Night of the Hunter

CHAPTER 3

"And now you understand why I have never bothered to hunt Drizzt Do’Urden down and kill him,” Gromph said to Quenthel when they were back at the Baenre compound and the matron mother had recovered from the illithid’s attack.

“The goddess uses him.” Quenthel nodded.

She was not smiling, though, Gromph noted, and given the memories, the core of Yvonnel, which Methil had imparted to his sister, the archmage doubted that he would ever see her smile again, unless it was from the pleasure of exacting pain upon another.

He noted his sister’s pensive pose, so similar to the one his mother often used to wear, and one he had never before seen from the inferior Quenthel.

“Why tempt him?” she asked. “With so many other greater needs arising all about us, why now?”

A good question, the archmage thought, and one he had discussed at length with Minolin Fey just the previous tenday. The Spider Queen was expanding her power now-in the realm of the gods, not among mere mortals-so why would she bother with a rogue drow of such little real importance or consequence?

“That is a matter for priestesses, not wizards,” he replied.

Quenthel narrowed her eyes for she understood now, of course, the direction of Lolth’s designs, a course that surely elevated Gromph and his wizardly ilk. “And you have spoken to priestesses … one in particular,” she reminded him. “And about this very topic.”

Gromph sat up straighter behind his desk, matching his sister’s intense stare with careful scrutiny of his own. “My dear sister-” he started.

“Never call me that again,” she interrupted, her voice even and confident and clearly threatening.

“Matron Mother Quenthel,” he corrected.

Gromph brought his hands up to tap-tap his fingers before his pursed lips, his typical posture when digesting some rather startling possibilities. He knew that he was looking at a being much greater than the one he had led out of Menzoberranzan only a short while before. Methil El-Viddenvelp had infused Quenthel with so many of the memories of Matron Mother Yvonnel Baenre, with their dead mother’s understanding of Lolth, and, it would seem, with more than a little of their dead mother’s personality as well. He had known this would be a possibility-bringing Quenthel out to receive the collected insights of an illithid had been an exercise to fortify her in this time of Lady Lolth’s need. She was the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan, and so ruled supreme in the city, but in truth, all who knew the inner workings of House Baenre understood that Gromph, the eldest, the most veteran, the most wizened, had been working his will behind the scenes.

It had always been a risk that taking Quenthel to Methil would empower her enough to change that dynamic.

“The gods are in turmoil, so said Mistress Minolin Fey,” he answered, lowering his hands, though surely not lowering his gaze. “The realignment is well under way, in many different corners.”

“The Spider Queen has bigger concerns.”

“Why are you asking me, and not her? You are the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan …”

“Do not deign to tell me who I am or how I am to act,” Matron Mother Quenthel replied. “I would not bother Lolth for answers that others can provide, nor trouble her handmaidens in unweaving the web that I might learn what others in my city already know.”

“Do you think personal pettiness is above the gods?” Gromph asked bluntly.

Then came a smile, surprising him. A wry and knowing grin, an evil one that the Elderboy of House Baenre knew well, though he had not seen it in well over a century.

“Then the insolent rogue remains inconsequential,” Matron Mother Quenthel reasoned. “A thorn to be used against a rival goddess, turned to the glorious darkness for no practical reason than to pain the witch Mielikki.”

“Or turned into failure yet again for the Spider Queen, and thus the scream of pain you heard that began your most recent journey.”

“In heart and soul, the rogue Do’Urden betrayed Lady Lolth yet again.”

As when the rogue Do’Urden killed you, Gromph thought, but did not say, though he might as well have said it, he realized, for his grin had surely betrayed the notion.

“Mielikki won that minor battle for the heart of Drizzt Do’Urden.” Gromph nodded as he spoke, looking away from his sister. Indeed, he was looking into the past, trying to figure out how his mother might have handled such news. How might Quenthel ultimately weigh against that standard, he wondered?

“Shall I go and exterminate the rogue Do’Urden?” the archmage asked.

Matron Mother Quenthel fixed him with an incredulous, almost pitying stare, and Gromph had his answer. The mind flayer had given her so much! For of course, that was the correct answer, the answer Gromph would have given, the answer Yvonnel would have given, the answer Lolth needed from Matron Mother Quenthel of the City of Spiders.

Possessed of this information regarding the source of Lady Lolth’s scream before her encounter with the illithid, petty Quenthel would have already sent Gromph and a dozen other assassins on their way to exterminate the puny rogue of House Do’Urden, a useless endeavor that would reap nothing but a momentary flash of vengeful joy, soon to be lost in the knowledge that the rogue was then with his goddess, and that goddess was not Lolth, and that Lolth was not sated … and then, with such a simple matter of the finality of death, the goddess could never be.

