Daughter of the Drow (28 page)

“This is disturbing news,” the Baenre matron admitted. She spoke in a cold, perfectly even voice, but the look she gave Shakti was one of pure malice. “Of course you all realize this discovery puts me, personally, in a most difficult position. Liriel Baenre’s actions took place under my rule, and it hardly matters whether she acted with my approval or without my knowledge. I am grateful indeed for Lloth’s peace,” Triel added honestly and pointedly. “But in the spirit of this new unity, we will discuss what might best be done, and we leave the decision in the hands of Lloth. You,” she said, pointing toward a stunningly beautiful female seated with the delegation from House Faen Tlabbar. “Speak your mind, Matron Ghilanna.”

The newly elevated matron rose in a whisper of silk and the gentle tinkle of silver jewelry. House Faen Tlabbar had suffered more inner turmoil than most, for both its former matron and her heir had been slain. All the city knew Ghilanna had won her position through a vicious, bloody battle with her seven sisters, yet the female’s delicate appearance was completely at odds with her deadly reputation. Ghilanna Tlabbar was tall and slender, as vain of her appearance and reputedly as wanton in her habits as any Tlabbar female. Unlike most of the priestesses in attendance, she dressed not in somber robes but in an exquisite black gown. Black seed pearls and fine embroidery graced the tightly molded, daringly cut bodice, and the entire length of her legs was clearly visible through the gossamer layers of her skirts. Yet her lovely, painted face was set hi grim lines.

“This new magic could mean the end of matron rule,” Ghilanna said bluntly. The people of Menzoberranzan submit to our rule—at least in part—because they lack options. Few can survive in the wild Underdark for long, and indeed such a life would hardly be worthy of the name. Nor is there a place for us in the Lands of Light. Recent events have proved that dramatically. But consider this: if wizards could cast their spells on the surface with all the power they wield Below, what would keep them under our command? Their eyes are trained to the light, and with their magic they could survive, perhaps even thrive, in the world above.

“Even the commoners,” Ghilanna continued earnestly, “the artisans and the soldiers, might be tempted to try to carve out a place for themselves Above. And why not? The lowliest drow has at her command powers that a human wizard might envy. We possess a natural resistance to magic that is the envy and horror of other magic-wielding races. Their spells slide off us like so many drops of water. Invisibility, silence, darkness, invulnerability to magic—these things are the heritage of every drow. Never forget that few can match the deadly skill of a drow fighter—and who among us is not trained in arms? Consider all these things, and ask yourselves how many drow would remain in Menzoberranzan, under our rule, if they knew they had the power to thrive elsewhere.”

Mez’Barris Armgo, the matron of House Barrison Del’Armgo, was the next to receive Matron Triel’s permission to speak. As ruler of the second house, Mez’Barris was clearly furious such permission was necessary. To add to this insult, the young matron of a lower house had spoken first! Yet Triel had firm control of the assemblage, and the best Mez’Barris could do was vent her ire on the upstart Tlabbar matron. The look she cast over the lovely female was one of utter disdain.

“That was a fine speech,” sneered Mez’Barris. “Trust Ghilanna to bring style and flair even to blasphemy. And blasphemy it was—only thus can we describe her words,” Mez’Barris shouted in ringing, impassioned tones. “Do we or do we not rule by the grace and power of Lloth? The Spider Queen is not threatened by a girl-child’s magical trinket, and neither are we, her priestesses!”

She sat down amid a murmur of agreement.

“I agree with Matron Mez’Barris that this discovery poses little threat to the matriarchy. Quite the contrary. This could benefit us all,” put in Matron Miz’ri. Her clan, House Mizzrym, was notable for its trade contacts, its willingness to deal with nondrow, and its delight in treacherous double-dealings. The matron’s red eyes held a hard gleam now as she considered the delightful possibilities.

“With this trinket, as you call it,” Miz’ri went on, “we could go into the Lands of Light armed as never before. Who could stand before our merchant bands, our raiding parties? Consider the wealth! This new magical device is a tool, like any other. We have it, and we should use it.”

Kyrnill Kenafin rose to speak. Her house was currently ranked tenth, but her arrogant manner and cruel, crimson

Daughter of the Drew eyes marked her as the tyrant she was. In House Kenafin, priestesses reigned supreme, and they took immense delight in subjugating and terrorizing the house males.

