Phoenix Brothers: Part 7

Legend of the Phoenix Brothers


Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don’t own them; I’m just examining all their possibilities.


Part 7

16 of Tarsakh, 1377 DR, The Year of the Haunting

Ordulin, Sembia



Artemis Entreri never considered himself a theater enthusiast by any stretch of the imagination, though he would have preferred any three copper drama performed by a lone drunk in a rat infested ally compared to this atrocity.


“This patch of trees is useless,” the pseudo-menacing looking actor in scary black robes huffed while dismissively waving a hand, creeping forward on the low stage.


The patch of trees was actually wire and wood planks wrapped in cloth with more than enough cloth leaves. A mass of dead shrubs painted green dotted the stage over a green carpet that left pills of fuzz on the villain’s black, curly-toed shoes. It was definitely symbolic of the average Sembian’s view of the perfect forest.


“Look at this mess,” said Orgo the Wicked, or more appropriately a one-time true thespian who could only now get roles in bad children’s theater. “Orgo” or whoever, derisively tugged on a wire branch which in Entreri’s opinion truly was disgusting. “It is infested with all kinds of furry vermin and insects.” The last sentence was marked with a cloth bird dangled from the top of the set with a noticeable string and an even more noticeable fake bird call. “And it is dirty; there is grass and dirt all over. Burn down all the trees! Catch all the squirrels and use them for my stoles. Instead I will erect the most wonderful castle in this place for my black magic.”


The mass of children at the tables below the stage predictably booed and jeered in response. With every hiss from all the little children in the audience, Orgo gave a nauseating belly laugh that was supposed to be the cackle of a true villain.


Entreri’s mouth twisted into an annoyed grimace as he leaned against the doorway to the servant’s entrance, his position on an unlit staircase giving him the perfect view of the crowd. No one had any idea he was there thanks to a bolero hat he still didn’t know why he kept. He was tempted to burn it on more than one occasion, though he always kept it. It had practical uses after all; that was what he kept telling himself at least.


A series of highly polished round tables likely of red stained oak were scattered in front of the stage; at least three children sat in the elevated chairs at each table while leaning on the light blue tablecloths or scarffing down the bowls of ice cream or cheese covered flatbread served with too-able proficiency by a battalion of servers.


The ratio of adult guardians to children at each table was noticeably balanced in favor of the brats. Entreri just needed to look at each table to see the stories of each: one lord took his two rowdy boys to make it look as if he cared though he regularly checked a likely magical medallion around his neck for a summons. A highly dressed woman spoke lovingly to two girls and a lad, though Entreri could see her annoyance spread over her face. Many tables bore several children with one uniformed elderly man or a frumpy elder lady either doting on or slapping the wrists of the children. Mother and father were likely engaging in business, murders, or torrid affairs while nanny or butler took the kids for junk food and bad entertainment.


And one more parent was watching the proceedings from a back staircase, Entreri thought to himself with a grimace. Cloaked in magical invisibility to avoid being seen though taking pains to avoid…


The internal monologue stopped with the knot that formed in his stomach, a million realities hanging over him like a looming dragon, or at least two of them. Entreri shook his head, putting his attention back onto the crowd.


The audience was hardly a representative of Sembian nobility, yet was clearly not the dregs of society either; the entertainment itself, from the acting to the set design was low brow enough for the merchant class.


Orgo walked from the stage cackling, just as the play’s hero snuck out from the trees; Alvio the Wood Sprite, the play’s namesake and just as annoying as most goodly characters. He was a teenage actor in a green leotard so tight mothers and fathers in the audience would probably have a few things to explain to the little ones sooner than they had liked. His matted hair was dyed green and various twigs stuck out. His green and gold face makeup made him look like a woodsy whore and not a woodsy sprite.


Predictably, the crowd of young human children gave loud applause as their hero did an effete dance out of the “trees” mimicking sneaking as a flutist below the stage played a series of happy notes. Alvio walked up to the tree where Orgo once stood and patted the branches.


“I’m sorry, my old friend,” Alvio said to the fake tree. “We will rid the forest of evil men like Orgo the Wicked. This is our home, my feathered and furry friends.” The cloth bird swooped down as a cloth weasel controlled from under the stage by wooden sticks curled up lovingly at Alvio’s curly green slipper. “You know how we can rid this space of Orgo’s evil presence?”


The audience shouted two words that Entreri came to dread in the past five minutes of this whole theatrical atrocity.


“Pixie dust!” the children shouted, sending a cringe through the assassin.


Predictably, Alvio produced a bag of metallic fabric to wood chimes.


“Just a little pixie dust makes the whole world sweeter,” Alvio sang, immediately joined by the children who would likely be annoying their parents with later, or more appropriately their nurses as having a good nanny was the typical Sembian version of good parenting. “Just a little pixie dust chases the darkness away. Just a little pixie dust brightens up the storm clouds. Just a little pixie dust, makes the whole world bright.”


Alvio opened the bag and scattered mica shavings and rice soaked in green paint over the stage to the sound of more wood chimes.


Entreri rolled his eyes, scanning the crowd yet still not wanting to look at that one table in the front row; the entire reason he was here to begin with.


