Chapter 5

First, Jarlaxle sat in the tavern, hoping to drink some wine while he thought this through, but without the human at his side, he was soon run out. Even the drow's considerable charm could not single-handedly secure his position on the surface world, a fact which was reinforced by the argument he and Entreri had just had. The reminder did not amuse Jarlaxle in the slightest, causing him to leave the establishment with an atypical frown upon his face. Unfortunately, this very preoccupation caused the mercenary to miss the disguised figure observing him from the shadows of the tavern.

Jarlaxle wandered past the outskirts of the town to the edge of the forest, found a nice grassy knoll spotted with a few trees, and took a seat. The sun had almost completely bowed below the horizon for the evening, leaving the heavens painted like a rainbow. Deep red shaded the skyline, with the sky growing orange, then yellow, as it stretched overhead. Even a faint tint of green colored a swath of the sky right before the blue, which arched into navy and the growing blackness behind Jarlaxle. The painfully exquisite beauty of the scene was not lost on the somber dark elf.

Also not lost on Jarlaxle was the glowing crimson tint the sunset gave to the shimmering silver lake in the valley below the town. The feathers of gliding swans seemed scarlet in the dying light, and the sweet, musky scents of a dozen flowers almost made the elf relax. He could grow bored in a place like this, but he could also appreciate the scene as well. The surface world held so many sights and wonders that the Underdark did not. And Jarlaxle was not yet ready to return home. Not by far.

Still, Jarlaxle sometimes wondered if he really wanted to continue traveling with Entreri, and so given this most recent incident, he had the urge to just wipe his hands clean of the assassin. The man resisted Jarlaxle's every explanation, refused help even when utterly lost—which was both exasperating for the drow and self-defeating for the human. However, having lived in a world even darker than the underbelly of Calimport—as well as experiencing firsthand a parent's betrayal—Jarlaxle could understand Entreri's stubbornness, anger, and bitterness. At the same time, having achieved what Jarlaxle had achieved, having chosen his own path and built his own world, the mercenary could also see exactly where Entreri had gone wrong. Could see what the man could have been, could even become still, but only with help.

This truth, of course, brought back the human's final, shocking words from their argument: "If you really are my friend, find a different way."

To Jarlaxle's surprise, the words had caught him in the chest. After having spent a lifetime viewing people as controllable, replaceable tools, he'd begun his manipulation of Entreri without a second thought. Ushering the assassin down a different path had seemed an easy enough task. The man was obviously terribly lost, and Jarlaxle had always believed he'd understood the man's goals and desires better than he.

But was there another way? And should Jarlaxle be considering it? The sting of Entreri's words was not something the drow would have predicted, and it made him think—not only about his methods but about his motivations. But there was another point to consider: would he still be safe if he eased his control of Entreri? Jarlaxle frowned to himself, disturbed about where his thoughts were leading him.

Consumed in his contemplations, Jarlaxle failed to hear the crunching of grass under boot heels. The faint snap of a twig was all the warning the elf received. Jarlaxle jumped to his feet and only had time to throw his arms up against the sudden rolling wall of fire which erupted from just behind the tree line. The powerful enchantment of his ring protected him, and the flames rushed over him without causing damage. The same could not be said for a few of the trees and the grass, which blackened and smoked. Coughing, Jarlaxle waved his hand in front of his face, trying to clear the smoke, but all he could see was a faint outline of a figure in the shadows of the forest. The mercenary was not deterred; running toward his attacker, he whipped out one of his many wands and pointed it at the figure. A ray of freezing air shot forth, catching the man in the arm as he tried to jump clear.

The person cursed, and Jarlaxle followed the sounds of his receding footsteps. Yet when the elf cleared the smoke and entered the shadows, he saw no one. Even the sounds of the footsteps had ceased.

It has to be Socor here to attain his revenge, Jarlaxle thought. And he'll attack Entreri next. Without a moment's hesitation, Jarlaxle ran back towards town, hoping to reach Entreri before the wizard.

Jarlaxle was halfway back to town before he realized that he'd not thought twice about rushing to Entreri's aid. The revelation slowed him to a near stop, for it illustrated to him in no uncertain terms that he no longer considered Entreri one of his many tools. Entreri was controllable, but he wasn't expendable. Although, of course, Jarlaxle would kill him if he had to.

The elf sped up his pace again, trying to lose his thoughts in the rapid beating of his heart. But there was no denying the truth. He remembered his reaction when he'd thought that Entreri had betrayed him over the crystal shard. Even "knowing" why Entreri was there, he'd resisted the shard's demands that he kill the assassin, and when he'd realized that he had to kill him, he'd demanded to know why. His own words echoed in his mind: "Please tell me why I must do this!"

This is not good, Jarlaxle thought. I am beginning to care too much. That can only bring betrayal and pain. He smiled without humor at the next thought. Or perhaps another trip to the abyss.

But Entreri's words returned to him yet again: "If you really are my friend, find a different way."

It was not at all the response Jarlaxle had expected. He had expected a violent reaction—a fight which would have left one of them dead. That Entreri had reached past his normal violence touched something in the drow he didn't want to admit to having. Something that spoke more deeply than he'd formerly predicated about friendship.

And Jarlaxle's feelings about that scared him indeed; real friends were such a rarity in drow society that the phrase "trusted friend" was a joke. What would it mean, then, for Jarlaxle to acquire a genuine friend? The concept was so stunning as to be nearly frightening. Of course, he did have his new bracers now, so he had several advantages should things go wrong ….

Jarlaxle stopped dead in his tracks. It wasn't his physical body that needed protecting, he realized.

It was his heart.