“You speak of old Luskan,” the stubborn Deudermont replied. “These rogues and pirates have taken homes, have taken wives and husbands, have brought forth children. The transition began long before Brambleberry and I sailed north from Waterdeep. That is why the people so readily joined in against the drawn sword, as you put it. Their days in the darkness are ended.”

“Only one high captain accepted the invitation to sit with you for your acceptance speech, and he, Suljack, is considered the least among them.”

“The least, or the wisest?”

Robillard laughed. “Wisdom is not something Suljack has oft been accused of, I’m sure.”

“If he sees the future of Luskan united, then it’s a mantle he will wear more often,” Deudermont insisted.

“So says the governor.”

“So he does.” Deudermont insisted. “Have you no faith in the spirit of humanity?”

Robillard scoffed loudly at that. “I’ve sailed the same seas you have, Captain. I saw the same murderers and pirates. I’ve seen the nature of men, indeed. The spirit of humanity?”

“I believe in it. Optimism, good man! Shake off your surliness and take heart and take hope. Optimism trumps pessimism, and—”

“And reality slaughters one and justifies the other. Problems are not often simply matters of perception.”

“True enough,” Deudermont conceded, “but we can shape that reality if we’re clever enough and strong enough.”

“And optimistic enough,” Robillard said dryly.

“Indeed,” the captain, the governor, beamed against that unending sarcasm.

“The spirit of humanity and brotherhood,” came another dry remark.

“Indeed!”

And wise Robillard rolled his eyes.

CHAPTER 21

THE UNFORGIVING ICEWIND DALE

T he rocks provided only meager shelter from the relentlessly howling wind.

North of Kelvin’s Cairn, out on the open tundra, Drizzt and Regis appreciated having found any shelter at all. Somehow the drow managed to get a fire started, though the flames engaged in so fierce a battle with the wind that they seemed to have little heat left over for the companions.

Regis sat uncomplaining, working his little knife fast over a piece of knucklehead bone.

“A cold night indeed,” Drizzt remarked.

Regis looked up to see his friend staring at him curiously, as if expecting that Regis would launch into a series of complaints, as, he had to admit, had often been his nature. For some reason even he didn’t understand—perhaps it was the feeling of homecoming, or maybe the hope that he would soon see Wulfgar again—Regis wasn’t miserable in the wind and certainly didn’t feel like grumbling.

“It’s the north sea wind come calling,” the halfling said absently, still focused on his scrimshaw. “And it’s here for the season, of course.” He looked up at the sky and confirmed his observation. Far fewer stars shone, and the black shapes of clouds moved swiftly from the northwest.

“Then even if we find Wulfgar’s tribe in the morning as we had hoped, we’ll not likely get out of Icewind Dale in time to beat the first deep snows,” said Drizzt. “We’re stuck here for the duration of the winter.”

Regis shrugged, strangely unbothered by the thought, and went on with his carving.

A few moments later, Drizzt chuckled, drawing the halfling’s eyes up to see the drow staring at him.

“What?”

“You feel it, too,” said Drizzt.

Regis paused in his carving and let the drow’s words sink in. “A lot of years, a lot of memories.”

“And most of them grand.”

“And even the bad ones, like Akar Kessell and the Crystal Shard, worth retelling,” Regis agreed. “So when we’re all gone, even Bruenor dead of old age, will you return to Icewind Dale?”

The question had Drizzt blinking and leaning back from the fire, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and alarm. “It’s not something I prefer to think about,” he replied.

“I’m asking you to do that very thing.”

Drizzt shrugged and seemed lost, seemed almost as if he were drowning. “With all the battles ahead of us, what makes you believe I’ll outlive you all?”

“It’s the way of things, or could well be…elf.”

“And if I’m cut down in battle, and the rest with me, would you return to Icewind Dale?”

“Bruenor would likely bind me to Mithral Hall to serve the next king, or to serve as steward until a king might be found.”

“You’ll not escape that easily, my little friend.”

“But I asked first.”

“But I demand of you an answer before I offer my own.”

Drizzt started to settle in stubbornly, crossing his arms over his chest, and Regis blurted out, “Yes!” before he could assume his defiant posture.

“Yes,” the halfling said again. “I would return if I had no duties elsewhere. I cannot think of a better place in all the world to live.”

“You don’t much sound like the Regis who used to button up tight against the winter’s chill and complain at the turn of the first leaf of Lonelywood.”

“My complaining was…”

“Extortion,” Drizzt finished. “A way to ensure that Regis’s hearth was never short of logs, for those around you could not suffer your whining.”

Regis considered the playful insult for a moment, then shrugged in acceptance, not about to disagree. “And the complaints were borne of fear,” he explained. “I couldn’t believe this was my home—I couldn’t appreciate that this was my home. I came here fleeing Pasha Pook and Artemis Entreri, and had no idea I would remain here for so long. In my mind, Icewind Dale was a waypoint and nothing more, a place to set that devilish assassin off my trail.”

He gave a little laugh and shake of his head as he looked back down at the small statue taking shape in his hand. “Somewhere along the way, I came to know Icewind Dale as my home,” he said, his voice growing somber. “I don’t think I understood that until I came back here just now.”

“It might be you’re just weary of the battles and tribulations of Mithral Hall,” said Drizzt, “with Obould so close and Bruenor in constant worry.”

“Perhaps,” Regis conceded, but he didn’t seem convinced. He looked back up at Drizzt and offered a sincere smile. “Whatever the reason, I’m glad we’re here, we two together.”

“On a cold winter’s night.”

“So be it.”

Drizzt looked at Regis with friendship and admiration, amazed at how much the halfling had grown over the last few years, ever since he had taken a spear in battle several years before. That wound, that near-death experience, had brought a palpable change over Drizzt’s halfling friend. Before that fight on the river, far to the south, Regis had always shied from trouble, and had been very good at fleeing, but from that point on, when he’d recognized, admitted, and was horrified to see that he had become a dangerous burden to his heroic friends, the halfling had faced, met, and conquered every challenge put before him.

“I think it’ll snow tonight,” Regis said, looking up at the lowering and thickening clouds.

“So be it,” Drizzt replied with an infectious grin.

Surprisingly, the wind let up before dawn, and though Regis’s prediction of snow proved accurate, it was not a driving and unpleasant storm. Thick flakes drifted down from above, lazily pirouetting, dodging and darting on their way to the whitened ground.

The companions had barely started on their way when they saw again the smoke of campfires, and as they neared the camp, still before midday, Drizzt recognized the standards and knew that they had indeed found the Tribe of the Elk, Wulfgar’s people.

“Just the Elk?” Regis remarked, and cast a concerned look up at Drizzt at the apparent confirmation of what they had been told in Bryn Shander. When they’d left for Mithral Hall, the barbarians of Icewind Dale had been united, all tribes in one. That seemed not to be the case anymore, both from the small size of the encampment and from the fact of that one, and only one, distinguished banner.