“Who is this that you bring to my private quarters?” Quenthel asked when Minolin Fey entered her chambers in House Baenre unannounced. “Look closely,” the young drow woman said, holding her hand up to silence the high priestess, and surely that, even more than her sheer beauty, tipped Quenthel off to the truth, as was revealed deliciously to Yvonnel by the expression on the matron mother’s face.
“How . . . How is this possible?” Quenthel stammered. “You were killed in battle by a rogue drow who still lives, and yet you, too, still live,” the young woman answered. “And you would ask me how a few compressed years of aging is possible? Do you think it impossible, Aunt?”
Quenthel’s eyes flared with anger at that impertinence, being referred to as someone’s aunt. She was the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan!
“Are you so meager in your understanding of magic, both divine and arcane, that such a minor feat seems impossible to you?” Yvonnel prodded, and she couldn’t suppress her sly grin as Minolin Fey gasped at the insult.
“Leave us,” Yvonnel told the high priestess.
“Stay!” Matron Mother Quenthel roared, for no better reason than to counter the demands of the upstart young woman.
Yvonnel looked over to see Minolin Fey trembling with uncertainty and palpable fear.
“Go,” she said softly. “I will win in here, and I assure you, if you remain, I will remember your hesitation.”
“You will remain here,” Quenthel said firmly, “or you will feel the scourge of the matron mother!”
Minolin Fey wept and shook at the conflicting demands, appearing as if she would just crumble on the spot.
“Ah yes, the five-headed scourge of Quenthel Baenre,” Yvonnel said. “A fine weapon for a high priestess, but a meager baton for a matron mother. I am sure I will do better.”
Quenthel’s eyes and nostrils flared as she reached for the scourge and brought it forth; the five snake heads of the whip, each imbued with the life essence of an imp, swayed eagerly and hungrily.
Yvonnel laughed at her and told Minolin Fey to go.
Still some dozen strides away, Quenthel grabbed her other weapon from her belt—a magical hammer—and with a growl, she brought it swinging about.
An image of that hammer appeared in the air behind Minolin Fey as she turned; it cracked her on the shoulder, sending her sprawling. From her hands and knees, she couldn’t help looking back at Quenthel, as did Yvonnel.
“I did not give you permission to smite her,” the girl said evenly.
With a growl, Quenthel swung again, more forcefully. Yvonnel crossed her arms in front of her and waved them out wide. Again the hammer appeared, this time aiming for Yvonnel’s face. But as the spectral image descended, it hit a shimmering field the girl had enacted. As it plunged through, it came out instead in front of Quenthel, and she yelped as her own hard strike smacked her in the face and sent her stumbling backward to the ground.
Not even bothering to stand back up, Minolin Fey scrambled away, making curious mewling noises all the way to the door. She slammed that door behind her as she exited.
“You dare!” Quenthel cried, unsteadily trying to stand, blood streaming from one nostril and from the side of her face.
“I ‘dare’? You think that a simple trick?”
“Some dimensional warp of space,” Quenthel spat, blood coming with every word.
“Against the likes of a spectral hammer?” said the girl incredulously. “Do you not understand who I am?”
Quenthel found solid footing then and hoisted her snake-headed scourge, replacing the hammer on her belt. She advanced, growling with every step.
Yvonnel put her hands on her hips, as petulantly as she could manage, and shook her head and sighed.
“Really, must it come to this?”
“You are an abomination!” Quenthel retorted.
“You have so quickly forgotten the Festival of the Founding in the House of Byrtyn Fey?”
That stopped the advance of the matron mother, and she stood there, suddenly unsure, her eyes darting about.
“Expecting a yochlol?” Yvonnel teased.
They both knew the truth now.
“Did you not tell your brother to marry Minolin Fey so that I would be born in and of House Baenre?” Yvonnel asked. “You even named me, did you not? Oh yes, except that you were instructed as such. Yvonnel the Eternal, born once more to be your successor, yes?”
Now Quenthel was herself looking for an escape.
“And here I am.”
“You are a child!”
“I am, in body.”
“No!” Quenthel demanded. “Not now, not yet! You are not old enough—even with your magical physical advancement, you are but half the age to begin your training in Arach-Tinilith.”
“My
training
?” Yvonnel asked with an incredulous laugh. “Dear Quenthel, who in this city will train me?”
“Hubris!” Quenthel said, but there was not much conviction in the roar.
“Yngoth is the wisest of the snakes on your scourge,” said Yvonnel. “Go ahead, High Priestess, ask her.”
“High Priestess?” Quenthel yelled in protest. She came forward, closing the ground, lifting the scourge for a strike.
“High Priestess Quenthel,” came the response, but not from Yvonnel. It came from one of the heads on her scourge, from Yngoth.
Quenthel looked at the snake in shock.
“She believes herself matron mother,” Yvonnel said to the snake. “Tell her the truth.”
Yngoth bit Quenthel in the face.
She staggered back, trying to sort it out, but not quickly enough understanding the terrible danger to her. Yngoth bit her again, and by that time, the other four scourge heads had also sunk their fangs into Quenthel’s tender flesh. Fires of poison burned through her. She should have thrown the scourge aside, of course, but she couldn’t think quickly enough in that terrible moment.
