Realms of the Underdark

Chapter Three: A Grand Adventure

The door of Bythnara Shobalar's bedchamber thudded solidly against the wall, flung open with an exuberance that could herald only one person. Bythnara did not look up from the book she was reading, did not so much as flinch. By now she was too accustomed to the irrepressible Baenre brat to show much of a reaction.

But it was impossible to ignore Liriel for long. The elfmaid spun into their shared bedchamber, her arms out wide and her wild mane of white hair flying as she whirled and leapt in an ecstatic little dance.

The older girl eyed her resignedly. "Who cast a dervish spell on you?" she inquired in a sour tone.

Liriel abruptly halted her dance and flung her arms around her chambermate. "Oh, Bythnara! I am to undergo the Blooding ritual at last! Mistress just said!"

The Shobalar female disentangled herself as inconspicuously as possible as she rose from her chair, and she looked around for some pretense that would excuse her for wriggling out of the younger girl's impulsive embrace. On the far side of the room, a pair of woolen trews lay crumpled on the floor, Liriel tended to treat her clothes with the same blithe disregard that a snake shows its outgrown and abandoned skin. Bythnara was forever picking up after the untidy little wench. Doing so now allowed her to put as much space as possible between herself and the unwanted affection lavished upon her by her young rival.

"And high time it is," the Shobalar wizard-in-training said bluntly as she smoothed and folded the discarded garment. "You will soon be eighteen, and you are already well into your Ascharlexten Decade. I've often wondered why my Mistress Mother has waited so long!"

"As have I," Liriel said frankly. "But Xandra explained it to me. She said that she could not initiate the rite until she had found exactly the right quarry, one that would truly test my skills. Think of it! A grand and gallant hunt-an adventure in the wild tunnels of the Dark Dominion!" she exulted, flinging herself down on her cot with a gusty sigh of satisfaction.

"Mistress Xandra," Bythnara coldly corrected her. She knew, as did everyone in House Shobalar, that Liriel Baenre was to be treated with utmost respect, but even the archmage's daughter was required to observe certain protocols.

"Mistress Xandra," the girl echoed obligingly. She rolled over onto her stomach and propped up her chin in both hands. "I wonder what I shall hunt," she said in a dreamy tone. "There are so many wondrous and fearsome beasts roaming the Lands of Light! I have been reading about them," she confided with a grin. "Maybe a great wild cat with a black-and-gold striped pelt, or a huge brown bear-which is rather like a four-legged quaggoth. Or even a fire-belching dragon!" she concluded, giggling a bit at her own absurdity.

"We can only hope," Bythnara muttered.

If Liriel heard her chambermate's bitter comment, she gave no indication. "Whatever the quarry, I shall meet it with equal force," she vowed. "I will use weapons that correspond to its natural attacks and defenses: dagger against claw, arrow against stooping attack. No fireballs, no venom clouds, no transforming it into an ebony statue!"

"You know that spell?" the Shobalar demanded, her face and voice utterly aghast. It was a casting that required considerable power, an irreversible transformation, and a favorite punitive tool of the Baenre priestesses who ruled in the Academy. The possibility that this impulsive child could wield such a spell was appalling, considering that Bythnara had insulted the Baenre girl twice since she'd entered the room. By the standards of Menzoberranzan, this was more than ample justification for such retribution!

But Liriel merely tossed her chambermate a mischievous grin. The young wizard sniffed and turned away. She had known Liriel for twelve years, but she had never reconciled herself to the girl's good-natured teasing.

Liriel loved to laugh, and she loved to have others laugh with her. Since few drow shared her particular brand of humor, she had recently taken to playing little pranks for the amusement of the other students.

Bythnara had never been the recipient of these, but neither did she find them particularly enjoyable. Life was a grim, serious business, and magic an Art to be mastered, not a child's plaything. The fact that this particular "child" possessed a command of magic greater than her own rankled deeply with the proud female.

Nor was this the only thing that stoked Bythnara's jealously. Mistress Xandra, Bythnara's own mother, had always showed special favor to the Baenre girl- favor that often bordered on affection. This, Bythnara would never forget, and never forgive. Neither was she pleased by the fact that her own male companions had a hard time remembering their place and their purpose whenever the golden-eyed wench was about.

