R. Salvatore - The Last Threshold

“Imagine my surprise at seeing you here,” she said, taking the seat across from him.

“Yes, imagine. Where’s Drizzt?”

“I do not know, and I do not care.”

Entreri gave a little laugh. “After a month at sea? And with more months at sea before us? I would have expected you two to … catch up.”

“More months at sea before us? ” Dahlia scoffed.

Entreri looked at her as if he didn’t understand.

“You said that Baldur’s Gate would be your last stop,” Dahlia reminded him, “that you would not be returning to Luskan with Minnow Skipper .”

Entreri shrugged as if it didn’t matter. He lifted his glass and took a deep swallow.

“So you are continuing on with us to Luskan?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Dahlia sighed at the man’s ever-cryptic offerings. She glanced around, irritated almost as much as she had been when she left Drizzt back in the room. “Where is that barmaid?”

Entreri laughed, drawing her gaze back to him.

“No server,” he explained, and motioned over to Dahlia’s right. “Bar’s over there.”

“Well, go buy me some feywine.”

“Unlikely.”

Dahlia started to glare at him, but let it go and rushed from her seat, pushing impatiently through the talking patrons. One started to protest, even to threaten her, but he looked past her-to Entreri, she realized-and he bit his words short and fell far back. Indeed, Entreri knew this city well, and it, apparently, knew him.

Soon after, Dahlia returned to the table with two full bottles of feywine and a pair of glasses.

“Planning a late night?” Entreri asked.

“Let’s play a game.”

“Let’s not. Go play with Drizzt.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Of what?”

“Of losing to me?”

“Of losing what?”

“Your superior attitude, perhaps.”

Entreri laughed at her as she poured them both drinks. She lifted her glass in toast, and the assassin reluctantly followed suit and tapped the goblets together. He took just a sip, though, and Dahlia realized that she had put him on his guard, which was most decidedly not what she had in mind.

“We could play for coins,” she said.

“I have few. And I don’t care to seek work ashore.”

“For items, then?”

Entreri looked her over. “I might fancy that strange weapon you carry.”

“And I would fancy your dagger.”

Entreri shook his head and crossed his arms over his chest. “Not for any odds you might offer, Dahlia. I lost this once, but not again.”

“Not that dagger,” she said with a mischievous look and a sparkle in her eye.

Entreri’s expression did not soften-quite the opposite.

“Go back to Drizzt,” he said evenly.

Dahlia realized that she had pushed him too far. Was it a code of honor, she wondered? Was he afraid of Drizzt? That seemed far-fetched to her. Was Entreri, perhaps, really more of a friend to Drizzt than either of them cared to admit?

“I need to talk,” she said, trying a different tact.

“Go talk to Drizzt.”

Dahlia shook her head. “He doesn’t understand.”

“Then tell him.”

Dahlia sighed and slumped at the man’s barrage of short, closed answers. “He knows, but he doesn’t understand,” she said, letting more emotion into her voice. “How can he? How could anyone who has not lived through the darkness?”

Entreri seemed to have run out of snappy answers. He just sat there, arms still crossed, though he did mutter, “Menzoberranzan?” in answer to Dahlia’s assertion.

Dahlia lifted her glass in a toast again, and to her surprise, he actually responded in kind. He took a deeper draw of the wine, so much so that she lifted the bottle and refilled both their glasses.

Her subtle reminder of their shared trauma had touched him somewhere deep inside, she knew.

“Have you ever found love?” she asked, and her tone reflected more sadness than anger.

“I don’t know,” he replied.

“The truth!” Dahlia spouted, coming forward. She slipped out of her chair to take a seat in one right beside Entreri. “The truth,” she said again more quietly. “You don’t know because you cannot be sure, because you are not sure what the word even means.”

“Do you love Drizzt?” he asked.

The question surprised her, and she blurted out, “No” before she really even considered it.

Because Dahlia wasn’t here to consider such things. They didn’t matter. Dahlia was here to begin a string of events that would lead to the place she truly wished to be. And Artemis Entreri would carry her to that place like a fine steed.

“It is a matter of convenience,” she explained.

Entreri’s smile widened at that, and he drained his glass again, and this time refilled it of his own accord. “Does Drizzt know that?” he asked while pouring.

“If I spent my days worrying about what that one knows or does not know about love, I would think of nothing else, I am sure. But it hardly concerns me. He cannot understand the truth of who I am, or of the place from where I came, so how deep might any love run with him.”

She shifted closer to Entreri, put her face near to his and bade him, “Tell me about your early years.”

He resisted, but his arms were no longer crossed.

Dahlia would be patient. She could see the truth: The man was wracked by memories he had never shared, and his warrior’s stubbornness hadn’t put those dark days as far behind him as he would have liked.

Dahlia saw him as vulnerable, and because of her own background, and because she had long seen the truth about herself, she knew how to wrestle free that vulnerability and take advantage of it.

“Do you know why I wear such baubles on my ears?” she asked. Entreri looked at her curiously, studying her diamonds, the many clear ones on her left ear, the single black diamond stud on her right.

“Former lovers,” she said, tapping her left ear.

“Current on your right,” Entreri said, and he chuckled. “Black diamond for a drow, I see.”

“I hope it doesn’t look awkward when I move it to my left lobe with the others,” she said.

Entreri laughed at her.

She poured more wine.

“Will you listen to my tale?” Dahlia whispered.

“I think I know most of it.”

Dahlia looked around. “Not here,” she said. “I cannot.” She slid her chair back and stood up, drained her drink in one gulp, then similarly drained Entreri’s. She collected the bottles and glasses and looked at the man plaintively.

“I need to tell it,” she said. “In full. I have never done that. I fear I’ll not be free until I do.”

She looked across the room to the stairs leading to the rooms above, then back at Entreri, who, to her pleasant surprise, was rising from his seat. He stopped at the bar on their way, and collected two more bottles of the wine.

Dahlia had been caught by her own net, she realized once they’d arrived in his room, and realized, too, that she didn’t care. So she told him all of it, of her trip that morning long ago to the river to fetch some water, of returning to her clan’s small village to find it full of Shadovar.

With tears in her eyes, she told him of the rape, of watching her mother’s murder.

They drank and they talked, and she began to pry at Entreri, and Entreri began to talk. He told Dahlia of his own mother’s betrayal, of being sold as a slave and taken to Calimport-and he nearly spat as he spoke that city’s name. He started to tell of his rise on the streets, but suddenly he stopped, and he looked at her with a puzzled expression.

She swallowed hard.

“Tell me about those other diamonds,” Entreri said. “The ones in your left ear.”

“About those other lovers, you mean,” Dahlia said, and she let a hint of wickedness slip into her tone. But any hopes that Entreri was looking for a voyeuristic thrill were quickly dashed by the stern-faced assassin.