Even with the consideration that Tiago was her ladder to success, the knowledge that others would not tolerate Dahlia for long gave Saribel some comfort. She wanted Tiago to fail even more than she wanted herself to succeed. A sound from the room, the soft but sharp cry as Tiago violated Dahlia, only crystallized those feelings.
Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre reclined calmly on her divan, one leg freed of her decorated dress by a slit that reached to her hip. She clicked her long fingernails together and played with the multiple golden bangles on one slender wrist, all the while wearing an expression of complete boredom.
Tiago Do’Urden moved from foot to foot in front of her, barely able to contain his explosive temper.
But he had to contain it. The matron mother had cut him short at the utterance of his first word, informing him that she was not quite ready for what had been proposed in the meeting he had demanded. Now it had become a test to see if he could properly adhere to the lead of the matron mother. Quenthel had silenced him with an upraised finger, and was letting it stretch out interminably, just to prove that she could.
“You are wasting my time,” she said some time later, turning a glare that was both bored and threatening over the upstart weapons master.
“Matron Mother?”
“Yes, I am, as you must never forget. You requested this audience and I have granted it.”
“But you . . .” Tiago started to protest. He thought better of it and said instead, “I did, but only because it is a most urgent issue.”
Quenthel swung about on her jeweled and silken divan to place her feet flat on the floor, facing him directly.
“House Xorlarrin . . .” Tiago explained, shaking his head as if trying to sort it all out as he blurted the words. “They grow bold under the banner of Do’Urden.”
“They?”
“Saribel and . . .”
“High Priestess Saribel?” Quenthel interrupted, her correction a clear warning.
“Yes, my wife.”
“No,” Quenthel corrected. “She is not your wife. You are her husband, the mate of High Priestess Saribel Xorlarrin Baenre Do’Urden. Do you understand that distinction?”
Tiago could barely spit out a response. Where was this sudden attitude shift coming from? He had been the leader of the Xorlarrin expedition to claim Gauntlgrym as a drow city, even above High Priestess Berellip herself. Tiago had held no small measure of sway in every movement and decision of that expedition, because of the insistence of Matron Mother Quenthel. Now she would side with dimwitted Saribel Xorlarrin over him?
He knew he had to take a different tack. “Her . . .” He paused again, wanting to keep Saribel completely out of the reference. “Ravel Xorlarrin,” he corrected, and then again, “Ravel Do’Urden has been joined among the House nobles by his cousin Jaemas and other wizards of House Xorlarrin.”
“They are without a home, of course,” Quenthel replied. “And House Do’Urden must fend for itself against treachery that may yet come.”
“I understand . . .” Tiago started to reply.
“I do not care if you understand or not,” Quenthel scolded. “Why would I? You are the weapons master of House Do’Urden, answering thus to the Matron Mother of House Do’Urden.”
“She is . . .” Tiago started to retort. But when Quenthel’s hand came up, holding her vicious, snake-headed scourge, Tiago wanted no part of that. Favored nephew and noble or not, he was, after all, just a male, and had felt the bite of such punishing tools far too many times in his short life. He sucked in his breath and fell to his knees in supplication.
“Stand up, you fool,” Quenthel commanded, and he did, quickly, and dared look into her eyes.
“You are Baenre,” she said. “You know the way of things. Are you so bound up in your pride that you do not understand the opportunity before us now? House Xorlarrin has been dislodged from Q’Xorlarrin, and we’ll not march against that fortress to drive out the dwarves. Not now, not anytime soon.”
“Drizzt Do’Urden is there,” Tiago dared to whisper.
The matron mother’s scourge snapped and Tiago recoiled in fear as the snake heads hissed and spat and bit in the air just in front of his face.
“Do not ever speak that name to me again,” Quenthel told him. “He is an inconsequential tick, and every time you speak of him or consider him, he bloats on the blood of House Baenre. The dwarves have reclaimed Gauntlgrym. The tunnels between us and them are thick with demons, including major demons, including demon lords. Shall I march an army through such a force to do battle with entrenched dwarves? Would that satisfy your hunger?”
“No, Matron Mother,” Tiago said weakly.
“I choose not to protect House Do’Urden at this time, and know that you have enemies,” Quenthel bluntly stated.
