R. Salvatore - The Collected Stories, The Legend of Drizzt

Anders ran to the panther’s side; Josidiah joined him there a moment later.

“Do something!” the elf pleaded.

“There is nothing I can do,” Anders protested.

“Send the cat back into the figurine,” Josidiah said. “She should be whole again when she returns.”

Anders turned on the elf, grabbed him by the front of his tunic. “I have not completed the spell,” he cried, and only then did it hit the mage. What had brought the panther out here? Why would a panther, a wild panther, run to the aid of an elf?

“I never got close to finishing,” the mage said more calmly, letting go of the elf. “I just let her go.”

Josidiah turned his wide-eyed stare from Anders to the panther. The questions were obvious then; neither the elf nor the mage bothered to speak them aloud.

“We must get her back to my tower,” Anders said.

Josidiah’s expression remained incredulous. How were they to carry six hundred pounds of limp cat all the way back to the tower?

But Anders had an answer for that. He took out a swatch of black velvet and unfolded it several times, until he had a patch of blackness several feet in diameter on the hilltop. Then the mage lifted one side of the cloth and gently eased it against the rear of the panther.

Josidiah blinked, realizing that the cat’s tail had disappeared into the cloth!

“Lift her as I pass this over her,” Anders begged. Josidiah did just that, lifting the cat inch by inch as the mage moved the cloth along. The panther was swallowed up by the blackness.

“Extradimensional hole,” the mage explained, slipping it forward to engulf the cat’s head. Then he laid the cloth flat once more and carefully folded it back to a size that would fit in his pocket. “She is quite fine,” he said. “Well, except for the giant’s wounds.”

“Wondrous toys, wizard,” Josidiah congratulated.

“Spoils of adventuring,” Anders replied with a wink. “You should get out more.”

The mirth could not hold as the pair ran off, back for Beltgarden Home. What might they do there but make the dying cat comfortable, after all?

Anders did just that, opening his portable hole and gently easing the panther part of the way out of it. He stopped short, though, and Josidiah winced, understanding that the cat was drawing her last breaths.

“Perhaps I can finish the figurine enchantment,” Anders reasoned. He looked sympathetically to Josidiah. “Be gone,” he said, “for I must slay the cat quickly, mercifully.”

Josidiah shook his head, determined to bear witness to the transformation, to the mortal end of this most wondrous cat, to this intelligent panther that had come, unbidden, to his rescue. How might the elf explain the bond that had grown between him and the cat? Had Anders’s magical preparation imparted a sense of loyalty to the panther, given her the beginnings of that mindless slavery she would have known as a magical tool?

Josidiah looked once more into the cat’s eyes and knew that was not the case. Something else had happened here, something of a higher order, though perhaps in part facilitated by the magic of Anders’s preparation.

Anders moved quickly to retrieve the figurine and placed it beside the dying panther. “You will take the figurine,” he said to Josidiah.

“I cannot,” the bladesinger replied, for he could not bear to see the panther in the subsequent lessened form, could not bear to take the cat as his slave.

Anders did not argue-there was no time for that. He poured some enchanted oil over the cat’s head, weaving his magic, and placed his hand over the panther’s eyes.

“I name you Whiskers,” he began, putting his dagger against the animal’s throat.

“No!” Josidiah shouted, rushing beside the mage, grabbing the man’s hand and pulling the dagger away. “Not Whiskers, never that!”

Josidiah looked to the cat, into the marvelous yellow-green eyes, shining intently still, though the moment of death was upon her. He studied the animal, the beautiful, silent friend. “Shadow,” he declared.

“No, not shadow,” said Josidiah, and he held back the dagger once more. “The high elvish word for shadow.” He looked right into the cat’s eyes, searching for some confirmation. He had not chosen this name, he suddenly understood; this had been the panther’s name all along.

“Guenhwyvar.”

As soon as he uttered the name, there came a black flash, like the negative image of one of Anders’s lightning bolts. Gray mist filled the room; the cloth swatch contracted and disappeared altogether, and then the panther, too, was gone, dissipating into nothingness.

Anders and Josidiah fell back, sitting side by side. It seemed for a moment that there was a profound line of emptiness in the room, a rift in the universe, as though the fabric of the planes of existence had been torn asunder. But then it was gone, everything-panther, hole, and rift, and all that remained was the figurine.

“What did you do?” Josidiah asked the mage.

“I?” balked Anders. “What did you do?”

Josidiah moved cautiously to retrieve the figurine. With it in hand, he looked back to Anders, who nodded slowly in agreement.

“Guenhwyvar,” the elf called nervously.

A moment later, the area beside the elf filled with the gray mist, swirling and gradually taking the shape of the panther. She was breathing more easily, as though her wounds were fast on the mend. She looked up at Josidiah, and the elf’s breath fell away, lost in the intensity, the intelligence, of that gaze.

This was no slave, no magical tool; this was the panther, the same wondrous panther!

“How did you do this?” the elf asked.

“I know not,” Anders replied. “And I do not even know what I, what we, have done, with the figurine. It is the statuette that transforms into the living beast, and yet, the cat is here, and so is the statuette!” The old mage chuckled, locking gazes with the elf. “Send her away to heal,” he bade.

Josidiah looked to the cat. “Go, Guenhwyvar, but I shall summon you forth again, I promise.”

The panther growled, but it was not an angry sound, and she began a slow, limping pace, melting away into gray mist.

“That is the joy of magic,” Anders said. “The mystery of it all. Why, even the greatest wizards could not explain this, I should guess. Perhaps all of my preparation, perhaps the magic of the hole-ah, yes, my dear, lost hole! — perhaps the combination of all these things.

“The joy of the mysteries,” he finished. “Very well, then, give it to me.” And he held out his hand for the figurine, but Josidiah clutched it all the tighter.

“Never,” the elf said with a smile, and Anders smiled, as well.

“Indeed,” said the mage, hardly surprised. “But you will pay for my lost hole, and for my time and effort.”

“Gladly,” said the elf, and he knew, holding that statuette, holding the key to the wondrous black panther, to Guenhwyvar, whom Josidiah realized would be his most loyal companion and friend for all the rest of his days, that it would be the most worthwhile gold he ever spent.

The Year of the Shield (1367 DR)

It is not so different from Calimport,” Artemis Entreri insisted, somewhat stubbornly.

Across the table from him, Jarlaxle merely chuckled.

“And you call my people xenophobic,” the dark elf replied. “At least we are not so racist toward others of our own species!”

“You talk the part of the fool.”

“I talked my way into the city, did I not?” Jarlaxle replied with that mischievous grin of his.

It was true enough. He and Entreri had come north and east, to the region known as the Bloodstone Lands. There, word had it, adventurers could do a fine business in goblin ears and the like, taken from the wild lands of Vaasa to the north of the kingdom of Damara and this city, Damara’s capital, Heliogabalus. Liberally invoking the name of Gareth Dragonsbane, and reminding the city guards that the Paladin King of Damara was a man known for tolerance and understanding, a man known for judging all people by their actions and not their heritage, the dark elf had convinced the city’s stern protectors to allow him entry.