Chapter 11

Epilogue

He was home.

Drizzt Do'Urden walked through the door of his bedroom in Mithril Hall, looking for Catt-brie. The long trip home had given him much to consider.

He'd looked to the road as a chance to get away from all this, to find adventure and excitement in the wider world.

And what had he found?

He'd found an old friend whose highest goal was to make himself fit to stay home with his people. Wulfgar had defied the worst of Icewind Dale on his own so that he might return to the Tribe of the Elk and find permanency there.

He'd found an old enemy and had walked away from a renewal of their conflict. How many times over the years had he looked into the cold, heartless eyes of Artemis Entreri? How many weeks had he spent fighting his way out of the Underdark at his side, aware that if Entreri thought for a moment he could escape on his own, his merciless blade would find Drizzt's heart instead of the monsters that faced them?

And he remembered the last time he looked directly into those dark, cold eyes. He recalled the look in them as Entreri had attacked him in the crystal tower, knowing the attack was suicidal, knowing that Drizzt was open to cut him down. Drizzt had looked into his eyes then and seen nothing but hopelessness.

Then to see an Artemis Entreri at peace, joyful in his wife's passionate embrace. To see him so—happy. It boggled the mind to think of Artemis Entreri happy.

But Drizzt's time in Luskan had been anything but happy.

His road had been full of disappointment and sorrow. Longsaddle was in turmoil. Luskan was destroyed.

Deudermont was gone.

He did not look forward to telling Catti-brie, but he wanted to see her so badly. He'd missed her. He needed her. He needed peace and permanence for himself.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Regis poked his head in and said, "Bruenor just told me that Catti-brie came two days ago and left again on some mission with Alustriel. She'd hoped to catch you before she left."

Perhaps his friend saw the disappointment on his face. At any rate, Regis added, "I'm sorry, Drizzt. She'll be home soon."

Drizzt sighed and looked around the empty room. Then he walked forward resolutely and gave his friend a pat on the shoulder. "I'm sure she will," he said firmly. "And we'll be waiting for her."

He was home.

Jarlaxle sat in his spacious office in Bregan D'aerthe's headquarters in Menzoberranzan and considered the success of their latest venture. Treasures had already begun to flow from Mirabar and Silverymoon into Luskan and into the hands of Bregan D'aerthe's operatives there.

He planned to send Lady Calihye as an emissary to Kensidan, provided she continued to do well. Kimmuriel was a good lieutenant, his men were good soldiers, but together they'd managed to nearly ruin her for service to the group.

Sometimes he wondered if perhaps Artemis would make an effort to rescue her, knowing that she was there, but he soon dismissed that as a hopelessly romantic notion on his part.

Artemis Entreri had moved on. He'd moved past Calihye, he'd certainly moved past Bregan D'aerthe, and though it hurt Jarlaxle to say so, he'd moved past him as well.

He looked up at a shelf above his desk where sat his most prized possessions. Idalia's Flute. The scrimshaw of Drizzt and Gwenhwyfar he'd taken from the halfling Regis. A pair of drow longswords, their runes etched and damaged almost to illegibility by acid.

He looked at the flute and remembered Artemis's words. The hole inside him was so vast. He knew it. It was vast beyond description, carved out over centuries by drow politics, by cruelty, by love, and by loss.

He looked at the swords and remembered their owner, Zaknafein Do'Urden. It had taken a great deal of effort to retrieve those swords from the Acid Aerie. The hole inside him had grown so much larger when he'd learned of his death at Matron Malice's hand—whose very hand he'd delivered him into so many centuries ago.

But the horror of his resurrection through Zin-carla and his mission to kill his son had been even worse than his death. And Jarlaxle knew he was directly responsible for it all. The hole had grown.

He recalled their early association with one another when Jarlaxle had been Secondboy and weaponsmaster of House Baenre and Zaknafein barely out of Melee Magthere as a minor son of House Hun'ett.

