courtyard that had once teemed with undead monsters that had risen against their initial incursion into the castle, three hundred goblins and kobolds shifted nervously. None dared speak out, for around them stood merciless dark elf guards bearing long canes and drow priests with their trademark whips, the heads of which were living, biting snakes. Any kobold or goblin who shuffled too far out of line felt the sting of those bites, then squirmed and writhed in horrible, screaming agony on the ground before sweet death finally took it.

Entreri and Jarlaxle hardly paid any attention to the spectacle behind them, however, for before them came the Army of Bloodstone. The main infantry marched in tight ranks in the center, flanked by heavy cavalry to either side and with batteries of longbowmen grouped behind the front ranks. The many pennants of Damara, of the Church of Ilmater, and of King Gareth waved in the brisk morning breeze, and the cadence played out on the shields of the warriors, as they had drummed when leaving the Vaasan Gate less than a tenday earlier.

A mere fifty yards out from the castle, the procession stopped, and with remarkable precision, they moved into their defensive formations. Shields turned crisply and the front ranks fanned left and right, streaming in thin lines, then thickening again into defensive squares. Wizards danced about as if they were jesters in a court procession, waving their arms and enacting all sorts of wards and shields to deflect and defeat any incoming evocative magic. Just inside the infantry square, the archers formed their ranks, every bow with arrow ready. As the center of the line fully separated, the companions on the wall were treated to a view of the king himself, all splendid in his shining silver armor, and flanked by his powerful friends.

"Do you think they have come for a banquet in my honor?" Entreri asked.

"That would be my guess. Friar Dugald is dressed in finery, you see, and of course, the king shines as if the sun itself has settled upon him."

"And yet that one," said Entreri, nodding to indicate the man standing to Gareth's right, "seems ill-dressed for anything other than the ruts of a cattle trail."

"Master Kane," Jarlaxle agreed. "He truly is an embarrassment. One would think that the King of Damara would find someone to infuse some fashion sense into that fool."

Entreri smirked, remembering all the days on the road with Jarlaxle, when his companion had set out fine shirts for him. He thought of the night when Jarlaxle had returned with a new belt and scabbard for Charon's Claw and Entreri's jeweled dagger. That belt was a magnificent black leather affair, and as fine in design as in appearance, for it held a pair of small throwing knives, fully concealed, within its back length.

"Perhaps Gareth will hire you to instruct the monk," Entreri said.

Jarlaxle hesitated for a moment before responding, "He could do worse."

Six riders and Master Kane came forward from the line. The monk walked in front of Gareth, who was centered by Celedon Kierney and Olwen Forest-friend. Directly behind Gareth rode Riordan Parnell, the bard, strumming a lute and singing. Flanking the bard were Dugald and Emelyn, both quietly spellcasting, building defensive walls.

The group closed half the distance to Castle D'aerthe then stopped, and Riordan came out around his king and galloped the short expanse to pull up before the great gates. He noted Jarlaxle and Entreri and trotted his mount off to the side, to sit directly below them.

"Master Jarlaxle and Artemis Entreri, Apprentice Knight of the Order" he began.

"King Artemis," Jarlaxle corrected, loudly enough so that Gareth and his friends heard, and bristled—which brought a smile to the drow's face.

"Good subjects—" Riordan began again.

"We are not."

The bard stared hard at the obstinate drow. "You pair of fools, then," he said. "King Gareth Dragonsbane, he who defeated Zhengyi, who cast the Wand of Orcus across the planes of existence, who—"

"Spare us," Jarlaxle interrupted. "It is cold, and we have heard this litany before—in Gareth's own court, and not so long ago."

"Then your folly should be obvious to you."

"Someday I will tell you my own litany of deeds, good bard," Jarlaxle called down. "Then indeed will your friends label you as long-winded."

"King Gareth demands audience," Riordan called out. "If you refuse, then war is upon you." He looked to the east, and motioned with his right arm. Following that, the pair saw a light cavalry force flanking Castle D'aerthe, and a light infantry taking up defensive positions in its wake.

Riordan then motioned west, and the pair saw a similar scene unfolding in that direction.

"To grant audience or to accept a siege," Riordan said. "The choice seems quite obvious."

"Why would we not grant free and friendly passage to King Gareth of Damara," Jarlaxle asked him, "our sister kingdom, after all, and no enemy to the throne of Artemis? You need not come to us so formally, and with threats. King Gareth is ever allowed free and welcomed passage through our lands—though if he intends to be accompanied by so large a contingent, who will tramp down our flora and fauna, I do fear that I might have to impose a toll."

"A toll?"

"For smoothing the bog after your passage, of course. Simple upkeep."

Riordan sat perfectly still for a long while, clearly not amused. "Will you grant the audience?"

"Of cour—" Jarlaxle started to answer, but Entreri grasped his shoulder and shifted in front.

"Tell King Gareth that we do not enjoy the spectacle of an army at our doorstep unannounced," Entreri called down to Riordan, and again loud enough for Gareth, and perhaps even some of those in the ranks of the main force, to hear. Keeping his tone polite, and his voice loud, he continued, "But even so, Gareth may enter my home. We have many tall towers here, as you can see. Please tell Gareth, from me, that he is most welcomed to dive headlong off of any of them."

Riordan sat a moment, as if digesting the words. He even glanced at one of the towers. "You are besieged!" he declared. "Know that war has come to your door!" He expertly turned his mount and galloped it back to his group, who were already turning for the main force.

"That wasn't the wisest thing you've ever done," Jarlaxle remarked to his friend.

"Isn't this what you wanted?" Entreri replied. "War with King Gareth?"

"Hardly."

Entreri's face screwed up with doubt. "You thought to parlay our good deeds to an independent kingdom for Jarlaxle?"

"For King Artemis," the dark elf corrected.

"You believe that Gareth would allow a drow to rule a kingdom within that which he now calls his own kingdom?" Entreri went on, disregarding the correction. "You are a bigger fool than I once thought you—and on that previous occasion, you had the excuse of the lure of Crenshinibon. What is your excuse now beyond abject stupidity?"

Jarlaxle eyed him for a long while, his thin drow lips curling into a smile. He half-turned and looked to the courtyard below, then lifted his hand and clenched his fist.

The drivers snapped into action, cracking their whips and setting the fodder into a frenzy. A great crank creaked, chain rattling in protest, and the massive portcullis that blocked Castle D'aerthe's main gate lifted.

"I was shown two roads," Jarlaxle explained to Entreri. "One would lead me to operate in the shadows, much as I have always done. To find my niche here in the Bloodstone Lands in comfort behind the powers that be—perhaps to serve the Citadel of Assassins, though in a sense far removed from that which Knellict envisioned. Perhaps I would then convince Kimmuriel that this land was worth his efforts, and he and I would lead Bregan D'aerthe to grab at absolute leadership in the underworld of the Bloodstone Lands, similar to what we achieved back in Calimport for a short while, and certainly as we have created in the darkness of Menzoberranzan for nearly two centuries." He ended with a laugh, as he finished with, "It would be worth the effort, perhaps, merely to see Knellict beg for his eternal soul."

Jarlaxle stopped and stood staring at his friend. Beneath them, the gates of the castle swung open and the three hundred goblins and kobolds, the unfortunate shock troops who had only death and pain behind them and a waiting army before them, flooded out onto the field in full charge.

"And the other road?" Entreri finally, and impatiently, prompted.

"The one we have walked," Jarlaxle explained. "Autonomy. The Kingdom of D'aerthe, presented to King Gareth and the other powers of the Bloodstone Lands, aboveboard and with all legitimacy. A sister and allied kingdom to Damara's north, living in harmony with Damara, and with Palishchuk."

"They would accept a kingdom of drow?" Entreri made no effort to keep the incredulity out of his voice, which elicited a smirk from Jarlaxle.

"It was worth a try, as I found the other option… boring. Would you disagree?"

"You wanted it, not I."

Jarlaxle looked at him as if wounded.

"You led our adventures here," Entreri said. "You put us in the service of a pair of dragon sisters, and tricked me to Vaasa, knowing well, all the while, the destination of this road we walk and the inevitable ending."

"I could not have known that such an opportunity as Urshula would present itself so readily," Jarlaxle argued, but he stopped short and threw up his hands in defeat. "As you will," he said. "In any event, our time here is at its end."

"Beware the ruse!" Friar Dugald and his clerics shouted out the length of the line, using magic to enhance their shouts.

Before the heavy priest, King Gareth and the others coordinated the response to the monstrous charge. Left and right, great longbows bent back and volleys of arrows flew at the goblins and kobolds, the shots spaced properly so that a falling, dying target would not intercept a second arrow.

Emelyn the Gray and his wizards held back as the monstrous ranks thinned under the rain of arrows. "Minor spells only!" the archmage instructed his forces. "Keep your power in reserve. They are trying to exhaust us!"

"And to lessen the burden on their foodstuffs, perhaps," Kane quietly added. He was between Gareth and Emelyn when he spoke, and both caught his meaning well. "They expect a siege, we can conclude, and believe that they can outlast us with winter fast approaching."

Before them, those monsters who had somehow managed to avoid the arrows came on fast, and were met by a barrage of minor spells. Missiles of wizardly energy—blue, green, and red—shot out and swerved of their own accord, it seemed, unerringly blasting into the targeted creatures. When a pair of ambitious goblins drew too near, Emelyn waved away his charges and stepped forward personally. He touched the tips of his thumbs together, fingers spread wide before him, and spoke a simple command.

The goblins, more confused and terrified than bloodthirsty, could not pull up in time, and burst into flame as a wave of fire erupted from the wizard's hands, fanning out before him.

"Archers fire a volley over the wall!" Gareth called, and the order echoed down the line. Indeed, with the monstrous ranks so depleted, there was no need for another, point-blank barrage.

Out rode Gareth with Celedon, Olwen and Riordan beside him, and, amazingly, the monk Kane sprinted before the charging horses and was the first to engage. He leaped and fell straight out, feet leading, as he neared a goblin and kobold duo, taking the smaller, doglike kobold with a snap kick to the face and slamming the five-foot goblin with a solid hit to the chest.

Both shot back as surely as if a horse had kicked them.

Kane landed on his back, but moved so quickly and fluidly that many onlookers blinked and shook their heads. For he was up again, in perfect balance, almost as soon as the trailing folds of his dirty robes touched the ground. He stomped on the downed kobold's neck for good measure, then leaped ahead and to the side, spinning as he landed beside a surprised goblin. The creature took an awkward swing with its mace, one that Kane easily pushed up into the air as he came around. Not breaking the momentum of his turn, the monk snapped his arm back to the right angle and followed through with a jarring elbow, catching the goblin right below the chin and fully crushing its windpipe.

"He does steal all the fun," Celedon remarked to Gareth.

Gareth began to reply that there were plenty of enemies to be found, but he didn't bother. The infantry came on hard, and Emelyn's wizards continued their devastation, and the paladin realized that he would have to be quick if he intended to stain his brilliant sword, Crusader the Holy Avenger, in that initial battle. A quick glance at his friend Kane told him to veer in a different direction if he hoped to find a target.

Gasping for breath from the perfectly aimed, driving elbow, the goblin fell away, and before it had even hit the ground, Kane had already engaged another, his hands working furiously in the air before him, like great sweeping fans.

And it was all a ruse, designed to get the goblin leaning forward, to get its weapon shifted out just a bit to the side. As soon as that happened, Kane sprang forward, high and turning a somersault as he went. He hooked his leading forearm under the goblin's chin then planted his shoulder against the goblin's back as he came around and over. The monk landed on his feet back-to-back with the dizzy goblin, and as he continued forward, he pulled his arm up and over the goblin, forcing its head back and up.

Hearing the snap of the creature's neck bone, Kane quickly released, let the limp thing fall dead to the ground, and charged on.

The battle, the slaughter, was over in minutes, with the charge stalled and crushed, the goblins and kobolds lying dead or dying, other than a few who knelt on the ground, their arms up in the air, pleading for their lives.

Across the field, the portcullis had already fallen back in place and the gates had swung closed.

"Beware the following wave!" Dugald and others cried out. "Beware the gargoyles!"

But there were none. Nothing. The castle sat before them, enormous and deathly quiet. Goblin statues set along the wall leered out, but merely as unmoving, unthreatening stone. No figures moved behind them.

Another volley of arrows went over that wall, then a second, but if they hit anything other than the interior walls or the empty ground, no confirming cries of alarm or agony indicated it.

"Hold fire!" Gareth called as he and the other warriors turned back to reform their previous ranks. The paladin king cast a disparaging glance at the castle of King Artemis the First as he rode, thinking that Kane's observation had been quite on the mark.

But knowing as well that he had neither the patience nor the supplies to support such a siege.

Entreri and Jarlaxle heard the arrows cracking on the front door of the main keep, and the assassin was glad that he had thought to close the repaired portal behind him as he had entered.

Inside the main room of the ground level, Kimmuriel and several other dark elves waited for the pair, and Entreri couldn't contain a sour expression at the sight of the hated creatures.

"They will not wait long," Kimmuriel told Jarlaxle in the drow tongue, and it bothered Entreri that he still understood that paradoxically lyrical language. How could creatures so vile sound so melodious? "Gareth will show no patience with the winter winds blowing. As soon as they come to believe that our assault was not merely a diversion for a greater attack, expect that they will come on. They've dragged war engines across the miles, and they will not let the catapults remain silent."

"We are well prepared, of course."

"We are the last," Kimmuriel replied. "The gate is held fast in the lower chamber. It is time to choose, Jarlaxle."

"Choose what?" Entreri asked his companion, using the common tongue of the surface world.

That didn't exclude the fluent Kimmuriel in the least. "Choose between flight and awakening the full power of the castle," he said in the same language, his inflection perfect. He seamlessly went back to the drow tongue as he added to Jarlaxle, "Will you awaken Urshula?"

Jarlaxle thought on that for a short while. Another volley of arrows streamed into the castle, some cracking against the keep's doors.

"We might fight a great battle here," Jarlaxle said. "With Urshula and the gargoyles, with the undead who will come to my call, we could inflict great misery on our enemy. And with Bregan D'aerthe's full power, there is no doubt that we would win the day."

"The gain would be temporary, and not worth the price," said Kimmuriel. "We have no reinforcements, yet Damara is a country of King Gareth's minions, who will not sit idly by. And Gareth likely has many treaties that would bring other nations against us in time."

Jarlaxle looked to Entreri. "What say you?"

