Exile: The Legend of Drizzt (46 page)

“Your house defeated House Hun’ett, no small feat,” reasoned Jarlaxle.

“Only with the help of Bregan D’aerthe,” Dinin corrected. “For most of my life, I have watched House Do’Urden, under Matron Malice’s steady guidance, ascend through the city hierarchy. Every year, our power and influence grew. For the last decade, though, I have seen us spiral down. I have watched the foundations of House Do’Urden crumble. The structure had to follow the descent.”

“As wise as you are skilled with the blade,” the mercenary remarked. “I have said that before of Dinin Do’Urden, and it seems that I am proved correct once again.”

“If I have pleased you, I ask one favor,” Dinin said, rising to his feet. “Grant it if you will.”

“Kill you quickly and without pain?” Jarlaxle asked through a widening smile.

Dinin nodded for the third time.

“No,” Jarlaxle said simply.

Not understanding, Dinin brought his sword flashing up and ready.

“I’ll not kill you at all,” Jarlaxle explained.

Dinin kept his sword up high and studied the mercenary’s face, looking for some hint as to his intent. “I am a noble of the house,” Dinin said. “A witness to the attack. No house elimination is complete if nobles remain alive.”

“A witness?” Jarlaxle laughed. “Against House Baenre? To what gain?”

Dinin’s sword dropped low.

“Then what is my fate?” he asked. “Will Matron Baenre take me in?” Dinin’s tone showed that he was not excited about that possibility.

“Matron Baenre has little use for males,” Jarlaxle replied. “If any of your sisters survive—and I believe the one named Vierna has—they may find themselves in Matron Baenre’s chapel. But the withered old mother of House Baenre would never see the value of a male such as Dinin, I fear.”

“Then what?” Dinin demanded.

“I know your value,” Jarlaxle stated casually. He led Dinin’s gaze around to the concurring grins of his troops.

“Bregan D’aerthe?” Dinin balked. “Me, a noble, to become a rogue?”

Quicker than Dinin’s eye could follow, Jarlaxle whipped a dagger into the body at his feet. The blade buried itself up to the hilt in Malice’s back.

“A rogue or a corpse,” Jarlaxle casually explained.

It was not so difficult a choice.

A few days later, Jarlaxle and Dinin looked back on the ruined adamantite gate of House Do’Urden. Once it had stood so proud and strong, with its intricate carvings of spiders and the two formidable stalagmite pillars that served as guard towers.

“How fast it changed,” Dinin remarked. “I see all my former life before me, yet it is all gone.”

“Forget what has gone before,” Jarlaxle suggested. The mercenary’s sly wink told Dinin that he had something specific in mind as he completed the thought. “Except that which may aid in your future.”

Dinin did a quick visual inspection of himself and the ruins. “My battle gear?” he asked, fishing for Jarlaxle’s intent. “My training.”

“Your brother.”

“Drizzt?” Again the cursed name reared up to bring anguish to Dinin!

“It would seem that there is still the matter of Drizzt Do’Urden to be reconciled,” Jarlaxle explained. “He’s a high prize in the eyes of the Spider Queen.”

“Drizzt?” Dinin asked again, hardy believing Jarlaxle’s words.

“Why are you so surprised?” Jarlaxle asked. “Your brother is still alive, else why was Matron Malice brought down?”

“What house could be interested in him?” Dinin asked bluntly. “Another mission for Matron Baenre?”

Jarlaxle’s laugh belittled him. “Bregan D’aerthe may act without the guidance—or the purse—of a recognized house,” he replied.

“You plan to go after my brother?”

“It may be the perfect opportunity for Dinin to show his value to my little family,” said Jarlaxle to no one in particular. “Who better to catch the renegade that brought down House Do’Urden? Your brother’s value increased many times over with the failure of Zin-carla.”

“I have seen what Drizzt has become,” said Dinin. “The cost will be great.”

“My resources are limitless,” Jarlaxle answered smugly, “and no cost is too high if the gain is higher.” The eccentric mercenary went silent for a short while, allowing Dinin’s gaze to linger over the ruins of his once proud house.

“No,” Dinin said suddenly.

Jarlaxle turned a wary eye on him.

“I’ll not go after Drizzt,” Dinin explained.

“You serve Jarlaxle, the master of Bregan D’aerthe,” the mercenary calmly reminded him.

“As I once served Malice, the matron of House Do’Urden,” Dinin replied with equal calm. “I would not venture out again after Drizzt for my mother—” He looked at Jarlaxle squarely, unafraid of the consequences—“and I shall not do it again for you.”

Jarlaxle spent a long moment studying his companion. Normally the mercenary leader would not tolerate such brazen insubordination, but Dinin was sincere and adamant, beyond doubt. Jarlaxle had accepted Dinin into Bregan D’aerthe because he valued the elderboy’s experience and skill; he could not now readily dismiss Dinin’s judgment.

“I could have you put to a slow death,” Jarlaxle replied, more to see Dinin’s reaction than to make any promises. He had no intention of destroying one as valuable as Dinin.

“No worse than the death and disgrace I would find at Drizzt’s hands,” Dinin answered calmly.

Another long moment passed as Jarlaxle considered the implications of Dinin’s words. Perhaps Bregan D’aerthe should rethink its plans for hunting the renegade; perhaps the price would prove too high.

