Daughter of the Drow (4 page)

“The patrol of fighters from Tier Breche should have stopped this little rebellion before it got this far. If any of them are still alive, they’ve got no right to be. You, Bazherd. Take my pitchfork and lead the hunt.”

The young male leaped forward to claim the powerful magic weapon. Shakti’s lips firmed in a smile as she handed it over. Any blow against the drow Academy pleased her. She had no quarrel with Tier Breche in general, and usually conceded that the academies did well enough training fighters and wizards. But noble females were sent to the clerical school, and Shakti’s resentment of her lot was deep and implacable. Oh, she would become a priestess, for that was the path to power in Menzoberranzan. But if another way presented itself, Shakti Hunzrin would be the first to take it.

At the appointed hour, every wizard in Menzoberranzan worthy of the name slipped away to a private spot to answer an unprecedented summons. One by one, each took a vial bearing the symbol of House Baenre, broke the seal, and watched as mist poured forth and shaped itself into a shimmering doorway. And one by one, the drow wizards stepped through these magic doorways. Each one emerged into the same large, lavishly appointed hall, perhaps somewhere in Menzoberranzan, perhaps in some distant plane. All the wizards knew for certain was that this was Gromph Baenre’s audience chamber, and they had little choice but to attend. Even House Xorlarrin, famous for its wizardly might, was there in force. Seven Xorlarrin wizards were masters in the Sorcere, the school of magic; all seven sat uneasily on the luxurious chairs provided them.

As the wizards awaited the city’s archmage, they eyed their colleagues with wary interest. Some had not seen each other since they’d trained together at Sorcere, for wizards hoarded their magical secrets to serve the power and prestige of their individual houses. Status was all, even among the city’s mages. Glittering house insignias were much in evidence, and those whose heritage did not grant such a display settled for enspelled jewelry. Hundreds of gems flickered in the dim light of the hall, their colors reflected in the glittering black folds of the piwafwi cloaks worn by all. Some of the wizards were accompanied by their familiars: giant spiders, deep bats, magically altered beasts, even imps or other creatures of the Abyss. The large room filled up quickly, yet the silence seemed only to deepen, to become more profound, as each wizard entered the magic chamber.

When the last chair had been taken, Gromph Baenre stepped out of nothingness and into the center of the room. As usual, Gromph was garbed in the glorious cloak of the archmage, a many-pocketed piwafwi that reputedly held more magical treasures and weapons than most drow wizards saw in a lifetime. Two magical wands were prominently displayed on his belt, and no one doubted many more were hidden about his person. Gromph’s most powerful weapons, however, were his beautiful, tapered hands—so dexterous in weaving spells of death—and the brilliant mind that had brought him to the height of wizardly power

and doomed him to a life of discontent. In many other cultures, one such as he would be a king. And of all Menzoberranzan’s wizards, only Gromph had the power to call such a meeting.

“It is not customary for the wizards of this city to gather in one place,” Gromph began, speaking aloud the thoughts of all present. “Each of us serves the interests of his own House, according to the wisdom of his matron mother. This is as it should be,” he said emphatically. The archmage paused and lifted a single eyebrow, perhaps to spice his assertion with a dash of irony.

“Yet, such alliances are not unknown. The city Sshamath is ruled by a coalition of drow wizards. We of Menzoberranzan could surely do as well if the need arises.”

Murmurs, ranging from the excited to the appalled, filled the magical chamber. Gromph held up a hand, a simple gesture that commanded—and received—instant silence.

“If the need arises,” he repeated sternly. “The Ruling Council will see to the troubles of the city. Our task is to wait and watch.”

Again he paused, and all present heard the silent message. The Ruling Council—the matron mothers of the eight most powerful houses—was little more than a memory. Matron Baenre, the most powerful drow in .the city, was no more. Triel, her eldest surviving daughter, would assume the leadership of House Baenre, but she was young and would almost certainly face challengers. Recently, the third-ranked house had been utterly destroyed by creatures of the Abyss, but not before its renegade leader had slain the matron and the heir of the fourth house. Auro’pol Dyrr, the leader of the fifth-ranked house, had fallen during the war. Since orderly succession was a rarity, each of these houses might well be ravaged by internal strife before new matrons finally took power. These matrons would then face challenges on all sides. Seldom in the long history of Menzoberranzan had so many Council seats been open at one time, and at least a dozen houses could be counted on to go to war in an attempt to advance their status. Overall, the struggle to restore the Ruling Council could take years—years the faltering city could not spare.