"I say that I have traveled with an idiot," the assassin replied, and Jarlaxle merely laughed.

"Many dead dark elves have said the same," Kimmuriel warned, and Entreri shot him a threatening look.

But Jarlaxle's laughter defeated all of the tension. "It was a good attempt," he decided. "But now that we've seen the response, it is time to take our leave of King Gareth and his Bloodstone Lands."

He motioned for Kimmuriel and the others to lead the way into the tunnels, then waited for Entreri to walk up beside him before following. As they passed the mushroom throne, Jarlaxle tossed a rolled scroll, bound with two strings of gold, onto its seat.

Entreri turned as if to retrieve it, but Jarlaxle put a hand on his shoulder and guided him along.

They moved through the tunnels, to the room where Mariabronne had fallen to the daemons, then farther down the winding way. Dust fell from the ceiling as the bombardment began above in full. Finally they entered the chamber of Urshula, the scars of the battle bringing that deadly encounter clearly back into Entreri's thoughts.

And reminding him that, in his darkest hour, Jarlaxle had abandoned him.

At the back of the huge chamber, beyond the sprawled, bony corpse of the dracolich, its head and neck blackened from the fire of Entreri's killing trap, an ornate portal, a glowing blue doorway, loomed. While the walls of the chamber could be seen all around its edges, within the frame of the jamb there was only blackness.

One after another, the dark elf soldiers of Bregan D'aerthe walked through and disappeared.

Soon there were only three left, and Kimmuriel nodded to Jarlaxle then stepped through.

"After you," Jarlaxle invited Entreri.

"Where?"

"Why, in there, of course."

"Not that where," Entreri growled. "Where does it lead?"

"Where does it look like?"

"A place I do not wish to go." As he spoke the words, the truth of them assaulted the human assassin. It was time to leave Gareth and the Bloodstone Lands, so Jarlaxle had said, and that was a sentiment Entreri shared. But to leave with Kimmuriel and the Bregan D'aerthe soldiers implied something entirely different than what he had in mind.

"But the choice has been made," said Jarlaxle.

"No. That is the Underdark."

"Of course."

"I will not return there."

"You act as if there's an option to be found."

"No," Entreri said again, staring at the portal as if it was the gateway to the Nine Hells. His memories of Menzoberranzan, of his subjugation to twenty thousand cruel drow, of his understanding that he was no more than iblith, offal, and that anything he might do, anyone he might kill, would be completely irrelevant in altering that recognition of his worth, flooded back to him at that terrible moment.

And he thought of Calihye, the first woman he had loved both emotionally and physically, the first woman with whom the bond had become complete. How could he desert her?

But what choice did he have?

He took a step toward the doorway, and paused as he saw its lines waver, as he saw that the magic was fast diminishing.

During that pause came a second wave of memory, of pain, of regret, of anger.

The doorway wavered again.

"No," said Entreri, and he put his hand on Jarlaxle's shoulder and guided his companion. "Go quickly. The magic is fading."

"Be not a fool," Jarlaxle warned.

Entreri sighed and seemed to deflate before the obvious indictment. He looked at Jarlaxle and nodded—just enough to get the drow to relax his guard.

In the blink of an eye, Entreri had the red blade of his sword up high, held in both hands over his front shoulder. He gave a growl and went into a sudden spin, bringing the blade around at waist height, an even slice that would have cut Jarlaxle in half.

The drow had no way to defend.

He offered a sneer as he fell away the only way he could, tumbling more than running into the gate. Jarlaxle winked away just ahead of the cutting blade.

Entreri stood there staring at the shimmering extraplanar opening for a few moments longer, but even had its magic not then dissipated, there was no way Artemis Entreri was returning to the Underdark, to Menzoberranzan.

Not even to save his life.

CHAPTER 14 OVERREACHING

As the castle fell quiet, the horns on the field began to blare and a great cheer swept through the line. "King Gareth!" the enthusiastic soldiers chanted, and nowhere was that cry more energetic and grateful than among the contingent from Palishchuk.

As heartwarming as it was, though, Gareth Dragonsbane was not amused. They had not lost a single man, and hundreds of monsters lay dead on the field, almost all of them felled before combat had even been engaged.

"That was not an assault, it was mass suicide," Emelyn the Gray commented, and none of the friends could disagree.

"It accomplished nothing, but to wipe a bit of the stain of goblins and kobolds from the world," Riordan said.

"And to strengthen our resolve and cohesion," Friar Dugald added. "A free moment of practice before a joust? Are our enemies so inept?"

"Where is the second assault?" Gareth asked, as much to himself as to the others. "They should have struck hard at the moment of our greatest diversion."

"Which was never so great at all, now was it?" asked Emelyn. "I expect that Kane was correct in his assessment—they were clearing out fodder to preserve their supplies."

Gareth looked at his wise friend and shook his head.

They waited impatiently as the moments slipped past, and the castle only seemed more inert, more dead. Nothing stirred behind the high walls. Not a pennant flew, not a door banged open or closed.

"We know that Artemis Entreri and Jarlaxle are in there," Celedon Kierney remarked after a long while had passed. "What other forces have they at their disposal? Where are the gargoyles that so threatened Palishchuk when first the castle awakened? Gargoyles that regenerate themselves quickly, so it was reported. An inexhaustible supply."

"Perhaps it was all merely a bluff," Friar Dugald offered. "Perhaps the castle could not be reanimated."

"Wingham, Arrayan, and Olgerkhan saw the gargoyles fluttering about the walls just days ago," Celedon replied. "Tazmikella and Ilnezhara clearly warned us that Jarlaxle has Urshula the Black, a mighty dracolich, handy at his summons. Is the conniving drow trying to draw us in now, where his magical minions will prove more deadly?"

"We cannot know," King Gareth admitted.

"We can," said Kane, and all eyes turned his way. The monk squared himself to Gareth and offered a slow and reverential bow. "We have been in situations like this many times before, my old friend," he said. "Perhaps this will be a matter for our army, perhaps not. Let us forget who we are for a moment and remember who we once were."

"You cannot expose the king," Friar Dugald warned.

Beside him, Olwen Forest-friend snorted in derision, though whether at Kane or Dugald, the others could not yet discern.

"If Jarlaxle is as wise as we fear, then our caution is his ally," said Kane. "To play the games of intrigue with a drow is to invite disaster." He turned to face the castle, compelling them all to look that way with his set and stern expression.

"We have been in this situation before," Kane said again. "We knew how to defeat it, once. And so we shall again unless we have become timid and old."

Friar Dugald began to argue, but a smile widened on King Gareth's face, a smile from a different time, a decade and more past, when the weight of all the Bloodstone Lands was not sitting squarely on his strong shoulders. A smile of adventure and danger that wiped away the typical frown of politics.

"Kane," he said, and the sly edge in his voice had half his friends grinning and the other half holding their breath, "do you think you could get over that wall without being seen?"

"I know my place," the monk replied.

"As do I," Celedon quickly added, but Gareth cut him short with an upraised hand.

"Not yet," the king said. He nodded to Kane and the monk closed his eyes in a moment of meditation. He opened them and gently swiveled his head, taking in the whole scene before him, absorbing all of the angles and calculating the lines of sight from any hidden sentries on the castle walls. He dropped his face into his hands and took a long and steady breath, and when he exhaled, he seemed to shrink, as if his entire body had become somehow smaller and less substantial.

He held up one hand, revealing a small jewel that glowed with an inner, magical fire, one that could flash to light at the wielder's desire. It was their old signal flare, a clear indication of Kane's intent and instructions, and the monk went off in a trot.

The friends watched him, but whenever any of them turned his gaze aside, even for a moment, he could not then relocate the elusive figure.

Sooner than anyone could have expected, even those six men who had spent years beside the Grandmaster, Kane signaled back to them with the lighted jewel from the base of the castle wall.

Kane moved like a spider, hands sweeping up to find holds, legs turning at all angles to propel him upward, even sometimes reaching above his shoulder, his toes hooking into the tiniest jags in the wall. In a matter of a few heartbeats, the monk went over the wall and disappeared from view.

"He makes you feel silly for using your climbing tools, doesn't he?" Emelyn the Gray said to Celedon, and the man just laughed.

"As Kane would make Emelyn feel rather silly and more than a little inept as he avoided all of your magical lightning bolts and fireballs and sprays of all colors of the prism," Riordan was quick to leap to Celedon's defense.

"That strange one mocks us all," Dugald agreed. "But he's too tight to down a belt of brandy, and too absorbed to bed a woman. You have to wonder when it's simply not worth the concentration anymore!"

That brought laughter from all the friends, and all those nearby.

Except from Olwen. The ranger stared at the spot where Kane had disappeared, unblinking, his hands tight on his war axe, his beard wet from chewing his lips.

Two flashes from the monk's jewel, atop the wall, signaled that the way was clear.

"Emelyn and Celedon," Gareth instructed, for that was the usual course this group would take, with the wizard magically depositing the stealthy Celedon to join up with Kane. "A quick perusal and raise the portcullis—"

"I'm going," Olwen interrupted, and stepped before Celedon as the rogue made his way toward the waiting Emelyn. "You take me," the ranger instructed Emelyn.

"It has always been my place," Celedon replied.

"I'm going this time," Olwen said, and there was no compromise to be found in his steady, baritone voice. He looked past Celedon to Gareth. "You grant me this," he said. "For all the years I followed you, for all the fights we've shared, you owe me this much."

The proclamation didn't seem to please any of the friends, and Friar Dugald in particular put on a sour expression, even shook his head.

But Gareth couldn't ignore the stare of his old friend. Olwen was asking Gareth to trust him, and what sort of friend might Gareth be if he would not?

"Take Olwen," Gareth said to Emelyn. "But again, Olwen, your duty is to quickly ensure that the immediate area about the courtyard is secure then raise that portcullis and open those gates. We will all be together when we face Artemis Entreri and Jarlaxle, and whatever minions they have hidden inside their castle."

Olwen grunted—as much of a confirmation as Gareth would get—and moved to Emelyn, who, after a concerned look Gareth's way, launched into his spellcasting. Olwen grabbed onto the wizard's shoulder and a moment later, with a flash of purple light, the pair disappeared, stepping through a dimensional doorway to the spot on the wall where Master Kane waited.

In the tunnels of the upper Underdark, far below the construct Jarlaxle had named Castle D'aerthe, the soldiers of Bregan D'aerthe set their camp, along with those fortunate slaves who had not been forced onto the field to face the might of King Gareth. Off to one side of the main group, in a short, dead-end corridor, Kimmuriel and a pair of wizards had already enacted a scrying pool, and by the time Jarlaxle caught up to them, they looked in on various parts of the castle.

Jarlaxle smiled and nodded as the image of Entreri moved through the dark waters of the pool. The assassin had traveled up from the dracolich's lair, back into the upper tunnels, near where he had battled Canthan the wizard.

"He tried to kill you," Kimmuriel said. "We cannot go back immediately, but if he somehow escapes this time, I promise you that Artemis Entreri will fall to a drow blade, or to drow magic."

Jarlaxle was shaking his head throughout the speech. "If he had wanted to kill me, he would have used his wicked little dagger and not his cumbersome sword. He was making a statement—perhaps even one of complete rejection—but I assure you, my old friend, that if Artemis Entreri had truly tried to slay me before the portal, he would now lie dead on the floor."

Kimmuriel cast a doubting, even disappointed look at his associate, but let it go. A wave of his hand over the pool brought a different, brighter image into focus, and the four dark elf onlookers watched the movements of three men.

"It is a moot point anyway," the psionicist said. "I warned you of these enemies."

"Kane," Jarlaxle said. "He is a monk of great renown." One of the drow wizards cast him a confused look. "He fights in the manner of the kuo-toa," Jarlaxle explained. "His weapon is his body, and a formidable weapon it is."

"The second one is the most dangerous," Kimmuriel said, speaking of Emelyn the Gray. "Even by the standards of Menzoberranzan, his magic would be considered powerful."

"As great as Archmage Gromph?" one of the drow wizards asked.

"Do not be a fool," said Kimmuriel. "He is just a human."

Jarlaxle hardly heard it, for his gaze had settled on the third of the group, a man he did not know. While Kane and Emelyn appeared to be searching about cautiously, the other was far more agitated. He held his large axe in both hands before him, and it was quite obvious to Jarlaxle that he desperately wanted to plant it somewhere fleshy. And while Kane and Emelyn kept looking toward, and moving in the direction of, the front gates, the third man's attention had been fully grabbed by the central keep across the courtyard.

Kimmuriel waved his black hand over the pool again, and the image shifted back to Entreri. He was in a chamber Jarlaxle did not recognize, with his back to the wall just beside an upward-sloping tunnel. He had not yet drawn his weapons, but he seemed uneasy, his dark eyes darting about the torchlit tunnels, his hands resting comfortably close to his weapon hilts.

He gave a sudden laugh and shook his head.

"He knows we are watching him," one of the wizards surmised.

"Perhaps he thinks we will come to his aid," remarked the other.

"Not that one," said Jarlaxle. "He saw his choices clearly, and accepted the consequences of his decision." He looked at Kimmuriel. "I told you Entreri was a man of integrity."

"You confuse integrity with idiocy," the psionicist replied. "Integrity is the course of protecting one's own needs for survival, first and foremost. It is the ultimate goal of all wise people."

Jarlaxle nodded, not in agreement, but in the predictability of the response. For that was the way of the drow, of course, where the personal trumped the communal, where selfishness was a virtue and generosity a weakness to be exploited. "Some would consider simple survival the penultimate goal, not the ultimate."

"Those who would are all dead, or soon to be," Kimmuriel replied without hesitation, and Jarlaxle merely continued to nod.

"We cannot get back to help him without great cost," Kimmuriel added, and from his tone alone, Jarlaxle understood that return was not an option in Kimmuriel's mind. The psionicist was not willing to bring Bregan D'aerthe back into the fray, clearly, and from his inflection—and perhaps he had added a telepathic addendum to his statement; Jarlaxle could never be certain with that one! — it was clear to Jarlaxle that if he tried to use the opportunity to assume the mantle of leadership over Bregan D'aerthe once more, and order a return to Entreri's defense, he would be in for a fight.

But Jarlaxle had no such intention. He accepted fate's turn, even if he was not pleased by it.