Bythnara was twenty-eight and in ripe early adolescence, Liriel was in many ways still a child. Even so, there was more than enough promise in the girl's face land form to draw masculine eyes. Rumor had it that Liriel was beginning to return these attentions, and that she reveled in such sport with her characteristic, playful abandon. This, too, Bythnara disapproved, although exactly why that was, she could not say.

"Will you come to my coming-of-age ceremony?" Liriel asked with a touch of wistfulness in her voice. "After the ritual, I mean."

"Of course. It is required."

This time Bythnara's curt remark did earn a response-an almost imperceptible wince. But Liriel recovered quickly, so quickly that the older female barely had time to enjoy her victory. A shuttered expression came over the Baenre girl's face, and she lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug.

"So it is," she said evenly. "I faintly remember that I was required to attend yours, several years back. What was your quarry?"

"A goblin," Bythnara said stiffly. This was a sore spot with her, for goblins were as a rule accounted neither intelligent nor particularly dangerous. She had dispatched the creature easily enough with a spell of holding and a sharp knife. Her own Blooding had been mere routine, not the grand adventure of which Liriel dreamed. Grand adventure, indeed! The girl was impossibly naive!

Or was she? With a sudden jolt, it occurred to Bythnara that Liriel's last question had hardly been ingenuous. Few verbal thrusts could have hit the mark more squarely. Her eyes settled on the girl and narrowed dangerously.,

Again Liriel shrugged. "What was it that Matron Hinkutes'nat said in chapel a darkcycle or two past? 'The drow culture is one of constant change, and so we must either adapt or die.' "

Her tone was light, and there was nothing in her face or her words that could give Bythnara reasonable cause for complaint.

Yet Liriel was clearly, subtly, giving notice that she had long been aware of Bythnara's verbal thrusts, and that henceforth she would not take them in silence, but parry and riposte.

It was well done, even the seething Bythnara had to admit that. If adaptability was indeed the key to survival, then this seemingly idealistic little wench would probably live to be as ancient as her wretched grandame, old Matron Baenre herself!

As for Bythnara, she found herself at a complete and disconcerting lack for words.

A tentative knock on the open door relieved Bythnara of the need to respond.

She turned to face one of her mother's servants, a highly decorative young drow male discarded by some lesser house. In perfunctory fashion, he offered the required bow to the Shobalar female, and then turned his attention upon the younger girl.

"You are wanted, Princess," the male said, addressing Liriel by the proper formal title for a young female of the First House.

Later, the girl would no doubt be accorded more prestigious titles: archmage, if Xandra had her way, or wizard, or priestess, or even-Lloth forbid-matron. Princess was a title of birth, not accomplishment. Even so, Bythnara begrudged it. She hustled the royal brat and the handsome messenger out of her room with scant ceremony and closed the door firmly behind them.

Liriel's shoulders rose and fell in a long sigh. The servant, who was about her own age and who knew Bythnara far better than he cared to, cast her a look that bordered on sympathy.

"What does Xandra want now?" she asked resignedly as they made their way toward the apartment that housed the Mistress of Magic.

The servant cast furtive glances up and down the corridors before answering. "The archmage sent for you. His servant awaits you in Mistress Xandra's chambers even now."

Liriel stopped in midstride. "My father?"

"Gromph Baenre, archmage of Menzoberranzan," the male affirmed.

Once again Liriel reached for "the mask"-her private term for the expression she had practiced and perfected in front of her looking glass: the insouciant little smile, eyes that expressed nothing but a bit of cynical amusement. Yet behind her flippant facade, the girl's mind whirled with a thousand questions.

Drow life was full of complexities and contradictions, but in Liriel's experience, nothing was more complicated than her feelings for her drow sire. She revered and resented and adored and feared and hated and longed for her father-all at once, and all from a distance. And as far as Liriel could tell, every one of these emotions was entirely unrequited. The great archmage of Menzoberranzan was an utter mystery to her.

Gromph Baenre was without question her true sire, but drow lineage was traced through the females. The archmage had gone against custom and adopted his daughter into the Baenre clan-at great personal cost to Liriel-and then promptly abandoned her to the Shobalars' care.

What could Gromph Baenre want of her now? It had been years since she had heard from him, although his servants regularly saw that the Shobalars were recompensed for her keep and training and ensured that she had pocket money to spend at her infrequent outings to the Bazaar. In Liriel's opinion, this personal summons could only mean trouble. Yet what had she done? Or, more to the point, which of her escapades had been discovered and reported?