That declaration hit Tiago hard. This wasn’t a choice, he knew, but a necessity. Only then did he realize how much damage Archmage Gromph’s recklessness had truly wrought, not necessarily to Menzoberranzan but surely to House Baenre. Quenthel wouldn’t help defend House Do’Urden because she couldn’t help, because she was feeling the pressure of the other Houses, all outraged over the arrival of Demogorgon in Menzoberranzan at the hands of the archmage, the Elderboy of House Baenre and the arcane extension of Matron Mother Baenre.
Tiago pieced some things together then, and he did well not to gasp aloud as truths became clear to him. Jarlaxle had told the Xorlarrins to leave, so Jaemas had declared. Jarlaxle had arranged the truce with King Bruenor that had allowed Matron Mother Zeerith and her family to escape, Tiago had learned from Ravel soon after that meeting in House Do’Urden’s chapel. And Bregan D’aerthe answered, most of all, to Matron Mother Baenre. Was it possible that Matron Mother Quenthel had surrendered the city of Q’Xorlarrin to pull back reinforcements she feared she would need for the security of House Baenre?
“Matron Mother Zeerith’s troubles may well save your House,” Quenthel explained. “So yes, Jaemas Xorlarrin is now Jaemas Do’Urden. As is Faelas, though he will retain his proper surname while he serves as my eyes in Sorcere.”
“Until Gromph returns?”
Quenthel laughed at that. “Was Gromph obliterated by Demogorgon? Devoured?”
“He is the Archmage . . .”
“He
was
the Archmage,” Quenthel corrected.
Tiago felt as if he couldn’t breathe. This was too much, too quickly. He calmed by reminding himself that times of chaos were times of opportunity.
“So, Faelas . . .” he said leadingly, thinking he had sorted it out.
“Is a Master of Sorcere.”
“Sorcere will need a new archmage.”
“Worry about your House,” Quenthel warned.
“I could do more to prepare House Do’Urden carrying the imprimatur of the matron mother.”
“You are the weapons master of House Do’Urden. Only that. I thought I had made that clear.”
“Yes, Matron Mother,” he blurted, and lowered his gaze as he saw the scourge coming up once more.
“High Priestess Saribel will understand the way forward. That is all you need to know, and that is what you have no choice but to trust.”
“Yes, Matron Mother,” Tiago replied, and he was fuming then, but wise enough to make sure that he did nothing to make that apparent. Quenthel waved him away, and he was glad to be gone, and quickly.
As soon as he exited the room, Quenthel waved her hand and slammed the door behind him, an exclamation point to the finality of his obsession with Drizzt Do’Urden.
“I told you,” Quenthel said to Minolin Fey as she came out of the room’s side door, having heard the entire conversation. “He is possessed of the same dangerous hubris as Gromph.”
“A fatal hubris, no doubt,” said the young woman accompanying Minolin Fey.
Quenthel, still not looking over, swallowed hard. She didn’t want to look upon Yvonnel, especially now that Yvonnel was physically entering young adulthood, and was so beautiful, so physically, magically, painfully beautiful, that her appearance alone mocked any who thought themselves her equal.
“You did well, my daughter,” Yvonnel said, and she giggled and added. “My aunt.”
Both of the older women wore sour expressions at that comment, which only made young Yvonnel dance a bit more and smile a bit wider.
“Even with Tiago properly settled in House Do’Urden, we must move quickly now,” Yvonnel said more seriously, moving up to stand in front of Quenthel. “Convene a Council.”
“They will not likely come,” Quenthel replied. “The Houses have gone into defensive crouches—it grows increasingly difficult to pry soldiers from them for the patrols beyond our cavern. All expect some fighting soon, House against House, or with demons coming forth. We know not if Demogorgon haunts the ways just outside the city.”
“Some are surely trying to determine when a rival will be properly weakened by serving on such a patrol,” Minolin Fey said, and both of the others turned unappreciative glares her way, a not-subtle reminder of her lowly place in such powerful company.
“The seats will suffice and the votes will be binding, by the word of Lolth,” Yvonnel said.
Quenthel considered that for a moment then nodded. She, Sos’Umptu, and Matron Mother Darthiir would be easy enough to arrange, of course.
“We cannot outlaw secretive internecine war,” she replied. “Without personal instructions from a handmaiden or communion with Lolth herself, none would accept our authority to make such a dramatic change in the customs of Menzoberranzan.”