The courtyard remained visible in the scrying pool, but the three figures had moved out of view. Then movement at the side of the pool revealed one, the anxious man with the axe, as he briefly showed himself. He moved fast, from cover to cover, and given the angle in which he moved out of view again, it was clear that he was making his way fast for the door of the keep.

"Farewell, my friend," Jarlaxle said, and he reached forward and tapped his hand on the still water of the pool. Ripples distorted the image before it blacked out entirely.

"You will return to Menzoberranzan with us?" Kimmuriel asked.

Jarlaxle looked at his former lieutenant and gave a resigned sigh.

No one in all the Bloodstone Lands was better able to discern movements and patterns better than Olwen Forest-friend. The ranger could track a bird flying over stone, so it was said, and no one who had ever seen Olwen's deductive powers at work ever really argued the point.

"They've got a gate," Olwen said to Kane and Emelyn when they came down from the wall into the main open courtyard of the castle. The tracks of the goblin and kobold army were clear enough to all three, the ground torn under their sudden, confused—and forced, Olwen assured his friends—charge.

The ranger nodded back toward the main keep of the place, a squat, solid building set in the center of the wall that separated the upper and lower baileys. "Or they've found tunnels below the keep where the monsters made their home," he said.

"No tracks coming in?" Emelyn asked.

"The goblins and kobolds came out that door," Olwen assured the others, pointing at the keep. "But they never went in it. And three hundred of them would have pressed the castle to breaking."

"There are many tunnels underneath it," replied Emelyn, who had been through the place before.

"Finite?" Olwen asked.

"Yes."

"You're certain?"

"I used a Gem of Seeing, silly deer hunter," the wizard huffed. "Do you think I would allow something as miniscule as a secret door to evade my inspection?"

"Then they have a gate," Olwen reasoned.

"Two-way, apparently," said Kane.

The ranger looked around at the emptiness of the place, and paused a moment to consider the silence, then nodded.

"Well, let us throw the place open wide, and inspect it top to bottom," said Emelyn. "King Artemis and his dark-skinned, fiendish friend will not so easily evade us."

Emelyn and Kane turned to the gates and portcullis, and to the room open along the base of the right-hand guard tower, where a great crank could be seen. But Olwen kept his gaze focused on the keep, and while his friends moved toward the front of the castle, he went deeper in.

He could move with the stealth of a seasoned city thief, and his abilities to find shelter in the shadows were greatly enhanced by his cloak and boots, both woven by elf hands and elven magic. He disappeared so completely into the background scenery that any onlookers would think he had simply vanished, and his steps fell without a whisper of noise. In fact, it wasn't until they noticed the keep's door ajar that Kane and Emelyn—who stood near the crank, trying to figure out how to reattach the broken chain—even realized that Olwen had moved so far from them.

"His grief moves him to recklessness," Kane remarked, and started that way.

Emelyn caught the monk by the shoulder. "Olwen blazes his own trails, and always has," he reminded. "He prefers the company of Olwen alone. No doubt his training of Mariabronne incited similar feelings in that one."

"Which got Mariabronne killed, by all reports," said Kane.

Emelyn nodded. "And Olwen likely realizes that."

"Guilt and grief are not a healthy combination," the monk replied. He glanced back behind them. "Fix the chain and bring our friends," he instructed, and he started off after Olwen.

The furniture and half-folded tapestries in the audience chamber didn't slow Olwen. He moved right to the multiple corridor openings on the far side of the room, all of them bending down and around. He crouched low and moved across them, finally discerning the one that had seen the most, and probably most recent, traffic.

Axe in hand, Olwen jogged along. He came through a series of rooms, slowly and deliberately, and the repetition did nothing to take him off his guard, to bring any carelessness to his step. Nor did the multitude of side passages distress him, for though there were few tracks to follow, he suspected that they were all connected. If he misstepped, he could easily regain the pursuit in the next room, or the one beyond that. Silent and smooth went the ranger, down another corridor that ended at an open portal, spilling into a candlelit room beyond. As he neared the doorway, along the right-hand wall, the ranger noted the fast cut of the tracks to the right, just inside the door.

Olwen crept up. Barely a foot from the opening, he held his breath and leaned out, just enough to see the tip of an elbow.

He looked back at the floor—one set of tracks.

With grace and speed that mocked his large form, Olwen leaped forward and spun, bringing his two-handed axe across for a strike that the surprised sneak couldn't begin to block. Satisfaction surged through the ranger as his perfectly-balanced, enchanted blade swiped cleanly through the air with no defense coming. It drove hard into the sneak's chest; there was no way for the fool to defend!

Off to the side of the portal where Olwen had abruptly and aggressively entered, in the shadows of another corridor, Artemis Entreri watched with little amusement as the ranger's weapon blew apart the chest of the mummy Entreri had propped next to the opening.

The weapon went right through, as Entreri had planned, to slice the securing rope set behind the perserved corpse, before finally ringing off the stone.

Across from the mummy, on the other side of the intruder, a glaive, released by the severing of the rope, swung down.

Entreri figured he had a kill, and that there was no turning back because of it.

But the burly intruder surprised him, for as soon as the ring of stone sounded, almost as soon as he had cut through the rope, the man was moving, and fast, diving into a sidelong roll. He tumbled deeper into the room, just ahead of the swinging glaive, and came back to his feet with such balance and grace that he was up and crouched before Entreri had even fully exited the side corridor.

And even though Entreri moved with unmatched silence, Olwen apparently heard him, or sensed him, for he leaped about, axe swiping across, and it was all Entreri could do to flip Charon's Claw up and over to avoid getting it torn from his hand.

Olwen cut his swing short, re-angling the axe with uncanny strength and coordination, then stabbing straight out with it, its pointed crown jabbing for the assassin's throat.

Entreri let his legs buckle at the knees, falling back as Olwen came on. He finally got Charon's Claw out before him, forcing the ranger to halt, but by that point he was so overbalanced that he couldn't hope to hold his ground. He just twisted and let himself fall instead, his dagger hand planting against the ground.

Olwen's roar signaled another charge, but Entreri was already moving, using those planted knuckles as a pivot and throwing himself out to the left over his secured hand, twisting and tucking his shoulder to turn a sidelong roll into a head-over somersault. He was up and turning before Olwen could close, coming around much as the ranger had done in dodging the glaive trap, with Charon's Claw humming through the air before him as he spun.

"Oh, but you're a clever killer, aren't you?" Olwen asked.

"Isn't that the difference between the killer and the deceased?"

"And Mariabronne wasn't so clever?"

"Mariabronne?" Entreri echoed, caught by surprise.

"Don't you feed your lies to my ears," Olwen said. "You saw the threat of the man—the honest man."

He finished with a sudden leap forward, his axe slicing the air in a downward diagonal chop, right to left. Olwen let go with his top hand, his right hand, as the axe swung down, and he didn't slow its momentum at all, turning his left arm over to bring it sailing back up, catching it again in his right with a reversed grip, then executing a cross-handed chop the other way.

Entreri couldn't begin to parry that powerful strike, so he simply backed out of reach. He planted his back foot securely as the axe came past, thinking to dart in behind it. As Olwen let go with his left hand, the axe swinging out to the right, his right hand gripping it at mid-handle, Entreri saw his opening. With the shortened grip, Olwen couldn't hope to stop him.

Artemis Entreri got his first taste of the true powers of the Bloodstone Lands then, the powers of the friends of King Gareth.

Olwen sent his right arm to full extension to the right, and loosened his grip on the axe so that it slid out to full extension. The ranger's freed left hand grabbed up a hand axe set in his belt, just behind his left hip, and as Entreri came on, a flick of Olwen's wrist sent the smaller weapon spinning out.

Entreri ducked and threw Charon's Claw up desperately, just nicking the spinning hand axe, defeating its deadly spin if not entirely its angle. He still got clipped, across the side of his head, but at least the weapon hadn't planted in his face!

Worse for Entreri, though, was Olwen's mighty one-handed chop, his powerful axe soaring back across with frightening speed and strength.

The only defense for Entreri was to go under that blow, turning as he went to absorb the impact.

For any other fighter, it would have been no more than a desperate and defensive turn, but Entreri improvised, flipping his weapons as he went. His left arm caught Charon's Claw, and his right hand deftly snagged and redirected his jeweled dagger. Even as he slowed the axe, Entreri was into the counter, stabbing ahead for Olwen's ample belly.

But Olwen's free hand came across to slap hard against Entreri's leading forearm, forcing the thrusting dagger to the side as the ranger turned away from the strike. With both his weapons to Olwen's right, and with the ranger turning, balanced, behind his shoulder, Entreri had no choice but to press forward even more forcefully, diving into a headlong roll and again coming to his feet in a sudden defensive spin.

He picked off another soaring hand axe, barely registering the silvery flickers of the blade, and he could hardly believe that Olwen had managed to square himself, pull another weapon and throw it with such deadly precision and fluidity.

"Akin to catching the greased piglet, I see," Olwen taunted.

"Which rarely gets caught, and oft makes a fool of the pursuers."

Olwen smiled confidently as he walked to the side, his battle-axe swinging easily at his right side, and retrieved the first hand axe he had thrown. "Oh, it takes a while to catch it," he said. "But the greater truth is that the piglet never wins."

"Those who rely on certainties are certain to be disappointed."

Olwen gave a belly laugh, and waved his hands at Entreri in an invitation. "Come along then, murdering dog, King Artemis the Stupid. Disappoint me."

Entreri stared at the man for a short while, watched him drop into a balanced defensive crouch, setting his axes, battle- and hand-, in fine position and with a comfort that showed he was not unused to two-handed fighting. The ranger apparently believed that Entreri had killed Mariabronne, a crime for which he was innocent.

He thought to protest that very point. He thought, fleetingly, of calming the fine warrior with—uncharacteristically—the truth.

But to what end? Entreri had to wonder. Jarlaxle had proclaimed him as King Artemis the First, a usurper of lands Gareth claimed as his own. That crime carried the same sentence the man was trying to exact, no doubt.

So what was the point?

Entreri glanced at his own weapon, the red blade of Charon's Claw, the glimmering jewels of a dagger that had gotten him through a thousand battles on the streets of Calimport and beyond.

"Oh, come on, then," his opponent teased. "I'm expecting more out of a king."

With a resigned shrug, an admission yet again that it was all just a silly and insanely random game, an admission and acceptance that, though he was for once being misjudged, there had been more than a few occasions when Olwen's verdict would have been quite fair, Artemis Entreri advanced.

The sounds of battle echoed up the corridors to the foyer, where Master Kane stood before the perplexing array of tunnel openings. Because of the design of the place, with all the tunnels curving the same way, there was no way for the monk to accurately discern which opening would lead him to the fight. Even the battle sounds clattered out of all the openings uniformly, as if they were joined by cross channels.

"You should have marked it, Olwen," he mumbled, shaking his head.

Kane tried to gauge the angle of the curve and the distance of the battle sounds. He moved to the second opening from the right. He paused for a moment, until he realized that his hesitation wouldn't grant him any more insight or any better guess. He reached into a pouch, produced a candle, and dropped it on the floor, marking the opening.

Down he ran, silently and swiftly.

Entreri thrust with his sword and Olwen's hand axe descended quickly to deflect it. The assassin retracted the blade, feinted with his dagger, and thrust again with the longer weapon. Olwen had to twist aside and bring his larger axe across from his right.

And again, Entreri retracted fast and shifted as if to bring his left foot forward and thrust with the dagger, which was again in his left hand. The ranger stopped in his twist and tried to re-align himself to the right, but Entreri came on with another thrust of Charon's Claw.

He thought the fight at its end—against a lesser opponent, it surely would have been—but then the assassin realized that Olwen had anticipated that very move, and that the ranger's twist back to the right had been no more than a feint of his own, one designed to line him up for a throw.

The hand axe spun at Entreri, and only the assassin's great agility allowed him to snap his jeweled dagger up fast enough to tip it up high as he ducked. Entreri kept his feet moving as he did, reshuffling fast so that as he went down low under the spinning missile, he also was able to dart forward, once again leading with Charon's Claw.

Olwen blocked it, but Entreri stepped right behind that parry—or so he thought—and thrust with the dagger.

For Olwen had to have parried with his larger axe, the assassin had believed, and so confusion enveloped him as his dagger thrust came up short, as Olwen, more squared to him than he had thought possible, managed to slide back a stride.

As it untangled, Entreri noted that the man had pulled a second hand axe, and that it, and not the larger weapon, had defeated his low thrust.

And he was too far forward and too low, his blades hitting nothing but air, and with Olwen recoiled, his large axe up high and back. Forward it came in a sudden and devastating rush.

Entreri fell flat to the floor, wincing as the air cracked above him. He planted his hands and shoved up with all his strength, and with a perfect tuck, tugging his legs back under him, he came up straight, his weapons circling in a cross down low before him and rising fast and precisely. The lifting Charon's Claw caught Olwen's following chop with the hand axe, the red blade locking under the curved axe head, and Entreri drove the ranger's arm up and out. Entreri dropped his left arm lower, to belt height, and thrust forth the dagger, pushing the ranger back, and forcing the man to drop his larger axe low to block.

That thrust only set up the real move, though, as Entreri hopped up and to the right, gathering leverage. With the better angle, he rolled Charon's Claw right over Olwen's small axe and stabbed it down, twisting the ranger's arm.

Olwen surprised him, by dropping the axe and punching out, clipping Entreri's chin.

He staggered back a step, but recovered quickly—and a good thing he did, for on came Olwen, chopping wildly with his battle-axe. Down it rushed, and around, a sudden backhand followed by another lightning-fast strike. Metal rang against metal, clanging and screeching as the axe head ran the length of Entreri's blades in rapid succession. And in the midst of that barrage, Olwen produced yet another hand axe and added to the fury, both hands chopping.

Entreri fought furiously to keep up, deflecting and parrying. For many moments, he found no opportunities to offer any sort of a counter, no openings for any strikes at all. It was all instinct, all a blur of movement—sword, dagger, and axes whipping to and fro.

And if Olwen was growing at all weary, he certainly didn't show it.

As he exited the tunnel where he had entered, Kane turned the candle to the side, so that it was parallel to the tunnel opening, a sign for Emelyn or anyone else who came in that he had explored the passage and was no longer within. He placed a second candle on the ground at the entrance to the next corridor in line, its wick pointing into the descending darkness, clearly marking his trail for his friend, who knew how to read his signals.

He set off more speedily, both because he understood the general layout of the tunnel, given the other, and because he was certain that it was the one that would take him to Olwen and the fight.