He'd tried then to bring Zak into his fold, to convince his mother to trade for this insignificant second son of a second daughter. He'd tried to convince her that he would be great, that his martial prowess ran in his blood and that he belonged at Jarlaxle's side.

But Yvonnel Baenre would not be moved. Jarlaxle eventually recruited the young drow to the newly founded underground force he called Bregan D'aerthe, then a force of comprised of both housed and houseless males who operated in secret, creating a network within and without the houses, meeting as they could.

Jarlaxle had taken time with the young man to instruct him further in swordplay, teaching him everything he knew about fighting, about strength and independence, even in the face of the oppression of the Matron Mothers. And as Zaknafein's skills and personality had blossomed under Jarlaxle's instruction, he'd been so proud.

But something had kept him from telling the young man the truth, and over the decades, the biological facts of their relationship had become less important than the sincere friendship they'd developed. Together, they'd created a powerful force in Bregan D'aerthe. Too powerful.

When the group's activities grew to the point that Yvonnel could ignore them no longer, she'd called Jarlaxle to account and had given him a choice.

She would bring his protege into House Baenre as his assistant if he would disband his little side project. Otherwise, she'd already laid plans for Zaknafein's selection by the Matron Mother of House D'aemon N'a'shezbaernon as its new patron and weaponsmaster.

It was a win for Yvonnel Baenre no matter which way he chose.

If he chose his son, the increasingly embarrassing activities of Bregan D'aerthe and Jarlaxle's rebellion would end and her son would find his place again, this time with his affection for Zaknafein as leverage to be used against him.

If he chose Bregan D'aerthe, House Hun'ett would be furious at being forced to give up such a talented warrior to an inferior house, and the bad blood between the Houses would last for centuries, much to the delight of Lolth and her most favored Matron Mother, Yvonnel Baenre.

The loss of her beloved son would also devastate Zaknafein's mother Ta'Riel, who doted on him in a manner unseemly in a female and allowed him far too much rein. Yvonnel hated her for her arrogance. Who was she, a second daughter of an inferior house, to think she had the right to the Secondboy of the First House of Menzoberranzan? And to do so in secret? Without sanction by either house?

When Jarlaxle thought of Ta'Riel, it was with wistfulness. He'd been so very, very young. She'd been his first during the ceremony of graduation from Melee Magthere. Certainly, the erotic power of the night had been overwhelming, but she'd sought him out afterwards as well.

She'd treated him kindly during their encounters. He'd looked forward to them. They ended when she became pregnant with his child, but he liked to think that she'd been unusually lenient with Zaknafein because of him, because Ta'Riel had truly cared about him during their brief, passionate relationship.

The choice between the son of his youth and the organization he'd put his entire heart into had not been an easy one. He'd known that Zak would be extremely unhappy in the role of patron, especially given the cruelties Malice Do'Urden had already become famous for. To sell him out that way, to trade Zak's relative freedom for the continued existence of Bregan D'aerthe had not been without pain for Jarlaxle.

But in the end, he'd chosen profit and opportunity over his son, and Zak had not spoken to him again. The Matron Mother of House Hun'ett had lost favor with Lolth, and her eldest daughter Si'Nafay had been forced to kill her mother and her younger sister Ta'Riel to secure both her position and the favor of Lolth again.

With Ta'Riel's death, the hole inside him had grown though it had been years since they'd even spoken, much less loved. Jarlaxle had thrown himself into the growth of Bregan D'aerthe, tirelessly seeking the power and treasures and secrets that would make it invaluable and invulnerable.

Soon, Bregan D'aerthe had grown to the point that Jarlaxle had been able to break with his mother and leave House Baenre forever, independent of the Matron Mothers. He'd lost Zaknafein, his son and his trusted friend, but gained his freedom and the freedom of Bregan D'aerthe.

But had it been worth the price he paid?

