Robert Salvatore: The Pirate King

She at last turned her head to the side, the first movement she’d made in many days. There on a shelf, from within the depths of a hollowed skull, it sparkled—and with more than simple reflection of the enchanted light set in the corners of the decorated chamber.

Nay, that light came from inside the gem, the phylactery. That sparkle was the spark of life, of undeath existence, of Arklem Greeth.

With great effort, her skin and bones crackling at the first real movement in so many days, Valindra stood and walked stiff-legged over to the skull. She rolled it onto its side and reached in to retrieve the phylactery. Lifting it to her eyes, Valindra stared intently, as if trying to discern the tiny form of the lich.

But it appeared as just a gem with an inner sparkle, a magical light.

Valindra knew better. She knew that she held the spirit, the life energy, of Arklem Greeth in her hand.

To be resurrected into undeath, a lich once more, or to be destroyed, utterly and irrevocably?

Valindra Shadowmantle smiled and for just a brief moment, forgot her calamity and considered the possibilities.

He had promised her immortality, and more importantly, he had promised her power.

Perhaps that was all she had left.

She stared at the phylactery, the gemstone prison of her helpless master, feeling and basking in her power.

“It’s all there,” Jarlaxle insisted to Drizzt on the outskirts of Luskan as evening fell.

Drizzt eyed him for just a moment before slinging the pack over his shoulder.

“If I meant to keep anything, it would have been the cat, certainly,” Jarlaxle said, looking over, and leading Drizzt’s gaze to Guenhwyvar, who sat contentedly licking her paws. “Perhaps someday you’ll realize that I’m not your enemy.”

Regis, his face all bruised and bandaged from his fall, snorted at that.

“Well, I didn’t mean for you to roll off the roof!” Jarlaxle answered. “But of course, I had to put you to sleep, for your own sake.”

“You didn’t give me everything back,” Regis snarled at him.

Jarlaxle conceded the point with a shrug and a sigh. “Almost everything,” he replied. “Enough for you to forgive me my one indulgence—and rest assured that I have replaced it with gems more valuable than anything it would have garnered on the open market.”

Regis had no answer.

“Go home,” Jarlaxle bade them both. “Go home to King Bruenor and your beloved friends. There is nothing left for you to do here.”

“Luskan is dead,” Drizzt said.

“To your sensibilities, surely so,” Jarlaxle agreed. “Beyond resurrection.”

Drizzt stared at the City of Sails for a few moments longer, digesting all that had transpired. Then he turned, draped an arm over his halfling friend, and led Regis away, not looking back.

“We can still save Longsaddle, perhaps,” Regis offered, and Drizzt laughed and gave him an appreciative shake.

Jarlaxle watched them go until they were out of sight. Then he reached into his belt pouch to retrieve the one item he had taken from Regis: a small scrimshaw statue the halfling had sculpted into the likeness of Drizzt and Guenhwyvar.

Jarlaxle smiled warmly and tipped his great cap to the east, to Drizzt Do’Urden.