“To take with the sword is easy,” Matron Mother Quenthel stated. “To take with the heart is desirable.”

“And yet the goddess could not take his heart.”

Quenthel smiled again-no, Gromph couldn’t think of her as Quenthel any longer, he realized. Matron Mother Quenthel smiled again, an awful, wicked, delicious, inspiring smile.

“What we cannot take, we break,” Matron Mother Quenthel quietly observed.

Yes, Gromph knew, he had relegated himself to subservient status once more, in more than official rank. All of the years he had nurtured Minolin Fey, his student in the ways of intrigue, his puppet in his plans of dominion over his pathetic sister, his lover-all of that would likely unwind now that Quenthel had looked so intimately into the mind of Yvonnel.

Yvonnel the Eternal, he thought, remembering the moniker he had often heard attached to his powerful mother, one that had seemed a cruel joke when the axe of the dwarf king had so sundered Yvonnel’s withered old skull. But perhaps that moniker had been more than a passing reference after all. Perhaps, through Methil’s waggling tentacles, “eternal” remained a fitting description.

And Gromph had just given that “eternal” insight to his sister.

As Lady Lolth had demanded of him.

So be it.

“Tomorrow is the Festival of the Founding,” Matron Mother Quenthel said.

Gromph stared at her incredulously, but only at first, only until he reminded himself that this was not merely Quenthel seated across from him. Then his look turned to suspicion. After all, when had House Baenre observed the festival in any but the most cursory, and even cynical, way? The twentieth of Ches, the third month, was heralded as the anniversary of Menzoberranzan’s founding, and on that day, the collective defensive crouch of the city relaxed into a profound communal sigh. House gates were less guarded, indeed even opened, for passersby, for Lolth was known, occasionally, to appear in some avatar form in the city, and a blessing it was upon the whole of the city in that case.

To House Baenre, so much closer to the goddess, and with so much more to lose by letting down its guard, the Festival of the Founding had, in the days of Yvonnel (the Sable Years, they were called in Menzoberranzan), been a mere formality, rarely mentioned, lightly observed, and used by the House-through Bregan D’aerthe spies, typically-to gain information on the defenses and weaknesses of those other noble Houses.

“Matron Byrtyn Fey has extended …” Matron Mother Quenthel paused and gave a wicked little laugh, then corrected, “Matron Byrtyn will extend a most gracious invitation for us to dine in her worthy home, and we will accept, of course, as the Founding requires of us.”

“We will go to Narbondellyn?” Gromph asked with open and determined skepticism, referring to the neighborhood of manor houses, theaters, and arenas, and the compounds of two of Menzoberranzan’s eight ruling Houses. While Narbondellyn was a fashionable enough address in the City of Spiders, and indeed Gromph often visited the area, rarely before had all the nobles of House Baenre left Qu’ellarz’orl, the grandest district of the city, wherein resided the greatest of the noble Houses-except to go to war. The tradition of the Festival of the Founding called upon unallied Houses to dine together in a rare show of unity, but House Baenre usually used that tradition to host Matron Mez’Barris and her Second House, Barrison Del’Armgo, or vice versa.

“I await Matron Byrtyn’s invitation,” Matron Mother Quenthel said slyly, her grin now firmly aimed at Gromph. With that, she rose and departed, leaving the old mage quite flummoxed.

House Fey-Branche, the Sixth House of Menzoberranzan, the House of Minolin.

Why had Quenthel-Matron Mother Baenre-arranged this, Gromph wondered, and indeed, how?

She was among the oldest drow in Menzoberranzan and the longest-serving matron mother, even though her House, Barrison Del’Armgo was the second youngest of all the great Houses in the city, having formed a mere eight centuries earlier. Under her guidance, House Barrison Del’Armgo had climbed the ranks swiftly to the penultimate rank in the city. Barely a quarter-millennium before, the little known House had been considered no higher than the forty-seventh House of the city, barely known and with little consideration of any of the true powers of Menzoberranzan. The leap in ranking, all the way to sixteenth, had caught their attention, though, and when the matrons of the Ruling Council had at last bothered to look more closely at the Armgo ways and powers, it had become quite obvious that Mez’Barris would not be watching the Ruling Council from afar for long.