His official engagement wasn’t for another hour, though he knew his client, the only label he wanted for her right now, would be here. It was a bold guess, though luck and intuition were on his side and he had been correct…for good or ill.


His peripheral vision caught the glimpse of impeccably combed copper hair near the front and a pouty profile he had seen too many times for his liking, proving his theory about where a certain pair of sisters would be tonight was correct.


Her sister’s letter had been purposefully vague.


We will be in Ordulin on the 16th, shopping and taking in some whimsical theater before we will be available for your visit. Expect me around 8 by clock in the square.


I probably shouldn’t be here, he thought to himself for the thousandth time; less a state of fact of his present position than a constant bell of warning inside his mind. It had not so much to do with his own personal safety but his emotional stability.


He had only come to terms with himself in the past two years; seeing this scene now could threaten to put him into the madness that lead him away seven years ago.


Entreri looked back at the stage, knowing he should take at least one better look than the peripheral glance he allowed himself when first entering the room. His black eyes slowly shifted into that direction, yet halted to another table of wrestling boys in the center row.


Entreri sighed hard, cursing his own possibly justified reluctance. One simple peek over in that direction could have meant the instant end of two years of relative peace; or one moment of defeating yet another fear and having answers at last. It could mean the difference between being in another trap of lies where the lies became grander as the trap likely became deeper, or knowing he was safe yet faced with something he still did not know if he could handle.


Over the past two years, admitting some point of weakness was more a tool for improvement than a burden.


The sight of a young male server in a stained green tabard walking toward the front caught his attention and in a moment the first prickle of reluctance let loose and disappeared; the bored-looking server carried a tray on which a large cake frosted in blue and purple leaves rested.


“Happy Birthday, Khallis” was written in wide, yellow letters across the top of the cake, nestled between a ring of seven gold candles.


The hairs on Entreri’s arms and the back of his neck rose, remembering the name written out in a drow’s flowing handwriting. His eyes fixed on the server, not allowing himself any reluctance; he had to do what he came here for.


The server came by the table as Entreri’s vision caught Ilnezhara’s soft, copper hair and pouty lips. The copper dragon was in the same human form Entreri remembered from seven years ago; a young, haughty woman with a perpetually seductive air. Tonight she wore a highly laced yellow dress, her copper hair impeccably brushed into a large, gold barrette.


She had leaned over the table and whispered something in the ear of her sister Tazmikella; the one Entreri had an appointment with later. Tazmikella wore an almost stylish brown dress; hardly an expensive robe for court though a little fancier than the utility clothing she normally wore in human form.


She lifted a strand of her graying copper hair out of the way, though her eye clearly shifted in Entreri’s direction. The bolero may have concealed him from most eyes, though dragon eyes saw through almost everything. He knew he had been spotted though he stopped caring. Judging by her letter, she probably wanted Entreri to find her, or at least wanted to see if he was wily enough to follow the clues enough to catch a sneak peek before the formal introduction.


The server came beside the table. The dragon sisters parted, revealing the special birthday boy as his cake was lowered before him.


Entreri went numb; fully facing a reality he never thought would make him tremble but did. He rehearsed this moment a thousand times in his mind never thinking it would even faze him, yet the moment of truth made his skin crawl even if it was a small boy.


A pair of black eyes widened in happiness as a grin formed exposing two missing front teeth. The boy looked on his cake as Tazmikella rubbed his shoulder sharing his excitement.


Entreri denied the resemblance for a moment, yet the arch to his eyebrows, the angle of his jaw line, and the thick mop of impeccably combed, yet perpetually tousled black hair made the reality obvious. Entreri felt he was looking on himself in his mother’s broken mirror on the wall of their hut when he was a small child. The image he saw then was of a pale, starved child in rags; now he saw that reflection with slightly chubby cheeks and wearing a neat blue jacket. Happiness shown from his eyes as his mouth was a beaming grin.


Entreri’s vision caught an elderly woman in a blue dress sitting across from the boy, clapping with her own happy laugh. She was probably a nanny; it was highly unlikely a pair of old dragons would take on a young human without hired help. It was also likely there was more to the woman than plain sight would allow, especially if a certain individual still possessed a certain magical mask. It was a thought that made his stomach turn, though he put out the idea for a moment. He already had ideas for how to deal with that one.


The server pointed a wand at the cake and said a command word, causing each candle to burst with a small flame.


“Make a wish,” the nanny said.


“But don’t tell anyone, or else it won’t come true,” Tazmikella said in a semi-warning tone with her mouth betraying a smile.


Khallis blew at the candles with no hesitation; every flame puffing out with small streams of smoke. Tazmikella and the nanny clapped excitedly, while Ilnezhara‘s claps were more dainty and polite; an amused smile on her face.  Khallis’ small face broke into another wide smile as if the entire act of blowing out candles on a highly sugared pastry was the greatest moment of his young life.


Entreri’s gaze was fixed on the boy; his son.


Entreri sighed hard; tipping his hat to make sure he was completely concealed as he swiftly walked up the steps of the servant’s entrance and casually pushed the door open. He needed a few breaths of fresh air before his appointed meeting. Maybe by then reality would have become a bit more real.


