“I am the daughter of a dwarven king,” she reminded him. “Your riches do not interest me.”
Jarlaxle’s smile said otherwise. “I do not speak idly, my good lady. It is a small thing I ask of you, and that in accord with a short journey that may well help us all.”
Catti-brie looked down, her expression doubtful. Even with her magical ring, she could feel the heat of the primordial’s fiery breath, but still she began to cast a spell, using her divine powers to protect her even more from the heat and the flames.
“How am I to even get down there? Where am I to stand in a sea of liquid stone?” She turned back to Jarlaxle as she asked the second question, to find the mercenary holding out to her some black cloth, a folded garment perhaps. Catti-brie looked at it, then at Jarlaxle, for just a moment, then took it and unfolded it to find a shimmering black cape with a high, stiff collar.
“This was worn by Kensidan, who was once long ago called High Captain Kurth. It passed from him to his descendants—to Dahlia, surprisingly. Drizzt knows this cloak. Put it on. You will understand.”
The woman swept the cloak around her back and found the ties.
“It perfectly complements your outfit,” Jarlaxle said with a nod of approval. “So beautiful.”
“A statement of fashion?” she asked skeptically.
“Much more than that,” he replied. “Let it speak to you.”
With a final doubtful look at Jarlaxle, Catti-brie closed her eyes and let her thoughts drift to the cloak. Like so many magical items, this garment, the Cloak of the Crow, seemed to want its wearer to understand its properties. It was one of the more curious aspects of magic, Cattibrie often thought, that even the insentient magical items wanted their magic to be used.
She let her thoughts reach deeper into the cloak and lifted her arms out wide—to find that they were not arms any longer, but shining blackfeathered wings. She could feel the updrafts of heat from the pit more acutely then, playing among her feathers. So sure was she that she didn’t question Jarlaxle further, nor did she cast any contingency spells in case the cloak should fail. She just leaned forward and let the updrafts lift her from the ground.
Down went the giant crow, cutting tight circles within the encircling and swirling dance of the water elementals. Even with her ring and the additional spells, Catti-brie could feel the heat growing as she neared the bottom of that watery barricade.
She broke through, under the wetness and the mist, and it seemed to her as if she had gone to another plane of existence, or another world perhaps, or to Toril in the earliest days of its formation.
Yes, that was it, she somehow understood. This molten field of bubbling magma and powerful stench—she felt as if she had been thrown into a boiling cauldron of rotten eggs—this was the way the world had been in the earliest days, before the elves even, perhaps before all life on Toril.
She drifted in the orange glow for just a moment before spotting and then landing on a solid block of veined stone. She touched down tentatively, ready to fly away if the stone proved too hot for her multiple dweomers of protection to counter. But to her relief, she felt no burning pain.
With a thought and a shrug, Catti-brie came out of crow form, and paused a moment to ponder her earliest days in this second life she had found, when the spellscar of Mielikki had granted to her shape-shifting powers. How often had she flown over the plains of Netheril in the shape of a great bird. How free she had been on the updrafts with the world spread wide below her.
All those thoughts blew away on a hot breeze when the primordial’s voice came into her thoughts, seeping through her ring. She sensed the creature’s confusion—dangerous confusion—and so she answered back in the language of the Plane of Fire, whispering assurances and seeking common benefit.
The primordial responded to her with sensations. She felt the beast stretching its tendrils to the Forge, to the inactive portal, to the spouts she had found when they had retaken the complex, like the lava mound where Catti-brie had transformed her staff.
On impulse she banged her staff on the stone, shifting it to its fiery form.
She felt the pleasure of the primordial.
Then she began to probe. She looked up and focused on the water elementals, and she felt the primordial’s frustration and anger—but it was not as burning an anger as she had imagined. And she was glad. Perhaps there were ways to lessen the preternatural desires of the beast, ways to siphon off some of its explosive and deadly energy.
For a long time, Catti-brie stood there in communion with the primordial, viewing Gauntlgrym from its perspective, and in that mental bonding she gained some insights into the magic that had put the beast in the pit and kept it there, insights she knew would aid her in the repair of the Hosttower of the Arcane.
She did well to keep those thoughts properly suppressed. If the primordial so desired, she would be dead, buried in lava and burned to nothingness long before she could get near to the protection of the water elementals.
But the primordial wasn’t going to do that. It seemed to her that the beast almost enjoyed the company.
