The Halfling's Gem (The Icewind Dale, #3; The Legend of Drizzt, #6)

by R.A. Salvatore

It is a difficult thing to remember, especially while we are in the health and strength of our youth, and yet, I have come to know that it is an important thing to keep in mind—not to complain or to make melancholy, but simply because only with the honest knowledge that one day I will die can I ever truly begin to live.

For only when a person completely and honestly accepts the inevitability of death is he free of the fear of it.

They fool themselves, either through their interpretations of ancient texts or through some obscure sign from a natural event, into believing that they have found the ultimate truth, and thus, if they behave accordingly concerning that truth, they will surely be rewarded in the afterlife. This must be the greatest manifestation of that fear of death, the errant belief that we can somehow shape and decorate eternity itself, that we can curtain its windows and place its furniture in accordance with our own desperate desires.

I cannot control the truth of death, whatever my desperation. I can only make certain that those moments of my life I have remaining are as rich as they can be.

“Either way you shall find no mercy in my heart. Either way you deserve the wrath of Pook!”

No, there was once potential there, I know, though I fear he is far gone from that road, for when I look upon Artemis Entreri, I see myself, I see the capacity to love, and also the capacity to lose all of that and become cold. So very cold. Perhaps we will meet again and do battle, and if I kill him, I will shed no tears for him. Not for who he is, at least, but quite possibly, I will cry for who this marvelous warrior might have become. If I kill him, I will be crying for myself.

“Take us to the guildhouse of Pasha Pook,” Drizzt said, getting to the point, wanting to be done with his business and out of Calimport, “then you are dismissed.” Sali Dalib paled at the request. “Pasha Poop?” he stammered. “Who is dis?”

Catti-brie looked back to Drizzt. “Just for yer thoughts, me friend,” she said quietly, calmly. “Are ye more trapped by the way the world sees ye or by the way ye see the world seein’ ye?”

“You and I?” Entreri mused. Rassiter shrugged. “Few in Calimport would oppose you,” the wererat said, “and with my infectious bite, I can breed a host of loyal followers in mere tendays. Certainly none would dare stand against us in the night.” Entreri moved beside him, joining him in his scan of the guildhouse. “Yes, my ravenous friend,” he said quietly, “but there remain two problems.” “Two?” “Two,” Entreri reiterated. “First, I work alone.” Rassiter’s body jolted straight as a dagger blade cut into his spine. “And second,” Entreri continued, without missing a breath, “You are dead.” He jerked the bloody dagger out and held it vertical, to wipe the blade on Rassiter’s cloak as the wererat fell lifeless to the ground.

“Hunting,” explained Bruenor. “Are ye out hunting Entreri?” Now, Drizzt did laugh—at the notion that Bruenor linked his desire for solitude to some obsession with the assassin. “Ye’re burning for him,” Bruenor reasoned, “and he for yerself if he’s still for drawing breath.”

“Let the wide world judge me for what it will,” he said, his look one of genuine contentment as he dropped his gaze alternately into the eyes of each of his four friends. “You know who I am.”