“Waging war on House Melarn would bring a smile to the face of Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre, indeed,” Zhindia went on. “But how much wider might that smile grow if she has an excuse to eliminate both our families, stripping Matron Mother Mez’Barris Armgo of the only allies she might have in her attempt to keep House Baenre from complete domination?”
Shakti Hunzrin spent a long while staring hard at her counterpart. Matron Mother Zhindia motioned to her daughter, who went to the side of the room and pulled a blanket aside, revealing a small chest.
She hoisted it and carried it back to the gathering, placing it in front of Matron Mother Shakti.
“Open it,” Matron Mother Zhindia bade her. “But take care and do not handle any of the contents.”
With a wary look to her daughter, Shakti carefully pulled back the lid of the chest, revealing a pile of beautiful gemstones set in fabulous pieces of jewelry. Despite the warning, her hand drifted for one piece, a tiara of brilliant rubies.
“Do not,” Matron Mother Zhindia warned.
“What is this?” Shakti asked, and she closed the lid.
“A gift to you,” said Zhindia. “One of faith and continued goodwill between our Houses in this most important battle we wage.” “Jewelry?”
“Goods for the World Above,” Zhindia explained. “I trust you can find some way to deliver them to the proper . . . merchants.” “It is not our normal merchandise,” Shakti said. “We trade food and exotics—items of the Underdark. There is no shortage of gems and jewels on the surface.” She opened the coffer again and glanced in. “No doubt these have great value—they are very beautiful pieces. But these are not my usual wares, and it will be expensive and difficult for me to open proper channels to see them brought to market.”
Zhindia, Kiriy, and Kyrnill exchanged knowing, smug looks, and Shakti and Charri realized that they were apparently missing some inside joke.
“So you do not want the bounty?” Zhindia asked.
“I will take them, with my gratitude, Matron Mother Zhindia,” Shakti replied. “I will deliver them to the World Above and find a place to sell them. I only warn that the profit will be minimal.”
“They are more exquisite than you realize,” Kyrnill Melarn put in. “Must everything be about coin?” Matron Mother Zhindia said. Shakti looked at her curiously.
“Surely there are other reasons to ply your trade,” Zhindia added. Now Shakti was completely at a loss. She looked to her daughter, who could only shrug in confusion.
“You will be doing the work of the Spider Queen,” Zhindia explained.
“Those are not mere gemstones set in jewelry, Matron Mother Hunzrin.
They are phylacteries, each possessing the spirit of a slain demon.” Shakti’s eyes went wide and she opened the coffer again and peeked in, just for a moment, then closed it tight and put her hand on top of the lid to keep it closed.
“A nobleman or noblewoman wearing such a brooch, or necklace, or tiara, will come to find her thoughts darkened, her mind drawn to chaos, her soul possessed to demonic intent,” Matron Mother Zhindia said with great relish.
“Do you still think it a minor gift?” Kyrnill put in snidely. “I will see these to the World Above,” Shakti said at length, her glare lingering on the former Matron Mother of House Kenafin. “For the glory of Lolth. As to the rest, your claims are extraordinary, as I have said. You see the Baenre alliance as fractured, and believe that our path to destroy Do’Urden is clear.”
“And that Lolth is on our side,” Kyrnill reminded her.
Shakti Hunzrin conceded the point with a nod. “It is often hard to discern the true intent of the Spider Queen.” As Zhindia clearly tensed up in response, Shakti pointed at the zealous matron mother and added, “Even for her most devout disciples. Yet I do not doubt that Lady Lolth would approve of our plans, should they come to pass.”
Matron Mother Zhindia relaxed and nodded.
“But as to the rest,” Shakti finished strongly, “bring me proof.” She motioned to her daughter, and the two wasted no time in departing the dungeons of the Melarni fanatics. All the way back to her own compound, Shakti mulled over the lack of choices available to her.
The city of Q’Xorlarrin had posed a direct threat to the trade empire she had built, and she had not lamented the fall of Matron Mother Zeerith’s trial city.
House Do’Urden didn’t really matter to her. She didn’t care much about the formal ranking of her House. In fact, she considered her lower position to be an asset as she went about growing her riches and building dependence to her network among the other Houses.
But the ability to trade beyond the borders of the city, to bring exotic goods to the matron mothers and to market their wares in places full of riches, was not something Shakti Hunzrin would surrender without a fight. If the Baenres were truly intent on dominating trade to the surface, that was indeed a direct threat to the standing and purpose of House Hunzrin.