Mez’Barris had found her niche of power. Other Houses competed for the favor of Lolth by building chapels and training priestesses, but Matron Mez’Barris had veered her family down an opposite path. Barrison Del’Armgo was known for its House wizards, as were their arch-rivals, the Xorlarrins, but more than that, this House was the home of many of Menzoberranzan’s greatest warriors. Every year, the ranks of Melee-Magthere, the drow academy of warriors, included a full complement of budding Armgo warriors.

The thousand soldiers of Barrison Del’Armgo formed the backbone of the city’s martial garrison and granted Mez’Barris the firmest foundation for her House army, one not subject to the whims of a fickle deity or the ebbs and flows of magic.

And now things had become more interesting. Matron Mez’Barris was well aware of the growing instability within the one House, House Baenre, that kept her from the pinnacle of Menzoberranzan’s power.

“They march as if the entire city should stand and gape in awe,” High Priestess Taayrul said to her mother as they stood together on one of the more obscure balconies in the sprawling compound. Only recently had Barrison Del’Armgo relocated to Qu’ellarz’orl from their previous location in Narbondellyn, and so their compound was not nearly as magnificent or magic-highlighted yet as the great Baenre compound.

“They are Baenre,” said Malagdorl, Elderboy and Weapons Master of Barrison Del’Armgo. “Let Menzoberranzan embrace them with awe, for those are the admiring looks we will know soon enough.”

“Do not speak of such things openly, my impetuous child,” Mez’Barris scolded, but her tone showed more pride than anger. She could well imagine the parade below her being the march of her own House someday soon.

But she couldn’t deny the pageantry and beauty of the procession of House Baenre, soldiers marching crisply, in disciplined precision, in their battle armor, so finely cut and fitted. The glint of hundreds of weapons shone and sparkled in the accented magical lighting, all done to exacting precision, with spells set and aimed perfectly to catch the gleaming metal of sword or battle-axe or javelin tip. Faerie fire of purple, blue, and orange highlighted the group commanders and their great subterranean lizards. Light spells seemed to emanate from within the accompanying magical jade spiders, pony-sized versions of the great monstrosities that guarded the Baenre compound and several other Houses on Qu’ellarz’orl. Those spiders flanked the most important contingent, the noble priestesses, and it didn’t take Mez’Barris long to spot Matron Mother Quenthel as she glided out of the Baenre gates, floating on a translucent disc of purple and blue energies, her eldest daughter and Sos’Umptu close behind and flanking, left and right, on discs of their own. A magical red flame burned in the center of their triangle, backlighting Quenthel perfectly so that she seemed seated in a halo of red light. That hue caught the matching color of her eyes so keenly that Mez’Barris could see her eyes even from this distance. For just a moment it seemed that Quenthel was staring right back at her.

Undeniably, the Baenres knew how to march, and all the city would tremble at their passing. It took breathless Mez’Barris many heartbeats to realize that this procession was not normal, even for the Festival of the Founding. Not any more, at least. She had not seen such a thing from the vaunted Baenres in decades, a century and more, even, not since …

“Yvonnel,” she whispered, and it was clear to her that Matron Mother Quenthel was making an important statement, to the entire city, and likely, given the departure of Matron Zeerith and the Xorlarrins, most keenly of all, she was sending a warning to Matron Mez’Barris.

Malagdorl gave a little growl as the lead of the procession moved past House Barrison Del’Armgo, barely fifty feet from the balcony where the Armgo nobles had gathered. Weapons Master Andzrel Baenre led the procession, riding a lizard with a barding of jewels and bells, sitting tall and proud.

“Indeed,” Mez’Barris said, noting the source of his ire, and so full of her own spittle. “Tell me again why you have not found the opportunity to kill that one?”

Malagdorl lowered his eyes. The great rivalries between the weapons masters of the first two Houses went back many decades, to the legendary fights between Uthegental Armgo and Dantrag Baenre. So it had seemed would be the case with their successors, and Malagdorl wanted nothing more. But Andzrel had shied from any conflicts of late.

Mez’Barris knew why. She knew of Tiago, growing strong and building a great name for himself, and she knew of Elderboy Aumon, Quenthel’s oldest son, who had just completed his first year at the Academy. Andzrel was playing cautiously, because any mistake he might make would see him supplanted as weapons master by one of the two eager upstarts.

On and on, the procession went. Finally Mez’Barris noted Gromph, surprisingly far back in the long line, riding a spectral mount of shifting hues and amorphous magic. It seemed a hellhorse, then a rothé-like creature, then something in between, then something entirely different.