Jarlaxle's eyes turned to the scrimshaw likeness of Drizzt Do'Urden, Zaknafein's only son. When Drizzt came of age, Jarlaxle had intended to recruit him to his side—the son for the father, the grandson for the son. But Drizzt had gone to the surface, lost to him except for the occasional meeting as in Luskan.

He was not Drizzt's enemy. Never his enemy.

But he could not be his friend either. Too much time and too much distance stood between them.

That didn't stop Jarlaxle from taking an interest in him, from protecting him whenever possible. In Drizzt, Jarlaxle could see all that he'd once hoped to be, all that he'd wanted his son to be. But Drizzt was lost to him, just as his father had been.

Then he considered Idalia's Flute and Artemis Entreri.

He'd discovered Artemis while looking for Drizzt. It was hard to miss him, as the human seemed hell-bent on killing his grandson. Looking at Artemis was like looking at a reversed reflection of the two boys he'd lost. So full of talent, so full of determination. But all without direction.

Zaknafein had found himself at last, as had Drizzt—and without Jarlaxle's guidance and help. In Artemis he'd seen another chance. A chance to be the mentor and the guide that he should have been to Zaknafein and Drizzt.

But mentorship had never been Jarlaxle's strong suit, and despite his efforts to bring the young assassin out of the pointlessness of competition with Drizzt and into the bright world of profit with Bregan D'aerthe, Artemis's past had colored his present too strongly for him to ever enjoy his life.

And if there was one thing Jarlaxle wanted to pass down to someone it was the capacity to enjoy life. Zaknafein had been miserable until death in House Daermon N'a'shezbaernon. Drizzt, as far as Jarlaxle could tell, still wandered the surface almost as rootlessly as when he first stepped out into the sunshine.

Jarlaxle had been convinced that once Artemis put his demons to rest, he would be free to enjoy life, to enjoy the acquisition of new treasures, to enjoy the creation of new networks of profit and opportunity.

As he looked up at Idalia's Flute on the shelf, he knew he'd been wrong. Artemis had also found himself apart from Jarlaxle's guidance.

And watching him in the pretty halfling's arms, he had believe that perhaps Artemis was happy as well. Of all of them, perhaps Artemis had found something Zaknafein and Drizzt had not discovered.

But as he recalled Artemis's words of warning to him about staying out of Waterdeep, he knew that his friend also stood on the other side of the gulf that separated Jarlaxle from his progeny. A gulf that longed to be filled with acquisition, and treasure, and secrets, and power, and lives.

Jarlaxle reached up to Idalia's Flute and for a split second considered playing it himself.

Then his hand moved away again. He didn't need the flute to tell him his losses, his failures. Three of them lay on his shelf in plain view.

He was home.

Manfred Jarrol opened the front door of his house and walked inside. He could hear the sounds of the little girls in the parlor, talking and arguing as usual.

He let them be and went in search of his wife. She sat at her desk in their office, working on some correspondence. Elissa looked up at his entrance, her face breaking into a joyful smile as she ran to him.

"You're home!" she cried, throwing her arms around him.

He held her a long moment, delaying the inevitable. He'd sent word that the ship had made it through, but had not told her any more than that. It didn't seem right for a stranger to bear the news.

He held her and breathed in the scent of her hair, felt the warm softness of her dress beneath his fingers, listened to the sound of her voice as she spoke to him words of welcome.

Then she pulled away and asked curiously, "Where's Emory?"

He was home.

Artemis Entreri walked up the stairs of his house to his bedroom and dropped his red sword and jeweled dagger into the trunk at the foot of his bed. He hoped he never had to put them on again. The sight of them sickened him, the weight of them at his waist dragged at him.

His other sword had gone overboard with the sailor he'd tossed it to. That meant a trip to the armorer's for the morrow. His other dagger hung at his belt. It didn't speak to him or possess any power beyond a sharpness of blade and niceness of balance in his hand, and that was more than sufficient for him.