Then a new possibility occurred to her, one so full of hope and promise that "the mask" dissipated like spent faerie fire. A bubble of joyous laughter burst from the elfmaid, and she threw her arms around the astonished-and highly gratified-young male.

After the Blooding, she would be accounted a true drow! Perhaps now Gromph would deem her worthy of his attention, perhaps even take over her training himself!

Surely he had heard of her progress, and knew that there was little more for her to learn in House Shobalar.

That must be it! concluded Liriel as she wriggled out of the servant's increasingly enthusiastic embrace. She set out at a brisk pace for Xandra's chambers, spurred on by the rarest of all drow emotions: hope.

No dark-elven male took much notice of his children, but soon Liriel would be a child no more, and ready for the next level of magical training. Usually that would involve the Academy, but she was far too young for that. Surely Gromph had devised another plan for her future!

Liriel's shining anticipation dimmed at the sight of her father's messenger: an elf-sized stone golem that was only too familiar. The magical construct was part of her earliest and most terrible memory. Yet even the appearance of the deadly messenger could not banish entirely her joy, or silence the delightful possibility that sang through her heart: perhaps her father wanted her at last!

At Xandra's insistence, a full octate patrol of spider-mounted soldiers escorted Liriel and the golem to the fashionable Narbondellyn district, where Gromph Baenre kept a private home. For once, Liriel rode past the Darkspires without marveling at the fanglike formations of black rock. For once, she did not notice the handsome captain of the guard, who stood this watch at the gates of the Horlbar compound. She even passed by the elegant little shops that sold perfumes and whisper-soft silk garments and magical figurines and other fascinating wares, without sparing them a single longing glance.

What were such things, compared with even a moment of her father's time?

As eager as she was, however, Liriel had to steel herself for the first glimpse of Gromph Baenre's mansion. She had been born there, and had spent the first five years of her life in the luxurious apartments of her mother, Sosdrielle Vandree, who had served for many years as Gromph's mistress. It had been a cozy world, just Liriel and her mother and the few servants who tended them. Liriel had since come to understand that Sosdrielle-who had been a rare beauty, but who lacked both the magical talent and the deadly ambition needed to excel in Menzoberranzan-had doted upon her child and had made Liriel the beloved center of her world. Despite this, or perhaps, because of this, Liriel had not been able to bring herself to look upon her first home since the day she left it, more than twelve years before.

Carved from the heart of an enormous stalactite, the archmage's private home was reputedly warded about with more magic than any other two wizards in the city could muster between them. Liriel slid down from her spider mount-a distinctively Shobalar means of conveyance-and followed the silent and deadly golem toward the black structure.

The stone golem touched one of the moving runes that writhed and shifted on the dark wall, a door appeared at once. Gesturing for Liriel to follow, the golem disappeared inside.

The young drow took a deep breath and fell in behind the servant. She remembered, vaguely, the way to Gromph Baenre's private study. Here she had first met her father, and had first discovered her talent for and love of wizardry. It seemed fitting that she begin the next phase of her life here, as well.

Gromph Baenre looked up when she entered his study. His amber eyes, so like her own, regarded her coolly.

"Please, sit down," he invited her, gesturing with one elegant, long-fingered hand toward a chair. "We have much to discuss."

Liriel quietly did as she was bid. The archmage did not speak at once, and for a long moment she was content merely to study him. He looked exactly as she remembered: austere yet handsome, a drow male in his magnificent prime. This was not surprising, considering how slowly dark elves aged, yet Gromph was reputed to have witnessed the birth and death of seven centuries.

Protocol demanded that Liriel wait for the high-ranking wizard to speak first, but after several silent moments she could bear no more. "I am to undergo the Blooding," she announced with pride.

The archmage nodded somberly. "As I have heard. You will remain here in my home until the time for the ritual, for there is much to learn and little time for preparations."

Liriel's brows plunged into a frown of puzzlement. Had she not been doing just that these past twelve years? Had she not gained basic but powerful skills in battle magic and drow weaponry? She had little interest in the sword, but no one she knew could out-shoot her with the hand bow, or best her with thrown weapons! Surely she knew enough to emerge from the ritual with victorious and blooded hands!