---------


The side door into the alley flew open as Entreri stumbled over the high threshold to the ground below, taking a greedy breath of the cool night air while walking out of that cursed theater.


He looked down both wide ends, seeing nothing but a few barrels of trash and an alley cat chewing on a dead mouse; he was alone for now. Entreri looked up, noting the position of the stars above the roof line; he had at least another half hour before being at his appointment with Tazmikella, where she could bring him to his son, or perhaps order him away.


His son, the words echoed through his mind as he rested his back against the brick wall, running a gloved hand through his long, black hair. The reality was in front of him now and could no longer be ignored. It did not live in the imagination of a damnable dark elf or an untrustworthy dragon.


He wanted to laugh the thought away when he first received the news three months ago, call it an elaborate lie to ensnare him or to merely torment him.


Two months ago he wrote Dwahvel for the first time in six years; the halfling who had been his most faithful and caring friend when he appeared at the Copper Ante seven years ago a broken man.  She took him in for the year he took refuge in Calimport trying to regain some measure of himself after a journey of personal revelation and reflection that left him wanting death. She prodded him out of his room after he spent three days wanting nothing else but to lie in bed.


Dwahvel listened to his every word, counseling him as he tried to reconcile with all the deep emotions that had been unearthed in Damara and Memnon, by Jarlaxle, the false priest of Selune who spawned him, and the damn Flute of Idalia among too many others. Entreri and Dwahvel even carried on a brief romance, though it never meant to last.


After spending a year In Calimport, he bid farewell to Dwahvel and went on to the road, taking various odd jobs across the continent and trying to find the peace he never had.


Now he lived in Proskur on the Dragon Coast, working as a thief in a collective of other master thieves. After cursing the gods for so many years, he found a measure of friendship and counsel with a group of Mask worshippers; the idea of finding some solidarity with a wicked god of thievery appealed to him during this emotional journey.


He thought he would cinch his inner peace with a letter to Dwahvel, telling her he was alive and had overcome his demons.


Entreri was elated to receive a warm letter his old friend, though was perturbed to find his Dwahvel’s note accompanied by a letter signed by Jarlaxle that Dwahvel said was delivered to the Copper Ante three years ago.

A word of caution, Artemis, Dwahvel wrote.  Jarlaxle’s words in this message speak of greatly sensitive matters that I fear will summon your old demons. Whether his words are true or false, beware; he may be trying to trap you. His message speaks of extreme matters and if his words are false, he has become desperate indeed. Three years may have passed since I received this note, though I am sure you remember three years is a day in the long life of a drow. Proceed with caution.


The subject of the letter would ultimately be the small boy exchanging giggles with his nanny during another one of Alvio’s musical numbers, trying to tumble Orgo’s cheap clapboard tower with another happy song. The pair of black eyes, his own eyes, burned into Entreri’s brain.


He wanted to ignore Jarlaxle’s letter the moment it fell into his hands, let alone read his semi-sincere words of apology followed by a series of disturbing revelations.


Calihye was survived her tumble out the window, Jarlaxle wrote; her warrior’s reflexes causing her to fall gracefully and only sustain a few cuts from the glass.


It is now where I share some sad news, Jarlaxle continued. Calihye is now dead. She hit the bottle hard after you left, her spirit snuffed out. She did last for four years; her spirit bolstered even for a moment by the other piece of news you will likely curse me for.


She was with child when you left her and nine months later birthed a healthy boy she named Khallis. Calihye was a devoted mother for the first years of your son’s life, though her spirit slowly waned.


He wanted to ignore the letter, deny every single searing piece of information as Jarlaxle’s ultimate way to trap him; another part of his subconscious would not allow that, however.


Entreri wrote to Tazmikella, seeking some confirmation or denial. His dislike of dragons never waned, though she was the only one he even remotely trusted to give him some straight answers, especially since Jarlaxle claimed she and her sister were the last ones to harbor the poor boy.


Tazmikella only confirmed all Jarlaxle said.


It was information that was too fantastic to be believed, though it was only obvious now; the child shared too many physical features with him on first sight for him to deny anything.


Entreri let out a groan, peeling himself from the wall and slowly walking forward, remembering that pointed chin and tiny point to both of his small ears; his fair skin bore a tinge of his father’s Calishite tan, though his complexion was as fair as his mother’s.


Hopefully deep scars would never mark him as they had Calihye, wherever she was now.


He leaned against the wall, the very thought of Calihye making the back of his throat even tighter. He loved her once, before she tried to kill him…after he killed her best friend if only by accident.


Entreri had accepted Calihye’s death when he left her seven years ago…through the window of room they shared before she tried to kill him. He would have rather she did die that day, though once again Jarlaxle had his cursed psion intervene and leave Entreri to another false killing by his hands.


Calihye wasn’t living in peace with her love and her companions as legends said another one of Entreri’s old ghosts was now, another reason why he longed to see Jarlaxle’s throat cut.


It was a thought that made Entreri’s head hurt as a heaviness form behind his eyes; Calihye didn’t die seven years ago, she would destroy herself four years after that.


She would destroy herself after delivering the final result of their ill-fated relationship; perhaps the one aspect of purity and innocence to ever come in any one of their lives.


Entreri leaned against the wall, letting out another sigh as he wondered why he even cared. Maybe that was the ultimate indicator he actually possessed a soul.