No, that wasn’t it. Creatures like this didn’t harbor such emotions. But still, there was no displeasure revealed. Clearly the beast understood that it was in control and that she was no threat, and so it tolerated her. It accepted the diversion with some modicum of pleasurable distraction.
On recognizing that, Catti-brie would have liked to remain, but the thought was accompanied by a stumble, a near swoon, that would have dropped her into the lava. It wasn’t the heat but the smell, the lack of breathable air. She knew then that she had to be attentive to her task and quickly away.
She put the gauntlet on her hand and held it out in display to her godlike host. She didn’t know whether it was the gauntlet or the beast, but she sensed something not so far away.
Becoming a crow again she fluttered over to another mound of stone, quickly reverting to her human form. She stared down into the bubbling, popping red magma. Dare she reach in? The woman shook her head before her hand even moved, certain that the molten stone would incinerate the glove and her hand, whatever enchantments she might try.
But still she stared, leaning low, mesmerized by the bubbling red lava.
And something substantial came forth, rising up from the magma. Catti-brie recoiled, taken aback by what appeared to be the skull and bleached bones of a small humanoid skeleton: a backbone and ribcage to a pelvis with boney legs spread wide to either side.
The item rose a bit more, bobbing in the heavy liquid, and Catti-brie gasped as she realized this to be the hilt and crosspiece of a sword, the slender, etched blade shining red in the glow of the lava.
With her gauntleted hand, she grasped the backbone hilt inside the basket of the ribcage and drew forth the sword, holding it up in front of her astonished eyes.
She felt the power of Charon’s Claw. She felt its wickedness and had to work hard to resist the urge to throw it back into the magma.
The molten power of the primordial had not eaten Charon’s Claw, had marred that perfect blade not at all.
Catti-brie called upon the cloak again and shifted to the crow. With a cursory telepathic salute to the primordial, she lifted away, beating her strong wings to circle once more inside the elemental swirl. Rising, she broke through on the other side and lit on the ledge near the sarcophagus stone. Jarlaxle was patiently waiting for her there.
“I knew it,” he said, his eyes sparkling, when Catti-brie reverted to her human form, revealing the treasure she held in her gauntleted hand.
The woman examined the sword again and realized it wasn’t the lava that had given Charon’s Claw its red hue. The blade itself was red, with a black blood trough running down the center. She marveled at the workmanship, at the masterful etchings of hooded figures and tall scythes all along the blade.
“It has few equals in the world,” Jarlaxle said, startling her. She looked over at the mercenary.
“A most remarkable blade,” he said.
“And full of evil intent,” she replied.
“A thirst for blood,” he admitted. “Is that not the purpose of a weapon?”
“There is a power here . . .” She shook her head, nearly overwhelmed. She had once wielded Khazid’hea, the blade that now hung on Jarlaxle’s belt, but even that marvelous weapon of destruction seemed to pale beside the wicked magnificence of this creation.
“Weapons are designed to kill, my good lady,” Jarlaxle motioned to the floor and pointed to the gauntlet. “Do not touch the sword without it,” he warned.
Catti-brie set the sword on the stone and pulled off the gauntlet, handing it over. As Jarlaxle set it upon his hand, the woman moved to remove the cloak, but Jarlaxle held up his hands and shook his head.
“My gift to you,” he said.
Catti-brie nodded. “A worthwhile trade, then.”
“Oh, it is no trade,” he replied. “The cloak is my gift to you. Your reward for the sword is yet to come, and I promise you, it is a far greater gift.”
He picked up the sword and saluted Catti-brie with it then smiled, bowed, and turned, moving back to the tunnel to Forge.
Catti-brie considered him for a long while, but did not follow. She found herself at the ledge once more, looking down into the pit, past the watery swirl to the fiery eye.
The beast had allowed her into its presence, and had not consumed her.
Strangely, she felt blessed. And Catti-brie knew she would return to the bottom of this pit again, perhaps many times.
T
hey have no allies,” High Priestess Charri Hunzrin reminded her mother, Matron Mother Shakti. “They look down upon the whole of the city from the recesses of the West Wall, high above. They huddle behind their driders and sneer at all who are not Melarni.”
“I am well aware of the zealotry of Zhindia Melarn,” Shakti replied. “And true, it would be hard to name any as allies of this precocious young House. But Matron Mother Mez’Barris Armgo is no enemy to the Melarni, in these times.”