The snakes struck again, and again after that, each bite filling her with enough venom to kill a score of drow.
She stumbled, but still she held the scourge, and still the snakes bit at her.
She fell backward, the weapon falling beside her, and as she writhed in fiery agony, the snakes bit her again.
And again.
She had never known such pain. She cried out for death to take her.
And there was the child, Yvonnel, she saw through bleary, bloody eyes, standing over her, looking down at her, smiling down at her.
Darkness closed in from the corners of her vision. She did see Yvonnel reaching down; she did feel Yvonnel grasping the gathering of her gown. She felt light as darkness engulfed her. She was light, she believed, because Yvonnel lifted her up with just that one hand, so easily hoisted her from the floor.
A pinprick of light broke the darkness—perhaps the tunnel to the Demonweb Pits and eternity.
But that pinprick widened, and Quenthel felt as if cool waters poured over the burning venom coursing in her veins. It was impossible! No spell could defeat that amount of deadly poison so quickly.
But the light widened and Quenthel realized that she was in her chair again, in her throne, the throne of the matron mother. And there was the young woman, Yvonnel, staring at her, smiling at her.
“Do you understand now?” Yvonnel asked.
Quenthel’s mind wheeled—she was terrified that Yvonnel was reading her every thought. She should be dead. The poison of any of her snakes would kill a dark elf. The repeated bites of all five would kill a dark elf in mere moments.
“You live,” Yvonnel answered the obvious question. “Yet no priestess could have administered enough healing, divine or alchemical, to pull you back from the death brought by your snakes’ venom.”
Quenthel’s eyes widened as her gaze drifted lower, as her eyes focused on the scourge, her scourge, that Yvonnel carried. The five snakes wrapped lovingly around Yvonnel’s beautiful black arms.
“Fear not, I will fashion my own scourge,” Yvonnel explained. “Indeed, I look forward to it.”
“Who are you?”
“You know.”
Quenthel shook her head helplessly.
“You wonder why you are alive,” said Yvonnel. “Of course you do! Why would you not? Wouldn’t I be better served to let you die? Oh, I see,” she said with a perfectly evil grin. “You fear that I saved you from the snake poison so that I might make your death even
more
painful!”
Despite herself, Quenthel began to tremble and to gasp for air.
“Perhaps it will come to that, but it need not,” said Yvonnel. “You are fortunate, in that I do not wish to yet reveal myself to the Ruling Council and the city, and thus, I desire your services. You see, for all who look upon House Baenre, you will remain the matron mother. Only you and I will know better.”
She paused there and cast a grin at Quenthel. “You do know better,” she said.
Quenthel swallowed hard.
“Who am I?” Yvonnel asked, and those five snake heads of Quenthel’s scourge unwrapped from the girl’s arm and came up hissing and swaying ominously, reaching Quenthel’s way.
“The dau—” Quenthel started to reply, but stopped when she noted Qorra, the third and most potent viper, moving to strike.
“Think carefully,” Yvonnel said. “Prove to me that you are not too stupid to properly serve my needs.”
Quenthel forced herself to close her eyes, to reach into the memories and wisdom of Yvonnel the Eternal.
“Take your time, my aunt, my sibling, my daughter. Who am I?”
Quenthel opened her eyes. “You are the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan.”
The girl’s smile sent a thousand waves of warmth cascading through Quenthel, and the snakes slithered back into the loving embrace of Yvonnel’s arm.
“Only you and I will know that,” Yvonnel explained. “Prove your worth to me. I will be in need of powerful high priestesses, of course, and perhaps a new headmistress of Arach-Tinilith. Are you worthy of such a position?”
Quenthel wanted to reply, indignantly, that she was already the matron mother. How could she not be worthy?
But she said no such thing. She nodded meekly, and accepted the scourge when this young woman, this mere girl, handed it back to her.
“Other Houses hold you in contempt,” Yvonnel explained, walking aside as Quenthel composed herself and straightened in her throne. “They hold the name Baenre in contempt. That cannot hold, of course. They will conspire, and if those conspiracies come to fruition, you will be their target, for now at least.” She spun gracefully on her heel, her smile wide. “Perhaps they will kill you,” she said happily. “But perhaps not. And in that event, and if you have served me well in the tendays coming, then you will survive this. You will serve in my House Baenre, and in my Academy, and you will know honor and glory and great power.
“You see, I do not fear you, because you know now, do you not?”
Quenthel nodded.
“You will never turn against me, because nothing any of them can do to you will be as awful as what I would happily do to you.”
Yvonnel bounced over and kissed Quenthel on the cheek, and as she pulled back, the five snakes of Quenthel’s scourge came up beside her other cheek, their flicking tongues tickling her.
“Go back to your matron mothering,” Yvonnel said, skipping away. “I will inform you when I need you and what I need from you.”
And with that, she was gone.
