“You believe that throwing the weapon into the mouth of the primordial will destroy it,” she said.
“I came to speak of Guenhwyvar.”
“That, too,” the red-haired woman agreed.
Drizzt found himself quite at ease as he regarded her disarming smile . . . truly disarming, with freckled dimples and a sweetness that went beyond all reason.
He determinedly shook that curious, and curiously stray, thought away.
“I agree with your assessment of the sword,” Arunika said, and she eased back into a soft cushioned couch, casually tossing her long and soft red hair from in front of her face.
“And our course?”
“Artemis Entreri thinks that destroying the blade will destroy him.”
“He does not fear . . .” Drizzt started to say, but he stopped short and stared hard at Arunika. How had she come to know Entreri’s real name? To everyone else in the city, save himself and Dahlia, the man was still known as Barrabus the Gray, and as far as he knew, none of them had uttered any hints of the assassin’s real identity.
“Oh, he fears it, of course,” Arunika replied, apparently missing the drow’s shocked response—or ignoring it. “He just has too much hatred within him to admit it. Everyone fears death, ranger. Everyone.”
“Then perhaps some simply fear living more.”
Arunika shrugged as if it did not matter. “If you deign to destroy Charon’s Claw, your best path is to the primordial, I agree,” she went on. “Oh, there are better ways—surer ways . . . the breath of an ancient white dragon comes to mind—but I expect that time is not your ally. Charon’s Claw is a Netherese blade, and those unbearable despots will go to such lengths to protect and retrieve their artifacts that would impress any githyanki zealot.”
Drizzt wasn’t quite sure of the analogy. He had heard of the githyanki. They were sometimes seen in Menzoberranzan and the few he had viewed did seem to possess unduly decorated armor and weapons. The reference seemed clear enough, though.
“Since I know of no cooperative ancient white dragons in the area, my advice to you would be the primordial in Gauntlgrym.”
“You seem to know quite a bit of quite a bit,” Drizzt replied. “Charon’s Claw? Gauntlgrym? Even the assassin’s real name. I expect that little of that information is general throughout Neverwinter.”
“I survive by being smarter than those around me,” Arunika replied.
“And you have ways of seeing things others cannot discern, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” the woman replied, and she patted the cushion beside her on the couch.
Drizzt grabbed a wooden chair instead, and set it before her, drawing a cute— too cute—little laugh from Arunika as he did.
“Does my insight, or perhaps, my other-sight, disappoint you?” she asked coyly.
Drizzt considered that for a moment, and then answered, “Not if it aids me.”
“Your beloved Guenhwyvar,” Arunika stated. “May I have the figurine?”
Before he even considered the movement, Drizzt produced the onyx statuette and reached it out toward Arunika, hesitating only when she similarly stretched to retrieve it from him. Few had held this figurine, few would the drow trust to ever touch it, let alone take it from his grasp. Yet here he was, giving it to a curiously knowledgeable woman he hardly knew! His grip instinctively tightened.
“If you wish my advice and insight, it would be better for you to allow me to study it properly,” the woman remarked, and Drizzt perked up as if coming out of a slumber and handed Guenhwyvar over.
“It will take some time for me to properly inspect the aura around the magical statue,” Arunika explained, rolling it over in her hands before her sparkling, pretty eyes.
Incredibly pretty, Drizzt thought, and it wasn’t until her words registered that he was able to get that thought out of his mind.
“I have little time,” he said. “My friends have already departed Neverwinter, likely, and I will not leave without Guenhwyvar.”
“Without the statue, you mean,” Arunika corrected, and the reality of that stung Drizzt profoundly.
“You’re welcome to stay and watch,” the woman said. She rose from the couch and moved to a desk at the side of the room, pulling open the largest, lowest drawer and producing a satchel. She placed it on the table and rummaged through it, bringing forth assorted candles and powders, a silver bowl, a phial of clear liquid, and a silvery scroll tube.