The mention of the Matron Mother of the Second House quieted Charri. Barrison Del’Armgo had been House Hunzrin’s most important ally for many decades. House Hunzrin thrived through trade and by controlling most of the agriculture in Menzoberranzan. Under the stern and disciplined leadership of Shakti, the family Hunzrin had greatly advanced in wealth and a subtle stature. Their ranking had not changed, and they remained the Eleventh House, cheated from ascension by the insertion of House Do’Urden onto the Ruling Council after the abdication of Matron Mother Zeerith and House Xorlarrin. Surely the other Houses held in check by that unusual, indeed unprecedented, creation by Matron Mother Quenthel had been simmering in outrage ever since, particularly House Duskryn, the Ninth House, whose ambitious matron mother openly coveted a seat on the Ruling Council and had been denied yet again.
But such formalities had never impressed Shakti Hunzrin. She was more concerned with actual power and wealth over ceremony and formality. Her family was often ridiculed as “stone heads” because of their work with the farms, but to her and the other nobles, that underestimation offered opportunity more than it wounded pride.
Past a bend in the avenue, rounding a large stalagmite mound, the two women came in sight of House Melarn, unmistakable because it was fashioned with the most unusual architecture in the City of Spiders. Melarn was the newest of Menzoberranzan’s major Houses, formed of a union between House Kenafin and House Horlbar, a joining of purpose and spirit that arose from the ashes of war a century before, where the two allied Houses battled against House Tuin’Tarl, then the Eighth House. Tuin’Tarl was destroyed and the combined Houses, under the name of Melarn, replaced the deposed Matron Mother of House Tuin’Tarl on the Ruling Council. Among the new Melarni were many drow left orphaned by the fall of the sister city of Ched Nasad, a community distinguished by its web-like walkways.
Those refugees had brought Ched Nasad’s unique architecture with them to Menzoberranzan, and it was clearly on display here in the gracefully swaying bridges of spiderwebs that filtered back and forth, climbing the west wall of the cavern to the Melarni front door, a hundred feet and more from the cavern.
Matron Mother Shakti held her daughter back with an upraised arm, and quietly uttered a minor spell. A magical hammer appeared in the air across the way, just to the right of the lowermost web pathways of the facade of House Melarn. On Shakti’s command, the hammer tapped against the wall, once and then again.
Then it disappeared, and Shakti motioned for Charri to follow. By the time they neared the area, the cracks of a concealed doorway were evident in the wall, and the stone fell away as they approached, revealing a tunnel. Within stood First Priestess Kyrnill Melarn, who bowed in proper deference to Matron Mother Hunzrin and bade her to follow. This was no ordinary first priestess, Shakti prudently reminded herself. Normally, that title was held by the eldest daughter of a noble family, but Kyrnill was not related to Zhindia. Zhindia was the eldest daughter of Matron Mother Jerlys of House Horlbar, and Kyrnill had been the Matron Mother of House Kenafin. When the two Houses merged into House Melarn, Kyrnill Kenafin had allowed Zhindia to become matron mother of the new House Melarn. It was a strategic move, the other matron mothers knew, because the too-clever Kyrnill had expected that the first matron mother of the new House would surely be killed in the chaotic aftermath of the joining. But Zhindia had survived, and Kyrnill had accepted her role as first priestess—though surely she was more than that.
Deep and down the trio traveled, far into the western wall and far below the compound of House Melarn. They passed many guard stations on their journey, manned by beastly driders. No House was more enamored of and protected by the horrid half-drow, half-spider abominations as the zealots of House Melarn, who celebrated the torture of morphing a drow into a drider like other families might celebrate the birthday of a favored daughter.
In a deep and secret room, protected by hundreds of feet of solid stone and magical wards, both arcane and divine, the two Hunzrins were presented to Matron Mother Zhindia Melarn, the youngest Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan, and by far the youngest member of the city’s Ruling Council—if one ignored the presence of the
iblith
Matron Mother Darthiir Do’Urden, and none was more pleased to ignore that abomination than Zhindia Melarn. The circular chamber was ringed by a raised walkway upon which stood drider guards, looking even larger because they stood several feet above the lower floor. All clutched adamantine long spears, and all seemed eager to put those deadly weapons to use.
“I am pleased that you answered my call,” Matron Mother Zhindia said to her guests, and she motioned for the visiting Hunzrins to sit around the small, rectangular table, as Kyrnill took her place to the right of her matron mother.