“Come, my soldier,” Jarlaxle said at length. “Let us return to our home, to the streets, where we might learn what adventures our futures hold.”

elwar ran along the walkways to get to his friend. Drizzt did not watch the svirfneblin’s approach. He kneeled on the narrow bridge, looking down to the bubbling spot in the green lake where Zaknafein had fallen. The acid sputtered and rolled, the scorched hilt of a sword came up into view, then disappeared under the opaque veil of green.

“He was there all along,” Drizzt whispered to Belwar. “My father!”

“A mighty chance you took, dark elf,” the burrow-warden replied.
“Magga cammara
! When you put your blades away, I thought he would surely strike you down.”

“He was there all along,” Drizzt said again. He looked up at his svirfneblin friend. “You showed me that.”

Belwar screwed up his face in confusion.

“The spirit cannot be separated from the body,” Drizzt tried to explain. “Not in life.” He looked back to the ripples in the acid
lake. “And not in undeath. In my years alone in the wilds, I had lost myself, so I believed. But you showed me the truth. The heart of Drizzt was never gone from this body, and so I knew it to be true with Zaknafein.”

“Other forces were involved this time,” remarked Belwar. “I would not have been so certain.”

“You did not know Zaknafein,” Drizzt retorted. He rose to his feet, the moisture rimming his lavender eyes diminished by the sincere smile that widened across his face. “I did. Spirit, not muscles, guides a warrior’s blades, and only he who was truly Zaknafein could move with such grace. The moment of crisis gave Zaknafein the strength to resist my mother’s will.”

“And you gave him the moment of crisis,” reasoned Belwar. “Defeat Matron Malice or kill his own son.” Belwar shook his bald head and crinkled up his nose.
“Magga cammara
, but you are brave, dark elf.” He shot Drizzt a wink. “Or stupid.”

“Neither,” replied Drizzt. “I only trusted in Zaknafein.” He looked back to the acid lake and said no more.

Belwar fell silent and waited patiently while Drizzt finished his private eulogy. When Drizzt finally looked away from the lake, Belwar motioned for the drow to follow and started off along the walkway. “Come,” the burrow-warden said over his shoulder. “Witness the truth of our slain friend.”

Drizzt thought the pech a beautiful thing, a beauty inspired by the peaceful smile that at last had found its way onto his tormented friend’s face. He and Belwar said a few words, mumbled a few hopes to whatever gods might be listening, and gave Clacker to the acid lake, thinking it a preferable fate to the bellies of the carrion eaters that roamed the Underdark corridors.

Drizzt and Belwar set off again alone, as they had been when they first departed the svirfneblin city, and arrived in Blingdenstone a few days later.

The guards at the city’s mammoth gates, though obviously thrilled, seemed confused at their return. They allowed the two companions entrance on the burrow-warden’s promise that he would go straight off and inform King Schnicktick.

“This time, he will let you stay, dark elf,” Belwar said to Drizzt. “You beat the monster.” He left Drizzt at his house, vowing that he would return soon with welcome news.

Drizzt wasn’t so sure of any of it. Zaknafein’s final warning that Matron Malice would never give up her hunt remained clearly in his thoughts, and he could not deny the truth. Much had happened in the tendays that he and Belwar had been out of Blingdenstone, but none of it, as far as Drizzt knew, diminished the very real threat to the svirfneblin city. Drizzt had only agreed to follow the Belwar back to Blingdenstone because it seemed a proper first step to the plan he had decided upon.

“How long shall we battle, Matron Malice?” Drizzt asked the blank stone when the burrow-warden had gone. He needed to hear his reasoning spoken aloud, to convince himself beyond doubt that his decision had been a wise one. “Neither gains in the conflict, but that is the way of the drow, is it not?” Drizzt fell back onto one of the stools beside the little table and considered the truth of his words.

“You will hunt me, to your ruin or to mine, blinded by the hatred that rules your life. There can be no forgiveness in Menzoberranzan. That would go against the edict of your foul Spider Queen.

“And this is the Underdark, your world of shadows and gloom, but it is not all the world, Matron Malice, and I shall see how long your evil arms can reach!”

Drizzt sat silent for many minutes, remembering his first lessons at the drow Academy. He tried to find some clue that would lead him to believe that the stories of the surface world were no
more than lies. The masters’ deceptions at the drow Academy had been perfected over centuries and were infallibly complete. Drizzt soon came to realize that he simply would have to trust his feelings.

When Belwar returned, grim-faced, a few hours later, Drizzt’s resolve was firm.

“Stubborn, orc-brained …” the burrow-warden gnashed through his teeth as he crossed through the stone door.

Drizzt stopped him with a heartfelt laugh.

“They will not hear of your staying!” Belwar yelled at him, trying to steal his mirth.

“Did you truly expect otherwise?” Drizzt asked him. “My fight is not over, dear Belwar. Do you believe that my family could be so easily defeated?”

“We will go back out,” Belwar growled, moving over to take the stool near Drizzt. “My generous—” the word dripped of sarcasm—“king agreed that you could remain in the city for a tenday. A single tenday!”

“When I leave, I leave alone,” Drizzt interrupted. He pulled the onyx figurine out of his pouch and reconsidered his words. “Almost alone.”

“We had this argument before, dark elf,” Belwar reminded him.