Anders moved quickly to retrieve the figurine and placed it beside the dying panther. “You will take the figurine,” he said to Josidiah.
“I cannot,” the bladesinger replied, for he could not bear to see the panther in the subsequent lessened form, could not bear to take the cat as his slave.
Anders did not argue-there was no time for that. He poured some enchanted oil over the cat’s head, weaving his magic, and placed his hand over the panther’s eyes.
“I name you Whiskers,” he began, putting his dagger against the animal’s throat.
“No!” Josidiah shouted, rushing beside the mage, grabbing the man’s hand and pulling the dagger away. “Not Whiskers, never that!”
Josidiah looked to the cat, into the marvelous yellow-green eyes, shining intently still, though the moment of death was upon her. He studied the animal, the beautiful, silent friend. “Shadow,” he declared.
“No, not shadow,” said Josidiah, and he held back the dagger once more. “The high elvish word for shadow.” He looked right into the cat’s eyes, searching for some confirmation. He had not chosen this name, he suddenly understood; this had been the panther’s name all along.
“Guenhwyvar.”
As soon as he uttered the name, there came a black flash, like the negative image of one of Anders’s lightning bolts. Gray mist filled the room; the cloth swatch contracted and disappeared altogether, and then the panther, too, was gone, dissipating into nothingness.
Anders and Josidiah fell back, sitting side by side. It seemed for a moment that there was a profound line of emptiness in the room, a rift in the universe, as though the fabric of the planes of existence had been torn asunder. But then it was gone, everything-panther, hole, and rift, and all that remained was the figurine.
“What did you do?” Josidiah asked the mage.
“I?” balked Anders. “What did you do?”
Josidiah moved cautiously to retrieve the figurine. With it in hand, he looked back to Anders, who nodded slowly in agreement.
“Guenhwyvar,” the elf called nervously.
A moment later, the area beside the elf filled with the gray mist, swirling and gradually taking the shape of the panther. She was breathing more easily, as though her wounds were fast on the mend. She looked up at Josidiah, and the elf’s breath fell away, lost in the intensity, the intelligence, of that gaze.
This was no slave, no magical tool; this was the panther, the same wondrous panther!
“How did you do this?” the elf asked.
“I know not,” Anders replied. “And I do not even know what I, what we, have done, with the figurine. It is the statuette that transforms into the living beast, and yet, the cat is here, and so is the statuette!” The old mage chuckled, locking gazes with the elf. “Send her away to heal,” he bade.
Josidiah looked to the cat. “Go, Guenhwyvar, but I shall summon you forth again, I promise.”
The panther growled, but it was not an angry sound, and she began a slow, limping pace, melting away into gray mist.
“That is the joy of magic,” Anders said. “The mystery of it all. Why, even the greatest wizards could not explain this, I should guess. Perhaps all of my preparation, perhaps the magic of the hole-ah, yes, my dear, lost hole! — perhaps the combination of all these things.
“The joy of the mysteries,” he finished. “Very well, then, give it to me.” And he held out his hand for the figurine, but Josidiah clutched it all the tighter.
“Never,” the elf said with a smile, and Anders smiled, as well.
“Indeed,” said the mage, hardly surprised. “But you will pay for my lost hole, and for my time and effort.”
“Gladly,” said the elf, and he knew, holding that statuette, holding the key to the wondrous black panther, to Guenhwyvar, whom Josidiah realized would be his most loyal companion and friend for all the rest of his days, that it would be the most worthwhile gold he ever spent.
That Curious Sword
The Year of the Shield (1367 DR)
It is not so different from Calimport,” Artemis Entreri insisted, somewhat stubbornly.
Across the table from him, Jarlaxle merely chuckled.
“And you call my people xenophobic,” the dark elf replied. “At least we are not so racist toward others of our own species!”
“You talk the part of the fool.”
“I talked my way into the city, did I not?” Jarlaxle replied with that mischievous grin of his.
It was true enough. He and Entreri had come north and east, to the region known as the Bloodstone Lands. There, word had it, adventurers could do a fine business in goblin ears and the like, taken from the wild lands of Vaasa to the north of the kingdom of Damara and this city, Damara’s capital, Heliogabalus. Liberally invoking the name of Gareth Dragonsbane, and reminding the city guards that the Paladin King of Damara was a man known for tolerance and understanding, a man known for judging all people by their actions and not their heritage, the dark elf had convinced the city’s stern protectors to allow him entry.
They had agreed mostly because Jarlaxle was like no other dark elf they had ever heard of-and none of them had ever seen one. Outrageously dressed with a flamboyant wide-brimmed hat capped by a huge purple feather, a flowing cape-blue on the day he had entered the city, since turned red-an eye patch that daily changed from eye to eye, and with no apparent weapons, the drow seemed more a conversation piece than any threat to the security of the great city. They had let him and Entreri, with his magnificent sword and jeweled dagger, enter the city, but had promised to watch over them carefully.
After a couple of hours, the assassin and the drow knew that promise was one the lazy guards didn’t intend to keep.
“You’re taking far too long!” Entreri yelled across the somewhat crowded tavern, at the hapless waitress who had taken their order for drinks and food.
They knew she was in no hurry to return to them, for she had been trembling visibly at the sight of a drow elf all the time she was trying to concentrate on their words.
The woman blanched and started toward the bar, then turned around, then turned around again, as if she didn’t know what to do. At a nearby table, a pair of men looked from her to Entreri, their expressions sour.
The assassin sat calmly, almost hoping that the pair would make a move. He was in an especially foul mood over the last couple of months, ever since he and Jarlaxle had destroyed the Crystal Shard. The road had been boring and uneventful, even with his flamboyant companion, and Jarlaxle’s plan to come to the Bloodstone Lands to make a reputation and some coin by killing goblins and other monsters sounded more to Entreri like a job for his former arch-nemesis Drizzt and his “gallant” friends.
Still, Entreri had to admit that their options were a bit limited, since Calimport was shut off to them and they’d have a hard time truly establishing themselves in the bowery of any other city.
“You’ve flustered her,” Jarlaxle remarked.
Entreri just shrugged.
“You know, my friend, there is a saying among the drow nobles that if someone treats you well but is wicked to the peasants, then he is truly a wicked person. Now, in my society, that is a compliment, but here?”
Entreri sat back and lifted the front of his round, thin-brimmed hat-Jarlaxle called it a “bolero”-high above his eyes, so that the drow could clearly see his stare, could see the skepticism in his dark eyes.
“Do not pretend you don’t care,” Jarlaxle said against that smirk.
“Now my conscience is a dark elf?” Entreri asked incredulously. “How low must I have sunk.”
“Artemis Entreri is a better man than to whip a serving girl,” was all Jarlaxle said, pointedly turning away.
With a frustrated growl, Entreri shoved back from the table and started across the room, his small form moving silently and gracefully, almost as if he was floating across the room, heading for the serving girl. He passed the table with the two loud onlookers, and one of them started to stand as if to block the way, but a look from Entreri, so cold and strong, was enough to alter that plan.