Charon's Claw (Neverwinter #3)(119)

“You would be long dead then, human.”

“And yet I’m not,” Entreri replied. “There’s magic in the world, it would seem.”

“Do you know him?” the noble warrior asked the priestess.

“Do you know me, human?” she asked. “Do you know Berellip Xorlarrin?”

There came a long pause. Drizzt craned his neck even farther, catching a glimpse of Entreri as the seated man studied the drow priestess before him. Drizzt knew the name, the surname at least, and it brought him little comfort. For House Xorlarrin had been among the greatest of Menzoberranzan, potent with magic and formidable. Drizzt swallowed hard yet again, for he recalled then this warrior noble, Jearth Xorlarrin, who had been through Melee-Magthere, the drow academy, not long before him. He considered it great luck indeed that Jearth had apparently not recognized him, for though a century and more had elapsed, few dark elves had eyes the color of Drizzt’s.

This whole thing seemed so perfectly absurd to Drizzt—until, of course, he considered that Jarlaxle had been involved. Whenever Jarlaxle was involved, absurdity was soon to follow.

“I do,” Entreri replied to the priestess, and Drizzt just sighed helplessly.

“Where, then?” the female demanded.

“On a ledge on the edge of the Clawrift,” Entreri answered without hesitation, though there was a bit of a question in his voice, as if he wasn’t completely sure and was afraid—rightly so!—to get it wrong.

Berellip began to laugh.

“How could I ever forget?” Entreri asked with more confidence. “Did you not use your powers to dangle me over the abyss in the moment of my ecstasy?”

“It was about pleasing me, human,” she answered. “Your discomfort mattered not at all.”

“As it must be,” Entreri replied.

“Berellip?” asked the incredulous warrior noble, who was clearly more flummoxed even than Drizzt. “You know him?”

“If he is who he claims to be, he was my first colnbluth lover,” Berellip answered, using the drow word for anyone who was not drow. She laughed. “My only human lover. And quite skilled, if I recall correctly, which is why I didn’t drop him into the Clawrift.”

“I was there to please you,” Entreri said.

Drizzt could hardly believe what he was hearing, but he resisted shaking his head or wearing a stupefied expression and being obvious—if he was to be taken seriously as a member of Bregan D’aerthe, after all, then such news should not be so shocking to him.

“He was brought to Menzoberranzan by Jarlaxle,” Berellip explained to Jearth. “And graciously put at the disposal of those among us who were curious about the prowess of a human.”

“He is who you believe him to be?” the warrior asked skeptically.

“On the edge of the Clawrift, indeed,” Berellip said, and her voice revealed that it had probably been a pleasant experience—at least from her perspective.

Drizzt didn’t know whether to laugh out loud or scream at the absurdity of it all. He chose—wisely—to remain silent. Once again, images of his escape from Menzoberranzan, Entreri beside him, had him holding his breath. If Berellip or Jearth put the pieces together, if they had learned that Entreri had fled Menzoberranzan beside Drizzt Do’Urden, the result would be catastrophic indeed.

“They’re Bregan D’aerthe, then,” Jearth declared.

“So it would seem,” Berellip answered, and Drizzt breathed just a little bit easier.

“An elf?” Jearth asked incredulously. “I would not suffer her to live.”

“Take her as you will,” Berellip started to answer, but Entreri interrupted.

“She is Jarlaxle’s consort,” Entreri blurted to Drizzt’s continuing surprise. “His most valuable spy, as you can imagine, for she navigates the villages of the elves and Eladrin with ease.”

Simply in looking at Jearth, Drizzt realized that his assassin companion had just saved Dahlia from a certain fate of rape, torture, and ultimately, murder.

“You let iblith speak for you?” Berellip asked Drizzt, moving around to stand before him.

Drizzt held his breath yet again. She had recognized Entreri—what might happen if she recognized him? Certainly she was old enough to know the stories of Drizzt Do’Urden, traitor to his people.

“He is Jarlaxle’s colnbluth,” Drizzt explained at length. “I serve Kimmuriel.”

“And which leads Bregan D’aerthe?” Berellip asked.

“Kimmuriel,” Drizzt said without hesitation, though he was flailing blindly, for he had no idea of what he was talking about, and had even less of an idea of what Berellip and Jearth might know of the inner workings of Jarlaxle’s band.

“Then why do you allow him to speak?”

“In deference to Jarlaxle,” Drizzt replied. “That is our edict from Kimmuriel. All deference to Jarlaxle. I am here to serve as Kimmuriel’s eyes, as Jarlaxle’s colnbluth and his elf consort scout out this most curious place.”

“Weapons master,” came a voice from the back of the room, out of Drizzt’s sight. “The Shadovar move to flank us. We must move at once.”

Jearth looked to Berellip.

“Free them,” the priestess said. “We will need their blades. Put them in a tunnel where the fighting will be especially fierce. My memory is that Jarlaxle’s toy was exceptionally fine with the blade, as well as his spear.”