Behind Ilnezhara, Athrogate lowered his head, and fell forward as much as charged. He ran into the woman's upraised hand, and stopped as surely as if he had hit a rocky mountain wall. He bounced back just a bit, standing dazed, and Ilnezhara faced him squarely and blew upon him, sending him into a backward roll that left him on his belly in the middle of the floor. He propped himself up on his elbows, staring incredulously at the woman, unaware of her real nature, of course.

"Got to get meself a girdle like hers, I'm thinking," he said, and collapsed.

"It was an expensive proposition," Jarlaxle said when the excitement was over. "But I could not let Lady Calihye die and I needed the bargaining chip to facilitate the release of my friend…" He paused and considered Athrogate. "My friends," he corrected, "from King Gareth's dungeon."

"You gave the skull gems to your drow associates from the Underdark?" Tazmikella asked.

"I had no further use for them," said Jarlaxle. "And the Underdark is a good place for such artifacts. They cause nothing but mischief here in the sunlit world."

"They will cause nothing but mischief in the Underdark," said Ilnezhara.

"All the better," said Jarlaxle, and he lifted his glass in toast.

Tazmikella looked to her sister, who spent a few moments staring at Jarlaxle, before slowly nodding.

"We will study this further," Tazmikella said to the drow, turning back.

Jarlaxle hardly heard her, though, for another call had come to him suddenly, in his thoughts.

"Indeed, I would be disappointed if you did not," he said after he sorted through her words. "But pray excuse me, for I have business to attend."

He stood up and tipped his hat.

"We did not dismiss you," Tazmikella said.

"Dear lady, I pray you allow me to go."

"We are tasked by Master Kane to fly you from these lands," said Ilnezhara.

"At sunrise."

"Sunrise, then," said Jarlaxle and he stepped forward.

Tazmikella's arm came out and blocked his way, and Jarlaxle cast a plaintive look at Ilnezhara.

"Let him go, sister," Ilnezhara bade.

Tazmikella locked Jarlaxle with her gaze, the stare of an angry dragon, but she did drop her arm to allow him to pass.

"Do see to him," Jarlaxle bade the waitress, indicating Athrogate. "Put him in a chair when he awakens and dull his pain with all the drink he desires." He tossed a small bag of coins to her as he finished, and she nodded.

"He spoke truthfully?" Tazmikella asked as soon as she and her sister were alone.

"If incompletely, and I am not so sure about Knellict's fate."

"A wise choice by King Gareth to send that one on his way," Tazmikella said. "He remains in contact with the creatures of the Underdark?" She gave a derisive snort. "The fool, to be sure, but we are all better off if the skull gems are indeed removed from the lands. Perhaps good consequence can come from evil dealings, for that one is naught but trouble."

"I will miss him," was all that the obviously distracted Ilnezhara would reply, and she stared wistfully at the departing drow.

She swayed in the smoky candlelight, her hair rolling behind her, shoulder to shoulder. Sweat glistened on her naked form, and she arched her back and looked up at the ceiling of the inn room, breathing and moaning softly.

Beneath her, Artemis Entreri clutched that beautiful image in his thoughts, found respite from the frustration and anger. He was angry at being used by Jarlaxle, and more so at being rescued by the drow—the last thing he wanted was to be indebted in any way to that one. And the road beckoned again, a road he would walk with Jarlaxle and the annoying Athrogate, apparently.

And with Calihye, he reminded himself as he reached up and ran his hand gently from the underside of the woman's chin all the way down to her belly. She would be his anchor, he hoped, his solid foundation, and with that firm footing, perhaps he could find a way to be rid of Jarlaxle.

But did he really want that?

It was all too confusing for the poor man. He glanced to the side, to where he had piled his clothes and other gear, and he saw Idalia's flute among that pile. The flute had done things to him, he knew, had pried open his heart and had forced him to ask for more out of his life than simple existence.

He hated it and appreciated it all at once.

Everything seemed like that to Artemis Entreri. Everything was a jumble, a confusing paradox of love and hate, of stoicism and desperate need, of friendship and the desire for solitude. Nothing seemed clear, nothing consistent.

He looked up at his lover and changed his mind on those last points. It was real, and warm. For the first time in his life, he had given himself fully to a woman.

Calihye rolled her head forward and looked at him, her eyes full of intensity and determination. She chewed her bottom lip a bit; her breath came in short puffs. Then she threw her head back and arched her spine, and Entreri felt her tighten like a drawn bowstring.

He closed his eyes and let the moment wash over him and take him with it, and he felt Calihye relax. He opened his eyes, expecting to see her crumbling atop him.

He saw instead the woman staring down at him, a dagger in her hand.

A dagger aimed for his heart.

And he had no defense, had no way to stop its deadly plunge. He could have brought his hand across to accept the stab there, perhaps, but he did not.

For in the split second of the dagger's plunge, Entreri understood that all of his hope had flown, that all of it, the entire foundation that held his sanity, was just another lie. He didn't try to block it. He didn't try to dodge aside.

The dagger could not hurt him more than the betrayal already had.

PART THREE

THE ROAD HOME

The point of self reflection is, foremost, to clarify and to find honesty. Self reflection is the way to throw self lies out and face the truth—however painful it might be to admit that you were wrong. We seek consistency in ourselves, and so when we are faced with inconsistency, we struggle to deny.

Denial has no place in self-reflection, and so it is incumbent upon a person to admit his errors, to embrace them and to move along in a more positive direction.

We can fool ourselves for all sorts of reasons. Mostly for the sake of our ego, of course, but sometimes, I now understand, because we are afraid.

For sometimes we are afraid to hope, because hope breeds expectation, and expectation can lead to disappointment.

And so I ask myself again, without the protective wall—or at least, conscious of it and determined to climb over it—why do I feel kinship to this man, Artemis Entreri, who has betrayed almost everything that I have come to hold dear? Why do I think about him—ever? Why did I not kill him when I had the chance? What instinct halted the thrust of a scimitar?

I have often wondered, even recently and even as I ponder this new direction, if Artemis Entreri is who I might have been had I not escaped Menzoberranzan. Would my increasing anger have led me down the road he chose, that of passionless killer? It seems a logical thing to me that I might have lost myself in the demands of perfectionism, and would have found refuge in the banality of a life lived without passion. A lack of passion is perhaps a lack of introspection, and it is that very nature of self-evaluation that would have utterly destroyed my soul had I remained in the city of my birth.

It is only now, in these days when I have at last shed the weight of guilt that for so long burdened my shoulders, that I can say without hesitation that no, had I remained in Menzoberranzan, I would not have become the image of Artemis Entreri. More like Zaknafein, I expect, turning my anger outward instead of inward, wearing rage as armor and not garmenting my frame in the fears of what is in my heart. Zaknafein's was not an existence I desire, nor is it one in which I would have long survived, I am sure, but neither is it the way of Entreri.