Daughter of the Drow (6 page)

“Yes,” Liriel said in a dull, tight voice.

She knew very well, indeed. And finally, Syzwick’s frantic chatter was starting to make sense. The male honestly did not know of Bythnara’s attack. He had seen only that Liriel had slain his lover, and his only concern was his own survival. Murder—for such it was in Syzwick’s eyes—was perfectly acceptable, even lauded, among dark elves, provided it could not be proven. Syzwick was a witness, and he fully expected to be eliminated. The male was pleading for his life, promising to swear that Liriel had acted in self-defense.

How ironic, she thought numbly, that in doing so he would be speaking simple truth! But she would never truly convince him of that. Nor, for her own half-understood reasons, did she want to try.

“Bythnara slipped and fell in,” she said at last.

Syzwick’s forehead furrowed in puzzlement, and he waited for Liriel to elaborate. When she did not, he accepted the lie with an eager nod.

“Bythnara was reaching for a fish when the boat struck one of those little eddies,” he said, improvising. “We were tossed about in a circle. She lost her balance and fell. We tried to reach her, but the pyrimo were upon her too quickly.”

He held his breath as he awaited the female’s response. Slowly, a grim smile crept across Liriel’s face, and Syzwick let out a sigh of soul-deep relief.

“One more thing.”

“Anything!” he swore fervently.

“Planning a deed requires layers upon layers; you know this. But after the fact, do try to keep things simple, hmm?”

Syzwick was silent for a moment. “Bythnara slipped and fell in,” he echoed.

“Good boy,” she said dryly. “You should also bear in mind that pyrimo can kill in more ways than one. I would hate to see one of my dinner guests develop, shall we say, a fatal case of indigestion.”

“I won’t say a word,” he promised. “Not ever.”

Liriel nodded, and her smile hid more than she cared to acknowledge. “In that case, let’s get you and these fish back to Menzoberranzan.”

It was turning out to be one of those days, Liriel observed, when nothing seemed to go according to plan. She’d intended to deliver Syzwick back to the city along with most of the pyrimo catch, then head back into the Underdark to barter off the rest of the toxic little goodies. She had several deals to make, some spells to learn, a tutorial to attend, a few scores to settle, and an assignation with a certain mercenary to keep—all before that night’s festivities began. In short, it was supposed to have been a fairly typical day.

First came the hunting “accident;” then, just as she was leaving her house—a miniature castle in Narbondellyn that her father had given her on her twenty-fifth birthday—the silent alarm on her Baenre ring began to pulse.

Liriel’s brow furrowed with annoyance as she dug around for the ring in the bottom of her bag. She was supposed to wear the insignia at all times, but she never wore rings. Her long, shapely hands were one of her favorite features, and she liked to ornament them with elaborate painted tatoos and glittering nail polish, but she refused to wear rings. She could hurl a knife with the best tavern cutthroat alive, and, although most drew contended jewelry did not throw off their aim, Liriel figured she took enough chances without adding that particular risk.

She found the ring and clenched it in her hand. Yes, there it was again: a silent, magical alarm, attuned to her senses alone. She’d heard it only once before, when the ring was given to her a couple dozen years ago. Every noble in Menzoberrauzan carried a house insignia; House Baenre went one step further and kept each of its members on a magical leash. At the sound of the alarm, the Baenre in question was supposed to drop everything and hasten to the family fortress. Until now, Uriel had been spared such a summons. Muttering imprecations, she saddled her riding lizard and spurred it toward her ancestral home.

House Baenre was a sprawling, impressive affair. The natural rock formations were stunning enough, but over the centuries Baenre matrons had added elaborate carvings, onion-shaped domes highlighted with purple faerie fire, and a magical webbed fence supposedly woven by Lloth herself. It was, in Liriel’s opinion, a bit much. Decadence was all fine and well, but this was definitely over the top.

The gate swung open at her approach and a line of Baenre soldiers bowed low. An ogre servant hurried forward to take her mount, and an escort of eight armed females—the matron mother’s elite guard—led her through the winding halls toward the very heart of the castle: the Baenre chapel. This, Liriel noted grimly as she marched along in the heat shadow of her escort, was starting to look very bad indeed.