His gloved hand clasped the brick, allowing himself one sob before hastily pulling himself together.


Lingering was not a wise idea, he though, shoving himself from the wall and marching down the alley. It was best to just get this over with.


---------------


“Make sure you get my good side,” Jarlaxle said, turning his head to the right and sticking his pointed nose further in the air.


His slender arm reclined on the light oak mantelpiece in the dragon sister’s small apartment; a small refuge in Ordulin where the whole “family” could be together with no worries about all their respective business rivals and any potential nosing around by King Gareth and his friends.


“Do you prefer my hat on or off,” the drow said, his red eyes turning to the small artist seated in front of a child-sized easel.


Khallis looked at him, his little face twisting with concentration.


“Leave it off,” Khallis said. “I want to see you better.”


“Very well,” Jarlaxle said, removing his purple, plumed hat with a grand sweep and letting his arm fall to his side.


Khallis dipped his brush into the cup of water before smearing the bristles on the small square of blue paint, trying not to dip into the green paint located on the other side. He raised the brush and blotted it on the paper before looking at his subject with an expression of such playfully deep concentration Jarlaxle had to keep himself from laughing. The boy held up a chubby thumb while looking at Jarlaxle with one eye closed, though Jarlaxle doubted he understood the purpose of that gesture.


In his own imagination, he was a master painter creating a great work of art with the small watercolor set he picked out from a store shelf as one of his birthday presents. The stately little coat he wore to the theater was his other present purchased by his “aunties.” Tickets to see “Alvio the Wood Sprite,” a popular character among Sembian children, was a gift from Uncle Jarl even if it was only worth an opportunity for him and the boy to share mocking laughs at the awfulness of it.


They wanted to show him a good time for his birthday, though through modest means he could better appreciate than through an extravagant showering of gifts, at least by Tazmikella’s ruling before the four stepped through the portal to Ordulin. She already said on a few occasions Aunt Ilzi and Uncle Jarl spoiled the boy too much; he was a growing man, not a pet human.


“My my, that is quite the talent,” Ilnezhara said walking through the front study and seeing the humanoid-looking blobs of dark blue on the paper.  She crouched down and kissed Khallis on the cheek. “Now what will you do with your masterpiece when it is done?”


“It will be framed, of course,” Khallis said. “I will probably add it to my collection, though I could get good money for it from an art dealer, maybe a museum.”


Jarlaxle bit his lip and choked back a laugh. Ilnezhara looked up at her elven lover and gave him a semi-scolding look with a smile.


“Now wherever do you get your business advice,” she said.


“I will not disclose my secrets,” Khallis said, dipping the brush in the cup again before smearing the bristles into red paint, probably to paint Jarlaxle’s maroon outfit.


“Smart boy,” Jarlaxle said, receiving a profound eyeroll from Ilnezhara.


“When is Aunt Tazi coming back,” Khallis said, looking at Ilnezhara. “I haven’t seen her since the play ended.”


“Your aunt will be here very shortly and she is bringing a special guest,” Ilnezhara said. “Take a few more minutes to work on your painting and clean up.” Ilnezhara lightly tapped Khallis paint-spattered hand, feeling a streak of rough, slightly swollen skin underneath. “What did you do to your hand?”


“It was a boar, a wild board was chasing us,” Khallis said excitedly. “I was helping Aunt Tazi carry firewood yesterday and this huge thing rushed out at us. I took a piece of wood and hit it on the nose and it ran off squealing. All I got was a big splinter, though I’m sure it could have been much worse.”


“Making him carry wood,” Ilnezhara said, carefully examining the wound and seeing the scabbed scratch where the large splinter had once been. “Does she think he’s a servant?”


“She’s not treating him like a prince and that’s not a bad thing,” Jarlaxle said. “Having him carry some wood shows him some character, maybe will build his muscles a bit more. When I was his age I was made to scrape every ounce of fungus that grew on the wall of my House dungeon with a serving fork and given a lash for every spore that was left. I hardly think she is working him to death.”


“I think it’s fun,” Khallis said, painting Jarlaxle’s maroon tunic. “I took in four whole logs yesterday, I used to just take in two but I’m getting stronger.”


Khallis put his brush in the cup and slid back the sleeve of his brown play shirt that had seen many encounters with mud, grass, and paint, revealing a bare arm he flexed to show the faint outline of a muscle under his pale skin.


“I suppose,” Ilnezhara said with a sigh. “I bet you are going to use those big muscles of yours to fight more dangerous foes.”


“I wanted to slay the boar, but Aunt Tazi wouldn’t let me,” Khallis said with a grimace.


“You will slay creatures when you are older, Kay,” Jarlaxle said, pointing at the boy. “I am certain of that. Now you need to train more, get stronger so you know you will best your foe.”


“You’ll help me with that, right Uncle Jarl?” Khallis said, his face beaming.


“You have my solemn word,” Jarlaxle said with a nod and a grin, trying not to laugh at Ilnezhara’s head shake and quiet groan.


The creak of the heavy front door turned all eyes toward the front of the room as footsteps could be heard outside.


“Aunt Tazi’s back,” Khallis said, leaping from his small chair and walking toward to the closed door of the study.