“You insisted that your information was important to my family,” Shakti Hunzrin replied. “And my prayers to the Spider Queen assured my safety.” “Indeed, to both,” Zhindia replied. “You are aware of the events in Q’Xorlarrin?”
“That the dwarves reclaimed their complex and expelled Matron Mother Zeerith?”
“Yes, and the present disposition of Matron Mother Zeerith and her family?”
“Her powerful family,” Shakti remarked.
“Her heretical family,” Kyrnill corrected with a sneer.
The remark surprised the Hunzrin guests. By all estimates, House Melarn was in no position to engage powerful House Xorlarrin, even if Matron Mother Zeerith’s family had been wounded by the advance of the dwarves.
“You are pleased by this development, no doubt,” Matron Mother Zhindia said bluntly.
Matron Mother Shakti stared at her counterpart curiously, with more than a little trepidation. She wasn’t about to admit to any such thing, particularly given House Xorlarrin’s close alliance with House Baenre. “It is no secret that House Hunzrin feared the creation of the city of Q’Xorlarrin,” the always blunt and brutal Zhindia stated. “City,” she said again, and she spat upon the floor. “It was a servile satellite of House Baenre, of course, created so that House Baenre could take from you the most profitable trade to be found.”
“The point is moot. Q’Xorlarrin is no more,” said Matron Mother Shakti, and she nudged her daughter under the table, warning the volatile Charri against saying something they might both regret.
“But did Matron Mother Baenre lose?” Zhindia Melarn asked slyly. “She sent the demons forth, and the demons were defeated by the dwarves, so say the reports.”
“And so the dwarves reclaim Gauntlgrym, and fire anew the Great Forge,” Zhindia agreed. “But these particular dwarves are known associates of Jarlaxle and Bregan D’aerthe.”
Despite her great and practiced discipline, Shakti Hunzrin couldn’t help but fidget at the mention of Jarlaxle. Bregan D’aerthe had long been a thorn in the side of ide of House Hunzrin and a threat to Shakti’s plans for trade dominance beyond Menzoberranzan. Bregan D’aerthe’s loyalty to House Baenre could not be doubted.
“Your easiest route to the World Above is no more,” Zhindia said. “Your caravans will not get past the armies of the dwarves. But if Jarlaxle is able to secure an agreement between House Baenre and the new kingdom of Gauntlgrym . . .”
She let it hang there, tantalizingly.
“The Spider Queen would abandon her,” Shakti said, because she really had no other retort.
“Are you going to tell her that?” Zhindia asked with a laugh. Shakti stared at her hard. “Among all the Matron Mothers of Menzoberranzan, are you not the one who claims closest communion with the Spider Queen?” she asked very seriously. “Would Lolth accept such a move by Matron Mother Baenre?”
“The same Matron Mother Baenre who instituted a
darthiir
, a wretched elf, as a matron mother with a seat on the Ruling Council?” Zhindia countered. “Who put Matron Mother Do’Urden ahead of you on the ladder of Menzoberranzan’s hierarchy?”
“Your insults are uncalled for,” Charri Hunzrin remarked. “No insult,” said Zhindia. “Simple truth, and unpleasant to both of us.
Perhaps, though, this abomination Matron Mother Do’Urden is a test, not for Quenthel Baenre but for the rest of us. Do we allow the
darthiir
to continue as a voice on the Ruling Council?”
“Or do we tear her down?” asked Shakti. “We are back to this, then.
Did we not just see this play with the demon assault on House Do’Urden?
That failure strengthened Matron Mother Do’Urden’s reputation and strengthened Matron Mother Baenre’s hand.”
“So you are accepting of an agreement between Matron Mother Baenre and Bregan D’aerthe to move goods through the dwarven city?” “I do not believe that such an agreement exists.”
“Oh, it exists,” Matron Mother Zhindia said confidently. “Jarlaxle’s influence is clear to see, and who would benefit more from such an agreement than that opportunist heretic mercenary and his filthy band of male rogues?”
The leader of House Melarn turned to the side and motioned to a drider guard, who put a hand against a concealed plunger on the wall and pressed. Unseen stones slid and a secret door fell open. To Shakti and Charri’s surprise and fear, an impressive drow female strode out from the darkness. She wore the robes of a high priestess, indeed those of a First Priestess of a House, and her emblem was well known.