And judging from the frenetic pace of the ringing metal, the tempo of that battle had increased greatly.

He knew the instant his red-bladed sword cut nothing but air that he had missed the parry, but without a split second's thought about it, without the hesitation of fear or dismay, Entreri followed with a perfect evasive maneuver, turning his hips toward the left, opposite the incoming axe strike, and thrusting his waist back.

He got clipped—there was no avoiding it—on his right, leading hip, Olwen's fine battle-axe tearing through the assassin's leather padding, through his flesh, and painfully cracking against his bone.

A wince was all Entreri allowed himself, for Olwen came on, sensing the kill.

Entreri cut a wild swing, from far out to his right and across with his mighty sword. Olwen, predictably, put his axe in line to easily defeat it. But the desperation on Entreri's face, and echoed by his seemingly off-balance swing, only heightened the feint, and the assassin dropped his swing short and used the momentum, instead of as a base to strike at Olwen, to spin himself to the side.

He sprinted off, limping indeed from his wound, but refusing to give in to the waves of burning pain emanating from his torn hip.

"You've nowhere to run!" Olwen chided, and he came in fast pursuit as Entreri sprinted for the doorway, where the glaive hung, its pendulum swing played out.

Entreri shoved the glaive out to the left and rushed past—or seemed to, but he pulled up short, spun, and whipped Charon's Claw in a downward strike. He called upon the magic of the blade as he did, releasing a trailing opaque wall of black ash that hung in the air.

Even as he finished the swing, the assassin simply let go of the sword and charged out to his left, opposite the glaive. His footsteps covered by the clanging of Charon's Claw on the stone floor, Entreri rolled around the wall, judging, rightly, that the visual display of glaive and ash would confound Olwen, albeit briefly. Indeed, the ranger sent his left arm out wide to interrupt the recoil of the glaive, and he pulled up short, astonishment on his face, to see the ash wall before him.

But he couldn't stop completely, and certainly didn't want to become entangled with the cumbersome glaive anyway, so he roared and rushed forward, bursting through the ash veil and into the tunnel.

And he froze, for no enemy stood before him.

A fine and sharp dagger came about to rest on Olwen's throat. A free hand tugged at his thick shock of black hair, yanking his head back, opening his throat fully for an easy kill.

"If I were you, I'd keep my arms out wide and drop my weapons to the floor," Entreri whispered in Olwen's ear.

When the ranger hesitated, Entreri tugged his hair again and pressed a bit more with his jeweled dagger, drawing a line of blood, and when Olwen still hesitated, Entreri showed him the truth of his doom, his utter obliteration, by calling upon the vampiric powers of the dagger to steal a bit of Olwen's soul.

The battle-axe hit the floor, followed by the hand axe.

"You multiply your crimes," came a calm voice from behind.

Entreri tugged Olwen around and pressed him through the ash and past the glaive, back into the room, to face Kane, who stood at the other open exit. The monk appeared quite relaxed, fully at peace with his arms hanging at his sides, his hands empty.

"The only crime I committed was to dare step out of Gareth's gutter," the assassin retorted.

"If that is true, then why are we in battle?"

"I defend myself."

"And your kingdom?"

Entreri narrowed his eyes at that and did not respond.

"You hold your blade at the throat of a goodly man, a hero throughout the Bloodstone Lands," Kane remarked.

"Who tried to kill me, and would have gladly cut me in half had I allowed it."

Kane shrugged as if it didn't really matter. "A misunderstanding. Be reasonable now. Allow your actions to speak clearly for you when you face the justice of King Gareth, as you surely must."

"Or I walk away…" Entreri started to say, but he paused as a second figure came into view, ambling down the corridor to stand beside Kane. Emelyn the Gray huffed and puffed and snorted all sorts of halting and sputtering protests at the unseemly sight before him.

"Or I walk away with this man," Entreri reiterated. "Without obstruction, and release him when I am free of the misjudgements of Gareth Dragonsbane and his agitated followers."

The wizard sputtered again and started forward, only to be intercepted by an outstretched arm from Kane. That only slightly deterred Emelyn, though, for he began waving his arms.

"I will reduce you to ash!" the wizard declared.

Entreri gave a crooked grin and willed his dagger to drink, just a bit.

"Stop!" Olwen bellowed, his eyes wide with terror, and indeed, that gave Emelyn and Kane pause. Olwen had faced death many times, of course, had faced a demon lord beside them, but never had they seen their friend so unhinged.

"You will not survive this," Emelyn promised Entreri.

Beside him, Kane lowered his arms and closed his eyes. A blue gemstone on a ring he wore flickered briefly.

"Enough!" Entreri warned, and he ducked aside, pulling Olwen with him, as a spectral hand appeared in the air beside him. "My first pain is his last breath," the assassin promised.

Kane opened his eyes and brought his hands up in a gesture of apparent concession.

The spectral hand swept down, lightly brushing Entreri but feeling as nothing more than a slight breeze as it dissipated to nothingness.

Entreri breathed heavily, a bit confused. He didn't want to play his hand; killing Olwen, of course, left him with no bargaining power. He tugged the man's head for good measure, drawing a pained groan.

"Turn and lead me out," Entreri instructed.

Emelyn did begin to turn, but he paused halfway, his gaze—and subsequently, Entreri's—going to the monk, for Kane stood perfectly still, his eyes closed, his lips moving slightly, as if in incantation.

Entreri was about to issue a warning, but the monk opened his eyes and looked at him directly. "It is over," Kane declared.

The assassin's expression showed his doubt.

But then, a moment later, that expression showed Entreri's confusion, for he felt very strange. His muscles twitched, legs and arms. His eyes blinked rapidly, and he snorted, though he didn't will himself to snort.

"Ah, well done!" Emelyn said, still looking at Kane.

"Wh-wh-what?" Entreri managed to stutter.

"You have within you the intrusion of Kane," the monk explained. "I have attuned our separate energies."

The muscles on Entreri's forearm bulged, knotting and twisting painfully. He thought to slice his prisoner's throat then and there, but it was as if his mind could no longer communicate with his hand!

"Picture your life energy as a cord," Emelyn explained, "stretched taut from your head to your groin. Master Kane now holds that cord before him, and he can thrum it at will."

Entreri stared in disbelief at his forearm, and he winced, nauseous, as he began to recognize the subtle vibrations rolling throughout his body. He watched helplessly as Olwen pushed his dagger-arm out, then reached up and extracted himself from Entreri's grasp all together.

To the side, Kane calmly walked over to the fallen Charon's Claw. Entreri had a distant understanding of some satisfaction as the monk bent to retrieve it, thinking that the sentient, powerful, and malevolent weapon would melt Kane's soul, as it had so many who had foolishly taken it in hand.

Kane picked it up—his eyes widened in shock for just a moment. Then he shrugged, considered the weapon, and set it under the sash that tied his dirty robes.

Confusion mixed with outrage in the swirling thoughts of Artemis Entreri. He closed his eyes and growled, then forced himself against the intrusion. For a moment, a split second, he shook himself free, and he came forward awkwardly, as if to strike.

"Beware, King Artemis," Emelyn said, and there was indeed a hint of mocking in his voice, though Entreri was far too confused to catch the subtlety. "Master Kane can cut that cord. It is a terrible way to die."

As if on cue, and still long before Entreri had neared the pair, Kane spoke but a word, and wracking pains the likes of which Artemis Entreri had never imagined possible coursed through his body. Paralysis gripped him, as if his entire body twitched in the spasm of a single, complete muscle cramp.

He heard his dagger hit the floor.

He was hardly aware of the impact when he followed it down.

CHAPTER 16 CLEVER BY MULTIPLES

As he neared the audience chamber in his Bloodstone Village palace, King Gareth heard that the interrogation of Artemis Entreri had already begun. He glanced to his wife, who walked beside him, but Lady Christine stared ahead with that steely gaze Gareth knew so well. Clearly, she was not as conflicted about the prosecution of the would-be king as was he.

"And you claim to know nothing of the tapestries, or of the scroll we found on the fungus-fashioned throne?" he heard Celedon ask.

"Please, be reasonable," the man continued. "This could be exculpatory, to some extent."

"To make my death more pleasant?" Entreri replied, and Gareth winced at the level of venom in the man's voice.

He pushed into the audience chamber then, to see Entreri standing on the carpet before the raised dais that held the thrones. Friar Dugald and Riordan Parnell sat on the step, with Kane standing nearby. Celedon stood nearer to Entreri, pacing a respectfully wide circle around the assassin.

Many guards stood ready on either side of the carpet.

Dugald and Riordan stood up at the approach of the king and queen, and all the men bowed.

Gareth hardly noticed them. He locked stares with Entreri, and within the assassin's gaze he found the most hateful glare he had ever known, a measure of contempt that not even Zhengyi himself had approached. He continued to stare at the man as he assumed his throne.

"He has indicated that the tapestries were not of his doing," Friar Dugald explained to the king.

"And he professes no knowledge of the parchment," added Riordan.

"And he speaks truly?" asked Gareth.

"I have detected no lie," the priest replied.

"Why would I lie?" Entreri said. "That you might uncover it and justify your actions in your own twisted hearts?"

Celedon moved as if to strike the impertinent prisoner, but Gareth held him back with an upraised hand.

"You presume much of what we intend," the king said.

"I have seen far too many King Gareths in my lifetime…"

"Doubtful, that," Riordan remarked, but Entreri didn't even look at the man, his gaze locked firmly on the King of Damara.

"… men who take what they pretend is rightfully theirs," Entreri continued as if Riordan had not spoken at all—and Gareth could see that, as far as the intriguing foreigner was concerned, Riordan had not.

"Take care your words," Lady Christine interjected then, and all eyes, Entreri's included, turned to her. "Gareth Dragonsbane is the rightful King of Damara."

"A claim every king would need make, no doubt."

"Kill the fool and be done with it," came a voice from the doorway, and Gareth looked past Entreri to see Olwen enter the room. The ranger paused and bowed, then came forward, taking a route that brought him within a step of the captured man. He whispered something to Entreri as he passed, and did so with a smirk.

That smug expression lasted about two steps further, until Entreri remarked, "If you are to be so emotionally wounded when you are bested in battle, then perhaps you would do well to hone your skills."

"Olwen, be at ease," Gareth warned as he watched the volatile ranger's eyes go wide.

Olwen spun anyway, and from the way Celedon stepped aside, Gareth thought the man might leap onto Entreri then and there.

But Entreri merely snickered at him.

"We are reasonable men, living in dangerous times," Gareth said to Entreri when Olwen finally stepped aside. "There is much to learn—"

"You doubt my husband's claim to the throne?" Lady Christine interrupted.

Gareth put a hand on her leg to calm her.

"Your god himself would argue with me, no doubt," said Entreri. "As would the chosen god of every king."

"His bloodline is—" Christine started to reply.

"Irrelevant!" Entreri shouted. "The claim of birthright is a method of control and not a surety of justice."

"You impertinent fool!" Christine shouted right back, and she stood tall and came forward a step. "By blood or by deed—you choose! By either standard, Gareth is the rightful king."

"And I have intruded upon his rightful domain?"

"Yes!"

"King of Damara or King of Vaasa?"

"Of both!" Christine insisted.

"Interesting bloodline you have there, Gareth—"

Celedon stepped over and slapped him. "King Gareth," the man corrected.

"Does your heritage extend to Palishchuk?" Entreri asked, and Gareth could not believe how fully the man ignored Celedon's rude intrusion. "You are King of Vaasa by blood?"

"By deed," Master Kane said, and he stepped in front of the sputtering Dugald as he did.

"Then strength of arm becomes right of claim," reasoned Entreri. "And so we are back to where we began. I have seen far too many King Gareths in my lifetime."

"Someone fetch me my sword," said the queen.

"Lady, please sit down," Gareth said. Then to Entreri, "You were the one who claimed dominion over Vaasa, King Artemis."

The roll of Entreri's eyes strengthened Gareth's belief that the drow, Jarlaxle, had been the true instigator of that claim.

"I claimed that which I conquered," Entreri replied. "It was I who defeated the dracolich, and so…" He turned to Christine and grinned. "Yes, Milady, by deed, I claim a throne that is rightfully mine." He turned back to Gareth and finished, "Is my claim upon the castle and the surrounding region any less valid than your own?"

"Well, you are here in chains, and he is still the king," Riordan said.

"Strength of arms, Master Fool. Strength of arms."

"Oh, would you just let me kill him and be done with it?" Olwen pleaded.

To Gareth, it was as if they weren't even in the room.

"You went to the castle under the banner of Bloodstone," Celedon reminded the prisoner.

"And with agents of the Citadel of Assassins," Entreri spat back.

"And a Commander of the Army of Bl—"

"Who brought along the agents of Timoshenko!" Entreri snapped back before Celedon could even finish the thought. "And who betrayed us within the castle, at an hour most dark." He turned and squared his shoulders to Gareth. "Your niece Ellery was killed by my blade," he declared, drawing a gasp from all around. "Inadvertently and after she attacked Jarlaxle without cause—without cause for her king, but with cause for her masters from the Citadel of Assassins."

"Those are grand claims," Olwen growled.

"And you were there?" Entreri shot right back.

"What of Mariabronne, then?" Olwen demanded. "Was he, too, in league with our enemies? Is that what you're claiming?"

"I claimed nothing in regards to him. He fell to creatures of shadow when he moved ahead of the rest of us."

"Yet we found him in the dracolich's chamber," said Riordan.

"We needed all the help we could garner."

"Are you claiming that he was resurrected, only to die again?" Riordan asked.

"Or animated," Friar Dugald added. "And you know of course that to animate the corpse of a goodly man is a crime against all that is good and right. A crime against the Broken God!"

Entreri stared at Dugald, narrowed his eyes, grinned, and spat on the floor. "Not my god," he explained.

Celedon rushed over and slugged him. He staggered, just a step, but refused to fall over.

"Gareth is king by blood and by deed!" Dugald shouted. "Anointed by Ilmater himself."

"As every drow matron claims to be blessed by Lolth!" the stubborn prisoner cried.

"Lord Ilmater strike you dead!" Lady Christine shouted.

"Fetch your sword and strike for him," Entreri shouted right back. "Or get your sword and give me my own, and we will learn whose god is the stronger!"

Celedon moved as if to hit him again, but the man stopped fast, for Entreri finished his insult in a gurgle, as vibrations of wracking pain ran the course of his body, sending his muscles into cramps and convulsions.