An even more impressive gathering awaited her in the chapel. There were two powerful priestesses: SosTJmptu, keeper of the chapel, with her somber priestess robes and her pinched, pious face, and Triel, the newly elevated matron mother. Of the two, Liriel vastly preferred the boring and dowdy SostJmptu. The keeper rarely stepped outside her beloved chapel, but at least she was passionate about something. Triel, on the other hand, was a two-legged spider: cold, utterly practical, ruthlessly efficient. Gromph stood stiffly beside his sisters. Liriel took heart at the sight of her father until she noted the grim expression on his face. And looming above the Baenre siblings was a giant magical illusion, a tribute to Lloth that constantly shapeshifted from a giant black spider to a beautiful drow female. Gromph had created the spectacular illusion some fifty years ago to placate the former matron. It was rumored this tribute to Lloth had purchased the life of the impious archmage, who had angered his mother once too often. It was less well known that he’d modeled the drow female after his then-mistress. Liriel did not remember the face of her long-dead mother, but her own resemblance to the spider-drow was uncanny, and unsettling. The young drow took a deep breath and stepped into the chapel.

“Here at last,” observed Triel in her tight, expressionless voice.

Liriel saluted her with deep bow. “At your command, Auntie Triel.”

“Matron Triel,” Sos’Umptu reprimanded sharply, her outrage at this lack of respect written clearly on her face. She took a deep breath and prepared to launch into the usual tirade.

But Triel waved her sister to silence. She leaned forward and fixed Liriel with a long, searching gaze. “It has come to my attention that your twenty-fifth year has come and gone. Yet you did not enter the Academy, as is law and custom for all those of noble blood. Almost fifteen years wasted in frivolity, when you should have been preparing to serve House Baenre.”

Liriel raised her chin and faced the matron squarely. “I have used the time well. My father,” she emphasized, glancing pointedly at the archmage, “arranged for me to have the best magical training possible.”

“You have not attended the Sorcere,” Triel pointed out, naming the mage school.

“Technically, no,” Liriel agreed. Gromph had refused to sponsor her at the Sorcere, arguing that as the sole female there and as his daughter, she would be the target of much intrigue and would bring undue controversy upon the family. Promising her she would not feel the lack of such training, he used his power and wealth to secure for her the best tutors and gave her a generous allowance that enabled her to purchase whatever books and spell components she fancied. She cast a quick glance at Gromph, hoping he would support her. The archmage’s tight, closed expression indicated she could expect no help there.

“But I have studied with several of the Sorcere’s masters. My current tutor is Kharza-kzad Xorlarrin,” she added, naming a powerful wizard who specialized in the Grafting of battle wands.

Triel snorted derisively. “By all reports, you’ve been instructing the old he-rothe, not the other way around! Kharza-kzad’s boasts have spread from the Sorcere to Melee-Magthere and even into Arach-Tinilith. Your exploits have been the talk of the Academy.”

So have yours, Liriel thought with mutinous rage. It was well known that Triel had never taken a consort, and dark whispers suggested the matron mother’s tastes were deviant even by drow standards. But to speak of such matters aloud would be less than wise. Nor did Liriel see any reason to either confirm or deny her tutor’s boasts. She responded to Triel’s baiting only with a noncommittal leer.

The Baenre matron glanced toward Gromph’s scowling face, and a tiny smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “In fact,” she continued softly, “I think one could say many are looking forward to the day you finally enter the Academy.”

There. The old wretch had finally shown her steel. Liriel’s heart sank, but she knew there was no possible way to parry the blow to come. Well, she thought grimly,, she could definitely imagine worse fates. Tbe loss of freedom would be hard to take, but she truly enjoyed the study of magic. And Kharza’s boasts, although completely untrue, saved her the trouble of establishing a fun-loving reputation. She could hit the Academy running, in a manner of speaking.

“When?” Liriel asked bluntly.

“Considering you’re fifteen years late, there’s no real hurry. Tomorrow will be soon enough,” Triel said. Her red eyes glowed with malicious amusement.

“At your command, Auntie Triel,” Liriel agreed. “I will report to the Sorcere before Narbondel reaches midpoint.”

Triel’s smile broadened. “I’m afraid you misunderstand, dear child,” she said with false sweetness. “You will report to Arach-Tinilith.”

