He saw that he had the drow’s full attention. Drizzt leaned forward over the table and weighed Malchor’s every word.

“A mask,” the wizard explained. “An enchanted mask that will allow you to hide your heritage and walk freely as a surface elf—or as a man, if that suits you.”

Drizzt slumped back, a bit unnerved at the threat to his very identity.

“I understand your hesitancy,” Malchor said to him. “It is not easy to hide from those who accuse you unjustly, to give credibility to their false perceptions. But think of your captive friend and know that I make this suggestion only for his sake. You may get through the southlands as you are, dark elf, but not unhindered.”

Wulfgar bit his lip and said nothing, knowing this to be Drizzt’s own decision. He knew that even his concerns about further delay could not weigh into such a personal discussion.

“We will go to this lair in the wood,” Drizzt said at last, “and I shall wear such a mask if I must.” He looked at Wulfgar. “Our only concern must be Regis.”

Drizzt and Wulfgar sat atop their mounts outside the Tower of Twilight, with Malchor standing beside them.

“Be wary of the thing,” Malchor said, handing Drizzt the map to the banshee’s lair and another parchment that generally showed their course to the far South. “Her touch is deathly cold, and the legends say that to hear her keen is to die.”

“Her keen?” asked Wulfgar.

“An unearthly wail too terrible for mortal ears to bear,” said Malchor. “Take all care!”

“We shall,” Drizzt assured him.

“We will not forget the hospitality or the gifts of Malchor Harpell,” added Wulfgar.

“Nor the lesson, I hope,” the wizard replied with a wink, drawing an embarrassed smile from Wulfgar.