Ilnezhara followed him for a step, holding his shoulders as gently as she could, though the boy was still put back a step by the stronger force of the dragon’s touch. She gave him an apologetic look, which Khallis shrugged off.


He knew his aunt was a little stronger than normal, especially the one day he looked outside his bedroom at Aunt Ilzi’s castle when he was five and saw Aunt Ilzi standing in the yard and growing larger as wings sprouted from her back and scales grew from the rest of her body.


It took a nice sit-down conversation from all three of his guardians to fully explain, though Khallis’ active imagination and adventurous spirit left him with a beaming grin and happy laughter the entire time; his aunties were dragons in human form.


His uncle was also an elven prince who had to hide his identity in public lest his subjects mob him or his wicked enemies try to harm him.


Khallis’ imagination also helped keep him quiet about the true identities of his guardians; it was their special secret because they were such a fantastical family.


“Aunt Tazi is bringing you a surprise,” Ilnezhara said, “one just for you to see, so your uncle and I are going to step out for a moment so you can have your special guest all to yourself.”


“Right,” Jarlaxle said walking from the mantle toward Khallis. “I will have to finish my modeling tomorrow, though you are indeed the best artist I have ever worked for.”


Khallis laughed as Jarlaxle tousled his thick mop of black hair.  The drow then reached into his cloak and produced the simple black mask. Khallis nodded in understanding as his uncle put the mask on his face and his form turned into that of a white-haired, frumpy-looking nanny in a plain blue dress. Jarlaxle put a finger to his lips with a smile on his now pale and wrinkled face, a gesture Khallis returned with a laugh.


Jarlaxle took Ilnezhara’s hand, both flashing smiles to Khallis before stepping up to what looked like a large armoire, though was an invisible doorway to the hall the two simply walked through.


A moment later, the front door to the study opened and Tazmikella walked in, saying a few words to someone in the hallway out of Khallis’ view.


“Aunt Ilzi said you brought me a guest?” Khallis whispered excitedly.


Tazmikella knelt down, putting her hands on Khallis’ shoulders and gazing into his face; her mouth opening for a moment as she tried to find the right words.


“Khallis, there is a man here to see you,” Tazmikella said. “And he is indeed a very special guest.”


“Is it Elminster,” Khallis said with wide eyes, his imagination considering all the possibilities. “Maybe a great sorcerer to teach me my powers. Aunt Ilzi said you would have a sorcerer teach me since she said I could be a great sorcerer, I already have the power.”


The cup of water on the table behind him floated up and levitated for a moment, the brushes floating up after that and dripping paint-tinged water on the carpet. Tazmikella laughed again, walking behind Khallis and plucking the cup and brushes out of the air and putting them back on the table.


Objects tended to levitate when Khallis got too excited, or too angry. It was a phenomenon that occurred since he was six; an indicator known to both sisters as a sign of innate magical powers in a child. Such children were natural-born sorcerers; perhaps born with a bit of dragon blood in their bodies, though Ilnezhara could only hope as Tazmikella remained realistic.


“No darling,” Tazmikella said with a clearing laugh, walking back over to Khallis and giving a brief glance at the blue-green stain spot on the red and gold woven carpet before kneeling down again. “Your guest isn’t Elminster or a powerful sorcerer; he is more special than that. His name is Artemis; he is a warrior and a bit of an adventurer. He is your father, Khallis.”


Khallis’ beaming face straightened into a look of calm awe, his mind recalling all the stories Jarlaxle told of his father; a great adventurer and hero who spent his days guarding kings and slaying monsters.


Something deeper worked through Khallis’ brain than just heroic tales; something that told him this visit had much more meaning though he did now know how.


“My father,” Khallis said.


“Yes,” Tazmikella said. “He is here to visit you, see what his son looks like since he has been away for so long, though he will have to leave again since he is a very busy man. Do you want me to bring him in?”


Khallis gave an excited nod. Tazmikella rose and smiled, turning back to the door and walking outside for a moment.


The boy heard his aunt exchanging a few words with a man outside; his father. The depth of that reality became clearer and clearer in his young mind.


The door opened again as Tazmikella stepped in. Following her was a man in a black cloak and clothes. His long, black hair fell over his slender shoulders though was carefully tucked behind his ears each adorned with two simple gold hoops. Deep lines creased around his nose past his thick goatee, enough to make him look worn yet not old. Khallis saw a weariness on his face, yet his black eyes burned with an icy strength.


Butterflies danced in Khallis’ stomach as he saw his own face, though considerably older and more touched by experience.


Artemis gave him the same look of numb amazement he knew he wore, perhaps seeing the same thing.


Entreri gazed down at those wide black eyes looking up at him in curiosity and amazement. There was youthful passion in his son’s eyes; a fire of life that had yet to be snuffed out and hopefully never would be.


“Well met,” Khallis said with a small bow.


Entreri’s mouth crept into a smile.


“Well met, indeed,” he said.


“I shall leave you two alone,” Tazmikella said, giving Entreri a pointed look communicating she wasn’t straying too far. “Khallis I’m letting you stay up late tonight, though not all night.”