“You know the problems Menzoberranzan faces as well as I do,” Gromph continued softly. “If the city falls into anarchy, we wizards may well be her best chance of survival. We must stand ready to assume power.”

Or to seize it.

These words were also left unspoken, but every drow in the room heard them, and marked them well.

Baenre is dead. Reign long, Matron Triel.”

These words had been spoken many times, with varying degrees of sincerity, throughout the day as one by one the nobles, soldiers, and commoners of House Baenre filed past the fearsome black throne—a sentient wonder in whose gleaming depths writhed the spirits of Baenre victims—to pledge fealty to their new matron.

Triel Baenre herself was not an imposing sight. She was well under five feet tall, her body as slim and straight as a child’s. By the standards of drow elves, she was not particularly attractive. Her white hair was long and thin, braided tightly and wrapped around her small head like a crown. She was clad simply: a long hauberk of elven chain mail draped over the simple black robe of a priestess. Yet Triel did not require the conventional trappings of royalty. She was one of the highest-ranked priestesses of Lloth in the city, and in the full favor of her goddess. The young matron exuded power and confidence, and she greeted each of her subjects with a regal nod.

In truth, Triel was not as comfortable with her new role as she appeared to be. Seated upon her mother’s throne, she felt aa if she were a child playacting. By the blood of Lloth, she swore silently, her feet did not even touch the floor! A minor indignity, perhaps, but to Triel’s troubled mind her dangling feet seemed to be an omen, a sign she was not equal to the task before her.

Triel knew that, by any measures known to her, she should have been ecstatically happy with her elevation. She was now matron mother of Menzoberranzan’s first house. Triel was no stranger to power—as matron mistress of the clerical school Arach-Tinilith, she held a position of great honor—but she had never truly aspired to her late mother’s throne. The former matron had reigned for so many centuries she had seemed eternal. Even her given name had been lost to memory. To generations of drow, Triel’s mother was Baenre, was Menzoberranzan. Thus each repetition of “Baenre is dead” echoed through Triel’s mind like a portent of doom, until she felt she must scream aloud or go mad.

But at last the ceremony ended, and Triel was left alone to face the task of rebuilding the shattered household. It was a formidable challenge. A house’s strength lay in its priestesses, and far too many had fallen in her mother’s war. Many of the former matron’s daughters—and their daughters in turn—had gone on to form houses of their own. In theory, these minor houses were allies of House Baenre, but their primary concern was spinning their own webs of power and intrigue.

In addition to its lack of priestesses, the first house was without a weapon master. Triel’s brother Berg*inyon had gone missing during the war. As leader of the mighty lizard riders, he had led the attack on Mithril Hall’s surface-dwelling allies, and he had never returned to his family home. Many drow had fallen in the terror and confusion that followed dawn, and it was not unlikely the Baenre weapon master was among them. Triel suspected otherwise. She’d often sensed that the young male’s instincts for self-preservation far outstripped his loyalty to his house. Whatever the truth behind his disappearance, Berg’inyon was lost to her. He might be a mere youth—barely sixty years of age—but he was a strong fighter, and he would be difficult to replace. Lloth forbid, Triel thought with immense distaste, she might even be required to take on a patron to fill the role of weapon master!

Yet Triel’s most immediate task was to choose her own successor at Arach-Tinilith. Usually the position of Academy matron went to the highest-ranking priestess of Lloth in House Baenre. After Triel, that would be Merith, a commoner taken into the Baenre ranks years ago when her considerable clerical powers began to emerge. Merith coveted the title of matron mistress, but this was simply out of tüe question. In any capacity, she was a potential disgrace to House Baenre. The former daughter of a streetsweeper had no understanding of the subtle nuances of protocol, no - appreciation for the intricate warp and weft of intrigue. She was also sadistic in the extreme. In situations that called for a stiletto, Merith was a dwarven battle-axe. Triel expected her dear adopted sister to contract a rare, fatal illness any day now.