"Master Kane!" King Gareth scolded.

"He will not speak such to the queen, on pain of death," Kane replied.

"Release him from your grasp," Gareth ordered.

Kane nodded and closed his eyes.

Entreri straightened and sucked in a deep breath. He stumbled and went down to one knee.

"Do give him a sword, then," Christine called out.

"Sit down and be still!" Gareth ordered. He from his chair and walked forward, right toward the stunned expressions of most everyone in the room— except for Entreri, who glanced up at him with that hateful intensity.

"Remove him to a cell on the first dungeon level," Gareth ordered. "Keep it lit and warm, and his food will be ample and sweet."

"But my king…" Olwen started to protest.

"And harm him not at all," Gareth went on without hesitation. "Now. Be gone."

Riordan and Celedon moved to flank Entreri, and began pulling him from the chamber. Olwen cast one surprised, angry look at Gareth, and rushed to follow.

"Go and ease his pain," Gareth said to Friar Dugald, who stood staring at him incredulously. When the friar didn't immediately move, he said, "Go! Go!" and waved his hand.

Dugald stared at Gareth over his shoulder for many steps as he exited the room.

"You suffer him at your peril," Christine scolded her husband.

"I had warned you not to engage him so."

"You would accept his insults?"

"I would hear him out."

"You are the king, Gareth Dragonsbane, king of Damara and king of Vaasa. Your patience is a virtue, I do not doubt, but it is misplaced here."

Gareth was too wise a husband to point out the irony of that statement. He didn't blink, though, and didn't nod his agreement in any way, and so with a huff, Lady Christine headed out the side door through which she and Gareth had entered.

"You cannot suffer him to live," Kane said to the king when they were alone. "To do so would invite challenges throughout your realm. Dimian Ree watches us carefully at this time, I am certain."

"Was he so wrong?" Gareth asked.

"Yes," the monk answered without the slightest pause.

But Gareth shook his head. Had Entreri and that strange drow creature done anything different than he? Truly?

You would think them wiser, Kimmuriel Oblodra signaled in the silent drow hand code, and the way he waggled his thumb at the end showed his great contempt for the humans.

They do not understand the world below, Jarlaxle's dexterous hands replied. The Underdark is a distant thought to the surface dwellers. As he signed the words, Jarlaxle considered them—the truth of them and the implications. He also wondered why he so often rushed to the defense of the surface dwellers. Knellict was an archmage, brilliant by the standards of any of the common races of Toril, a master of intricate and complicated arts. Yet he had chosen his hideout, no doubt looking east, west, north, and south, but never bothering to look down.

A mere forty feet below the most secretive and protected regions of the citadel's mountain retreat, ran a tunnel wide and deep, a conduit along the upper reaches of the vast network of tunnels and caverns known as the Underdark, a route for caravans.

An approach for enemies.

Do not forget our bargain, Kimmuriel signed to him.

The last time, Jarlaxle promised, and he tapped his belt pouch, which contained the magical item to which Kimmuriel had just referred.

Kimmuriel's return look showed that he didn't believe Jarlaxle for a minute, but then again, neither did Jarlaxle. The demand was akin to telling a shadow mastiff not to bark, or a matron mother not to torture. Controlling one's nature could only be taken so far.

Kimmuriel's expression reflected little beyond that initial doubt, of course, but in it, if there was anything, it was only resignation, even amusement. The psionicist turned to the line of wizards assembled at his side and nodded. The first rushed to Kimmuriel and pointed straight up. He quickly traced an outline, and as soon as Kimmuriel agreed, the wizard launched into spellcasting.

A few moments later, the drow completed his spell with a great flourish, and a square block of the stone ceiling twice a drow's height simply dematerialized, vanished to nothingness.

Without hesitation, for the spell had a finite duration, the second wizard rushed up beside the first, touched his insignia, levitated up into the magical chimney, and similarly cast. Before he had even finished, the third had begun levitating.

Twenty or more feet up from the corridor, the third wizard executed the same powerful spell.

With the next we will be into the complex, Kimmuriel's hands told the Bregan D'aerthe soldiers gathered nearby. Fast and silent!

The fourth wizard ascended, and with him went the first contingent, Bregan D'aerthe's finest forward assassins led by an experienced scout named Valas Hune. They were the infiltrators, the trailblazers, and they most often marked their paths with the blood of sentries.

They timed their rise perfectly, of course, and floated past the fourth wizard just as the stone dematerialized, so that without breaking their momentum in the least, the group floated through the last ten feet and into the lower complex of the Citadel of Assassins.

The first three wizards went up right behind them, and as soon as the scouts had gathered the lay of the region and had slipped off into the torchlit tunnels, the wizards cast again.

All through the lower reaches of Knellict's mountain hideaway, a mysterious fog began to rise. More a misty veil than an opaque wall, the wafting fog elicited curiosity, no doubt.

It also rendered the quiet footsteps of drow warriors completely silent.

It also dampened most evocative magic.

It also countered all of the most common magical wards.

More warriors floated through the breach and moved along with practiced skill. Jarlaxle tipped his great hat to enable its magical powers, and he and Kimmuriel came through, accompanied by an elite group of fighters. They swept up two of the wizards in their wake, the other two moving to their predetermined positions.

This was not strange ground to the dark elves. Kimmuriel's spying of the hideaway had been near complete, and at Jarlaxle's insistence, the maps he had drawn had been studied and fully memorized by every raider rising through the floor. Even the two guard contingents left in the Underdark corridor below knew the layout fully.

Bregan D'aerthe left little to chance.

To the head, Jarlaxle's fingers flashed, and his small, elite band slipped away.

Knellict was more angry than afraid. He didn't have time to be afraid.

Screams of alarm and pain chased him and his three guards down the misty hallway and into his private chambers. The guards slammed the door shut and moved to bolt it, but Knellict held them back.

"One lock only," he explained. "Let them try to get through once. The ashes of their leading intruders will warn others away." As he finished, he began casting, uttering the activation words for the many magically explosive glyphs and wards that protected his private abode.

"We should consider leaving," said one of his guards, a young and promising wizard.

"Not yet, but hold the spell on the tip of your tongue." He drew out a slender wand, metal-tipped black shot through with lines of dark blue.

An especially shrill scream rent the air. The sound of men running moved past the door, followed at once by the sound of a couple of small crossbows firing and of one man, at least, tumbling to the floor.

"Be ready now," Knellict said. "If they breach the door, the explosions will destroy them. Those in front, at least, but you must be quick to close it again and drop the locking bars into place."

His guards nodded, knowing well their duties here.

They all focused on the door, but nothing happened and the sounds moved away.

Still, they all focused intently on the door.

So much so that when the wall to the next room in line, more than half a dozen feet of solid stone, simply vanished, none of them even noticed at first.

Jarlaxle's five warriors fell to one knee and fired the poison-tipped bolts from their hand crossbows. One of the wizards amplified the shots with a spell that turned each dart into two, so that each of Knellict's two guards was struck five times in rapid succession. For the wizard sentry, there came a missile of another sort: a flying green glob of goo, popping out from the end of a slender wand Jarlaxle held.

It hit the man, engulfed him, and drove him back hard into the wall where he stuck fast, fully engulfed, and he could move nothing beyond the fingers of one hand that was flattened out to the side, could not even draw in air through the gooey mask.

Knellict reacted with typical and practiced efficiency, turning his lightning wand to the side. The trigger phrase was "By Talos!" and so Knellict cried it out, or tried to.

His words hiccupped in his mind and in his larynx, and he said "B-by Thooo."

Nothing happened.

Knellict called to the wand again, and again, his brain blinked in mid-phrase. For as fast as Knellict was with his wand and his words, Kimmuriel Oblodra was faster with his thoughts.

The wizard plastered on the wall continued to helplessly waggle his fingers and feet. The two warriors slumped down to the ground, fast asleep under the spell of the powerful drow poison.

And Knellict could only sputter. He threw the wand down in outrage and launched into spellcasting, a quick dweomer that would get him far enough away to enact a proper teleportation spell and be gone from there.

A burst of psionic energy broke the chant.

The eight dark elves confidently strode into the room, four of the warriors taking up guard positions at either side of the main door and either side of the magically opened wall. The fifth warrior, on a nod from Jarlaxle, crossed the room and cut the goo from in front of the trapped wizard's nose, so that the man could breathe and watch in terror, and little else. One of the drow wizards began casting a series of detection spells, to better loot any hidden treasures.

Jarlaxle, Kimmuriel, and the other wizard calmly walked over to stand before Knellict.

"For all of your preparations, archmage, you simply do not have the understanding of the magic of the mind," Jarlaxle said.

Knellict stubbornly lifted one hand Jarlaxle's way, and with a determined sneer, spat out a quick spell.

Or tried to, but was again mentally flicked by Kimmuriel.

Knellict widened his eyes in outrage.

"I am trying to be reasonable here," Jarlaxle said.

Knellict trembled with rage. But within his boiling anger, he was still the archmage, still the seasoned and powerful leader of a great band of killers. He didn't betray the soldiers who were quietly coming to his aid from the other room.

But his enemies were drow. He didn't have to.

Even as the dark elf warriors flanking the open wall prepped their twin swords to intercede, Jarlaxle spun on his heel to face the soldiers.

They yelled, realizing that they were discovered. A priest and a wizard launched into spellcasting, three warriors howled and charged, and one lightly armored halfling slipped into the shadows.

Jarlaxle's hands worked in a blur, spinning circles over each other before him. And as each came around, the drow's magical bracers deposited into it a throwing knife, which was sent spinning away immediately.

The drow warriors at either side of the opening didn't dare move as the hail of missiles spun between them. A human warrior dropped his sword, his hands clutching a blade planted firmly in his throat, and he stumbled into the room and to the floor. A second fighter came in spinning—and took three daggers in rapid succession in his back, to match the three, including a mortal heart wound, that had taken him in the front.

He, too, fell.

The wizard tumbled away, a knife stuck into the back of his opened mouth. The priest never even got his hands up as blades drove through both of his eyes successively.

"Damn you!" the remaining warrior managed to growl, forcing himself forward despite several blades protruding from various seams in his armor. Two more hit him, one two, and he fell backward.

Almost as an afterthought, Jarlaxle spun one to the side, and it wasn't until it hit something soft and not the hard wall or floor that Knellict and the others realized that the halfling wasn't quite as good at hiding as he apparently believed.

At least, not in the eyes of Jarlaxle, one of which was covered, as always, by an enchanted eye patch—a covering that enhanced rather than limited his vision.

"Now, are you ready to talk?" Jarlaxle asked.

It had all taken only a matter of a few heartbeats, and Knellict's entire rescue squad lay dead.

Not quite dead, for one at least, as the stubborn fighter regained his feet, growled again, and stepped forward. Without even looking that way, Jarlaxle flicked his wrist.

Right in the eye.

He collapsed in a heap, straight down, and was dead before he hit the floor.

The drow fighters stared at Jarlaxle, reminded, for the first time in a long time, of who he truly was.

"Such a waste," the calm Jarlaxle lamented, never taking his eyes off of Knellict. "And we have come in the spirit of mutually beneficial bargaining."

"You are murdering my soldiers," Knellict said through gritted teeth, but even that determined grimace didn't prevent another mental jolt from Kimmuriel.

"A few," Jarlaxle admitted. "Fewer if you would simply let us be done with this."

"Do you know who I am?" the imperious archmage declared, leaning forward.

But Jarlaxle, too, came forward, and suddenly, whether it was magic or simple inner might, the drow seemed the taller of the two. "I remember all too well your treatment," he said. "If I was not such a merciful soul, I would now hold your heart in my hand—before your eyes that you might see its last beats."

Knellict growled and started a spell—and got about a half a word out before a dagger tip prodded in at his throat, drawing a pinprick of blood. That made Knellict's eyes go wide.

"Your personal wards, your stoneskin, all of them, were long ago stripped from you, fool," said Jarlaxle. "I do not need my master of the mind's magic here to kill you. In fact, it would please me to do it personally."

Jarlaxle glanced at Kimmuriel and chuckled. Then suddenly, almost crazily, he retracted the blade and danced back from Knellict.

"But it does not need to be like this," Jarlaxle said. "I am a businessman, first and foremost. I want something and so I shall have it, but there is no reason that Knellict, too, cannot gain here."

"Am I to trust—"

"Have you a choice?" Jarlaxle interrupted. "Look around you. Or are you one of those wizards who is brilliant with his books but perfectly idiotic when it comes to understanding the simplest truism of the people around him?"

Knellict straightened his robes.

"Ah, yes, you are the second leader of a gang of assassins, so the latter cannot be true," said Jarlaxle. "Then, for your sake, Knellict, prove yourself now."

"You would seem to hold all of the bargaining power."

"Seem?"

Knellict narrowed his gaze.

Jarlaxle turned to one of his wizards, the one who still stood beside Kimmuriel while the other continued to ransack Knellict's desk. The drow leader looked around, then nodded toward the wizard trapped on the wall.

The wizard walked over and began to cast an elaborate and lengthy spell. Soon into it, Kimmuriel focused his psionic powers on the casting drow, heightening his concentration, strengthening his focus.

"What are you…" Knellict demanded, but his voice died away when all of the dark elves turned to eye him threateningly.

"I tell you this only once," Jarlaxle warned. "I need something that I can easily get from you. Or…" He turned and pointed at the terrified, flailing wizard on the wall. "I can take it from him. Trust me when I tell you that you want me to take it from him."

Knellict fell silent, and Jarlaxle motioned for his wizard and psionicist to resume.

It took some time, but finally the spellcaster completed his enchantment, and the poor trapped wizard glowed with a green light that obscured his features. He grunted and groaned behind that veil of light, and he thrashed even more violently behind the trapping goo.

The light faded and all went calm, and the man hanging on the wall had transformed into an exact likeness of Archmage Knellict.

"Now, there are conditions, of course, for my mercy," said Jarlaxle. "We do not lightly allow other organizations to pledge allegiance to Bregan D'aerthe."

Knellict seemed on the verge of an explosion.

"There is a beauty to the Underdark," Jarlaxle told him. "Our tunnels are all around you, but you never quite know where, or when, we might come calling. Anytime, any place, Knellict. You cannot continually look below you, but we are always looking up."

"What do you want, Jarlaxle?"

"Less than you presume. You will find a benefit if you can but let go of your anger. Oh, yes, and for your sake, I hope the Lady Calihye is still alive."