“This talk of commoners, males, and wizards wielding such a thing is utter nonsense. Do they dare to handle a snake-headed whip of a high priestess? Of course not! Likewise, if the priestesses of Lloth claim this new magical item as our own—as well as all copies made at our command—who will gainsay us?” Kyrnill punctuated her question with a hard, cocky smile.

“I would like to know,” began Ker Horlbar, one of the two ruling matrons of House Horlbar, “why this claim was brought against House Baenre in defiance of Lloth’s peace?”

Several of the drow priestesses exchanged arch glances. The Horlbar clan depended upon agriculture for their wealth and position, and their chief rival in this pursuit was House Hunzrin. Lloth might declare peace, but her followers would still find a way to strive against each other.

“It is not my purpose to accuse the first house,” protested Shakti, again rising to her feet. “This discovery goes beyond the ambitions of any single drow. It may be even more important than increasing the wealth and position of House Horlbar.”

This barbed response brought a chorus of mocking laughter and some scattered applause from the assembled drow. Even some of the priestesses who had frowned when Shakti first rose to speak sent approving nods and long, measuring glances her way. The young female was not yet a high priestess, nor her mother’s heir to House Hunzrin. In Menzoberranzan, power was not given, but seized. Any female willing and able to do so was worthy of serious consideration.

The discussion went on for some time. Triel listened as each priestess spoke, but no answer came to her. Even if her own house had not been involved, this discovery had more depth of possibility, more layers of danger and implication, than even a drow could fathom so quickly.

At last she turned to Zeerith Q*Xorlarrin. The regal female was renowned for her diplomatic skills and was often called upon to mediate in disputes between houses. Even now Zeerith sat serene amid the controversy. This situation would surely test even her fabled judgment.

“What do you say on this matter, Matron Zeerith?” Triel demanded. She was confident the matron’s judgment, although seemingly impartial, would honor the long-term alliance between houses Xorlarrin and Baenre. “Speak, and we will accept your counsel as if it came from the mouth of Lloth.”

The matron rose. “Clearly, we need to know more about this human artifact. Since it is an instrument of magic, I suggest it be entrusted to the collective masters of the Sorcere. Only the mage school has the resources needed to study and reproduce such an item. They will do so, of course, under the close supervision of the Ruling Council. Until a decision is made, we must keep this knowledge from the common folk. I say any priestess who speaks of this amulet outside of this room, except to the master wizards of the Sorcere, will be punished by the Ruling Council and suffer loss of rank and honor, with the threat of worse to follow when Lloth’s peace is revoked.”

Most of the drow nodded, silently accepting Matron Zeerith’s decree.

“Now, as to the young novice who started all of this,” con-turned Zeerith unexpectedly. “By the decree of Lloth, no priestess can slay another. It seems to me that Liriel Baenre has not yet reached that status, and she is therefore not protected by the Spider Queen’s decree. Furthermore, Liriel Baenre has shown herself to be a wizard of considerable power, yet she has not submitted to the mind-search tests required to determine her loyalty to Lloth. For both these offenses, I call for her death. That is my decision, and, by the word of Matron Triel, it is the will of Lloth.”

This decree, so unexpectedly harsh from the subtle, conciliatory Xorlarrin matron, sent a ripple of dark murmurs through the room.

“No.”

The single word shocked them all into silence. SoslJmptu Baenre, the usually reticent keeper of the Baenre chapel, walked to the center of the room. She stood before the altar and faced them all, her slender form rigid with certitude. “No,” she repeated. “This is not the will of Uoth.”

Triel rose from her throne, shaking with wrath. She was not happy with Zeerith’s sentence, but she had pledged before all the powers of Menzoberranzan to follow’the Xorlarrin matron’s advice. Her authority had already been sadly undermined by this whole affair, and the unexpected defiance of loyal Sos’Umptu was more than the beleaguered young matron could bear.

“You defy me?” she raged, bearing down upon her younger sister. “How is it that the Queen of Spiders speaks to you, against the wisdom of your own matron mother?”

“Lloth speaks to us all,” Sos’Umptu said stoutly. The priestess turned and pointed to the magical image of Lloth, the shapeshifting spider that hovered over the altar. The priestess waited until the illusion shifted to the form of a draw female. “Look at her face.”