“Thank you, Aunt Tazi,” Khallis said, watching his aunt leave the room though noticing the slight strain in his father’s smile when he addressed her.


Khallis looked up at his father, who returned the same hesitant look as silence continued between both. Khallis’ eyes fell to Entreri’s belt, eying the brilliant jeweled dagger and menacing-looking sword with a skeleton on the hilt.  Entreri slightly grimaced at the obvious notice, a part of him almost wishing he had at least put a cover or illusion charm on Charon’s Claw so the young boy wouldn’t have to see the sword’s potentially frightening hilt.


Khallis’ lit up with calm amazement as he examined both weapons.


“That’s a neat sword,” Khallis said. “Did you get that from a lich? Maybe a powerful necromancer, or a dracolich’s horde?”


Entreri cocked an eyebrow. This one was imaginative, a trait in a young boy that could be a gift or a curse depending on how wily he was and how protective his guardians were.


“How do you know I didn’t just win it in a card game?” Entreri asked.


“Because I don’t think you did,” Khallis said with a calm certainty that went beyond his years. “I think there’s a story there.”


“And what makes you say that,” Entreri said, realizing he was in a small battle of wits with a seven-year-old and enjoying the game too much.


“Well, I’ve heard you’re an adventurer,” Khallis said. “Even if that was just a story, I don’t think someone would wear a sword like that so openly if they’d just won it. Someone would be looking for it or just challenge you thinking you could do something with it, which would be really bad if you couldn’t actually use it.”


Entreri furrowed his brows, almost speechless. The child may have had an overactive imagination, but that made him perceptive to every possibility. What would have happened to that perception if he wasn’t told grand tales and his guardians only beat him or…


“You are very perceptive,” Entreri said with an involuntary smile. “And you’re right. I actually stole this sword from the compound of a rich trader, fighting off wizards and a horde of warriors the whole way.”


Khallis gave him a sour look, sensing the hint of sarcasm in his voice.


“I guess I just never felt it was a tale worth telling,” Entreri said with a slight nod of semi-sincere apology. “And I was only one warrior in a small army when I claimed this blade. I personally dislike heroic tales.”


“Why not,” Khallis asked, that same look of surety on his face.


“I think they are worse than lies, they mask reality in favor of what sounds grand and is not true,” Entreri said.


It’s a seven-year-old boy, a part of Entreri’s brain screamed. You are locking horns with a seven-year-old.


“Maybe the plain story is the lie,” Khallis said. “Maybe more things happen in a grand way that people don’t want to talk about because they’re too scared of them. Maybe heroic tales are told by the truly brave.”


Khallis’ posture straightened as another smug smile formed on his face, bringing out a laugh from the boy. That reaction and body language from anyone else would have earned a glare, though this was his own son. It was indeed like looking in a mirror.


“Touché,” Entreri said with a nod. “You have me there.”


He glanced from the boy to a small easel set up a few feet away, catching a glimpse of a maroon body with a dark-blue head and hands.


“Oh so you’re an artist,” Entreri said, taking a look at the painting.


“Ilzi and Tazi gave me that for my birthday,” Khallis said, his smug expression turning slightly panicked at his father’s notice of the painting.


Khallis may have been shrewd, but he had all the typical reactions of a seven-year-old especially when trying to hide something.


Entreri took a better look at the boy’s painting, the typical blocky style of a young child though with many clear humanoid features; such as the large, pointed ears that stuck out from the sides of the figure’s head.


“It’s a dark elf,” Khallis said. “We saw one unloading a ship in Selegaunt. Have you ever seen a dark elf before?”


“Many,” Entreri said with a daring smile. A part of him wanted to give the child the benefit of the doubt and credit for imagination. Another part of him knew he was lying. “I’m not too fond of them personally, a little too tricky for my liking.”


Khallis shifted uncomfortably, a reaction that made Entreri regret seeing the painting in the first place. The drow’s dark blue face bore a wide smile, his blocky arms wide open. Children would not paint scary monsters with such happy faces and open, welcoming body language.


“I know of one dark elf named Jarlaxle,” Entreri said, wanting to have everything out in the open with the boy. Khallis shifted again, looking a bit more scared, though Entreri gave him a calm nod. “I can tell you know Jarlaxle too, and I hear he’s a very nice person.”


“Uncle Jarl is a great guy,” Khallis sputtered out. “He tells me all these stories of his adventures and brings me to plays and we play sava when it’s rainy. I got a cold and he brought me cocoa and soup. He’s a real great guy, I swear. I don’t know what other dark elves are like but he’s not wicked or mean like people say he should be.”


Entreri gave a sad smile, hearing only insistence in his son’s words and not fear for anyone but his uncle’s reputation. The words sounded natural too; he had heard many children giving coaxed and prepared speeches on the behest of adults, though there were no indication his words were anything but genuine.


“I believe you,” Entreri said with a small laugh. “Jarlaxle and I were once very good friends, we traveled together for a long time. Then we just drifted apart.”


Entreri surprised himself with his last few statements. He had spent the past seven years cursing Jarlaxle’s name for every betrayal and manipulation; now he spoke of the drow mercenary with less bile than he had felt for so long. Maybe this was progress.


“Uncle Jarl told me he and you would go on adventures,” Khallis said. “He told me you killed a dracolich.”


