“You play dangerous games, old warlock,” the Shifter said later that night, when she was collecting her coins from Draygo Quick.
“Not if you have done your research and enchantments correctly. Not if this Erlindir creature is half the druid you claim him to be.”
“He is quite powerful. Which is why I’m surprised that you will let him return to Toril alive.”
“Am I to kill every powerful wizard and cleric simply because?” Draygo Quick asked.
“He knows much now,” the Shifter warned.
“You assured me that he did not know of Drizzt Do’Urden and was nowhere near to him in the vast lands of Faer?n.”
“True, but if he harbors any suspicion, isn’t it possible that he put similar dweomers on himself as he did on you—to allow you to view the world through the panther’s eyes?”
Draygo Quick’s hand froze in place halfway to the shelf where he kept his Silverymoon brandy. He turned to face his guest. “Should I demand my coin back?”
The Shifter laughed easily and shook her head.
“Then why would you suggest such a thing?” Draygo Quick demanded. He let that hang in the air as her smile became coy. He grabbed the bottle and poured a couple of glasses, setting one down on the hutch and taking a sip from the other.
“Why, tricky lady,” he asked at length, “are you trying to pry motives from me?”
“You admit that your … tactics would elicit my curiosity, yes?”
“Why? I have an interest in Lady Dahlia and her companions, of course. They have brought great distress to me, and I would be remiss if I did not repay them.”
“Effron came to me,” she said.
“Seeking the panther.”
She nodded, and Draygo Quick noted that she held the brandy he had poured for her, though he hadn’t handed it to her and she hadn’t come to get it—or at least, she hadn’t appeared to come and get it. “I know that Effron desperately wishes this Dahlia creature killed.”
“More strength to him, then!” Draygo Quick replied with exuberance.
But the Shifter wasn’t buying his feigned emotion, as she stood shaking her head.
“Yes, she is his mother,” Draygo Quick answered her unspoken question. “From the loins of Herzgo Alegni. Dahlia threw him from a cliff immediately after his birth, the fiery elf. A pity the fall did not show mercy and kill him, but he landed amongst some pines. The trees broke his fall and broke his spine, but alas, he did not succumb to death.”
“His injuries—”
“Aye, Effron was, and remains, fairly broken,” the warlock explained. “But Herzgo Alegni would not let him go. Not physically, and not even emotionally, for many years, until it became clear what little Effron would be.”
“Twisted. Infirm.”
“And by that time—”
“He was an understudy, a promising young warlock under the watchful eye of the great Draygo Quick,” the Shifter reasoned. “And more than that, he became your bludgeon to crumble the stubborn will of the ever-troublesome Herzgo Alegni. He became valuable to you.”
“It’s a difficult world,” Draygo Quick lamented. “One must find whatever tools one can to properly navigate the swirling seas.”
He raised his glass in toast and took another drink. The Shifter did likewise.
“And what tools do you seek now, through the panther?” she asked.
Draygo Quick shrugged as if it were not important. “How well do you know this Erlindir now?”
It was the Shifter’s turn to shrug.
“He would welcome you to his grove?”
She nodded.
“He is a disciple of Mielikki,” Draygo Quick remarked. “Do you know his standing?”
“He is a powerful druid, though his mind has dulled with age.”
“But is he favored by the goddess?” Draygo Quick asked, more insistently than he had intended, as the Shifter’s response—stiffening, her expression growing concerned—informed him.
“Would one not have to be, to be granted powers?”
“More than that,” Draygo Quick pressed.
“Are you asking me if Erlindir is of special favor to Mielikki? Chosen?”
The old warlock didn’t blink.
The Shifter laughed at him. “If he was, do you think I would have ever attempted such trickery with him? Do you consider me a fool, old warlock?”
Draygo Quick waved the silly questions away and took a sip, silently berating himself for so eagerly pursuing such a far-fetched idea. He was off his game, he realized. The intensity of his talks with Parise Ulfbinder were getting to him.
“Would this Erlindir know of others who might be so favored with his goddess?” he asked.
“The head of his order, likely.”
“No—or perhaps,” the warlock said. “I seek those favored ones, the ones known as ‘Chosen’.”
“Of Mielikki?”
“Of all the gods. Any information you can gather for me on this matter will be well received and generously rewarded.”
He moved to pour another drink when the Shifter asked with great skepticism and great intrigue, “Drizzt Do’Urden?”
Draygo Quick shrugged again. “Who can know?”
“Erlindir, perhaps,” the Shifter replied. She drained her glass and started away, pausing only to glance at the room where the captured Guenhwyvar paced.
“Enjoy your time on Toril,” she remarked.
“Enjoy.…” Draygo Quick muttered under his breath as she departed. It was not advice he often took.