T
here comes a point in a life well-lived where the gaze goes beyond the next horizon, to that inevitable time when this mortal coil feeds the worms. Life is a journey, a beauteous walk surrounded by such vastness of time and space that we cannot even truly comprehend, and so we make sense of what we can. We order our corner of the world and build security if we are fortunate, and perhaps, too, a family as part of a larger community.
The immediate needs consume so much of our time, the day-to-day trials that must be overcome. There is a measure of satisfaction in every small victory, in every meal earned, in the warmth of shelter on a cold winter’s night.
This is the climb of life, but for those who are lucky enough, there comes a place where the mountain is topped and the needs are satisfied, and so the view grows grander. It is a subtle shift in the omnipresent question of a rational being, from “What can I build?” to “What will I leave behind?”
What will be the legacy of Drizzt Do’Urden? For those who remember my name when I am no more, what will they think? How much better might be the lives of those who follow me—my progeny, perhaps, if Catti-brie and I fruitfully go that route—because of my works here? I watched Bruenor bring forth the sarcophagi of King Connerad and King Emerus, the lava-encased bodies flanking the throne of Gauntlgrym. No less will they be remembered in Mithral Hall and Citadel Felbarr—all the Silver Marches for that matter—for many centuries to come.
Am I destined to become such a statue?
On a practical level, I doubt it, since I expect that much of my remaining life will be spent outside of Bruenor’s domain. I will never forget him, nor he me, I am sure, but I sense that my days beside him are nearing their end. For all the love and respect I hold for King Bruenor, I would not plan to raise my children in a dwarven mine. Nor would Catti-brie, I am sure.
The road is wide open in front of us—to Longsaddle, of course, but only for now. One thing I have come to know in my two centuries of life is that the span of a few years is not a long time, and yet it is often an eventful time, with unanticipated twists and turns. Wherever that meandering road might take me, though, beside me goes an understanding now that my journey is less and less often what I need to do, and much more about what I want to do.
So many options, unbound by the shackles so many must wear. I am a fortunate man—that, I do not deny! I have sufficient wealth now and I am at peace. I have love all around me and am responsible to myself alone—and responsible to my wife only because I choose to be.
And so what will I do? What road shall I choose? What legacy shall I foment?
These are good questions, full of the promise of sublime reward, and I only wish that every man and woman of all the goodly races could find a moment such as this, a time of opportunities and of options. That I am here in this place of luxury is nothing short of remarkable. I do not know the odds of such an outcome for a homeless drow, a hunted rogue in the wilds of the Underdark, but I would bet them long indeed. So many fortunate twists and turns have I found on my journey, encounters with grand friends and marvelous mentors: Zaknafein, my father, and Montolio deBrouchee! And Catti-brie, who helped me to find my heart and a courage of a different sort—the courage to stubbornly exist in a place where my people are not welcome.
And Bruenor, yes Bruenor—perhaps Bruenor above all others. It is incomprehensible that I was befriended by a dwarf king and taken in as a brother. Yes, it has been a reciprocal friendship. I helped Bruenor regain his throne, and walked beside him on his wider journey to bring his people together under the great homeland of Gauntlgrym. Between us, it seems, sits the very definition of friendship.
With all of this, here I am. So many battles I have fought, so many obstacles overcome, yet I cannot deny that good fortune has played a tremendous role in leading me to this place and this time. Every man, every woman, will find battles, will find enemies to overcome, be they goblins or disease, an ill child, a wound that will not heal, a dearth of food, the chill of winter, unrequited love, the absence of a friend. Life is a journey from trial to test, from love to hate, from friendship to grief. We each deal with unsettling uncertainty and we each march on, ever on, following the road that will ultimately lead to our grave.
What grand things might we do along that road? What side avenues will we build, which might start our children on their own walk, perhaps?
So I have found this turn of perspective. I have scaled the peak and look now upon a grand, grand view. I can thank a woman whose warm embrace brings me peace. I can thank the greatest friends any man might ever know. I can thank a dwarf king who found a rogue on the side of a lonely mountain in a forsaken land and called him friend, and took him in.
But I am an elf, and lo, there looms another mountain, I fear. I think often of Innovindil, who told me to live my life in shorter spans, in the expected days of those shorter-lived races about me. Should Catti-brie and I have children, I will likely outlive them, as I will almost surely outlive Catti-brie.
It is a confusing thought, a paradox entwining the greatest joy with the most excruciating agony.
And so here, on this mountaintop, surveying the grand view, I remain aware that I might witness the dawn of another few centuries. By the counting of elves, I have lived but a fraction of my life, yet at this stillearly moment, it feels so full!
I am a fortunate man.
Should I see those distant dawns, there are surely dark valleys ahead, and after such certain moments of profound loss will I find the strength to climb the next mountain, and the one after that, and the one after that?
I will, I know, because in my grief the first time, when I thought these friends lost, my love lost, my life lost, I came to understand the truth: that the road will roll beneath your feet whether you step lightly with hope and swiftly with determination, or whether you plod in misery, scraping the dirt with heavy boots.
Because the perspective of that journey is a choice, and I choose happiness, and I choose to climb the next mountain.
—Drizzt Do’Urden