For the first time Triel noticed the illusion’s striking resemblance to her errant niece. There was no way she could miss it now, for the eyes of the drow female were no longer the glowing crimson typical of dark elves. They were a strange, very distinctive shade of amber. And the lips of the magical image were curved in a smile of dark amusement.

All those who had seen Liriel Baenre recognized the significance of the transformation, and whispers spread the meaning of this manifestation to all present.

“We serve the Lady of Chaos,” Sos’Umptu said softly, pointing to the golden-eyed image before them. “For good or ill, Liriel Baenre has found the favor of Lloth. Remember the words of Matron Hesken-Faj: those who find other ways to extend Lloth’s reign will be rewarded. Perhaps Liriel has found such a way. What this new magic will bring us, we cannot yet know. But see before you the will of Lloth, and go your way in peace.”

The meeting ended soon after SosTTmptu’s pronouncement, and the priestesses of Menzoberranzan slipped away into the darkness.

Zeerith Q’Xorlarrin, the matron mother of House Xorlarrin, was one of the first to leave the Baenre compound. She pulled the curtains of her slave-carried litter shut and settled back against the cushions. Only then did she give vent to her emotions, hissing curses against House Baenre and its three generations of female fools.

She had gone to war at old Matron Baenre’s side, and she was still seething over what had occurred in the tunnels beneath Mithril Hall. Auro’pol, the matron of the powerful House Agrach Dyrr, had been killed by a creature of the Abyss at the command of the former Baenre matron. The war itself had been disastrous, but it was the death of Auro’pol—which was most assuredly not sanctioned by Lloth—that convinced Zeerith Q’Xorlarrin the first house no longer deserved its position. Triel Baenre was due for trouble when Lloth tired of peace, of that Zeerith was certain.

In the meantime, there were certain things Zeerith could do. She had risked much with her harsh pronouncement: her informal and unspoken alliance with House Baenre, her reputation as a fair and impartial diplomat. She had been publicly rebuked in a most dramatic fashion, and that did not sit well with the proud matron. Yet she had not lost entirely. The new magic would be entrusted to the Sorcere, where seven Xorlarrin wizards served as masters. No house in Menzoberranzan possessed more wizardly might than Xorlarrin, and whatever secrets the wizards uncovered would be whispered in the ears of Matron Zeerith before they were revealed to the Ruling Council.

The opportunity for revenge against House Baenre was not entirely lost either. Perhaps no priestess of Lloth could move directly against young Liriel, but more drow died from poisoned daggers and wizardly spells than from the high priestesses’ snake-headed whips.

Comforted by these pleasant thoughts, Matron Zeerith smiled and relaxed against the litter’s silken cushions. She had a task in mind for her dear brother Kharza-kzad. By all reports, the old fool was unduly fond of his beautiful young student.

And why, thought Zeerith, should females alone bear the burden of sacrificing those nearest their hearts?

Prom the window of his dark study, Gromph Baenre watched the city stir to life. While most of Menzoberranzan slept, he often passed the hours this way, alone in his Narbondellyn mansion. He did not sleep—he had never been able to sleep—and now he relied upon the magic that kept him youthful to sustain his life without benefit of rest. During his first few centuries of life, Gromph had found ease and restoration in the deep, wakeful reverie that was his elven heritage. For many decades now, despite the formidable discipline of his magical training, the ability to enter this waking trance had eluded him. The archmage of Menzoberranzan had forgotten how to dream.

So he sat alone, filled with sullen wrath and seething with the endless frustration that defined his existence. His mood did not improve when the magical alarm on his Baenre house insignia began to pulse with a silent, insistent summons. It seemed his dear sister Triel finally required the pleasure of his company.

For a long moment, Gromph toyed with the idea of defying the summons. Yet he dared not. Triel reigned in House Baenre, and his life would be worth nothing if he incurred her wrath.

Not that his life was worth so very much now, Gromph concluded bitterly. For once not bothering to don the robes and cape that proclaimed his powerful office, the archmage spoke the words that would take him to House Baenre.

He found Triel pacing about the family chapel. She leaped at him, her eyes wild, and seized him by the forearms,