“What!”

The word burst from Liriel on a shriek of rage and disbelief. She whirled to face her father. The archmage raised his hand, and the look on his face was so forbidding that his daughter’s protests and entreaties died unspoken.

“It is the custom of the city, and it is Matron Triel’s wish,” he said stiffly.

With great difficulty, the young drow managed a nod. Furious at Triel for shunting her off to the clerical school, she was almost as angry at herself for falling into the nasty little trap the old spider had laid for her. Triel had deliberately led her to believe she would be attending the Sorcere, when all along the matron had intended to send her to the clerical school. Liriel paid little heed to Triel’s words of instruction and dismissal, and was only vaguely aware of her father’s hand on her shoulder, guiding her none too gently out of the chapel.

They were almost to the door when Triel called her name. Still numb with shock, Liriel turned to face the older female. All pretense of pleasantry had faded from the matron’s face, and Liriel was stunned by the triumphant, icy malice in Triel’s narrowed gaze.

“Listen well, my girl: once you’re in the Academy you will follow the same rules as every other novice. Much is expected of you. You will excel in your studies, uphold the honor of House Baenre, and earn the favor of Lloth, or you will not survive. It is that simple.” She gave Gromph an arch glance, and Liriel an icy smile. “But you have one last night to carouse. Do have a good time.”

“Have a good time,” Liriel mimicked bitterly as she and the archmage strode down the hall. “This, from someone whose idea of fun involves whipping people with snakes!”

Her blasphemous remark drew a shocked chuckle from Gromph. “You must learn to guard your tongue,” he admonished. “Few of the Academy’s mistresses are burdened with a sense of humor.”

“Don’t I know it! Father, do I really have to become a priestess?” she demanded. “Can’t you do anything to stop this?’

Liriel knew the words were a mistake the moment she spoke them. No one stayed healthy for long by pointing out to proud, frustrated Gromph that there were limits to his power.

The expected rage did not come. “It is my will you become a priestess,” the archmage said coldly.

He was lying, of course, and he made no effort to hide the

Elnine Cunningham fact. Was her future not worth even that much, effort?

“You have many talents,” he continued, “and as a priestess you could accomplish a great deal.”

“For the greater glory of House Baenre,” she said bitterly.

“That too,” Gromph agreed cryptically. He was silent for a long moment, as if carefully weighing his next words. “Do you know why we wizards are tolerated in Menzoberranzan?”

Liriel cast a quick, startled glance at her father. “Target practice?”

“Don’t be flip with me!” snapped the archmage. “It is important you understand. Consider this: Lloth is the sole recognized deity in the city, and her priestesses rule virtually unopposed. Why does Menzoberranzan need males at all, except to breed still more priestesses? Why grant males the power to wield magic?”

“Few drow females—at least in Menzoberranzan—have the sort of innate magical talent needed for wizardry,” she responded.

“So? Why tolerate wizards at all?”

The young drow thought this over. “There are limits to clerical powers,” she reasoned.

“Not that any priestess would admit to it,” he agreed in a sour tone. “But know this: few drow females have magical talent, and wizards have access to powers that followers of Lloth cannot manage. This power is carefully monitored by the matriarchy, of course, but Menzoberranzan needs her wizards.”

The archmage reached into a hidden pocket of his cloak and drew out a small book. “This is yours. Learn it well, for you would surely go mad in Arach-Tinilith without the escape this book offers you.” He paused for a grim smile. “I had this compiled for you—a task that spanned several years and cost the lives of a number of wizards—knowing this day would come.”

That was quite a pitch, even for melodramatic Gromph, Liriel thought with a touch of wry humor. She took the book and opened it to the first spell. She skimmed the page, and the meaning of the symbols came to her with a rush of excitement and disbelief.

“This is a spell for summoning a gate!”

“And so is every other spell in the book,” he agreed. “With this knowledge, you can travel where no priestess can follow.”

Liriel leafed through the spellbook, her excitement growing by the moment. Magical travel was extremely difficult in the Underdark, and those who tried it often ended up as a permanent part of the landscape. This gift would give her greater freedom than she had ever enjoyed. Best of all, her father had foreseen this day, and prepared for it! Liriel hugged the precious book to her chest.