EPILOGUE
THE STARS REACHED DOWN TO HIM, LIKE SO MANY TIMES BEFORE IN THIS enchanted place.
He was on Bruenor’s Climb, though he didn’t know how he had arrived there. Guenhwyvar was beside him, leaning against him, supporting his shattered leg, but he didn’t remember calling to her.
Of all the places Drizzt had ever traveled, none had felt more comforting than here. Perhaps it had been the company he had so often found up here, but even without Bruenor beside him, this place, this lone peak rising above the flat, dark tundra, had ever brought a spiritual sustenance to Drizzt Do’Urden. Up here, he felt small and mortal, but at the same time, felt confident that he was part of something much larger, of something eternal.
On Bruenor’s Climb, the stars reached down to him, or he lifted up among them, floating free of his physical restraints, his spirit rising and soaring among the celestial spheres. He could hear the sound of the great clockwork up here, could feel the celestial winds in his face and could melt into the ether.
It was a place of the deepest meditation for Drizzt, a place where he understood the great cycle of life and death.
A place that seemed fitting now, as the blood continued to flow from the wound in his forehead.
Ambergris stood with her hands on her hips, looking this way and that, fully perplexed. She turned to Afafrenfere, who could only shrug.
They saw the blood, the signs of the tumble, the signs of the fight, as Entreri had explained to them when he had returned to the camp, a thoroughly shaken Dahlia in his grasp.
But Drizzt was not here.
His leg was broken, Entreri had said, and his head bleeding badly, and indeed, the three of them, the dwarf, the monk, and Effron, easily located the spot where Drizzt had last stood against Dahlia simply by the amount of blood on the ground.
But he wasn’t there, and there was no trail leading from that place, not a line of blood nor drag marks one would expect from a person with a shattered leg.
“Someone found him first,” Effron offered.
“Someone flying, then,” Afafrenfere replied, holding up his hands helplessly as he stood near the lone set of tracks in the snow leading from this place, the path of Entreri and Dahlia that had so easily led them out from their camp.
All three looked up, as if expecting a great bird or a dragon to descend upon them.
“Not hurtin’ as bad as Entreri thinked,” Ambergris surmised. “He’s a ranger, then, and with no small skill.”
“But where would he go?” asked Effron.
“To the Battlehammer dwarves,” Afafrenfere said, and the others nodded.
“We’ll go by there and see,” Ambergris declared.
“Entreri said we were to leave directly, and before the dawn,” Effron reminded them, “to the east and south and out of the dale.”
“Entreri’s wrong, then,” the monk said. “Drizzt wouldn’t leave a friend in such a state, nor will I.”
“Aye,” the dwarf agreed.
Effron glanced back toward their camp, where Dahlia and Entreri were packing up the bedrolls, and couldn’t suppress a wince. He was caught in the middle between his mother and the drow, and while he didn’t want to go against Dahlia in these tentative beginnings of their relationship, he couldn’t disagree with the reasoning of the dwarf and monk. Drizzt had been a loyal companion to him, had welcomed him after his “conversion,” and indeed had become more than a mere companion to Effron. In the Shadowfell, in those days when they sat starving side-by-side, Drizzt had been Effron’s friend.
And it wasn’t a self-serving friendship, the likes of which had dominated every aspect of Effron’s previous existence under the suffrage of Draygo Quick and Herzgo Alegni, but rather, an honest compassion, and welcome.
“To Stokely Silverstream and Clan Battlehammer, then,” the tiefling agreed. “We owe Drizzt that much at least.”
“Perhaps we’re not to part with him, then,” Afafrenfere said obstinately, and he, too, looked back toward the encampment, clearly uncomfortable with the report Artemis Entreri had delivered, clearly upset with the breaking of their band.
“Whole world’s out there,” Ambergris was quick to remind them, however. “Meself ain’t one to stay in this place, not with all roads open. And it’s been many years—who might be knowin’ what we’ll find out there?”
Afafrenfere looked to the dwarf, then back at the camp, and reluctantly nodded.
They did convince Entreri to veer northeast around the base of the mountain to the Battlehammer tunnels.
But the five would leave Icewind Dale, crossing through the Spine of the World pass and coming once more to see the skyline of Luskan a tenday later, with no word of Drizzt Do’Urden.
He had melted into the night, and they knew no more.
The warmth of the blood … the stars reaching down … on his knees against Guenhwyvar … floating up to become one with the stars, with eternity, with all …
The disconnected thoughts pulsed through Drizzt’s consciousness.
Dahlia had slain him, because he wouldn’t so kill her … Entreri intercepting, saving him, but not quite, apparently …
How had he come to this place, Bruenor’s Climb, atop the thousand-foot peak of Kelvin’s Cairn? His broken leg hadn’t carried him here, could not have carried him here.
Why didn’t his leg hurt?
He was drifting away then, and hearing once more the song—the same song he had heard in the enchanted forest on the eastern bank of Lac Dinneshere. The song of Mielikki, he knew in his heart and soul.
The song to call him home.
And who might be there?
His vision blurred. He put his head against Guenhwyvar’s muscled flank, feeling the warmth and strength of the dear panther.
“Don’t forget me,” he whispered.
He heard the song, and the low moan of the panther, and a voice … a voice from long ago, from another time and another life.
His vision crystallized around that sound, for one fleeting instant, and he saw her again, his beloved Catti-brie, and a flood of happiness washed through him.
For she was with the song, and the song beckoned him to join.
The strength left him.
Guenhwyvar cried out, long and low into the Icewind Dale night.
And Catti-brie was there beside him, hugging him and holding him, and he knew that it was all right to let go, to let himself fall, because Catti-brie would catch him.