The question then was whether Matron Mother Baenre desired all of it—all of the power, and all of the commerce.
“None can know that you are here,” Matron Mother Baenre said to her guest. “It would cause great upset in a city that is already reeling from the march of the Prince of Demons.”
She stared at Zeerith as she spoke, but the Matron Mother of House Xorlarrin was not looking back at her at all, and though she was nodding, it seemed to Quenthel as if Zeerith had hardly heard a word that she’d said. Matron Mother Zeerith was distracted by the beautiful young woman sitting at the left end of the small table.
Not distracted, Quenthel silently corrected herself. Enchanted. The young woman’s hair was smooth and thick, a startling white contrast to her coal-black skin. It curled teasingly between her perfect breasts, which were barely covered by the plunging cut of her soft purple dress, a simple silk affair that clung to her body’s every curve.
It took Quenthel a long while to realize that she too was staring hopelessly at the beautiful young woman.
“Who is this?” Matron Mother Zeerith practically demanded.
“The child of Gromph,” Quenthel replied, and she hoped that putting the now-deposed archmage’s name on Yvonnel would somehow lessen Zeerith’s trance.
Even still, a long while passed before Zeerith was able to turn back to Quenthel. Even then it seemed as if Yvonnel herself had released Zeerith from the trance, as evidenced by a little giggle Yvonnel offered as Zeerith turned away.
“I did not know Gromph had—”
“And Minolin Fey, of House Fey-Branche,” Yvonnel interrupted, an incredible breach of etiquette.
Zeerith’s face screwed up with confusion as she swung back to view the young woman, who was surely near twenty years of age, if not older. Zeerith had known about Minolin’s pregnancy. The visitation of the avatar of Lolth upon House Fey-Branche in the Festival of the Founding was common gossip that had followed House Xorlarrin across the Underdark. Zeerith knew that Minolin Fey was now in House Baenre—she had seen the high priestess while being escorted through the royal chambers to come to this very audience.
“The child of Gromph and Minolin Fey?” Zeerith asked Quenthel.
“Yes,” Yvonnel answered, again out of turn, and this time interrupting the matron mother as Quenthel began to answer.
“She is an impetuous sort,” Quenthel said dryly, and cast a glance at the young woman.
“And a distracting one,” Quenthel added when she saw that Zeerith’s eyes were once again held by the young woman.
“Yes,” Zeerith said absently.
“May I go, Matron Mother?” Yvonnel asked.
“Please do,” Quenthel replied, trying to sound sweet.
Yvonnel rose and Zeerith’s eyes rose with her. Much of her leg slipped free from the high slit in her simple but elegant gown, and Zeerith gave a little gasp as she spun away and moved to the room’s door.
She was barefoot, Quenthel and Zeerith both noted then, and somehow that seemed even more fitting for this one, like a promise of something unbridled and so very pleasing.
The door closed, but it took Zeerith a while to compose herself and look back at her host.
“She is quite . . . lovely,” Matron Mother Zeerith said, and Quenthel understood well that her counterpart had to pause there to search for the right word, because “lovely” certainly didn’t seem sufficient.
“Do you plan to tell them I perished in the fight?” Zeerith asked, and she shook her head and seemed removed from the enchantment of Yvonnel then, and apparently had forgotten all around the surprising revelation of that one’s parentage.
Was Yvonnel’s appearance that distracting, Quenthel wondered, or had the young witch cast a spell to remove thought from Zeerith’s mind?
“I do not believe that to be our best course, if I may offer advice, Matron Mother,” Zeerith rambled on.
Was Yvonnel powerful enough to do that so casually? To an accomplished matron mother of a powerful House?
Yes, she was, Quenthel realized with a sigh.
“If you have other designs . . .” Zeerith offered, somewhat sheepishly.
“No, no, my mind was other-where. So much has happened and so much is yet to come. You are correct, my friend, of course. Matron Mother Zeerith is not to be rubbed from the ranks of Menzoberranzan—hardly that! You will circle and reside outside the city and together we will find opportunity.”
“While my children ascend,” Zeerith added with her eyes sparkling.
“High Priestess Kiriy is in House Do’Urden?”
Zeerith nodded, then asked, “First Priestess?”
“Saribel is First Priestess,” Quenthel corrected her, somewhat sternly. “And that is something Kiriy must understand and accept.”
