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Jarlaxle made no indication he knew he was no longer alone. It was impossible to say what it was that had tipped him off exactly. He did not hear or see anything to indicate something was amiss. None of the sentries had signaled an alarm.
Regardless, the drow hadn’t lasted this long in Menzoberranzan by mistrusting his instincts. There. Jarlaxle spun, dagger dropping smoothly into his hand. Only managing to alter its course at the last possible moment before it left his fingers.
Thud.
The other drow didn’t even flinch. Unbothered by the knife quivering in the wall just inches from his neck.
The same could not be said for Jarlaxle. “Zak,” he hissed, striding across the room, heels practically striking sparks. His features were twisted in anger. That had been far too close. However, as he approached his friend the anger quickly gave way to concern. “Zaknafein?”
“I thought I was ready,” Zaknafein said, face still unnervingly blank. Though his daughter still breathed, Vierna had been lost to him long ago. “I thought I was prepared to lose him.” He had even tried to take the matter into his own hands once, thinking it was better for his dancer to die as himself. He hadn’t been able to do it.
Frowning, Jarlaxle took another step forward, now close enough to touch his friend. “Drizzt?” he questioned softly. As far as he knew, there was no other whose fate would affect Zakanfein like this.
“The raiding party returned without him.” The weapons master had not stayed to hear the details. It didn’t really matter. All that mattered was his son was gone.
“I’m sorry Zak.”
The weapons master stiffened at the first touch of a comforting hand on his shoulder. Then he shuddered, before turning to bury his face in Jarlaxle’s colorfully clad shoulder. Paying no mind to the arm that wrapped around his shoulders in return, or the way the fabric beneath his eyes was growing damp. “I’m done Jarlaxle.”
The mercenary felt his heart skip a beat. Surely the other didn’t mean . . .
“Take me from this place.”
And just like that, the world resumed its spin. “Of course.”
He had urged Zaknafein to leave House Do'urden many times, but the other drow had always refused. Jarlaxle should have been thrilled at his friend’s request. But somehow, seeing his friend’s grief, he could not help but grieve with him for a life cut far too short.