A smile creased Mez’Barris’s tight lips. Gromph hated Quenthel as much as she did, she knew-or thought she knew-and with the rise of the stature of wizards among Lolth’s flock, he would be the downfall of Mez’Barris’s rival.

“They will not dine with the Xorlarrins?” Priestess Taayrul asked when it was clear that the Baenre army was moving past the wizard spire of the Third House and out of Qu’ellarz’orl altogether. By that point, the Baenre line stretched all the way from the Baenre gate to the giant mushrooms that separated Qu’ellarz’orl from the rest of the city.

“It is the Founding,” Malagdorl reminded her with confidence. “They are to dine with a House that is not allied …” His voice faded with his confidence as the two priestesses stared at him with clear amusement that he would be so concerned with such a quaint tradition.

“Matron Mother Quenthel seeks to make new inroads, no doubt,” said Mez’Barris. “With the impending departure of the Xorlarrins, she has perhaps finally realized her open flank.” She nodded as she spoke, confident of her assertions. House Xorlarrin and House Baenre, First and Third, surrounded Barrison Del’Armgo, but while both of the next Houses in line, Faen Tlabbar and Mizzrym, were allied with Baenre, the two remained bitter rivals, a competition that would only intensify with House Faen Tlabbar’s greatest ally, House Xorlarrin, removed from Menzoberranzan. Indeed, the coveted rank of Third House would be opened, likely for one of these to fill the void. In terms of the relationship between Houses Baenre and Armgo, then, this could not be seen as good news for Matron Mother Quenthel. While Faen Tlabbar and Mizzrym together might be more powerful than Xorlarrin alone, the Matron Mother of House Baenre could never count on them, together or separately, to hold back the ambitions of House Barrison Del’Armgo as she had counted on Matron Zeerith Xorlarrin.

“And so the meticulous detail in the grand parade of Baenre,” Mez’Barris remarked quietly, and nodded knowingly. Her daughter and the weapons master stared at her. “They try to project strength and order to quell the chaos that will surely reach Quenthel’s front door.”

Taayrul’s eyes popped open wide at that remark, and even dull Malagdorl caught on to the reference of Quenthel without the appropriate title offered in deference.

Houses in Menzoberranzan had gone to war for less.

The march of House Baenre wove through every neighborhood in Menzoberranzan, even up to the raised area of Tier Breche, where stood the three houses of the drow academy, and then across the West Wall, across the whole of the city, before winding back to the neighborhood known as Narbondellyn, which was immediately across the mushroom forest from Qu’ellarz’orl. From every balcony and every window, drow looked on, and as was so typical of Menzoberranzan, half did so with trepidation, the other half with appreciative nods at the constancy Baenre represented.

The procession split as it neared Narbondellyn, select guard groups taking position outside of House Fey-Branche’s opened gates. Only the royal group passed through, including the siblings, Quenthel, Sos’Umptu, and Gromph; Quenthel’s daughter Myrineyl; Weapons Master Andzrel Baenre; and Patron Velkryst, Quenthel’s current chosen mate and once a Xorlarrin House wizard.

Even if this had not been the Festival of the Founding, this particular group of six would not have walked with fear, though surely almost every drow who saw them coming would cower.

Matron Byrtyn Fey met them at the door, flanked by Minolin and Patron Calagher. Byrtyn seemed a bit surprised by the small number in attendance, and both Gromph and Quenthel caught a flash of something else-annoyance? — as Brytyn looked past them and noted the army the Baenres had set in place outside her compound.

Matron Byrtyn’s stride revealed nervousness as she led the way to the dining hall, where a feast had been set out on a table flanked by nearly two score chairs. Half were filled by Fey-Branche nobles, the other half clearly intended for the Baenres. Byrtyn waved her hand, a signal, obviously, to dismiss all but her closest family members.

“Do let them all stay,” Matron Mother Quenthel whispered to her. “You may fill the rest of the chairs if you so please.” She looked at Minolin. “Your brother is not about? It would please me to see him again.”

The uncharacteristic gesture rocked Minolin, clearly, and she and her mother exchanged nervous glances, as if to silently question whether the Baenres were gathering them all together for a slaughter.

“We are the eldest two Houses in the City of Spiders,” Matron Mother Quenthel remarked. “Time has frayed our bonds, it would seem, but in this new era of the goddess’s resurgence, we do well to rewind those ties.”

