The Last Threshold (Neverwinter #4)(4)

But the Shifter wasn’t buying his feigned emotion, as she stood shaking her head.

“Yes, she is his mother,” Draygo Quick answered her unspoken question. “From the loins of Herzgo Alegni. Dahlia threw him from a cliff immediately after his birth, the fiery elf. A pity the fall did not show mercy and kill him, but he landed amongst some pines. The trees broke his fall and broke his spine, but alas, he did not succumb to death.”

“His injuries—”

“Aye, Effron was, and remains, fairly broken,” the warlock explained. “But Herzgo Alegni would not let him go. Not physically, and not even emotionally, for many years, until it became clear what little Effron would be.”

“Twisted. Infirm.”

“And by that time—”

“He was an understudy, a promising young warlock under the watchful eye of the great Draygo Quick,” the Shifter reasoned. “And more than that, he became your bludgeon to crumble the stubborn will of the ever-troublesome Herzgo Alegni. He became valuable to you.”

“It’s a difficult world,” Draygo Quick lamented. “One must find whatever tools one can to properly navigate the swirling seas.”

He raised his glass in toast and took another drink. The Shifter did likewise.

“And what tools do you seek now, through the panther?” she asked.

Draygo Quick shrugged as if it were not important. “How well do you know this Erlindir now?”

It was the Shifter’s turn to shrug.

“He would welcome you to his grove?”

She nodded.

“He is a disciple of Mielikki,” Draygo Quick remarked. “Do you know his standing?”

“He is a powerful druid, though his mind has dulled with age.”

“But is he favored by the goddess?” Draygo Quick asked, more insistently than he had intended, as the Shifter’s response—stiffening, her expression growing concerned—informed him.

“Would one not have to be, to be granted powers?”

“More than that,” Draygo Quick pressed.

“Are you asking me if Erlindir is of special favor to Mielikki? Chosen?”

The old warlock didn’t blink.

The Shifter laughed at him. “If he was, do you think I would have ever attempted such trickery with him? Do you consider me a fool, old warlock?”

Draygo Quick waved the silly questions away and took a sip, silently berating himself for so eagerly pursuing such a far-fetched idea. He was off his game, he realized. The intensity of his talks with Parise Ulfbinder were getting to him.

“Would this Erlindir know of others who might be so favored with his goddess?” he asked.

“The head of his order, likely.”

“No—or perhaps,” the warlock said. “I seek those favored ones, the ones known as ‘Chosen’.”

“Of Mielikki?”

“Of all the gods. Any information you can gather for me on this matter will be well received and generously rewarded.”

He moved to pour another drink when the Shifter asked with great skepticism and great intrigue, “Drizzt Do’Urden?”

Draygo Quick shrugged again. “Who can know?”

“Erlindir, perhaps,” the Shifter replied. She drained her glass and started away, pausing only to glance at the room where the captured Guenhwyvar paced.

“Enjoy your time on Toril,” she remarked.

“Enjoy.…” Draygo Quick muttered under his breath as she departed. It was not advice he often took.





I did not think it possible, but the world grows grayer still around me and more confusing.

How wide was the line twixt darkness and light when first I walked out of Menzoberranzan. So full of righteous certitude was I, even when my own fate appeared tenuous. But I could thump my fist against the stone and proclaim, “This is the way the world works best. This is right and this is wrong!” with great confidence and internal contentment.

And now I travel with Artemis Entreri.

And now my lover is a woman of …

Thin grows that line twixt darkness and light. What once seemed a clear definition fast devolves into an obfuscating fog.

In which I wander, with a strange sense of detachment.

This fog has always been there, of course. It is not the world that has changed, merely my understanding of it. There have always been, there will always be, thieves like farmer Stuyles and his band of highwaymen. By the letter of the law, they are outlaws indeed, but does not the scale of immorality sink more strongly at the feet of the feudal lords of Luskan and even of Waterdeep, whose societal structures put men like Stuyles into an untenable position? They hunt the roads to survive, to eat, finding a meager existence on the edges of a civilization that has forgotten—yea, even abandoned!—them.

So on the surface, even that dilemma seems straightforward. Yet, when Stuyles and his band act, are they not assailing, assaulting, perhaps even killing, mere delivery boys of puppet masters—equally desperate people working within the shaken structures of society to feed their own?

Where then does the moral scale tip?

And perhaps more importantly, from my own perspective and my own choices, where then might I best follow the tenets and truths I hold dear?

Shall I be a singular player in a society of one, taking care of my personal needs in a manner attuned with that which I believe to be right and just? A hermit, then, living among the trees and the animals, akin to Montolio deBrouchee, my long-lost mentor. This would be the easiest course, but would it suffice to assuage a conscience that has long declared community above self?