Entreri gave a clearing laugh; he could only imagine what Jarlaxle told him about that incident and all probably in the context of a grand story.


“He told you that did he,” Entreri said. “And yes, in a way I suppose he was right.”


“If I may say so, it sounds like you have had some heroic tales, even though you don’t like them very much,” Khallis said.


“You have me again,” Entreri said. “So I assume your uncle is the one who told you I was such a great adventurer.”


“Well, yeah,” Khallis said. “He and my aunties. They said that’s why I’ve never met you before; you were so busy.”


A small knot formed in his stomach. Jarlaxle and the dragon sisters apparently spoke highly of him to his son; enough to make him think his father was a great hero and not a villain. Children were quite impressionable and any indication his father was anything ignoble would have put at least a small stopper in this gush of admiration


These words also sounded sincere, not something said to flatter him or curry his favor. It was as if the child was speaking from emotion and not acting, though he couldn’t let the words get to him too much lest they were part of a trap.


“What about your mama,” Entreri said, wanting some answers to yet another nagging question. “Where is she?”


Khallis looked at the floor, putting his hands behind his back and shifting again.


“Mommy’s in Arvandor, that’s what Uncle Jarl says,” Khallis said, his voice taking a sad tone. “He said she got wasting sickness and was called to serve someone named Fenmarel, an elf god. Uncle Jarl said she worshipped him when she was alive and he made her one of his guardians.”


The knot in Entreri’s stomach tightened as too many memories flooded back to him. He wanted to press further, but too many emotions had crossed him already.


Maybe his son’s imagination was the greatest coping mechanism he had; mommy wasn’t dead, mommy was called to serve her god. It was a statement that normally twisted his nerve, though when considering his son it made too much sense; seven-year-olds should not be exposed to the full cruelty of the world. A boy whose mother drank herself to death was probably better off thinking she merely got sick and died; maybe he could handle the truth when he grew older.


“On the Feast of the Moon, my aunties take me to see where she’s resting,” Khallis continued.


“Where is she resting,” Entreri said. He remembered how many people had to die to get his own mother a headstone, though maybe Khallis would never have to know that pain.


“Outside Palishuck,” Khallis said. “Mommy had a friend there named Wingham, a half-orc. He helps clean around her stone and planted a flower bush there. He has a niece named Arryan and every time I go to visit, Arryan gives me cider and cookies. We have a little party with Arryan and Olgherken, that’s her husband. They have five kids, one my age and bigger than me, but he’s a half-orc so that’s normal.”


Entreri gave a sad smile; Arryan and Olgherken had found their happiness and another old ghost was put to rest. The speed at which Khallis found a happy thought amid the sadness of describing his mother’s grave also gave him reason to hope, or perhaps be more concerned.


He had found a way to deal with his own tragedies besides getting angry at the world. Being surrounded by a group of doting adults probably gave him a better chance at a happy future; a future Entreri was denied…or was he.


“Can I paint you,” Khallis said, his heavy tone lightening slightly.


“You want me to model for you,” Entreri said with a clearing laugh.


Khallis nodded his head excitedly. Entreri pointed to the easel, his nerves slightly easing as and the boy rushed into his seat.


----------


“Is the little darling off to bed now,” the elderly nanny said as Entreri came through the door out of the side room.


“He is,” Entreri said, gradually tucking the painting into his belt and walking slowly past the old woman.


It was probably midnight and Khallis was practically nodding off on the rug and about to use the sava board they played on as a pillow before Aunt Tazi fetched him for bed.


The nanny’s wrinkled face turned up in a smile as she eyed the paper in his hand. Only too happy to satisfy her curiosity, he took it out and displayed the blob of black and yellow that took the shape of his body, complete with black outfit and black hair framing a smiling face.


“Oh that is so precious,” the nanny said, clasping her withered hands in front of her blue dress.


Entreri smiled in return, the memory of his son giving him a huge hug before going to bed was the only thing that kept him from sticking a dagger in the “old woman” right there.


“He is definitely creative,” Entreri said, taking a few steps closer to the woman.


He tucked the painting in his belt and made to straighten his cloak before his hand rushed up and brushed against the nanny’s face, predictably feeling the rough leather of Agatha’s mask which he grabbed hold of and pulled.


The nanny’s cloudy blue eyes were now a bright shade of red and her pale, wrinkled face a smooth ebony. Entreri gave a stiff smirk with a cackle as he looked into the face of one he hoped had the decency to die by now.


Jarlaxle returned his smile, though with a bit more mirth than the human had intended.


“So this is the kindly nanny tending to my son,” Entreri said, his tone taking a significant edge.


“I know, I look horrid in powder blue,” Jarlaxle replied with a grin.


Entreri gave a stiff laugh back. Jarlaxle laughed along, though made a mental note of where he kept every blade on his person.


“My, my, it has been a long time since I heard one of your quips,” Entreri said, his voice sobering slightly. “And you are a lucky man because I have decided not to kill you.”


“That is indeed reassuring,” Jarlaxle replied. In the back of his mind he had been preparing for this reunion, not knowing if he should expect a fight or merely some glares. “I sense a little less warmth than you had for me when we last parted. Then you were merely content to curse me, now you say your last thoughts were a bit less pleasant.