Knellict shifted, but not uneasily, showing Jarlaxle that she was indeed.

"That is good. We may yet fashion a deal."

"Timoshenko speaks for the Citadel of Assassins, not I."

"We can change that, if you like."

The blood drained from Knellict's face as the enormity of it all finally descended upon him. He watched as one of the drow warriors approached the wizard who bore his exact likeness.

A crossbow clicked and the man who looked exactly like Knellict soon quieted in slumber.

Mercifully.

"All hail the king," Entreri said when the door of his cell opened and Gareth Dragonsbane unexpectedly walked in. The king turned to the guard and motioned for him to move away.

The man hesitated, looked hard at the dangerous assassin, but Gareth was the king and he could not question him.

"You will forgive me if I do not kneel," Entreri said.

"I did not ask you to do so."

"But your monk could make me, I suppose. A word from his mouth and my muscles betray me, yes?"

"Master Kane could have killed you, legally and without inquiry, and yet he did not. For that you should be grateful."

"Saved for the spectacle of the gallows, no doubt."

Gareth didn't answer.

"Why have you come here?" Entreri asked. "To taunt me?" He paused and studied Gareth's face for a moment, and a smile spread upon his own. "No," he said. "I know why you have come. You fear me."

Gareth didn't answer.

"You fear me because you see the truth in me, don't you, King of Damara?" Entreri laughed and paced his cell, a knowing grin splayed across his face, and Gareth followed his every step warily, with eyes that reflected a deep and pervading turmoil.

"Because you know I was right," Entreri continued. "In your audience chamber, when the others grew outraged, you did not. You could not, because my words echoed not just in your ears but in your heart. Your claim is no stronger than was my own."

"I did not say that, nor do I agree."

"Some things need not be spoken. You know the truth of it as well as I do—I wonder how many kings or pashas or lords know it. I wonder how many could admit it."

"You presume much, King Artemis."

"Don't call me that."

"I did not bestow the title."

"Nor did I. Nor does it suit me. Nor would I want it."

"Are you bargaining?"

Entreri scoffed at him. "I assure you, paladin king, that if I had a sword in hand, I would willingly cut out your heart, here and now. If you expect me to beg, then look elsewhere. The fool monk can bring me to my knees, but if I am not there of my own choosing, then calling it begging would ring as hollow as does your crown, yes?"

"As I said, you presume much. Too much."

"Do I? Then why are you here?"

Gareth's eyes flared with anger, but he said nothing.

"An accident of birth?" Entreri asked. "Had I been born to your mother, would I then be the rightful king? Would your mighty friends rally to my side as they do yours? Would the monk exercise his powers over an enemy of mine at my bidding?"

"It is far more complicated than that."

"Is it?"

"Blood is not enough. Deed—"

"I killed the dracolich, have you forgotten?"

"And all the deeds along your road led you to this point?" Gareth asked, a sharp edge creeping into his voice. "You have lived a life worthy of the throne?"

"I survived, and in a place you could not know," Entreri growled back at him. "How easy for the son of a lord to proclaim the goodness of his road! I am certain that your trials were grand, heir of Dragonsbane. Oh, but the bards could fill a month of merrymaking with the tales of thee."

"Enough," Gareth bade him. "You know nothing."

"I know that you are here. And I know why you are here."

"Indeed?" came the doubtful reply.

"To learn more of me. To study me. Because you must find the differences between us. You must convince yourself that we are not alike."

"Do you believe that we are?"

The incredulity did not impress Entreri. "In more ways than his majesty wishes to admit," he said. "So you come here to learn more in the hope that you will discern where our paths and characters diverge. Because if you cannot find that place, Gareth, then your worst fears are realized."

"And those would be?"

"Rightful. The rightful king. An odd phrase, that, don't you agree? What does it mean to be the rightful king, Gareth Dragonsbane? Does it mean that you are the strongest? The most holy? Does your god Ilmater anoint you?"

"I am the descendant of the former king, long before Damara was split by war."

"And if I had been born to your parents?"

Gareth shook his head. "It could not have been so. I am the product of their loins, of their breeding and of my heritage."

"So it is not just circumstance? There is meaning in bloodlines, you say?"

"Yes."

"You have to believe that, don't you? For the sake of your own sanity. You are king because your father was king?"

"He was a baron, at a time when Damara had no king. The kingdom was not unified until joined in common cause against Zhengyi."

"And that is where, by deed, Gareth rose above the other barons and dukes and their children?"

Gareth's look showed Entreri that he knew he was being mocked, or at least, that he suspected as much.

"A wonderful nexus of circumstance and heritage," Entreri said. "I am truly touched."

"Should I give you your sword and slay you in combat to rightly claim Vaasa?" Gareth asked, and Entreri smiled at every word.

"And if I should slay you?"

"My god would not allow it."

"You have to believe that, don't you? But humor me, I pray you. Let us say that we did battle, and I emerged the victor. By your reasoning, I would thus become the rightful King of Vaa—oh, wait. I see now. That would not serve, since I haven't the proper bloodline. What a cunning system you have there. You and all the other self-proclaimed royalty of Faerûn. By your conditions, you alone are kings and queens and lords and ladies of court. You alone matter, while the peasant grovels and kneels in the mud, and since you are 'rightful' in the eyes of this god or that, then the peasant cannot complain. He must accept his muddy lot in life and revel in his misery, all in the knowledge that he serves the rightful king."

Gareth's jaw tightened, and he ground his teeth as he continued to stare unblinking at Entreri.

"You should have had Kane kill me, back at the castle. Break the mirror, King Gareth. You will fancy yourself prettier in that instance."

Gareth stared at him a short while longer, then moved to the cell door, which was opened by the returned guard. Beside him stood Master Kane, who stared at Entreri.

Entreri saw him and offered an exaggerated bow.

Gareth pushed past the pair and moved along, his hard boots stomping on the stone floor.

"You wish that you had killed me, I expect," Entreri said to Kane. "Of course, you still can. I feel the vibrations of your demonic touch."

"I am not your judge."

"Just my executioner."

Kane bowed and walked off. By the time he caught up to Gareth, the man had departed the dungeons and was nearing his private rooms.

"You heard?" Gareth asked him.

"He is a clever one."

"Is he so wrong?"

"Yes."

The simple answer stopped Gareth and he turned to face the monk.

"In my order, rank is attained through achievement and single combat," Kane explained. "In a kingdom as large as Damara, in a town as large as Bloodstone Village, such a system would invite anarchy and terrible suffering. On that level, it is the way of the orc."

"And so we have bloodlines of royalty?"

"It is one way. But such would be meaningless absent heroic deeds. In the darkest hours of Damara, when Zhengyi ruled, Gareth Dragonsbane stepped forward."

"Many did," said Gareth. "You did."

"I followed King Gareth."

Gareth smiled in gratitude and put a hand on Kane's shoulder.

"The title holds you as tightly as you hold the title," Kane said. "It is no easy task, bearing the responsibility of an entire kingdom on your shoulders."

"There are times I fear I will bend to breaking."

"One ill decision and people die," said Kane. "And you alone are the protector of justice. If you are overwhelmed, men will suffer. Your guilt stems from a feeling that you are not worthy, of course, but only if you view your position as one of luxury. People need a leader, and an orderly manner in which to choose one."

"And that leader is surrounded by finery," said Gareth, sweeping his hands at the tapestries and sculptures that decorated the corridor. "By fine food and soft bedding."

"A necessary elevation of status and wealth," said Kane, "to incite hope in the common folk that there is a better life for them; if not here then in the afterworld. You are the representative of their dreams and fantasies."

"And it is necessary?"

Kane didn't immediately answer, and Gareth looked closely at the man, great by any measure, yet standing in dirty, road-worn robes. Gareth laughed at that image, thinking that perhaps it was time for the Bloodstone Lands to see a bit more charity from the top.

"Damara is blessed, so her people say, and the goodly folk of Vaasa hold hope that they, too, will be swept under your protection," said Kane. "You heard their cheers at the castle. Wingham and all of Palishchuk call to Gareth to accept their fealty."

"You are a good friend."

"I am an honest observer."

Gareth patted his shoulder again.

"What of Entreri?" Kane asked.

"You should have left that dog dead on the muddy lands of Vaasa," said Lady Christine, coming out of her bedchamber.

Gareth looked at her, shook his head, and asked, "Does his foolish game warrant such a penalty?"

"He slew Lady Ellery, by his own admission," said Kane.

Gareth winced at that, as Christine barked, "What? I will kill the dog myself!"

"You will not," said Gareth. "There are circumstances yet to be determined."

"By his own admission," Christine said.

"I am protector of justice, am I not, Master Kane?"

"You are."

"Then let us hold an inquiry into this matter, to see where the truth lies."

"Then kill the dog," said Christine.

"If it is warranted," Gareth replied. "Only if it is warranted." Gareth didn't say it, and he knew that Kane understood, but he hoped that it would not come to that.

He had just heard the report from Vaasa, where his soldiers held forth at Palishchuk, and motioned to the majordomo to bring forth the Commander of the Heliogabalus garrison, where promising reports had been filtering in for a tenday. But to Gareth's astonishment, and to that of Lady Christine and Friar Dugald who sat with him in chambers, it was not a soldier of the Bloodstone Army who entered through the doors.

It was an outrageous dark elf, his bald head shining in the glow of the morning light filtering in through the many windows of the palace. Hat in hand, giant feather bobbing with every step, Jarlaxle smiled widely as he approached.

The guards at either side bristled and leaned forward, ready to leap upon the dark elf at but a word from their king.

But that word did not come.

Jarlaxle's boots clicked loudly as he made his way along the thickly-carpeted aisle. "King Gareth," he said as he neared the dais that held the thrones, and he swept into a low, exaggerated bow. "Truly Damara is warmer now that you have returned to your home."

"What fool are you?" cried Lady Christine, obviously no less surprised than were Gareth and Dugald.

"A grand one, if the rumors are to be believed," Jarlaxle replied. The three exchanged looks, ever so briefly.

"Yes, I know," Jarlaxle added. "You believe them. 'Tis my lot in life, I fear."

Behind the drow, at the far end of the carpet, the majordomo entered along with the couriers from Heliogabalus. The attendant stopped short and glanced around in confusion when he noticed the drow.

Gareth nodded, understanding that Jarlaxle had used a bit of magic to get by the anteroom—a room that was supposedly dampened to such spells. Gareth's hand went to his side, to his sheathed long sword, Crusader, a holy blade that held within its blessed metal a powerful dweomer of disenchantment.

A look from the king to the sputtering majordomo sent the attendant scrambling out of the room.

"I am surprised that I am surprising," Jarlaxle said, and he glanced back to let them know that he had caught on to all of the signaling. "I would have thought that I was expected."

"You have come to surrender?" Lady Christine asked.

Jarlaxle looked at her as if he did not understand.

"Have you a twin, then?" asked Dugald. "One who traveled to Palishchuk and beyond to the castle beside Artemis Entreri?"

"Yes, of course, that was me."

"You traveled with King Artemis the First?"

Jarlaxle laughed. "An interesting title, don't you agree? I thought it necessary to ensure that you would venture forth. One cannot miss such opportunities as Castle D'aerthe presented."

"Do tell," said Lady Christine.

A commotion at the back of the room turned Jarlaxle to glance over his shoulder, to see Master Kane cautiously but deliberately approaching. Behind him, staying near the door, the majordomo peered in. Then Emelyn the Gray appeared, pushing past the man and quick-stepping into the great room, casting as he went. He looked every which way—and with magical vision as well, they all realized.

Jarlaxle offered a bow to Kane as the man neared, stepping off to the side and standing calmly, and very ready, of course.

"You were saying," Lady Christine prompted as soon as the drow turned back to face the dais.

"I was indeed," Jarlaxle replied. "Though I had expected to be congratulated, honestly, and perhaps even thanked."

"Thanked?" Christine echoed. "For challenging the throne?"

"For helping me to secure the allegiance of Vaasa," Gareth said, and Christine turned a doubting expression his way. "That was your point, I suppose."

"That, and ridding the region immediately surrounding Palishchuk of a couple of hundred goblin and kobold vermin, who, no doubt, would have caused much mischief with the good half-orcs during the wintry months."

At the back of the room, Emelyn the Gray began to chuckle.

"Preposterous!" Friar Dugald interjected. "You were overwhelmed, your plans destroyed, and so now…" He stopped when Gareth held his hand up before him, bidding patience.

"I trust that none of your fine knights were seriously injured by the outpouring of vermin," Jarlaxle went on as if the friar hadn't uttered a word. "I timed the charge so that few, if any, would even reach your ranks before being cut down."

"And you expect gratitude for inciting battle?" Lady Christine asked.

"A slaughter, Milady, and not a battle. It was necessary that King Gareth show himself in battle in deposing King Artemis. The contrast could not have been more clear to the half-orcs—they saw Artemis hoarding monstrous minions, while King Gareth utterly destroyed them. Their cheering was genuine, and the tales they tell of the conquest of Castle D'aerthe will only heighten in heroic proportions, of course. And with Wingham's troupe in town at the time of the battle, those tales will quickly spread across all of Vaasa."

"And you planned for all of this?" Gareth asked, sarcasm and doubt evident in his tone—but not too much so.

Jarlaxle put a hand on one hip and cocked his head, as if wounded by the accusation. "I had to make it all authentic, of course," the drow explained. "The proclamation of King Artemis, the forced march of King Gareth and his army. It could not have been known a ruse to any, even among your court, else your own integrity might have been compromised, and your complicity in the ruse might have been revealed."

"I say foul," Lady Christine answered a few moments later, breaking the stunned silence.

"Aye, foul and now fear," Dugald agreed.

Gareth motioned for Kane and Emelyn to join him at the dais. Then he instructed Jarlaxle to leave and wait in the anteroom—and several guards accompanied the drow.

"Why do we bother wasting time with this obvious lie?" Christine said as soon as they had gathered. "His plans to rule Vaasa crumbled and now he tries to salvage something from the wreckage of ill-designed dreams."

"It is a pity that he chose the route he did," said Gareth. "He and his companion might have made fine interim barons of Vaasa."

All eyes turned to Gareth, and Christine seemed as if she would explode, so violently did she tremble at the thought.

"If Olwen were here, he would have struck you for such a remark," Emelyn said.

"You believe the drow?" Kane asked.