He unbuckled the leather vest that had shielded him for so long, its many enchantments adding layers of protection far beyond its looks. He shrugged himself free of it and tossed it atop the trunk.

He had no need of its protection.

He was home.

Then he walked into the bathing room where the large tub stood and, using the shadow stones and a trick he'd learned from his casting lessons with Mellisandra, filled it with hot bubbling water. Then without another thought, he stripped and sank into the hot water to his chin, letting the last months wash out of him.

He stayed in there a long time, not thinking, not feeling, not remembering, just being home. Then he finally crawled out, his skin pink from the heat, dried and dressed, and went downstairs.

Somehow, Dwahvel had managed to put food on the table. In a house that had been empty for months, she'd somehow found and prepared an actual meal. He was exhausted and starved but did not stop to eat. Instead he looked around the room for her, but she was nowhere to be seen.

"Where did you go?" he called but got no answer.

He wandered the house looking for her. She was not inside. Then he walked into the little garden out back. She sat on the wooden bench in the arbor. Spring had come fully during their absence and the vines had covered it completely, their large blossoms scenting the air with a delicate perfume.

"What are you doing?" he asked her as he walked over to sit beside her.

"Nothing," she replied as she looked up at him. "I just came out to sit for a minute."

He put his arm around her and she snuggled against him. The curls of her hair wrapped around his fingers as he played with them. After a long moment, she sighed sadly, and he asked, "What is it? What's bothering you?"

She looked up at him, her eyes misty and answered, "I was just thinking about poor Elissa Jarrol. Manfred is probably telling her right now about Emory. I can't imagine how awful that must be."

Entreri sat up a little straighter. In all honesty it hadn't crossed his mind that his friend was at that very moment delivering such bad news. They'd had weeks to grieve together on the long return journey, and he'd been so glad to be at home in his own house that it hadn't even crossed his mind that Emory's mother did not know her son wasn't coming home.

He remembered Jarrol asking him that very question—what do I tell his mother. Entreri didn't know what to tell him then and still did not know.

As he sat there remembering the horrible way Emory died, he knew she would ask who was responsible. Who was she to hate for killing her son.

It was then that he came to a dark realization. "I'm responsible, Dwahvel," he stated. "It's my fault he's dead."

"How, Artemis?" she chided him. "There was nothing more you could do. You did your best to help him."

Entreri took her hand for strength to help him say the words. "When it happened, I blamed myself for not being fast enough, for not using the stones soon enough. But that's not why it's my fault." He looked out across the grass which shimmered a little in the bright sunlight.

"It's my fault because I made it possible. I have spent my whole life helping that kind of evil, bringing it information and magic to make it stronger, killing those that stood in its way," he stated.

"Artemis, when did you ever do a job for the Hosttower in Luskan?" Dwahvel asked, disturbed by his line of thought.

"I didn't have to. I served the pashas. I served Bregan D'aerthe. I served the whole system of evil that made the Hosttower and the ship captains powerful. At some point in my career, I am sure I did something that directly benefited Arklem Geeth and helped him gain the power he needed to call up the lacedons that killed Emory and the rest of the crew," Artemis declared firmly. "I am responsible. And not just for Emory. Who knows how many others?"

A rush of images flashed through him. He remembered the flesh markets of Calimport—places he'd avoided if at all possible, but sometimes had been forced to visit for business. He could see the terrified faces of children lined up for sale.

He knew what lay ahead for many of them. He'd been one of them once. How many of those children were up on the block because he'd killed the man who'd been providing for them? Protecting them?

How many innocents had become prey for the wererats as they scavenged the streets at night searching for food because he'd diverted supplies meant for them into the black market?

How many were taken by wizards who needed subjects for experimentation using new artifacts he'd stolen for them?

How many died of disease and neglect because their homes and their lives had been destroyed by a gang he'd put into power?