That left Sos’Umptu, the keeper of the Baenre chapel, as the most likely candidate. Sos’Umptu was Baenre-born, her favor with Lloth was secure, and her standing as a priestess impressively lofty. So after due consideration Triel sent for her younger sister and offered her Arach-Tinilith.

Sos’Umptu, far from being pleased at her promotion, was horrified at the suggestion she leave the Baenre chapel. Triel coaxed, wheedled, and threatened, but in the end she conceded that, at least for the time, she herself must fill both roles. Her younger sister received this decision with a relieved sigh, then glanced at the door that led toward her beloved chapel.

“No, stay with me a while,” Triel said tiredly. “I must speak with you on another matter. House Baenre needs high priestesses desperately, especially nobles Baenre-born. You know I have no daughters of my own, nor am I likely to have any. I must rely on my sisters and their children to rebuild our strength. You keep the birth records; what can you tell me about our prospects? Any outstanding talents among the young females?”

The keeper of the chapel cleared her throat. “Probably the most gifted among them would be Liriel. Gromph’s daughter?” she prompted, when Triel showed no sign of recognition.

Memory fell suddenly into place, and Triel’s eyes widened in wonder as she considered the possibilities. Gromph’s pampered, wayward daughter, a high priestess of Lloth. How preposterous, and how delightful!

From what Triel could recall, Gromph had fathered the child some four decades past and had inexplicably claimed her as his own. Liriel bore the name of her father’s house, which was almost unheard of in their matriarchal society. Her mother, a useless beauty from some minor house, had disappeared, and for many years little had been heard of the child, except disapproving whispers that Gromph allowed the girl to run wild. With the onset of adolescence, Liriel had forged a place for herself in the frenetic social life of certain wealthy circles. Triel had heard tales of Liriel’s exploits, which earned the girl notoriety and admiration in nearly equal parts. Although considered headstrong and capricious, Liriel reportedly had exceptional powers of mind and magic. What better use for such talents than the service of Lloth?

Triel smiled wickedly. How that would enrage Gromph! By law and custom, noble females entered the clerical college with the onset of puberty or upon their twenty-fifth birthday, whichever came first. Gromph had not required his daughter to attend—perhaps he had even forbidden it! The archmage was hardly devout in the service of Lloth, and Triel had caught glimpses of Gromph’s bitter resentment toward the priestess rulers. Yet if Matron Triel commanded, Gromph would have little choice but to send his daughter to Arach-Tinilith.

And Liriel Baenre, as a high priestess of Lloth, would become not only a bright jewel in the crown of House Baenre, but also a powerful reminder to ambitious Gromph as to where the true power in Menzoberranzan lay.

Triel turned to regard her younger sister. “Why, SoslJmptu,” she said slyly, “you surprise me! I had not thought you capable of such devious subtlety.”

Sos’Umptu flinched and said nothing, for she had learned through hard experience to be leery of compliments. Indeed, Triel’s eyes hardened dangerously as she continued to observe her younger sister.

“It would seem,” the new matron continued, “the keeper of the chapel has talents that reach beyond her chosen sphere of influence. See that your ambitions do not do likewise!”

Sos’Umptu sank into a deep reverence. “I desire only to serve Lloth, and my sister the matron mother,” she said fervently.

Although it was almost beyond belief, Triel sensed the younger Baenre daughter spoke truth. The matron was not certain whether to regard Sos’Umptu’s unnatural lack of ambition with relief or scorn, but she smüed at her sister and bid her to rise. “Your devotion does you credit,” Triel said dryly, “and your idea has merit. Have someone find the girl and bring her here at once.”

“Do you want Gromph to be present when you speak to his daughter?”

Heat flooded Triel’s face until her countenance shone like an angry ruby. “I do not require my brother’s blessing, in this matter or any other,” she snapped.

“Of course not, Matron Triel,” Sos’Umptu hastened to say, dipping into another respectful bow. “But I thought you might, perhaps, enjoy witnessing Gromph’s distress?”

The dangerous glint in Triel’s eyes warmed to become a comrade’s gleam. “My dear sister, for the sake of House Baenre, you must venture out of your chapel more often!”