A small, hard smile touched the archmage's lips. "There is much more to being a drow than engaging in crude slaughter. I am not entirely certain, however, that Xandra Shobalar remembers this basic fact!"

These cryptic words troubled Liriel. "Sir?"

Gromph did not bother to explain himself. He reached into a compartment under his desk and took from it a small, green bottle. "This is a vial of holding. It will capture and store any creature that the Shobalar Mistress pits against you."

"But the hunt!" Liriel protested.

The archmage's smile did not waver, but his eyes turned cold. "Do not be a fool," he said softly. "If the hunt turns against you and your quarry gains the upper hand, you will capture it in this vial! You can spill its blood easily enough, and thus fulfill the letter of the ritual's requirements. Look-" he said as he twisted off the stopper and showed her the glistening mithril needle that thrust down from it.

"Cap the vial, and you have slain your prey. All you need do is smash the vial, and the dead creature will lie before you, a dagger-the transmuted needle, of course-thrust through its heart or into its eye. You will carry an identical dagger to the opening ceremony, of course, to forestall any possible inquiries into the weapon that caused the creature's death. This dagger is magical and will dissipate when the mithril needle is blooded, to remove the possibility that it might be found discarded along your path. If pride is your concern, no one need know the manner of your quarry's death."

Feeling oddly betrayed, Liriel took the glass bottle and pressed the stopper firmly back into place. In truth, she found this unsporting solution appalling. But since the vial was a gift from her father, she searched her mind for something positive to say.

"Mistress Xandra will be fascinated by this," she offered in a dull voice, knowing well the Shobalar wizard's fondness for magical devices of any kind.

"She must not know of the vial, or of any of the spells you will learn in this place! Nor does she need to hear of your other, more dubious skills. Please, save that look of wide-eyed innocence to beguile the house guards," he said dryly. "I know only too well the mercenary captain who boasts that he taught a princess to throw knives as well as any tavern cutthroat alive! Though how you managed to slip past the guard-spiders that Matron Hinkutes'nat posts at every turn, and find your way through the city to that particular tavern, is beyond my imagination."

Liriel grinned wickedly. "I stumbled upon the tavern that first time, and Captain Jarlaxle knew me by my House medallion and indulged my wish to learn-of many things! But it is true that I have often fooled the spiders. Shall I tell you how?"

"Perhaps later. I must have your blood oath that this vial will be kept from Xandra's eyes."

"But why?" she persisted, truly perplexed by this demand.

Gromph studied his daughter for a long time. "How many young drow die during the Blooding?" he asked at last.

"A few," Liriel admitted. "Surface raids often go wrong-the humans or faerie elves sometime learn of the attack in time to prepare, or they fight better than expected, or in larger numbers. And it is likely that from time to time a drow dagger slips between a youngling's ribs," she said matter-of-factly. "In those rites that are taken Below, sometimes initiates become lost in the wild Underdark, or stumble upon some monster that is beyond their skill with magic and weapons."

"And sometimes, they are slain by the very things they hunt," Gromph said.

This was a given, the girl shrugged, as if to ask what the point was.

"I do not desire to see any harm come to you. Xandra Shobalar may not share my good wishes," he said bluntly.

Liriel suddenly went cold. Many emotions simmered and danced deep within her, waiting for her to reach in and pluck one free-yet she truly felt none of them. Her tumultuous responses remained just beyond her touch, for she had no idea which one to chose.

How could Gromph suggest that Xandra Shobalar could betray her? The Mistress of Magic had raised her, lavishing more attention and indulgent favor upon her than most drow younglings ever dreamed of receiving! Apart from her own mother-who had given Liriel not only life, but a wonderful five-year cocoon of warmth and security and even love-Liriel believed that Xandra was the person most responsible for making her what she was. And that was saying a great deal. Although Liriel could not remember her mother's face, she understood that she had received from Sosdrielle Vandree something that was rare among her kindred, something that nothing and no one could take from her. Not even Gromph Baenre, who had ordered her beloved mother's death twelve years ago!

Liriel stared at her father, too dumbfounded to realize that her churning thoughts were written clearly in her eyes.

"You do not trust me," the archmage stated in a voice absolutely devoid of emotion. "This is good-I was beginning to despair of your judgment. It may be that you will survive this ritual, after all. Now listen carefully as I describe the steps needed to activate the vial of holding."