Gareth considered the question, but began shaking his head almost immediately, for his instinct on this was clear enough, whatever he wanted to believe. "I know not whether it was a ruse from the beginning or a convenient escape at the end," he said.

"He is a dangerous character, this Jarlaxle," said Emelyn.

"And his friend has no doubt committed countless crimes worthy of the gallows," Christine added. "His eyes are full of murder and malice, and those weapons he carries…"

"We do not know that," Gareth said. "Am I to convict and condemn a man on your instinct?"

"We could investigate," said Emelyn.

"On what basis?" Gareth snapped right back.

The others, except for Kane, exchanged concerned glances, for they had seen their friend dig in his heels in similar situations and they knew well that Gareth Dragonsbane was not a malleable man. He was the king, after all, and a paladin king, as well, sanctioned by the state and by the god Ilmater.

"We have no basis whatsoever," said Kane, and Christine gasped. "The only crime for which we now hold Artemis Entreri is one of treason."

"A crime calling for the gallows," said Christine.

"But Jarlaxle's explanation is at least plausible," said Kane. "You cannot deny that the actions of these two, whatever their intent, solidified your hold in Vaasa and reminded the half-orcs of Palishchuk of heroic deeds past and the clearest road for their future."

"You cannot believe that this… this… this drow, went to Vaasa and arranged all of that which transpired simply for the good of the Kingdom of Bloodstone," said Christine.

"Nor can I say with any confidence that what has transpired was anything different than exactly that," said Kane.

"They sent an army of monsters against us," Dugald reminded them all, but his description drew an unexpected burst of dismissive laughter from Emelyn.

"They called a bunch of goblins and kobolds to their side, then put them before us for the slaughter," said Gareth. "I know not the depths of Jarlaxle's foolishness or his wisdom, but I am certain that he knew his monstrous army would not even reach our ranks when he sent them forth from the gates. Much more formidable would have been the gargoyles and other monsters of the castle itself, which he did not animate."

"Because he could not," Dugald insisted.

"That is not what Wingham, Arrayan, and Olgerkhan reported," reminded Kane. "The gargoyles were aloft when first they went to see what mischief was about the castle."

"And so we are left with no more than the crime of inconvenience," said Gareth. "These impetuous two circumvented all protocol and stepped far beyond their province in forcing me north, even if it was for the good of the kingdom. We have no proof that what they did was anything more than that."

"They tried to usurp your title," Christine said. "If you are to let that stand, then you condone lawlessness of a level that will bring down Bloodstone."

"There are darker matters at hand," Emelyn added. "Let us not forget the warnings we were given by Ilnezhara and Tazmikella. This Jarlaxle creature is much more than he appears."

The sobering remark left them all quiet for some time, before Gareth finally responded, "They are guilty of nothing more than hubris, and such is a reflection of our own actions those years ago when we determined the fate of Damara. It is possible, even logical, that Jarlaxle's ruse was exactly as he portrayed it, perhaps in a clever—overly clever, for he wound himself into a trap—attempt to gain favor and power in the wilds of the north. Maybe he was trying to secure a comfortable title. I do not know. But I have no desire to hold Artemis Entreri in my dungeon any longer, and he has not proven himself worthy of the noose. I will not hang a man on suspicion and my own fears.

"They will be banished, both of them, to leave the Bloodstone Lands within the tenday, and never to return, on pain of imprisonment."

"On pain of death," Christine insisted, and when Gareth turned to the queen, he saw no room for debate in her stern expression.

"As you will," he conceded. "We will get them far from here."

"You would do well to warn your neighbors," said Emelyn, and Gareth nodded.

The king pointed to Emelyn's robe, and the wizard huffed and pulled it open. He produced from a deep, extra-dimensional pocket the scroll they had found in the Zhengyian castle.

Gareth waved his friends back from the dais and motioned to the back of the room. A few moments later, Jarlaxle, his great hat still in his hands, again stood before the king.

Gareth tossed the scroll to the drow. "I know not whether you are clever by one, or by two," he said.

"I lived in the Underdark," the drow replied with a wry grin. "I am clever by multiples, I assure you."

"You need not, for it is exactly that suspicion that has led me to conclude that you and Artemis Entreri are guilty for your actions north of Palishchuk."

Jarlaxle didn't seem impressed, which put all of Gareth's friends on their guard.

"Exactly what that crime is, however, cannot be deduced," Gareth went on. "And so I take the only course left open to me, for the good of the kingdom. You are to remove yourself from the region, from all the Bloodstone Lands, within the tenday."

Jarlaxle considered the verdict for just a moment, and shrugged. "And my friend?"

"Artemis Entreri or the dwarf?" Gareth asked.

"Ah, you have Athrogate, then?" Jarlaxle replied. "Good! I feared for the poor fool, entangled as circumstance had made him with the Citadel of Assassins."

It was Gareth's turn to pause and consider.

"I was speaking of Artemis Entreri, of course," said Jarlaxle. "Is he under similar penalty?"

"We considered much worse," Christine warned.

"He is," said Gareth. "Although he was the one who assumed the title of king, I note that the castle was named for Jarlaxle. Similar crimes, similar fate."

"Whatever those crimes may be," said the drow.

"Whatever that fate may be," said Gareth. "So long as it is not a fate you discover here."

"Fair enough," Jarlaxle said with a bow.

"And if it were not?" said Christine. "Do you think your acceptance of the judgment of the king an important thing?"

Jarlaxle looked at her and smiled, and so serene was that look that Christine shifted uneasily in her chair.

"One more piece of business then," said Jarlaxle. "I would like to take the dwarf. Though he was entangled with the Citadel of Assassins, as you discerned, he is not a bad sort."

"You presume to bargain?" Christine asked indignantly.

"If I do, it is not without barter." Jarlaxle slowly pulled open his waistcoat and slid a parchment from its pocket. Kane shifted near as he did, and the drow willingly handed it over.

"A map to the hideout of the Citadel of Assassins," the drow explained.

"And how might you have fashioned or found such a thing?" Gareth asked suspiciously as his friends bristled.

"Clever by more ways than a human king could ever count," the drow explained. As he did, Jarlaxle shifted his great hat, turning it opening up. "Clever and with allies unseen." He reached into the hat and produced his trophy, then set it at the foot of the dais.

The head of Knellict.

After the gasps had quieted, Jarlaxle bowed to the king. "I accept your judgment, indeed," he said. "And would pray you to accept my trade, the map and the archmage for the dwarf, though I have already turned them over, of course. I trust in your sense of fair play. It is time for me to go, I agree. But do note, Gareth Dragonsbane, King of Damara, and now King of Vaasa, that you are stronger and your enemies weaker for the work of Jarlaxle. I expect no gratitude, and accept no gifts—other than one annoying dwarf for whom you have little use anyway. You wish us gone, and so we will go, with a good tale, a fine adventure, and an outcome well served."

He finished with a great and sweeping bow, and spun his feathered hat back up to his bald head as he came up straight.

Gareth stared at the head, his mouth hanging open in disbelief that the drow, that anyone, had brought down the archmage of the Citadel of Assassins so efficiently.

"Who are you?" Christine asked.

"I am he who rules the world, don't you know?" Jarlaxle replied with a grin. "One little piece at a time. I am the stuff of Riordan Parnell's most outrageous songs, and I am a confused memory for those whose lives I've entered and departed. I wish you no ill—I never did. Nor have I worked against you in any way. Nor shall I. You wish us gone, and so we go. But I pray you entrust the dwarf to my care, and do tell Riordan to sing of me well."

Neither Gareth nor Christine nor any of the others could begin to fashion a reply to that.

Which only confirmed to Jarlaxle that it was indeed time to go.

CHAPTER 17 OF LOVE AND HATE

Entreri looked up as his cell door swung open and Master Kane entered, bearing a large canvas sack. "Your possessions," the monk explained, swinging the sack off his shoulder and dropping it on the floor at the man's feet.

Entreri looked down at it then back up at Kane, and said not a word.

"You are being released," Kane explained. "All of your possessions are in there. Your unusual steed, your dagger, your fine sword. Everything you had with you when you were captured."

Still eyeing the man suspiciously, Entreri crouched down and pulled back the top of the sack, revealing the decorated pommel of Charon's Claw. As soon as he gripped the hilt and felt the sentient weapon come alive in his thoughts, he knew that this was no bluff.

"My respect for you multiplied many times over when I lifted your blade," Kane said. "Few men could wield such a sword without being consumed by it."

"You seemed to have little trouble picking it up," Entreri said.

"I am far beyond such concerns," Kane replied. Entreri pulled the piwafwi out and slung it around his shoulders in one fluid motion. "Your cloak is of drow make, is it not?" Kane asked. "Have you spent time with the drow, in their lands?"

"I am far beyond such questions," the assassin replied, mocking the monk's tone.

Kane nodded in acceptance.

"Unless you plan to compel me to answer," Entreri said, "with this sickness you have inserted into my being."

Kane stepped back, his hands folded causally at his waist before him. Entreri watched him for a few moments, seeking a sign, any sign. But then, with a dismissive snicker, he went back to the bag and began collecting his items, and kept a mental inventory all the way through.

"Are you going to tell me more about this sudden change of mind?" he asked when he was fully outfitted. "Or am I to suffer the explanations of King Gareth?"

"Your crime is not proven," said Kane, "since there is an alternative explanation of intent."

"And that would be?"

"Come along," Kane said. "You have far to go in a short amount of time. You are freed of your dungeon, but your road will be out of Damara and Vaasa."

"Who would wish to stay?"

Kane ignored the flippant remark and began walking up the corridor, Entreri in tow. "In a tenday's time, Artemis Entreri will enter the Bloodstone Lands only on pain of death. For the next few days, you are here at the sufferance of King Gareth and Queen Christine, and theirs is a patience that is not limitless. One tenday alone."

"I've a fast horse that doesn't tire," Entreri replied. "A tenday is nine too long."

"Good, then we are in agreement."

They walked in silence for a short while, past the curious and alert stares of many guards. Entreri returned those stares with his own, silent but overt threats that had the sentries, to a man, tightly clutching their weapons. Even the presence of Grandmaster Kane did not free them from the dangerous glare of Artemis Entreri, the look that so many had suffered, a foretelling of death.

Artemis Entreri was not in a generous mood. He felt the vibrations of Kane's indecent intrusion into his body, a swirling and tingling sensation that seemed like strange ocean waves caught within the uneven contours of his corporeal being, rolling and breaking and re-gathering as they swept about. Emelyn's explanation of an elven cord of energy pulled taut seemed very on the mark to the assassin. What he knew beyond that description was that this intrusion seemed in many ways as awful as the life-draining properties of his own prized dagger.

Entreri's hand subconsciously slipped to the jeweled hilt of that trusted weapon, and he considered the possibilities.

"Pause," Entreri said as the pair neared the king's audience chamber.

Kane obeyed and turned back to regard the man. The guards flanking the door leaned forward, hands wringing tightly around their adamantine-tipped halberds.

"How am I to trust in this?" Entreri asked. "In you?"

"There is an alternative?"

"You would have me walk out of here, judgment passed and rendered, and that judgment being banishment and not death, and yet you hold the cord of my life in the single puff of your breath?"

"The effects of Quivering Palm will wear away in a short enough time," Kane assured him. "They are not permanent."

"But while they last, you can kill me, and easily?"

"Yes."

As the monk spoke the word, Entreri swept into motion, drawing forth his dagger and closing the ground between them. Kane was not caught unawares, as Entreri had not expected him to be, and the monk executed a perfect block.

But Entreri wasn't trying for a kill, or for the monk's heart. He got what he wanted and managed to prick Kane's palm with his vampiric blade. He held the dagger against the monk's torn flesh.

He stared at Kane and smiled, to keep the monk curious.

"Am I to facilitate your suicide, then?" the monk asked.

In response, Entreri called upon the life draining abilities of his jeweled dagger. Kane's eyes went wide; apparently the monk wasn't beyond all such concerns.

Behind Kane, one guard lowered his halberd, though he wisely held back—if Grandmaster Kane couldn't handle the assassin, then what might he do, after all? The other turned to the door and shoved it open, shouting for King Gareth.

"An interesting dilemma, wouldn't you agree?" Entreri said to the monk. "You hold my life in your thoughts, and can paralyze me, as I have seen, with a simple utterance. But I need only will the dagger to feed and it will feed to me, in replacement, your own life energy. Where does that leave us, Master Kane? Will your Quivering Palm be quick enough to slay me before my blade can drink enough to save me? Will we both succumb? Are you willing to take the chance?"

Kane stared at him, and matched his unnerving smile.

"What is the meaning of this?" King Gareth said, coming to the door.

Beside him, Friar Dugald sputtered something indecipherable, and Queen Christine growled, "Treachery!"

"No more so than that shown to me," Entreri answered, his stare never leaving the gaze of Kane.

"We should have expected as much from a dog like you," Christine said.

Would that your throat had been in my reach, Entreri thought, but wisely did not say. Gareth was a reasonable man, he believed, but likely not where that queen of his was concerned.

"You were granted your possessions and your freedom," Gareth said. "Did Kane not tell you?"

"He told me," Entreri replied. He heard the shuffling of mail-clad feet coming up the corridor behind him, but he paid it no heed.

"Then why have you done this?" asked Gareth.

"I will not leave here under the immoral hold of Master Kane," Entreri replied. "He will relinquish his grip on my physical being, or one of us, perhaps both, will die here and now."

"Fool," said Christine, but Gareth hushed her.

"Your life is worth so little to you, 'tis apparent," Gareth began, but Kane held up his free hand to intervene.

The monk stared hard at Entreri the whole time. "Pride is considered the deadliest of the sins," he said.

"Then dismiss your own," Entreri countered.

Kane's smile was one of acceptance, and he slowly nodded, then closed his eyes.

Entreri rolled his fingers on the dagger hilt, ready to call fully on its powers if it came to that. He really didn't believe that he had a chance, though, even if it had been just him and Kane alone in the palace. The monk's insidious grasp was too strong and too quickly debilitating. If Kane called upon the Quivering Palm, Entreri suspected that he would be incapacitated, perhaps even killed, before the dagger could do any substantial work.

But only serenity showed on Master Kane's face as he opened his eyes once more, and almost immediately, Entreri felt his inner tide fall still.

"You are released," Kane informed him, and within the blink of an eye, the monk's hand was simply removed, gone, from the tip of the dagger. Too fast for Entreri to even have begun drawing forth with its vampiric powers had he so desired.

