R. Salvatore: Night of the Hunter

For she held the terrible weapon of her high station, a snake-headed whip, four living serpents weaving eagerly in the air at her side, ready to strike at her command.

“Who are you and why are you here?” Doum’wielle asked in the language of the drow, which her father had taught her.

“Ah, yes, introductions,” her father said. “I would have offered them earlier, but your warriors were too busy trying to kill me.”

The snakes of the female’s whip hissed, reflecting her ire.

“You dare speak to a high priestess with such insolence?”

Doum’wielle was surprised to see her father fall back a step, clearly intimidated. He had underestimated her rank and did not seem overly confident now that it had been revealed.

“Forgive me,” he said with a graceful bow. “I am …”

“Tos’un Armgo, of House Barrison Del’Armgo,” Doum’wielle finished for him. “And I am Doum’wielle Armgo, of the same House.” She stepped forward, Khazid’hea at the ready, its red edge shining angrily, hungrily.

“You will escort us to Menzoberranzan,” she ordered, “where we will rejoin our House.”

She couldn’t tell if the stately priestess opposing her was impressed or amused.

“Children of House Barrison Del’Armgo, Menzoberranzan does not rule here,” she said evenly.

She was amused, Doum’wielle realized, and that did not bode well.

“The city of Q’Xorlarrin, though, will greet you,” the priestess said, and Tos’un sighed, and Doum’wielle thought it and hoped it to be an expression of great relief.

“Q’Xorlarrin?” he asked. “House Xorlarrin has built a city?” He half-turned to Doum’wielle and whispered, “My little Doe, our new life may yet prove more interesting than I had planned.”

“Yes, House Xorlarrin,” the priestess responded. “Once the Third House of Menzoberranzan, now greater. Greater than the Second House, it would seem.”

The way she had spoken seemed to take the hope from her father’s face, Doum’wielle noted.

“Tos’un Armgo,” came a male voice from behind, and Doum’wielle and Tos’un turned in unison to see a drow floating in the air just beyond the ledge. Doum’wielle moved as if to lash out with magic, but her father grabbed her arm and held her still. When she looked at him, she understood that he thought them clearly overmatched.

“Tsabrak?” he asked.

The floating mage laughed and bowed, which seemed almost comical while hanging in mid-air.

“A friend?” Doum’wielle whispered hopefully.

“Drow don’t have friends,” Tos’un whispered back.

“Indeed,” Tsabrak Xorlarrin agreed. “And yet, I have done you a great service, and likely saved you from summary execution.” He pointed down below him, and Doum’wielle and Tos’un dared to inch closer and glance down over the ledge, to see the two drow warriors they had driven over caught helplessly, but safely, in a magical web strung near the bottom of the watery cavern.

“My cousin, the eldest daughter of Matron Zeerith, has only recently been granted, by the will of the goddess, a fourth snake for her implement of Lolth’s mercy, and is eager to put the serpent to use, I would expect. Berellip is not known to show mercy on those who kill Xorlarrins.”

“Perhaps, then, she should not send Xorlarrins to attack the children of House Barrison Del’Armgo!” Doum’wielle imperiously replied. Tos’un gasped and moved to stop her, and indeed, she did bite off the end of that retort.

But only because four living snakes, the heads of Berellip’s mighty whip, bit her in the back for her impudence.

Khazid’hea screamed at her to retaliate, but the poison and the agony denied that, driving Doum’wielle to her knees.

And so her lesson had begun.

Do people really change?

I’ve thought about this question so many times over the last decades-and how poignant it seemed to me when I happened once more upon Artemis Entreri, shockingly alive, given the passage of a century.

I came to travel with him, to trust him, even; does that mean that I came to believe that he had “changed”?

Not really. And now that we have once more parted ways, I don’t believe there to be a fundamental difference in the man, compared to the Entreri I fought beside in the Undercity of Mithral Hall when it was still in the hands of the duergar, or the Entreri I pursued to Calimport when he abducted Regis. Fundamentally, he is the same man, as, fundamentally, I am the same drow.

A person may learn and grow, and thus react differently to a recurring situation-that is the hope I hold for all people, for myself, for societies, even. Is that not the whole point of gaining experience, to use it to make wiser choices, to temper destructive instincts, to find better resolutions? In that regard, I do believe Artemis Entreri to be a changed man, slower in turning to the dagger for resolution, though no less deadly when he needs it. But fundamentally, regarding what lies in the man’s heart, he is the same.

I know that to be true of myself, although, in retrospect, I walked a very different path over the last few years than that I purposefully strode for the majority of my life. Darkness found my heart, I admit. With the loss of so many dear friends came the loss of hope itself and so I gave in to the easier path-although I had vowed almost every day that such a cynical journey would not be the road of Drizzt Do’Urden.

Fundamentally, though, I did not change, and so when faced with the reality of the darkened road, when it came time for me to admit the path to myself, I could not go on.

I cannot say that I miss Dahlia, Entreri, and the others. My heart does not call out for me to go and find them, surely-but I am not so certain that I could confidently claim such a casual attitude about my decision to part ways had it not been for the return of those friends I hold most dear! How can I regret parting with Dahlia when the fork in our road led me directly back into the arms of Catti-brie?

And thus, here I stand, together once more beside the Companions of the Hall, rejoined with the truest and dearest friends I have ever known, and could ever hope to know. Have they changed? Have their respective journeys through the realm of death itself brought to these four friends a new and guiding set of principles that will leave me sorely disappointed as I come to know them once more?

That is a fear I hold, but hold afar.

For people do not fundamentally change, so I believe. The warmth of Catti-brie’s embrace is one inspiring confidence that I am right. The mischievous grin of Regis (even with the mustache and goatee) is one I have seen before. And Bruenor’s call that night under the stars atop Kelvin’s Cairn, and his reaction to Wulfgar … aye, that was Bruenor, true to the thick bone and thick head!

All that said, in these first days together, I have noted a change in Wulfgar’s step, I admit. There is a lightness there I have not seen before, and-curiously, I say, given the description I have been told of his reluctance to leave Iruladoon for the mortal world once more-a smile that never seems to leave his face.

But he is Wulfgar, surely, the proud son of Beornegar. He has found some enlightenment, though in what way I cannot say. Enlightened and lightened. I see no burden there. I see amusement and joy, as if he views this all as a grand adventure on borrowed time, and I cannot deny the health of that perspective!

They are back. We are back. The Companions of the Hall. We are not as we once were, but our hearts remain true, our purpose joined, and our trust for each other undiminished and thus unbridled.