“Yes, Matron Mother,” Zeerith said and respectfully lowered her eyes. It was no surprise. Though Kiriy was far more accomplished than Saribel, and much older, indeed the eldest daughter of the House, Saribel had something that Kiriy did not: a Baenre husband.
“When time for ascent comes, who will it be?” Zeerith asked.
“That is a discussion for another day,” Quenthel replied. “I know that you favor Kiriy.”
“Saribel is a bit of a dullard, I must admit,” said Zeerith. “It pains me to say that, but would that Lolth had accepted her as my sacrifice instead of Parabrak, my third-born son.”
“Pray to Lolth to forgive your words,” Quenthel said half-jokingly— but only half.
“I wish I could join you at the Ruling Council,” Zeerith said. “If only to see the face of the witch Mez’Barris when she is formally told that Tsabrak Xorlarrin will assume the mantle of Archmage of Menzoberranzan.”
“You will witness the ceremony,” Quenthel promised and Matron Mother Zeerith swelled with pride.
“They are such petty creatures,” Yvonnel remarked to Minolin Fey in the anteroom, where the young upstart had enchanted a scrying pool so that she could look in on the conversation in the Baenre audience chamber. “They puff and preen over the most unremarkable and fleeting things.”
Yvonnel gave a sigh and turned to her mother, who stood staring. “How did you do that?” Minolin Fey asked. “How do you do that?” “What?”
“All the time,” the woman went on. “In there, with Matron Mother Zeerith. With all you see—or all who see you. Man and woman alike, taken aback, thrown from their guard, with a simple glimpse upon you.” “Why Mother, do you not think me beautiful?” Yvonnel coyly asked. Minolin Fey could only shake her head and reply, her voice barely a whisper, “Many drow are beautiful.” She kept shaking her head. She knew there had to be more to it than that.
“Your mother, Matron Mother Byrtyn,” Yvonnel began, “she is a painter, yes? I have heard that some of her portraits hang in this very house.”
“She is quite talented, yes.”
“Get her, then. I wish to pose for her.”
“I do not know that she—”
“She will,” Yvonnel said. “Tell her the matron mother insists upon it, and that she will be well rewarded.”
Minolin Fey seemed off-balance then. Matron Mother Byrtyn had not even seen this child yet, her granddaughter, who should be no more than a toddler.
“Matron Mother Byrtyn was told of me by the avatar of Lolth in the parlor of her own House,” Yvonnel reminded Minolin Fey. “Tell her that she will come to House Baenre the day after tomorrow, after Tsabrak is named as Archmage of Menzoberranzan, and she will begin her work. And she will return every day thereafter until it is completed.”
Minolin Fey stared blankly.
“I am not asking you,” Yvonnel warned. She turned back to the scrying pool, then sighed with disgust and cleared the image from the water with a wave of her hand.
“So boring and petty,” she said as she pushed past Minolin Fey and skipped to the door at the far end of the room.
“You speak of the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan,” Minolin Fey reminded her.
“Yes,” Yvonnel answered. “And why?”
She shrugged, winked, and exited, leaving Minolin Fey to stand there dumbfounded with that simple yet devastating question hanging over her. She glanced back at the unremarkable water in the bowl. Minolin Fey couldn’t begin to cast a clairvoyance dweomer powerful enough to get past Quenthel Baenre’s wards, as Yvonnel had so easily done. She considered the conversation in the other room. The incessant plotting and conniving, the desperate pursuit of a goal that would often be nothing more than the platform from which to pursue another goal.
“Why?” she whispered through her own frown.
From the balcony of House Do’Urden, the Xorlarrin sisters watched the ceremony across the way. Ravel and Jaemas were there, on the grounds of Sorcere, as was Tiago, whose presence had been commanded by the matron mother.
“It was always Matron Mother Zeerith’s dream, of course,” Saribel said when a great burst of fireworks exploded up by the ceiling, shooting from the alcove of Tier Breche, the raised region that held the three Houses of the drow academy. “To see a Xorlarrin rightfully in place as the Archmage of Menzoberranzan . . .”
“Better in these times than not at all, I suppose,” said a less-thanenthusiastic Kiriy.
“Better regardless,” Saribel corrected. “Why would a Xorlarrin noblewoman wear such a frown on this day?”
“Dear sister, shut up.”
Saribel sputtered for a moment before declaring, “I am the First Priestess of House Do’Urden.”