“You got us through!” Brother Herschel cried. All of the friars except Jankin threw a great hug on Drizzt as soon as the drow caught up to them in a rocky vale west of the dragon lair’s entrance.

“If ever there is a way that we can repay you… !”

Drizzt emptied his pockets in response, and five sets of eager eyes widened as gold trinkets and baubles rolled forth, glittering in the afternoon sun. One gem in particular, a two-inch ruby, promised wealth beyond anything the friars had ever known.

“For you,” Drizzt explained. “All of it. I have no need of treasures.”

The friars looked about guiltily, none of them willing to reveal the booty stored in his own pockets. “Perhaps you should keep a bit,” Mateus offered, “if you still plan to strike out on your own.”

“I do,” Drizzt said firmly.

“You cannot stay here,” reasoned Mateus. “Where will you go?”

Drizzt really hadn’t given it much thought. All he really knew was that his place was not among the Weeping Friars. He pondered a while, recalling the many dead-end roads he had traveled. A thought popped into his head.

“You said it,” Drizzt remarked to Jankin. “You named the place a week before we entered the tunnel.”

Jankin looked at him curiously, hardly remembering.

“Ten-Towns,” Drizzt said. “Land of rogues, where a rogue might find his place.”

“Ten-Towns?” Mateus balked. “Surely you should reconsider your course, friend. Icewind Dale is not a welcoming place, nor are the hardy killers of Ten-Towns.”

“The wind is ever blowing,” Jankin added with a wistful look in his dark and hollow eyes, “filled with stinging sand and an icy bite. I will go with you!”

“And the monsters!” added one of the others, slapping Jankin on the back of the head. “Tundra yeti and white bears, and fierce barbarians! No, I would not go to Ten-Towns if Hephaestus himself tried to chase me there!”

“Well the dragon might,” said Herschel, glancing nervously back toward the not-so-distant lair. “There are some farmhouses nearby. Perhaps we could stay there the night and get back to the tunnel tomorrow.”

“I’ll not go with you,” Drizzt said again. “You name Ten-Towns an unwelcoming place, but would I find any warmer reception in Mirabar?”

“We will go to the farmers this night,” Mateus replied, reconsidering his words. “We will buy you a horse there, and the supplies you will need. I do not wish you to go away at all,” he said, “but Ten-Towns seems a good choice—” He looked pointedly at Jankin—”for a drow. Many have found their place there. Truly it is a home for he who has none.”

Drizzt understood the sincerity in the friar’s voice and appreciated Mateus’s graciousness. “How do I find it?” he asked.

“Follow the mountains,” Mateus replied. “Keep them always at your right hand’s reach. When you get around the range, you have entered Icewind Dale. Only a single peak marks the flat land north of the Spine of the World. The towns are built around it. May they be all that you hope!”

With that, the friars prepared to leave. Drizzt clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back against the valley wall. It was indeed time for his parting with the friars, he knew, but he could not deny both the guilt and loneliness that the prospect offered. The small riches they had taken from the dragon’s lair would greatly change his companions’ lives, would give them shelter and all the necessities, but wealth could do nothing to alter the barriers that Drizzt faced.

Ten-Towns, the land that Jankin had named a house for the homeless, a gathering ground for those who had nowhere else to go, brought the drow a measure of hope. How many times had fate kicked him? How many gates had he approached hopefully only to be turned away at the tip of a spear? This time will be different, Drizzt told himself, for if he could not find a place in the land of rogues, where then might he turn?

For the beleaguered drow, who had spent so very long running from tragedy, guilt, and prejudices he could not escape, hope was not a comfortable emotion.

Drizzt camped in a small copse that night while the friars went into the small farming village. They returned the next morning leading a fine horse, but with one of their group conspicuously absent.

“Where is Jankin?” Drizzt asked, concerned.

“Tied up in a barn,” Mateus replied. “He tried to get away last night, to go back… ”

“To Hephaestus,” Drizzt finished for him.

“If he is still in a mind for it this day, we might just let him go,” added a disgusted Herschel.

“Here is your horse,” Mateus said, “if the night has not changed your mind.”

“And here is a new wrap,” offered Herschel. He handed Drizzt a fine, fur-lined cloak. Drizzt knew how uncharacteristically generous the friars were being, and he almost changed his mind. He could not dismiss his other needs, though, and he would not satisfy them among this group.

To display his resolve, the drow moved straight to the animal, meaning to climb right on. Drizzt had seen a horse before, but never so close. He was amazed by the beast’s sheer strength, the muscles rippling along the animal’s neck, and he was amazed, too, by the height of the animal’s back.

He spent a moment staring into the horse’s eyes, communicating his intent as best he could. Then, to everyone’s shock, even Drizzt’s, the horse bent low, allowing the drow to climb easily into the saddle.

“You have a way with horses,” remarked Mateus. “Never did you mention that you were a skilled rider.”

Drizzt only nodded and did his very best to remain in the saddle when the horse started into a trot. It took the drow many moments to figure out how to control the beast and he had circled far to the east—the wrong way—before he managed to turn about. Throughout the circuit, Drizzt tried hard to keep up his facade, and the friars, never ones for horses themselves, merely nodded and smiled.

Hours later, Drizzt was riding hard to the west, following the southern edge of the Spine of the World.

“The Weeping Friars,” Roddy McGristle whispered, looking down from a stony bluff at the band as they made their way back toward Mirabar’s tunnel later that same week.

“What?” Tephanis gawked, rushing from his sack to join Roddy, For the very first time, the sprite’s speed proved a liability. Before he even realized what he was saying, Tephanis blurted, “It-cannot-be! The-dragon… ”

Roddy’s glare fell over Tephanis like the shadow of a thundercloud.

“I-mean-I-assumed… ” Tephanis sputtered, but he realized that Roddy, who knew the tunnel better than he and knew, too, the sprite’s ways with locks, had pretty much guessed the indiscretion.

“Ye took it on yerself to kill the drow,” Roddy said calmly.

“Please, my-master,” Tephanis replied. “I-did-not-mean… I-feared-for-you. The-drow-is-a-devil, I-say! I-sent-them-down-the-dragon’s-tunnel. I-thought-that-you… ”

“Forget it,” Roddy growled. “Ye did what ye did, and no more about it. Now get in yer sack. Mighten that we can fix what ye done, if the drow’s not dead.”

Tephanis nodded, relieved, and zipped back into the sack. Roddy scooped it up and called his dog to his side.

“I’ll get the friars talking,” the bounty hunter vowed, “but first… ” Roddy whipped the sack about, slamming it into the stone wall.

“Master!” came the sprite’s muffled cry.

“Ye drow-stealin… ” Roddy huffed, and he beat the sack mercilessly against the unyielding stone. Tephanis squirmed for the first few whacks, even managed to begin a tear with his little dagger. But then the sack darkened with wetness and the sprite struggled no more.