Drizzt watched from across the room and said not another word as Arunika set up her scrying table. She chanted under her breath as she lit the candles, spacing them appropriately around the bowl, then began a different incantation as she poured the liquid into the bowl, splashing it over the onyx figurine in the process.
She set her hands on the table, palms up, tilted her head back, and let her eyes roll up as she began to chant louder and more insistently.
It went on for a long, long while, and Drizzt constantly glanced out the window to try to gauge the passing hours. He knew that Dahlia and Entreri couldn’t go into Gauntlgrym without him—he had the sword, after all! But the thought of them out on the road alone bit at his sensibilities in no good way.
The sun was low in the sky when Arunika abruptly stood up from her seat and rubbed her eyes. Casually, she tossed the onyx figurine back to Drizzt.
“What do you know?” he asked, not liking that almost dismissive toss, or the resigned look on the woman’s face.
“I sense no connection to the creature you call Guenhwyvar,” Arunika admitted.
“What does that mean?” Drizzt asked, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice, though a primal scream was surely bubbling within him.
The red-haired woman shrugged.
“That the magic has been dispelled?” Drizzt demanded. “Or that the panth—or that Guenhwyvar has been destroyed? Is that even possible?”
“Of course,” Arunika said, and Drizzt swallowed hard.
“She is the astral essence of the panther, akin to a goddess,” Drizzt protested.
“Even gods can be destroyed, Drizzt Do’Urden. Though we do not know that such is the case. Somehow, some way, the connection between the panther and the statuette has been severed—understand that they are not the same thing! Artemis Entreri carries the token of the nightmare, indeed you wear one of a unicorn, but these are magical creations affixed to magical implements. Your whistle is your steed. To destroy the whistle would be to obliterate the magical construct you call Andahar. The same is true of Entreri’s mount. These are not life forms, but enchantments cleverly disguised as such. Without the disguise, you could ride your whistle across the leagues, though I doubt your sensibilities would find much comfort in that, to say nothing of your arse.”
Drizzt could hardly keep up with her, given the enormity of the woman’s proclamation regarding Guenhwyvar. His blank stare brought Arunika over to him, where she dropped a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“Guenhwyvar is different from your whistle,” she explained. “Different from Entreri’s hell steed. Guenhwyvar is a living, breathing creature of another dimension, an essence not captured by the statuette, but one called by the statuette. It is an old enchantment—one from the days of the great mythals, I expect!—and one not easily replicated by any living mage, not even Elminster himself.”
“You think her dead,” Drizzt remarked.
Arunika shrugged and patted his shoulder again. “I think we cannot know. What we, what I, know, is that there is no connection I can sense between your statuette and that creature, Guenhwyvar. Your figurine still radiates magic—that much I can easily see, but it is a beacon without a viewer.”
Drizzt swallowed hard and slowly shook his head, not wanting to hear it.
“I’m sorry, Drizzt Do’Urden,” Arunika said, and she went up to her tip-toes and kissed Drizzt on the cheek.
He pulled back. “Keep looking!” He thought back to a fateful day in Mithral Hall, so long ago, when he had grabbed Jarlaxle by the collar and similarly implored him, only on that occasion, to find Catti-brie and Regis.
Arunika just fixed him with that sympathetic, calming smile and nodded.
Drizzt stumbled out of the room and the inn and back onto the street, where only a few folks milled around, all looking his way curiously.
“He’s been to the red-headed one’s bed,” one woman snickered to her friend as they hustled by, clearly mistaking the drow’s wobbly gait.
“Guenhwyvar,” he whispered, rolling the onyx statue over in his hand. A burst of rage came over him. He blew into his silver whistle, and leaped upon Andahar’s strong back as the unicorn thundered up to join him, then urged the mighty steed away at a full gallop.
He needed the exertion; he sought exhaustion. Only in action could he find solace at that dark moment.
He thundered out of Neverwinter’s main gate, Andahar’s hooves churning the northern road, the wind bringing moistness to the drow’s lavender eyes.
Or maybe it wasn’t the wind.