Entreri stepped closer to him, giving him an unnerving smile.


“I merely despised you then,” Entreri said. “Right when I simply thought you were a manipulative son of a bitch who I didn’t need in my existence. I had a small change of heart for a time, oh about five years ago. It turns out a mutual friend of ours nearly lost his life slaying a horde of sea demons outside of Waterdeep.”


Jarlaxle smiled and tried to cover his surprise, knowing exactly what was coming next.


“Every dockhand, shipman, and tavern wench in Waterdeep was wagging their tongues about it when I passed through,” Entreri said, trying to keep from screaming at him lest it draw little ears that shouldn’t hear papa and Uncle Jarl fighting. “A warrior, a drow warrior no less, hacked apart a few hundred nasty creatures who took over a pirate ship, saving the whole region from a mass of hungry teeth. Now what is so curious about this story, you may ask. What is so curious is the name that keeps coming up is one that should belong to a dead man; I think you know of whom I speak.”


“Be reasonable, Artemis, word travels slowly among the common rabble,” Jarlaxle said. “The stories are without a doubt merely that and those who tell them clearly have no idea the man they sing of is dead.”


“That was my initial thought,” Entreri replied, taking a light breath to calm himself a bit more. “Especially since some of those stories included the drow in question giving birth to a half-sea devil, half drow baby he had been implanted with during the battle.”


Jarlaxle chortled with the absurdity of the idea. He didn’t need to tell the human about his Vhaeraunite informant in Sshamath who, after voluntarily gulping down a vial truth serum, told of delivering said infant himself.


“Then I noticed every story had the same details, especially the name and description of the hero, right down to his lavender eyes and red-haired human companion,” Entreri continued. “Though the high priestess at the temple of Mielikki was only happy to tell me the name of the courageous hero her temple brought back to health. Granted it took an angry ranger to protest how a noble temple healed a vile drow to get her to give some details,” Entreri then pointed to himself, “though their ward was hardly a secret.”


Jarlaxle managed another chuckle, though felt Entreri’s gaze boring through him. It had been too long and he already knew the truth. Denying it would be useless.


“Fine, what do you want me to say,” the drow said with a sigh.


“Nothing, nothing that I would believe at least,” Entreri said. “You kept Calihye alive after all, just another foe you let me think I killed for your own purposes. Let me guess, the second Kimmuriel dragged me kicking and screaming from that tower, you had Rai’gy do the rest. I don’t know if you did it for blackmail, did it to get the Shard, perhaps did it out of some remote solidarity for a fellow rogue, and truth be told I really couldn’t give an orc’s hairy ass about why.”


“So alas, I’m caught,” Jarlaxle said dramatically, putting a hand to his chest and feeling somewhat relieved the ancient ruse was over. “I assume you hunted Master Drizzt down, going for that fair fight you were denied, or perhaps you took advantage of his injuries and killed him outright.”


Entreri smiled and gave a dismissive chuckle, his body language a bit calmer than Jarlaxle expected.


“It’s ancient history to me now,” Entreri said. “I’ve grown a bit wiser, so I will leave him to his own miserable existence. I cannot count how many times I wanted to come after you and would have been completely justified doing to.”


Jarlaxle considered him for a moment, remembering a friendship he always felt he had a hand in ending.


“You’re right,” Jarlaxle replied, his tone even and almost resigned. “You would have been perfectly justified.


The reaction put Entreri on his heels for a moment; maybe he was admitting guilt and not trying to smooth it over with more lies. It was one reaction that calmed his bile again. He had spoken his peace already, what else was there to do from here.


“But like I said, you have no danger from my blade…at the moment,” Entreri said. “What you have done for me, I will confess, pays for most of your indiscretions. I’m here now because of that letter you sent Dwahvel, though for a while I assumed you were lying to me.”


“I wish I was,” Jarlaxle said. “Though maybe that’s what it feels like to have a conscience. Seeing a four-year-old boy huddled by his mother’s dead body and imploring me to lower my tone lest I wake her is one of those moments where if you have a soul, it nudges at you.”


Entreri gave a sigh, a chill going through him with the weight of Jarlaxle’s words.


“I felt I should give him a bit more than what he had,” Jarlaxle said. “At least better than what his father had.”


“And I cannot thank you enough,” Entreri said, his voice communicating reluctant sincerity.


“He is your son,” Jarlaxle said. “He is yours to claim.”


“Unfortunately that cannot happen,” Entreri said. “I know he is safe here, I cannot assume that if he is with me. I trust his aunties and uncle will take good care of him, though I will hardly be a stranger to him. Mark my words, Jarlaxle; if ever I get any hint his body or his mind are being harmed while in your care I swear to the gods I will kill you.”


Jarlaxle gave an understanding nod.


Entreri bowed, giving a small smile as he walked toward the front door.


“Khallis wants to learn how to fish,” Jarlaxle said, causing Entreri to stop for a moment. “I know of a nice pond outside the King’s Forest in Cormyr, we should make a day of it on your next visit.”


Entreri turned around and gave him a tired glare that softened into a resigned smile.


“Perhaps,” he said, before turning around and walking to the door.