“But we can demand that all participate in the defense of Menzoberranzan,” Yvonnel said. “And we must shut the city down, and quickly, both physically and magically. No dimensional doorways, no divination from without. The physical ways in are few, and we can defend them, but we deal with demon lords now, and so must defeat any of their magical attempts to breach the city before they even try.”
“That is a tremendous task.”
“It is, and it will require diligence and great attention from all priests and wizards alike.”
“And so we name Tsabrak Xorlarrin as Archmage of Menzoberranzan,” Quenthel reasoned, nodding.
“Tsabrak, who holds close ties to House Do’Urden now,” Yvonnel agreed. “His sister, his brother, his cousins. Have you found any contact with Matron Mother Zeerith?”
“She is with Bregan D’aerthe, I am certain. An associate of Jarlaxle’s, Braelin Janquay, delivered the message that High Priestess Kiriy Xorlarrin might be interested in returning to the city if a proper position in a fitting House could be found for her.”
“High Priestess of House Do’Urden, of course—or eventual matron mother.”
“I prefer her younger sister Saribel,” Quenthel said. “Tiago will keep that one close and she is more easily controlled. I have never been fond of Kiriy. She is headstrong and convinced that her heart is ever in league with the wishes of the Spider Queen.”
Yvonnel smiled and nodded. “We are blessed,” she said with uncharacteristic kindness. “The illithid has given us both insight to the ways and memories of the Eternal. Mine is more pure, of course, but I am pleased by the insights of the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan.”
Quenthel leaned away a bit, staring skeptically at the beautiful young woman, even shaking her head in denial.
“I thought I was to serve you,” Quenthel dared to say “perhaps even from the halls of Arach-Tinilith in the Academy.”
“We are stronger right now with you as matron mother,” Yvonnel replied. “We, House Baenre, and the city we control. Call the Ruling Council together—make it not a request, but a command. Demand unity in securing the city and so execute that unity. Declare the new Archmage Tsabrak, and remind any who balk at the proclamation that he was the voice of Lolth in darkening the skies above the Silver Marches.”
“There will still be an attack on House Do’Urden,” Quenthel warned.
“Hunzrin and Melarn,” Yvonnel replied. “Undoubtedly. And I am counting on it.”
She laughed again and skipped out of the room, Minolin Fey in her wake, leaving Quenthel dumbfounded and off-balance, which had been the whole point, Quenthel realized after a moment of reflection.
Back in her own chambers, Yvonnel dismissed Minolin Fey, secured her room with multiple glyphs and wards, and fell into a deep communion with the Abyssal Plane, using the imparted memories of Yvonnel the Eternal to formulate a demonic name.
She watched the summoned form materialize in front of her, like a great, half-melted candle of mud, tentacle arms dripping with Abyssal goo.
Yvonnel, so gloriously groomed and perfectly formed, winced at the grotesque handmaiden, and even more so when the yochlol said, “You summoned me, daughter of House Baenre?” in that watery, gurgling, mud-like voice.
“Could you not assume a more . . . pleasing form, Yiccardaria?” Yvonnel asked.
The handmaiden giggled, which sounded very much like water bubbling through a thick muddy puddle, and waggled her tentacles about as she turned, spinning round and round. Faster and faster she twirled, and the movement seemed more blurry still from the sheen of brown mist the handmaiden left in her turning wake. The brown cloud settled as she stopped, and now she was a drow woman, beautiful in form, delicate and naked and with long, thick white hair that hung to her waist.
“Do you approve?” Her voice was no longer muddy, but clear as a shining silver bell.
“I do,” Yvonnel said. “And you have my appreciation, Handmaiden, both for the transformation and for coming to my call.”
“I would not have come, were it not the will of the Spider Queen.”
Yvonnel bowed again.
“We have much to discuss,” Yiccardaria said, moving over and running the back of her fingers gently over Yvonnel’s soft cheek.
It was a test, Yvonnel knew, to see if she could sort through what her eyes and nose and skin were telling her—to hold onto the truth that this was a lump of smelly goo teasing her.
“I had much I wished to discuss with you,” Yvonnel replied, taking the yochlol by the wrist and moving her hand aside. “That is why I requested your presence, after all. But it would seem that you come with information that you believe I should know.”
“Astute,” the yochlol said, pulling away with a giggle. “I approve of your transformation and will relay my pleasure to the Spider Queen. Perhaps more so . . .” She reached to touch the beautiful young drow woman again.