A flash of surprise and a flash of hope crossed Byrtyn’s face, subtly, but Gromph certainly caught every bit of it. It was common knowledge that Zeerith Xorlarrin was already moving many of her resources to Gauntlgrym, and whispers hinted that the pressure was on for Zeerith to surrender her House rank and her place on the Ruling Council. Fey-Branche was the Sixth House of Menzoberranzan, so surely in the line of ascension; was Matron Mother Quenthel offering her support for the third rank?

Gromph noted the gaze of Minolin Fey, which he returned with a tiny shrug, his indifference eliciting a bit of a snarl from the priestess. She was on edge, the archmage realized, and he silently congratulated his sister, if he could still think of Matron Mother Quenthel as such, for her blunt and devious twist of the mood.

Matron Byrtyn filled the chairs with the worthiest members of her House, the six Baenres sorted themselves out among the group, mingling appropriately and not all in one area. Andzrel and G’eldrin Fey, old friends from the Academy, both heralded weapons masters, gathered at the far end with other warriors to discuss the recent events at Melee-Magthere, while Patron Velkryst and Fey-Branche House wizard Zeknar led the discussion about the return of the Weave. Gromph, though, did not join his wizard fellows, and instead kept himself near to Matron Mother Quenthel, who sat at the head of the table, of course, with Matron Byrtyn to her right and Minolin Fey to her left.

The food was scrumptious, the music magnificent and not overbearing, and the celebration handled with all the meticulous detail that one would expect of a noble House second only to House Baenre in longevity and tradition among the ranks of Menzoberranzan. As was customary, the conversation remained light, with few words of scorn for Houses that were not in attendance, and with each of the Matrons taking turns in directing the others to voice opinions about one or another promising situation. In the City of Spiders, after all, this was the day, typically the only day, of communal hope and renewal, the one day reserved for the premise that the whole of Menzoberranzan was greater than the familial parts.

“I was so thrilled to receive your invitation,” Matron Mother Quenthel said to Byrtyn at one point.

Gromph watched Minolin stiffen, for the invitation had been solicited in no uncertain terms, of course. “We are the elders, the cornerstones of Menzoberranzan, the constancy within the swirl of continually shifting power and allegiance.” Baenre gave a little, almost embarrassed, laugh and added, “Although some things, like the pinnacle of Menzoberranzan’s power, are indeed eternal.”

An amazing show of hubris by that self-proclaimed pinnacle, Gromph thought. He wasn’t surprised as, obviously, were both Byrtyn and Minolin, or taken aback, but rather, more intrigued. Had his sister made this remark only a day earlier, Gromph would have thought it a clumsy blunder, but now, after her intimate melding with the experiences of Yvonnel, he knew it to be a cunning twist.

Matron Mother Yvonnel the Eternal did not make mistakes, and so Gromph now expected-to his own surprise-the same competence from Quenthel.

“Where has the trust and friendship between Baenre and Fey-Branche gone?” she asked with an exaggerated sigh.

“Thinned by death, no doubt,” Matron Byrtyn replied, a subtle hint of annoyance creeping into her voice.

Gromph coughed to cover his chuckle. “Thinned by death” was a perfect description, the old archmage thought, for House Fey-Branche had lost so many nobles over the last few decades to untimely death. Byrtyn and her House had retreated, defensively crouched, with more than a little suspicion that House Baenre had played a role in many of those untimely deaths-with good reason.

“Yes,” Quenthel agreed, playing along. “Too much thinned.”

Minolin Fey shifted in her seat, clearly uncomfortable, on the verge of blurting out the obvious and totally inappropriate question as to why Matron Mother Quenthel had demanded this shared dinner.

“I am told that Matron Zeerith will soon depart,” Matron Byrtyn said. “What will become of the Xorlarrin tower on Qu’ellarz’orl, I wonder?”

“It will not be open to the new Third House,” Matron Mother Quenthel replied.

“Whomever that will be,” said Matron Byrtyn, somewhat slyly.

“It will not be Fey-Branche, if that is your thought,” Matron Mother Quenthel replied, and now even Gromph could not suppress his incredulity. Minolin shifted again-and seemed on the verge of lashing out. Matron Byrtyn rocked back away from Quenthel, her mouth hanging open. Around them, everyone at the table quieted suddenly, and Gromph began considering the words to a spell that would efficiently evacuate him from this potentially lethal bar fight.

“You are no ambitious child, Byrtyn,” Matron Mother Quenthel went on, undeterred, and indeed even upping the stakes here by leaving off the female’s title. “It is no secret in the city that Fey-Branche is considered without allies and that Matron Zhindia of the fanatical Melarni has set her eyes on ascending the ladder. Were you to reach for Matron Zeerith’s seat at the Ruling Council, you would have three superior Houses coveting your downfall.”

