Charon's Claw (Neverwinter #3)(77)

“We cannot know,” Jelvus Grinch said.

Drizzt dropped a hand on the man’s strong shoulder. “Hold your faith in your fellow citizens,” Drizzt advised. “The region is full of dangers, as you knew when first you returned.”

“And you’ll remain?” the man asked hopefully.

“Not too far for now, I expect,” Drizzt assured him.

“Then don’t remain a stranger to the folk of Neverwinter, I beg. You, all three, are ever welcome here.”

A great cheer arose behind him, affirming the sentiment.

The gathering followed the trio across the city, across the winged wyvern bridge.

“We will name it again the Walk of Barrabus!” Jelvus Grinch proclaimed, and the cheering renewed.

“Barrabus is dead,” Artemis Entreri replied, cutting Grinch’s grin off short. “I killed him. Don’t remind me of him with your foolish names.”

It sounded as a clear threat to everyone who heard it, and Entreri followed it by staring hard at Jelvus Grinch, by silently letting the man know that if he named the bridge as he’d just promised, Entreri really would come back and kill him.

Drizzt noted it all. He knew that look—frozen, utterly uncaring, uncompromisingly removed from sympathy—from a century before, and the poignant reminder of the truth of Artemis Entreri slapped the drow’s romantic nostalgia quite decidedly, and shook him profoundly in his current time and place.

Drizzt looked to Jelvus Grinch to view his reaction, and the way the blood drained from the strong man’s face revealed that Artemis Entreri had lost none of his charm.

The First Citizen of Neverwinter cleared his throat several times before mustering the courage to resume speaking, this time to Drizzt. “Have you found better fortune with your panther?”

Drizzt shook his head.

“I suggest you speak to Arunika,” said Jelvus Grinch. “She is investigating this, at my insistence. The woman is quite wise in the ways of magic, and knows the workings of the various planes.”

Drizzt glanced at his companions, who offered no obvious opinion.

“Where do I find her?” he asked.

“We’re ready for the road,” Artemis Entreri remarked.

“We can wait,” Dahlia said.

“No, we can’t,” said Entreri. “If you wish to go and find the red-haired woman, then do so, but we’ll be on our way up the northern road. I trust you’ll ride hard to find us.”

Drizzt turned to Jelvus Grinch, who indicated the inn behind him. “Arunika has been given a room there, that she could better tend to your companion.”

The drow turned and regarded Entreri and Dahlia one last time, to see Entreri’s harsh expression and obvious agitation at the thought of any delays, and conversely, Dahlia’s almost frantically-darting eyes, as if looking for some way to forestall this expedition. Drizzt had never expected anything quite like that from Dahlia, whether she wore her hard-visage braid and woad, or the softer image she now painted upon her pretty face.

Guenhwyvar’s plight was more important, and he rushed into the inn. He had barely said the name “Arunika,” before the innkeeper directed him to a room down the first floor hallway.

Arunika opened the door before he had even knocked, and he understood the reception when he entered, for her room looked out on the gathering in the street and the window was open. Even as Drizzt noted that, Arunika moved over and closed it.

“You believe that throwing the weapon into the mouth of the primordial will destroy it,” she said.

“I came to speak of Guenhwyvar.”

“That, too,” the red-haired woman agreed.

Drizzt found himself quite at ease as he regarded her disarming smile . . . truly disarming, with freckled dimples and a sweetness that went beyond all reason.

He determinedly shook that curious, and curiously stray, thought away.

“I agree with your assessment of the sword,” Arunika said, and she eased back into a soft cushioned couch, casually tossing her long and soft red hair from in front of her face.

“And our course?”

“Artemis Entreri thinks that destroying the blade will destroy him.”

“He does not fear . . .” Drizzt started to say, but he stopped short and stared hard at Arunika. How had she come to know Entreri’s real name? To everyone else in the city, save himself and Dahlia, the man was still known as Barrabus the Gray, and as far as he knew, none of them had uttered any hints of the assassin’s real identity.

“Oh, he fears it, of course,” Arunika replied, apparently missing the drow’s shocked response—or ignoring it. “He just has too much hatred within him to admit it. Everyone fears death, ranger. Everyone.”

“Then perhaps some simply fear living more.”

Arunika shrugged as if it did not matter. “If you deign to destroy Charon’s Claw, your best path is to the primordial, I agree,” she went on. “Oh, there are better ways—surer ways . . . the breath of an ancient white dragon comes to mind—but I expect that time is not your ally. Charon’s Claw is a Netherese blade, and those unbearable despots will go to such lengths to protect and retrieve their artifacts that would impress any githyanki zealot.”

Drizzt wasn’t quite sure of the analogy. He had heard of the githyanki. They were sometimes seen in Menzoberranzan and the few he had viewed did seem to possess unduly decorated armor and weapons. The reference seemed clear enough, though.