How many ruined lives could be directly laid at his feet because of his particular service to evil? How many deaths?

He stood up and walked out of the shade of the arbor and into the open. He looked up at the sun shining so brightly overhead and blinked in its light. He couldn't go back. He couldn't undo the damage he'd caused. He could only move forward.

He turned back to Dwahvel, the sunlight shining behind his dark hair like a halo, casting his face into shadow.

"I won't serve evil again," he declared to her, his voice hard and angry. "I will not be its tool any longer. And when it comes to Waterdeep, I will fight against it to the death. If that makes me some kind of paladin, then so be it. But I am the power to choose, Dwahvel. And I will not choose to perpetuate death and disaster any longer."

Dwahvel looked at him. The light of the sun practically glowed around him in its intensity, but even in the light, there was darkness. In his anger, he'd subconsciously called on the power of the ever-present shadow stones, deepening the gloom beneath the trees, sharpening the edge of his own shadow against the grass.

It was as if light and dark were joined in him—the fierceness and clarity of the light with the mystery and danger of the darkness.

She shivered a little and considered the concept of Artemis Entreri as paladin.

He would be as fierce and terrible as the blade of a sword, as direct and unrelenting as the light of the sun, and as unstoppable and unfathomable as the darkness of shadow. He would be both terrifying and beautiful to behold.

And this was only the beginning, she thought. At his age, any other human would be half-way through with life, but for Artemis Entreri this was only the beginning. All he'd been and done to this point was a stepping stone to what he would be in a hundred years, in two hundred, three hundred, four.

What would he become as a swordsman over those hundreds of years of youth and power? What would he become as a sorcerer with all of the Shadow Weave at his disposal?

And Dwahvel had the privilege of being there at the start of the incredible being that was and would be Artemis Entreri. She looked at him in the bright sunlight, the black shadow, and was humbled.

Out of everyone in the world who could stand by his side, who could listen to him and guide him--who could love him--the gods had placed her in his path. She was the one he turned to in the night, the one he sought for comfort and peace, the one he treated with tenderness and care. She was the one he loved.

He saw the look on her face as she struggled with some unreadable emotion, and he came back to kneel before her, all his fierce anger pushed aside in concern as she gazed at him. "Tell me," he demanded nervously. "Tell me what you're thinking."

How could she? How could she put into words what she felt for him? What she saw ahead of him?

Instead of speaking, she traced his face with her fingertips. She pushed back his hair, still damp from his bath but beginning to dry in the warmth of the sun. She kissed him once, gently, glad to be the one who could. Then she put her arms around him and rested her cheek against his, enjoying the feel of him, the warmth of him as his arms encircled her in a protective embrace.

Dwahvel held her Artemis close--all he had been, all he was, and all he would be.

And she was not about to let go.

THE END

AN: There you go!!! All done!!!! The trilogy is in the can. Sigh.

Big big big old thanks to all who've been reading and reviewing. Your encouragement has made all the difference. Like I told RonCN, reviews and responses are the coin with which we pay ourselves since fanfiction doesn't pay—see the disclaimer if you don't believe me!!!

So, if you're reading and thinking of not reviewing because A) it's been out a long time, or B) it's already completed, or C) you're just feeling too lazy to log in, please reconsider and review. Even if you hated it, review. Hey, especially if you hated it, please review so I'll know what not to do next time!

Now, to fresh fields and pastures new. Can't swear I won't be back to FR though. I've got all kinds of AE theories to play with and have hinted at what happened to Calihye (spits on ground 'cause I hate her for breaking our boy's heart that way) during her "recruitment" by Kimmuriel and the boys of Bregan D'aerthe, but haven't actually said. If I do, it'll be called Mindgames b/c Mindf**k is just too crude for posting, though a far more accurate description of the events.

And I will probably be posting some original FR-esque fiction on as Arcole there too. Would love input as I work on something for actual publication.

Again, thanks for reading!!!! I love you all!!!!