Kiriy Xorlarrin
, Matron Mother Shakti’s fingers signed to her daughter. The newcomer moved to the table, summoned a magical disc—a circle of blue light hanging in the air at about waist height—and sat down upon it. “We were speaking of male rogues,” Matron Mother Zhindia said. “A redundant description,” Kiriy replied, with no small amount of contempt behind her words.
The Hunzrin matron mother and daughter glanced at each other, somewhat confused. Wasn’t House Xorlarrin known as the House most lenient with, and most deferential to, its men? House Barrison Del’Armgo and House Xorlarrin had long been the two Menzoberranyr Houses known to promote men high into the House hierarchy, but with Barrison Del’Armgo, there had never been any doubt that the highest ranking male noble, usually the weapons master, remained subservient to the lowest of the high priestesses. In House Xorlarrin, such was not always the case. “You know First Priestess Kiriy Xorlarrin,” Matron Mother Zhindia said, and the guests at her table nodded.
“I am soon to join House Do’Urden,” Kiriy informed them. “My sister, my brother, and many of the male cousins are already there, strengthening the ties between House Do’Urden and Sorcere.”
“And the ties with House Baenre,” Shakti dared to remark. Kiriy snorted dismissively.
“Saribel, your sister, is presently the First Priestess of House Do’Urden, is she not?” Shakti pressed. “Will you displace her?”
“For a time.”
“You mean to become Matron Mother Do’Urden,” Shakti reasoned. “And again, I may wear that title for a time, perhaps,” Kiriy replied.
“And then I mean to destroy House Do’Urden and replace it with a reformed House Xorlarrin.”
“You plot against your own mother,” Shakti said sourly. She was looking straight at Matron Mother Zhindia as she made the remark, as if Zhindia should be ashamed of herself for even entertaining such a thought.
Matricide was not well-received in Menzoberranzan, and particularly not welcomed at that moment, when Shakti sat in conference with her eldest and most powerful daughter seated right beside her.
Of course, Matron Mother Zhindia didn’t have that particular problem. “Matron Mother Zeerith has traveled too far along the road of heresy,”
Matron Mother Zhindia stated. “Too much influence has she given to mere males. This is not the way of Lolth.”
“Her sacrilege rained doom upon Q’Xorlarrin,” Kiriy added. “There was no proper order of things awaiting the demon army in our city, to keep them in line when Matron Mother Baenre sent them to us to defeat the dwarves. It was clear to me from the outset of the dwarven invasion—even before that, when so many of our House were killed in the far-off fields of the Silver Marches—that House Xorlarrin was losing the favor of the Spider Queen.”
“You will betray Matron Mother Zeerith,” Shakti said.
“She will not return to Menzoberranzan in any case!” Kiriy shouted.
“I will save House Xorlarrin! We will not become an extension of Bregan D’aerthe, to be used at the whim of Matron Mother Baenre. I will never allow that. Our place is here, with an independent Matron Mother Xorlarrin sitting on the Ruling Council.”
“I have asked you to accept a lot of startling information here,” Matron Mother Zhindia apologized to her Hunzrin guests.
“You have hinted at a daring plan,” Shakti replied. “One that pits us against Matron Mother Baenre and her cadre of powerful allies.” “Not so!” Zhindia argued. “She is far too engrossed now in matters beyond the fate of House Do’Urden. The demon lords walk the ways of the Underdark, and in no small part because of the foolish actions of her own brother! Before the coming of Demogorgon, Matron Mother Baenre went to great lengths to fortify this phony House she has constructed, and so she expects them to stand on their own. Indeed, they must. Many others—House Barrison Del’Armgo and some of Matron Mother Baenre’s closest allies—are watching with wary eyes. Lolth will decide the fate of House Do’Urden, not the army of House Baenre.”
“And Lolth is surely with us,” Kiriy added.
After a long paused, Shakti replied to Zhindia, “Your claims are extraordinary.”
“Then I will prove them to you.”
Shakti nodded.
“I trust in your confidence in these matters until I can make my case fully to you,” Zhindia said. “And do understand that if I am correct in my suspicions—and I assure you that I am—any betrayal of me to Matron Mother Baenre will also provide her with the excuse she needs to sublimate your House. You came here, after all, willingly and alone in trust, to a known rival of House Do’Urden. And do not doubt that Matron Mother Baenre understands that Hunzrin demons were among the horde of fiends who attacked House Do’Urden.