"You give in to such demands?" Queen Christine railed.

"Only because they were justly demanded," said Kane. "Artemis Entreri has been told of the conditions and granted his release. If we are not to trust that he will accept his sentence, then perhaps we should not be releasing him at all."

"Perhaps not," said Christine.

"His release was justly secured," said Gareth. "And we cannot diminish the importance of the rationale for such a judgment. But now this assault…"

"Was justified, and in the end, meaningless to us," Kane assured him.

Entreri slipped his dagger away, and Gareth turned and drove Christine and Dugald before him back into the audience chamber.

"Have I missed all the excitement?" came a voice from within, one that Artemis Entreri knew all too well.

"The bargainer, I presume," he said to Kane.

"Your drow friend is quite persuasive, and comes prepared."

"If only you knew."

Walking down the cobblestone road beside Jarlaxle a short while later, Entreri did not feel as if he was free. True, he was out of Gareth's dungeon, but the drow walking beside him reminded him that there were many dungeons, and not all were made of wood and stone and iron bars. As he considered that, his hand slid back to brush the flute he had tucked inside the back of his belt, and it occurred to him that he was not yet certain whether the instrument was, in and of itself, a prison or a key.

Entreri and Jarlaxle cast long shadows before them, for the sun was fast setting behind the mountains across the small lake. Already the cold night wind had begun to blow.

"So ye're to be walkin', and whistlin' and talkin', and thinkin' yer world's all the grand," a voice rang out behind them.

Jarlaxle turned, but Entreri just closed his eyes.

"While I'm to be sittin', and grumblin' and spittin', and wiggling me toes in the sand?" Athrogate finished. "I'd rather, I'm thinkin', be drinkin' and stinkin' " — he paused, lifted one leg, and let fly a tremendous fart—"and holdin' a wench in each hand! Bwahaha! Hold up, then, ye hairless hunk o' coal, and let me little legs catch ye. I won't be hugging ye, but I'm grateful enough that ye bargained me way out o' that place!"

"You didn't," Entreri muttered.

"A fine ally," Jarlaxle replied. "Strong of arm and indomitable of spirit."

"And boundless in annoyance."

"He has been sad of late, for the trouble with the Citadel. I owe him this much at least."

"And here I was, hoping that you had bargained for my freedom by turning him over instead," Entreri said, and Athrogate was close enough to hear.

"Bwahaha!" the dwarf boomed.

Entreri figured it was impossible to offend the wretched creature.

"Why, but I am hurt, Artemis," Jarlaxle said, and he feigned a wound, throwing his forearm dramatically across his brow. "Never would I abandon an ally."

Entreri offered a doubting smirk.

"Indeed, when I had heard that Calihye had been grabbed from her room at the Vaasan Gate by Knellict and the Citadel…" Jarlaxle began, but he stopped short and let the weight of the proclamation hang there for a few moments, let Entreri's eyes go wide with alarm.

"Traveling to Knellict's lair was no minor expedition, of course," Jarlaxle went on.

"Where is she?" the assassin asked.

"Safe and roomed at the tavern down the road, of course," Jarlaxle replied. "Never would I abandon an ally."

"Knellict took her?"

"Yup yup," said Athrogate. "And yer bald hunk o' coal friend took Knellict's head and put it on Gareth's dais, he did. Bwahaha! Bet I'd've liked to see Lady Christine's nose go all crinkly at that!"

Entreri stared hard at Jarlaxle, who swept a low bow. "Your lady awaits," he said. "The three of us are bound to be gone from the Bloodstone Lands within the tenday, on pain of death, but we can spare a day, I expect. Perhaps you can persuade Lady Calihye that her road runs with ours."

Entreri continued to stare. He had no answers. When he had forced Jarlaxle through Kimmuriel's magical gate in the bowels of the castle, he had expected that he would never see the drow again, and all of what followed, his release, the dwarf, the news about Calihye, rushed over him like a breaking ocean wave. And as it receded, pulling back, it dragged him inexorably along with it.

"Go to her," Jarlaxle said quietly, seriously. "She will be pleased to see you."

"And while ye're stayin' and gots to be playin', meself is thinkin' I got to be drinkin'!" Athrogate roared with another great burst of foolish laughter.

Entreri's eyes shot daggers at Jarlaxle. The drow just motioned toward the tavern.

Jarlaxle and Athrogate watched Entreri disappear up the stairs of the Last Respite, the most prominent inn of Bloodstone Village, which boasted of clean rooms, fine elven wine and an unobstructed view of the White Tree from every balcony.

Both the dwarf and the drow were known in the village, of course, for Athrogate's morningstars had made quite an impression on the folk at the Vaasan Gate, just to the north, and Jarlaxle was, after all, a drow!

The glances that came their way that day, however, were ones full of suspicion, something that didn't escape the notice of either of the companions.

"Word of Gareth's pardon has not yet reached them, it seems," Jarlaxle remarked, sliding into a chair against the far wall of the common room.

" 'Tweren't no pardon," Athrogate said. "Though I'm not for thinking that a banishing from the Bloodstone Lands is a bad thing. Not with the Citadel lookin' to pay ye back for Knellict and all."

"Yes, there is that," said the drow. He hid his smile in a motion to the barmaid.

The two had barely ordered their first round—wine for the drow and honey mead for the dwarf—when a couple of Jarlaxle's acquaintances unexpectedly walked in through the Last Respite's front door.

"Ain't many times I seen ye lookin' surprised," Athrogate remarked.

"It is not a common occurrence, I assure you," Jarlaxle replied, his eyes never leaving the new arrivals, a pair of sisters who, he knew, were much more than they seemed.

"Ye got a fancy, do ye?" Athrogate said, following that gaze, and he gave a great laugh that only intensified as the two women moved to join them.

"Lady Ilnezhara and dear Tazmikella," Jarlaxle said, rising politely. "I meant to speak with you in Heliogabalus on my road south out of the realm."

There were only three chairs around the small table, and Tazmikella took the empty one, motioning for Jarlaxle to sit down. Ilnezhara looked at Athrogate.

"We must speak with Jarlaxle," she told the dwarf.

"Bwahaha!" Athrogate bellowed back. "Well, I'm for listening! Ain't like he can make the both of ye grin, now can—?"

He almost finished the question before Ilnezhara grabbed him by the front of the tunic, and with just one hand, hoisted him easily into the air and held him there.

Athrogate sputtered and wriggled about. "Here now, drow!" he said. "She's got an arm on her! Bwahaha!"

Ilnezhara glared at him, and the fact that almost everyone in the tavern stared at the spectacle of a lithe woman holding a heavily armored, two-hundred-pound dwarf up in the air at the end of one slender arm seemed not to disturb her in the least.

"Now, pretty girl, I'm guessin' ye got yerself a potion or a spell, mighten even a girdle like me own," Athrogate said. "But I'm also thinking that ye'd be a smart wench to know yer place and put me down."

Jarlaxle winced.

"As you wish," Ilnezhara replied. She glanced around, seeking a clear path, and with a flick of her wrist, launched the dwarf across the common room where he crashed through an empty table and took it and a couple of chairs hard into the wall with him.

He leaped up, enraged, but his eyes rolled and he tumbled down in a heap.

Ilnezhara took his seat without a second look at him.

"Please don't break him," said Jarlaxle. "He cost me greatly."

"You are leaving our employ," Tazmikella said.

"There is no choice in the matter," replied the drow. "At least not for me. Your King Gareth made it quite clear that his hospitality has reached its limit."

"Through no fault of your own, no doubt."

"Your sarcasm is well placed," Jarlaxle admitted.

"You have something we want," Ilnezhara said.

Jarlaxle put on his wounded expression. "My lady, I have given it to you many times." He was glad when that brought a smile to Ilnezhara's face, for Jarlaxle knew that he was treading on dangerous ground, and with extremely dangerous characters.

"We know what you have," Tazmikella cut in before her sister and the drow could get sidetracked. "Both items—one from Herminicle's tower, and one from the castle."

"The more valuable one from the castle," Ilnezhara agreed.

"Urshula would agree," Jarlaxle admitted. "This Witch-King who once ruled here was a clever sort, indeed."

"Then you admit possession?"

"Skull gems," said Jarlaxle. "A human one from the tower, that of a dragon from the castle, of course. But then, you knew as much when you dispatched me to Vaasa."

"And you acquired them?" reasoned Ilnezhara.

"Both, yes."

"Then give them over."

"There is no room for bargaining in this," Tazmikella warned.

"I don't have them."

The dragon sisters exchanged concerned glances, and turned their doubtful stares at Jarlaxle.

Across the room, Athrogate pulled himself up to his knees and shook his hairy head. Still wobbly, he gained his feet, and staggered a step back toward the table.

"To escape King Gareth, I had to call upon old friends," said Jarlaxle. He paused and looked at Ilnezhara. "You are well versed in divine magic, are you not?" he asked. "Cast upon me an enchantment to discern whether I am speaking the truth, for I would have you believe my every word."

"The Jarlaxle I know would not readily part with such powerful artifacts," Ilnezhara replied. Still, she did launch into spellcasting, as he had requested.

"That is only because you do not know of Bregan D'aerthe."

"D'aerthe? Is that not what you named your castle?" Tazmikella asked as soon as her sister finished and indicated that her dweomer was complete.

"It is, and it was named after a band of independent… entrepreneurs from my homeland of Menzoberranzan. I called upon them, of course, to escape King Gareth's army, and to facilitate the release of Lady Calihye from the Citadel of Assassins."

"We heard that you delivered Knellict's head to Gareth," said Tazmikella.

Behind Ilnezhara, Athrogate lowered his head, and fell forward as much as charged. He ran into the woman's upraised hand, and stopped as surely as if he had hit a rocky mountain wall. He bounced back just a bit, standing dazed, and Ilnezhara faced him squarely and blew upon him, sending him into a backward roll that left him on his belly in the middle of the floor. He propped himself up on his elbows, staring incredulously at the woman, unaware of her real nature, of course.

"Got to get meself a girdle like hers, I'm thinking," he said, and collapsed.

"It was an expensive proposition," Jarlaxle said when the excitement was over. "But I could not let Lady Calihye die and I needed the bargaining chip to facilitate the release of my friend…" He paused and considered Athrogate. "My friends," he corrected, "from King Gareth's dungeon."

"You gave the skull gems to your drow associates from the Underdark?" Tazmikella asked.

"I had no further use for them," said Jarlaxle. "And the Underdark is a good place for such artifacts. They cause nothing but mischief here in the sunlit world."

"They will cause nothing but mischief in the Underdark," said Ilnezhara.

"All the better," said Jarlaxle, and he lifted his glass in toast.

Tazmikella looked to her sister, who spent a few moments staring at Jarlaxle, before slowly nodding.

"We will study this further," Tazmikella said to the drow, turning back.

Jarlaxle hardly heard her, though, for another call had come to him suddenly, in his thoughts.

"Indeed, I would be disappointed if you did not," he said after he sorted through her words. "But pray excuse me, for I have business to attend."

He stood up and tipped his hat.

"We did not dismiss you," Tazmikella said.

"Dear lady, I pray you allow me to go."

"We are tasked by Master Kane to fly you from these lands," said Ilnezhara.

"At sunrise."

"Sunrise, then," said Jarlaxle and he stepped forward.

Tazmikella's arm came out and blocked his way, and Jarlaxle cast a plaintive look at Ilnezhara.

"Let him go, sister," Ilnezhara bade.

Tazmikella locked Jarlaxle with her gaze, the stare of an angry dragon, but she did drop her arm to allow him to pass.

"Do see to him," Jarlaxle bade the waitress, indicating Athrogate. "Put him in a chair when he awakens and dull his pain with all the drink he desires." He tossed a small bag of coins to her as he finished, and she nodded.

"He spoke truthfully?" Tazmikella asked as soon as she and her sister were alone.

"If incompletely, and I am not so sure about Knellict's fate."

"A wise choice by King Gareth to send that one on his way," Tazmikella said. "He remains in contact with the creatures of the Underdark?" She gave a derisive snort. "The fool, to be sure, but we are all better off if the skull gems are indeed removed from the lands. Perhaps good consequence can come from evil dealings, for that one is naught but trouble."

"I will miss him," was all that the obviously distracted Ilnezhara would reply, and she stared wistfully at the departing drow.

She swayed in the smoky candlelight, her hair rolling behind her, shoulder to shoulder. Sweat glistened on her naked form, and she arched her back and looked up at the ceiling of the inn room, breathing and moaning softly.

Beneath her, Artemis Entreri clutched that beautiful image in his thoughts, found respite from the frustration and anger. He was angry at being used by Jarlaxle, and more so at being rescued by the drow—the last thing he wanted was to be indebted in any way to that one. And the road beckoned again, a road he would walk with Jarlaxle and the annoying Athrogate, apparently.

And with Calihye, he reminded himself as he reached up and ran his hand gently from the underside of the woman's chin all the way down to her belly. She would be his anchor, he hoped, his solid foundation, and with that firm footing, perhaps he could find a way to be rid of Jarlaxle.

But did he really want that?

It was all too confusing for the poor man. He glanced to the side, to where he had piled his clothes and other gear, and he saw Idalia's flute among that pile. The flute had done things to him, he knew, had pried open his heart and had forced him to ask for more out of his life than simple existence.

He hated it and appreciated it all at once.

Everything seemed like that to Artemis Entreri. Everything was a jumble, a confusing paradox of love and hate, of stoicism and desperate need, of friendship and the desire for solitude. Nothing seemed clear, nothing consistent.

He looked up at his lover and changed his mind on those last points. It was real, and warm. For the first time in his life, he had given himself fully to a woman.

Calihye rolled her head forward and looked at him, her eyes full of intensity and determination. She chewed her bottom lip a bit; her breath came in short puffs. Then she threw her head back and arched her spine, and Entreri felt her tighten like a drawn bowstring.

He closed his eyes and let the moment wash over him and take him with it, and he felt Calihye relax. He opened his eyes, expecting to see her crumbling atop him.

He saw instead the woman staring down at him, a dagger in her hand.

A dagger aimed for his heart.

And he had no defense, had no way to stop its deadly plunge. He could have brought his hand across to accept the stab there, perhaps, but he did not.

For in the split second of the dagger's plunge, Entreri understood that all of his hope had flown, that all of it, the entire foundation that held his sanity, was just another lie. He didn't try to block it. He didn't try to dodge aside.

The dagger could not hurt him more than the betrayal already had.