Tiring of his game, Drizzt caught the shoes one by one as they fell and hooked them over his forearm, all the while eyeing Malchor with approval. Seeing his young friend slump back in thought, the drow wasn’t sure which was the greater gift, the enchanted shoes or the lesson.

“But enough of this,” Malchor said suddenly, bursting into motion. He crossed to a section of the wall that held dozens of swords and other weapons.

“I see that one of your scabbards is empty,” he said to Drizzt. Malchor pulled a beautifully crafted scimitar from its mount. “Perhaps this will fill it properly.”

Drizzt sensed the power of the weapon as he took it from the wizard, felt the care of its crafting and the perfection of its balance. A single, star-cut blue sapphire glittered in its pommel.

“Its name is Twinkle,” Malchor said. “Forged by the elves of a past age.”

“Twinkle,” echoed Drizzt. Instantly a bluish light limned the weapon’s blade. Drizzt felt a sudden surge within it, and somehow sensed a finer edge to its cut. He swung it a few times, trailing blue light with each motion. How easily it arced through the air; how easily it would cut down a foe! Drizzt slid it reverently into his empty scabbard.

“It was forged in the magic of the powers that all the surface elves hold dear,” said Malchor. “Of the stars and the moon and the mysteries of their souls. You deserve it, Drizzt Do’Urden, and it will serve you well.”

Drizzt could not answer the tribute, but Wulfgar, touched by the honor Malchor had paid to his oft-maligned friend, spoke for him. “Our thanks to you, Malchor Harpell,” he said, biting back the cynicism that had dominated his actions of late. He bowed low.

“Keep to your heart, Wulfgar, son of Beornegar,” Malchor answered him. “Pride can be a useful tool, or it can close your eyes to the truths about you. Go now and take your sleep. I shall awaken you early and set you back along your road.”