“Such banter is not appropriate on the Festival of the Founding,” Minolin Fey interrupted.

“Nor is it an excuse for a priestess to forget her place,” Matron Byrtyn scolded.

“Your exchange will cost both our Houses the favor of Lolth,” Minolin pleaded with Matron Mother Quenthel.

“Dear child,” Matron Mother Quenthel, who was no older than Minolin, replied, her voice dripping with condescending sweetness, “do not ever again make the error of explaining to me the desires of Lolth.”

There was an old saying among the drow that the ears of a Matron Mother were so keen they could catch the rustle of a strand of hair falling to the floor. In that moment, the room became so suddenly quiet that Gromph believed the proverb was not an exaggeration.

Matron Mother Quenthel looked to Matron Byrtyn, as if inviting her to speak, but the other woman did not oblige, and instead went back to her meal, as did everyone else. Not another word was spoken for a long, long while.

House servants cleared the plates quickly when the meal was ended, and Matron Brytyn led the group to an adjacent, even larger room where the attendees milled around in smaller groups. Gromph made his way to Velkryst and the other wizards, but kept his attention quietly attuned to the focus of the evening, the matron mothers and their respective high priestesses. He watched as Sos’Umptu rushed over to speak with Matron Byrtyn, pointing off to the south, to another set of rooms. A moment later Brytyn, Sos’Umptu, and Myrineyl moved off that way, leaving Matron Mother Quenthel-so conveniently! — alone with Minolin Fey.

That pair headed off as well, but to the west.

Gromph rubbed his thumb against a ring on his index finger, secretly sending an invisible projection in their wake, his senses following the duo as they crossed out of the room, down a small corridor, and through a set of double doors onto a balcony looking out to the pillar of Narbondel, and beyond it to the western reaches of Menzoberranzan.

Matron Mother Quenthel looked back, her expression curious. A wave of her hand shut the door-and did more than that, Gromph realized, for his spell was no more, the connection broken. Beside him, Velkryst chattered on about something to do with the Xorlarrin expedition to Gauntlgrym, the Fey-Branche mages hanging on his every word. The success of the Xolarrins, the one drow House that elevated arcane magic to the level of the divine, held great implications for them as wizards and as male drow. Gromph pretended to listen. Of course he knew far more about the goings-on in Gauntlgrym than Velkryst ever would, since he had arranged the expedition in the first place. But he kept his gaze to the west, to the doors through which Matron Mother Quenthel and Minolin Fey had exited, almost expecting an explosion of some kind to tear the western wing off the compound of Fey-Branche.

He couldn’t predict the movements of Quenthel any longer, he realized then, and he could not control them or even influence them to any great extent.

The implications of his gift to his sister weighed heavily upon his old shoulders.

“I owe you a great apology,” Baenre said to Minolin when they were alone. The heat glow of Narbondel had begun to diminish by then, the day growing late.

The priestess stared at Baenre, suspicion dominating her expression.

“For years now, I have been abusing you, thinking you worthy of my disdain, thinking you a sniveling child and nothing more,” the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan went on. “I only allowed you to remain in a position of power at Arach-Tinilith because doing so spoke to the city of the glories of old. House Fey-Branche should be powerfully represented in the Academy of Lolth, of course, but then, since it was pathetic you, how powerful would the position truly prove?”

Minolin stiffened at the insult, her eyes narrowing, one fist clenching at her side. She wanted to lash out, but Baenre knew Minolin would not summon the courage to do so. This one was not a fighter but a plotter, working with subterfuge and caution within the shadows.

“Little did I understand the adamantine of your bones,” Baenre went on, “or the cleverness lurking behind your dull eyes.”

Those eyes flared at that remark! Minolin was obviously off-balance, insulted and angry, indeed, but also cornered by an enemy she knew she could not hope to defeat.

“You thought you had Gromph in your web,” Baenre openly taunted. “You truly believed that you could turn his distrust and disapproval of mere Quenthel against the Eternal Baenre?”

The blunt remark had Minolin falling back a step. Her game was over, clearly. For years she had quietly worked on Gromph, using every wile, whispering undermining words against Quenthel-the witch Quenthel! — whom Gromph had hated through the decades.

