And that number will grow, my friend.
I thought it was a burp from Catti-brie, a sudden shift, but no, it wasn’t a growling belly.
It was a foot, Guen, a perfect little foot, the foot of my daughter or of my son, perhaps. A perfect foot.
What steps will that foot take, I wonder? What roads wandered, what adventures found, what goodness left in its wake?
My road has come fully home now, and I am surrounded by all that I love and cherish—and now so without fear. Catti-brie is beside me and so I am happy.
You are with me, and so I am happy.
Regis has his settlement on the door of Gauntlgrym, and so I am happy.
Bruenor is the rightful King of Gauntlgrym, and with the Hosttower renewed, the dwarven city will long outlive him, and so I am happy.
Wulfgar is all about, and ever smiling—perhaps he will become King of Damara someday, or more likely he will find his road ever winding and full of adventure—and often, I hope, with me beside him—and so I am happy.
And Artemis Entreri … I do not know where to begin. Never did I imagine that in the end, I would come to see him in this manner. Has he found redemption and atonement? That is not for me to decide, for I know not the depth of his crimes or the full darkness that once clouded his heart. But I know now what he has become: someone who can look into a mirror. Someone who can smile.
It is striking to me that I care so much—perhaps the sun does shine brighter after the darkest night, after all—but truly, when I look upon him now, I am satisfied. He came for me, at great risk. He stood by me, and Regis, in the darkness of Malcanthet’s lair. He is no one I would need pull to Port Llast to help the settlers now, for he would offer to walk beside me.
To believe in redemption is to believe in hope and rescue from any darkness.
And so I say, and they are not words I must force:
“Artemis Entreri, hero.”
—Drizzt Do’Urden
Epilogue
JARLAXLE SCRIBBLED HIS NAME ON SOME MANIFESTS AND WORK orders, the clerical functions of running a city like Luskan. The mercenary truly hated these duties, but at least he had Beniago to keep his own attention to such mundane chores to a minimum.
And despite the heavier load of parchments this day, Jarlaxle couldn’t help but be in a fine mood. All was progressing wonderfully. The Hosttower had many levels, many rooms, and many inhabitants, the ties with both Gauntlgrym and Menzoberranzan strengthened every day, and those few people Jarlaxle cared about on a personal level were safe and prospering.
At this moment, however brief it would probably be, the world was good.
There came a soft knock on his door, and Jarlaxle was surprised as he looked up to see Yvonnel walk into the room.
“I thought you were off to Icewind Dale,” Jarlaxle said, leaning his chair back on two legs, folding his hands behind his head, and throwing his booted feet up onto his desk.
“I found an interesting side road,” was all Yvonnel replied.
“To finish an interesting year, no doubt.”
“To meet a goddess? Yes, interesting is a word I would use.”
“Speaking of that one, your spells?”
“They remain as strong as ever,” Yvonnel informed him with an honest shrug. She was as surprised by that as she clearly expected Jarlaxle to be.
“You pray to her still, then?”
“No.”
“Then why? How?”
Yvonnel shrugged again, and Jarlaxle came forward in his chair a bit, staring at her, intrigued.
“He faced her,” Yvonnel said. “Toe to toe. Without fear of her. Fully at peace with whatever tempest she might bring.”
“Drizzt?”
“He thinks he can remake her,” Yvonnel said, shaking her head with every word. “He will never admit it, I expect, but he thinks he can reform her.”
“Of course he does!”
“Her! Lolth!” Yvonnel said incredulously.
“Of course!” Jarlaxle explained. “That’s why he fights. Hope gives him meaning. That’s why we love him. Still, you must admit that the gods are practical above all else. If the hearts of their followers change, their power will be diminished if they do not follow. Divine paradox, I think.”
“Her!” Yvonnel said again, laughing helplessly and shaking her head. She gave a slight nod, then glanced back out the open door and nodded to someone out of Jarlaxle’s sight.
Another drow, a man, walked in through that door.
Jarlaxle nearly fell backward over his chair, then, compensating, fell forward and only caught himself by the edge of the desk, his jaw open, the mercenary speechless for one of the very few times in his long life. He closed his uncovered eye and stared through the magical eye patch. Then, certain, he threw back the eye patch so he could fully see the man.
He knew what he was seeing, but didn’t know what to do, and for a long-held breath, didn’t know how to feel, what to feel, what to think …
His mind whirled backward in time, to dances in the streets of Menzoberranzan, to so many battles, singing songs and weaving a deadly symphony of four blades.
Arms joined, swords side-by-side, with his most trusted—his only trusted friend.
He leaped over the desk in a rush, caring not for the ink bottles and parchments and knickknacks flying all about. He hit the floor in a stumbling run up to the newcomer and threw a great hug over the man then almost immediately shoved him back to arms’ length so he could stare at him some more, needing to know that this was real.
“I wish to see my son,” the man said.
And it was real. The tears came rushing to Jarlaxle like the tide on hurricane winds, and he didn’t even try to hold them back. Voice breaking, he fought for the words.
“You will be proud.”
R. A. Salvatore, Hero
(Series: Homecoming # 3)
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends