The Last Threshold (Neverwinter #4)(122)

“It should not concern you,” Kimmuriel said.

“Then he is Chosen.”

Kimmuriel shook his head. “I make no such claim.”

“But Lady Lolth—”

“Has her own designs, and only a fool would pretend to understand those,” said Kimmuriel. “Nor does it matter. Here is my offer, and I will make it only this one time: Remain here in your private rooms while we finish our work. Stand down with your remaining forces—not that you have much choice in the matter, in any case. We will be gone soon enough.”

“With treasures,” Draygo Quick noted, and he nodded toward the onyx figurine.

Kimmuriel shrugged as if it should not matter.

“You wish to know whether Drizzt is favored by Mielikki or Lolth,” the drow said.

“You possess that knowledge?”

“I possess insights that go to the question you hope to clarify by garnering that knowledge,” Kimmuriel answered. “Indeed, I hold answers that will make the question of Drizzt Do’Urden’s allegiance or favor irrelevant to you.”

Draygo Quick swallowed hard.

“I have come from the hive mind of the illithids,” Kimmuriel explained, and Draygo swallowed hard again, for surely, if any creatures in the known multiverse had any answers to the fate of Abeir-Toril, it would be that group.

“So we have a deal?” Kimmuriel asked.

“You will finish and be gone? And what else?”

“You will hold to the agreement that Jarlaxle forged with Lord Parise Ulfbinder.”

“Nonsense!” Draygo Quick blurted. “You cannot wage war and smilingly sign a trade agreement in the same moment!”

“We did not wage war,” Kimmuriel corrected. “We came to retrieve that which does not belong to you—”

“Drizzt and his companions assaulted my castle! By my right of defense do I claim those spoils!”

“And in the process,” Kimmuriel continued, ignoring the rant, “we have saved you from the wrath of one far less merciful, or at least, of one far less interested in allowing you to continue to draw breath. This raid, Lord Draygo, has surely saved your life.”

Draygo Quick sputtered, unable to even find the words to strike back.

“But we do not expect your gratitude, just your good sense,” Kimmuriel continued. “We have provided you with cover, and I will offer to you an understanding of that which is happening between the Shadowfell and Toril beyond anything Drizzt Do’Urden might have provided.”

“So you have done me a favor, provided me cover and saved my life,” Draygo Quick said skeptically, “and you offer one more gift, and all in exchange for a few baubles and a prisoner?”

“I would hope for much more from you.”

“Do tell.”

“When I give to you my insights, you will understand that both of our respective groups, Bregan D’aerthe and you and your fellow lords of Netheril, will benefit greatly from our alliance.”

“How do I know you are not lying to me?”

Kimmuriel’s expression remained, as always, impassive. “Why would I need to do so? Your tower is full of unseen illithids, all eager to feast on the brains of shades. By my word alone are you and your acolytes protected.”

“The illithids answer to a dark elf?” the warlock asked doubtfully.

“In this instance, yes.”

The way Kimmuriel said it, so matter-of-factly, erased any doubts in Draygo Quick, and he realized that this offered deal was the best he was going to get.

“Good,” Kimmuriel answered, and only then did Draygo Quick realize that the drow psionicist was reading his thoughts.

“I will return to you within a tenday,” Kimmuriel promised. “For now, keep your minions in this tower if you wish to keep them safe.”

Draygo Quick started to protest, but Kimmuriel turned around and walked away, right through the tower wall.

Lord Draygo fell back into his chair, full of venom, but full, too, of intrigue.





AFTERSHOCK



DRIZZT WAITED, CROUCHED DEFENSIVELY, UNSURE OF HIS SITUATION. THE room had shaken violently—the drow couldn’t imagine what had caused such a rumble. His thoughts shot back to the cataclysm that had flattened the city of Neverwinter, the volcano that had thrown him from his feet with its incredible shockwave.

Was this, then, some similar natural, or primordial, disaster?

Drizzt stayed on his toes, listening, watching, knowing that he might have to spring away on an instant’s notice. Perhaps another earthquake would split the wall asunder and drop the ceiling. Would he be quick enough to get free of the crash? And perhaps such a leap and sprint would garner him his freedom beyond Draygo Quick’s crumbling walls.

But then what?

Soon after, the drow heard running outside his door, and shouts of protest, followed swiftly by grunts and groans and the all-too familiar thud of a body collapsing to the hard floor.

“An attack,” he whispered, and no sooner had the words escaped his lips than his room’s door swung in.

Drizzt tensed, ready to attack. Then he gasped, his thoughts spinning in a jumbled swirl, so much so that he tried to speak out a name, but barely made a squeak.

“Wonderful to see you again, as well,” Jarlaxle replied with a wry grin. “I have missed you, my old friend.”