Matron Mother Quenthel watched all of those thoughts play out on the trapped priestess’s face, circling through anger and fear, the willingness to throw herself into the fray against the hope that somehow, some way, she could mitigate this personal disaster. And that circle was a spiral, Baenre knew, and one driving Minolin ever downward into despair. Yes, she would play through the logic here-she was no fool, but a calculating and devious witch, a true devotee to Lady Lolth!

And so Minolin knew, without doubt, that the sudden insight of her arch-enemy, this Matron Mother standing before her, had to have come from Lady Lolth herself.

And so she knew that she was surely doomed.

Minolin lifted a hand-even a mouse would fight in such a corner-but of course Matron Mother Quenthel was the quicker. The Scourge of Quenthel appeared in her hand, the five writhing snake heads hungrily striking at poor Minolin, taunting her telepathically as they invaded her tender flesh. The priestess’s eyes widened with horror as she felt the pleasure of K’Sothra, who would taste blood to be content. Minolin gasped and fell away as Zinda’s fangs reached for her face, for it was fear that Zinda most desired from her enemies.

Do not resist, the third serpent, Hsiv, advised, a soothing melody whispering through Minolin’s thoughts, and one so discordant with the excruciating pain of serpent Qorra’s fiery poison.

The fifth snake, Yngoth, did not strike, but swayed tantalizingly before Minolin’s eyes as the priestess slumped back against the wall. In those black eyes, Minolin would see hope, Matron Mother Quenthel knew, for the living serpents of her scourge imparted to her their methods, of course, and asked her permission to continue.

Minolin Fey was overwhelmed. Only the wall held her up as the snakes retreated.

Then it was the iron grasp of Matron Mother Quenthel, taking her by the arm and dragging her away through another door from the balcony and into a small sitting room. Baenre shoved Minolin forward. The priestess crashed through some chairs and barely held her balance.

She struggled for a few moments, seeming on the verge of collapse, but then stood straight and spun around to face her adversary.

“You dare strike me in my own house? And on this day of festival?” she started to growl, but the words caught in her throat as Baenre lifted a clawed hand and reached out with her magic.

“Yield,” she said simply.

Minolin wanted to spit, of course, but instead, she fell to her knees, driven there by the power of the spell, held there by the will of Quenthel Baenre.

“I will never underestimate you again, clever assassin,” Matron Mother Quenthel said. “Indeed, my scorn for you is removed, replaced by-”

Gromph Baenre burst into the room.

“-admiration,” Matron Mother Quenthel finished, smiling wickedly and looking at the archmage as if to ask him what had taken him so long.

“On-on this day?” Gromph stammered with obvious shock. “In this time?”

Matron Mother Quenthel lowered her scourge, the snakes going to their writhing dance and sleep as the weapon fell to the end of its wyvern hide loop at her hip. She held her hands up innocently, as if in surrender.

“Decide where your loyalties lie,” she said to Gromph. “The Spider Queen will not have her archmage divided in his loyalties, not in this majestic time. You would secretly lead House Baenre, so you hoped, and a tenday ago, your choice would have been an easy one.”

“Dear sister,” Gromph said, and in that instant, the face of the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan darkened with rage and twisted with the weight of centuries, and for just a flash of time, glared at him with an awful power bared.

“Matron Mother,” he quietly corrected, lowering his gaze.

“No!” cried Minolin Fey, her eyes wide, her expression shocked to see mighty Gromph so cowed.

“You will never lead Baenre,” the matron mother calmly remarked.

“Strike at her!” Minolin cried. “It is just Quenthel!”

Gromph’s gaze snapped up, full of anger, but it fell over Minolin and not his sister. The priestess of Fey-Branche fell back, her arms coming up defensively as if she expected Gromph to destroy her utterly, then and there. “I am with child!” she shrieked as she fell away to prostrate herself on the floor. “Your child!” she begged pathetically.

Matron Mother Quenthel smiled knowingly as Gromph turned his astonished expression her way. With a nod to Minolin, the matron mother began to cast a spell, and the wizard followed suit. A pair of spectral drow hands, one male, one female, appeared above the prostrated priestess, and together they reached down and grabbed her around the folds of her robes and jerked her back to her feet so abruptly that it took her a moment to even realize that she was standing.

She started to speak once more, both Gromph and Matron Mother Quenthel moving to silence her, but then all three fell silent as there erupted a great tumult from inside the Fey-Branche house, shrieks and screams and the clatter of dropped glasses and tumbling furniture.

“House Baenre wars upon us!” Minolin Fey said with a gasp.

“Matron Mother?” Gromph asked, turning Quenthel’s way.

But the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan wore a look of serenity, her expression telling the other two that this was no attack.

The interior door of the sitting room swung open and in strode a drow female of extraordinary beauty and presence.

“Yor’thae,” Matron Mother Quenthel greeted, using the term reserved for the greatest Chosen being of Lady Lolth, a particular priestess who had become the vessel of Lolth in the War of the Spider Queen. Matron Mother Quenthel, the leader of Menzoberranzan, the supreme drow of the City of Spiders, ended her greeting with a deep and respectful bow.

Minolin swallowed hard before the specter, the avatar of the Spider Queen herself. Beyond the female, in the other room, the minions of House Fey-Branche and the four remaining Baenres followed the glorious creature, and all of them were on their knees, crawling, and with their eyes respectfully aimed at the floor.

Minolin shuffled uncomfortably, almost imperceptibly, but Matron Mother Quenthel caught it, and understood. Minolin knew that she should be kneeling, of course, particularly when Gromph fell to his knees beside her. She wanted to drop, but she could not, Baenre knew, because the avatar before them, a priestess who had once been known as Danifae Yauntyrr, would not let her fall.

Matron Mother Quenthel fixed Minolin with a knowing glance and a taunting grin. Any thoughts Minolin Fey had entertained of revenge against Matron Mother Quenthel had just been washed away, they both knew.

The incarnation of Lady Lolth glided across the room, passing before Minolin, and pausing there only to put her hand on the trembling priestess’s belly, not yet swollen with child. She moved to stand before the matron mother, and nodded and smiled, then fixed Quenthel Baenre with the most passionate kiss.

“My Eternal Servant,” the avatar said, gently stroking the matron mother’s tender cheek.

Then she walked past Baenre, out onto the balcony, and floated off into nothingness.

“Lolth appeared!” cried one of the priestesses in the room beyond, several daring to climb to their feet once more.

“The festival is a success!” another yelled, for indeed, the Festival of the Founding was a day when all the drow of Menzoberranzan hoped that Lady Lolth would make an appearance among them, a sign that they remained in her good graces.

Cheers and chatter echoed around the compound, spreading out to the streets beyond. All the city would soon know of Lolth’s appearance, Matron Mother Quenthel understood. Matron Mez’Barris Armgo would soon know.

Matron Byrtyn moved up beside her, and Baenre was glad to see the look of reverence splayed upon the old matron’s face.

“It is a sign to us,” Baenre quietly explained. “House Fey-Branche is vulnerable no more. You are no longer without an ally.”

Matron Byrtyn bowed before the supreme Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan.

“You will marry,” Matron Mother Quenthel instructed Gromph and Minolin.

“Marry?” Gromph chortled, for indeed, Minolin was hardly the first priestess to bear one of his children, and, if he had his way, she would hardly be the last.

Matron Mother Quenthel turned and waved Sos’Umptu and Myrineyl back, then waved the door closed in their faces, leaving only Byrtyn, Gromph, and Minolin in the room with her.

“You are with child, and that child is a girl,” she explained to Minolin. “She will be raised in House Baenre, where you will forever more reside, at my side.”

“Minolin is the High Priestess of Fey-Branche!” Matron Byrtyn protested, but Baenre silenced her with a look.

“And your child will be groomed as my successor,” Baenre said. Byrtyn gasped. “And you will name her …” She fixed Gromph with a sly look.

“Yvonnel,” he finished for her quietly, catching on.

The matron mother sidled up to Minolin, who trembled visibly. Baenre reached up to stroke her smooth cheek and the priestess tried unsuccessfully to shy from the touch. “If you fail in this, you will suffer eternity at the feet of the Spider Queen, her poison burning in your blood with an agony that will never relent,” she warned.

“I will serve,” Minolin said, her voice thin and shaky. “When the child is born, I will properly train-”

“You are an egg and nothing more,” Matron Mother Quenthel sharply interrupted. “Do not think yourself worthy to train Yvonnel Baenre.”

Minolin didn’t dare respond.

“Yvonnel the Eternal,” Matron Mother Quenthel said, turning back to Gromph. “The babe’s instruction will begin at once.”

It took Gromph a moment to figure out what she meant, but when he did, his eyes widened and he gasped audibly, in disbelief, “No.”

Baenre’s smug smile mocked him. Both she and Gromph imagined the tentacles of Methil crawling over the naked flesh of Minolin Fey-Branche, finding their way to the growing consciousness of the life inside her, imparting the memories and the sensibilities that Gromph had saved within the split skull of his dead mother.