Braelin winced.
“If you will have me, I will willingly serve House Melarn,” Braelin replied. “I am glad to be back in Menzoberran …”
He gasped and groaned as the priestess behind him struck him brutally. The snake heads of her whip bit and tore long lines into his flesh, their poison igniting new fires so painful Braelin hardly registered the repeated jolts of lightning searing the flesh of his wrists.
“At least try to be clever,” Zhindia Melarn remarked. “Do you think I accept your loyalty? Do you think me fool enough to ever allow one of Jarlaxle’s lackeys in my ranks? And a heretic lackey at that?”
“I am no heretic,” Braelin managed to spit out before he got struck again—and again and again and again.
Nearly unconscious, his sense of time and place stolen by the blistering, tearing, and searing agony, Braelin was surprised to find Matron Mother Zhindia standing right in front of him, yanking his head up so that she could look him squarely in the eye.
“And a mere male at that?” she added with an evil laugh.
She spat in his face and whirled away. “Turn him into a soldier for the army of Lady Lolth,” she instructed, and Braelin knew he was doomed.
“I DO NOT understand,” Matron Mother Quenthel said when Minolin Fey guided her and Mistress Sos’Umptu to one of Yvonnel’s antechambers. At Quenthel’s instruction, the illithid Methil followed.
A new construction lined the left-hand wall, a series of ten separate cubbies, each with a single seat large enough for one person to sit. They were designed so that someone sitting within could see out into the room, but could not view anything in any of the other compartments.
All of them now had easels, facing out and each holding a painting of a different drow woman, naked except for a belt of pearls and a gemstone-studded tassel, and in exactly the same pose.
“These were all painted at the same time,” Minolin Fey explained. “And by ten of Menzoberranzan’s most renowned artists.”
“Interpretive,” Sos’Umptu remarked.
“But not so!” Minolin Fey explained. “They were instructed by the subject to paint her exact likeness, and warned not to stray.”
Quenthel wore a curious expression. She looked from the paintings to the empty divan, imagining Yvonnel sitting there in the pose depicted, then turned back again to the paintings. Several of them were quite similar, but none exact, and often with differences too distinct to be an accident. Yvonnel’s hair was white in a few, pink in another, blue in a pair—nor was the cut ever exactly the same, and in the most disparate instances, not even close.
The same was even true of the hair on her loins!
“Matron Mother Byrtyn did an eleventh painting, with the same subject and the same instructions,” Minolin Fey explained.
“Then of course they are interpretive,” said Sos’Umptu, but Quenthel cut her short.
“Did the artists regard the work of the others as they painted?” the matron mother asked.
“No.”
“Then when they finished? Did they compare?”
“No, Minolin Fey answered. “They finished and they left.”
“And each was, in turn, congratulated by Yvonnel, and each believed his or her likeness perfect,” Quenthel reasoned, nodding with every word as she began to catch on.
“As did my mother,” said Minolin Fey. “A perfect representation of the subject.”
“Whose painting of Yvonnel was also as she sees the young … woman.”
Sos’Umptu looked at Quenthel, seeming at a loss.
“Which do you think most resembles Yvonnel?” Quenthel asked her.
The Mistress of Arach-Tinilith studied each briefly, then pointed to the third from the far end.
Quenthel looked to Minolin Fey, who answered by pointing to the painting nearest them, which drew a curious look from Sos’Umptu.
“We are not seeing the same person when we look upon Yvonnel,” the matron mother explained.
“We each see our own version of her,” Minolin Fey followed, nodding at her revelation.
“And is she not among the most beautiful, most alluring women you have ever witnessed?” asked Quenthel.
“The most disarming,” Minolin Fey remarked.
“Her very being is enchanted,” Sos’Umptu said. “She is cloaked in deception.”
“In illusion,” Minolin Fey added.
“Everything about her,” said the matron mother, her tone more of admiration than anything else. She gave a little laugh. “She lets each of us paint our own image of perfection upon her, and gains advantage in that. Are not the most beautiful prisoners the most difficult to torture? Do we not listen more attentively to people we consider attractive? Do we not hope for beauty to succeed?”
“Unless we know better concerning the motivations and intentions of the beauty in question,” replied Sos’Umptu, whose tone was much less admiring.
“What does she really look like, I wonder?” asked Minolin Fey.
“It does not matter,” said Quenthel. “She is no doubt beautiful, and adds the deception to elicit appropriate and helpful reactions from those who look upon her. Perception is everything in this matter. When we look upon another, I might see innocent beauty, where another would see sensuality and the promise of carnal pleasure, where another might see plainness. With our dear Yvonnel, though, it seems we see her as she chooses.”
“And where is she?” asked Sos’Umptu. “And what do you suppose she might do to you if she learns that you brought us to see this?”
“I did so at her bidding, Priestess,” Minolin Fey replied.
Sos’Umptu’s eyes widened, but Quenthel began to laugh.
“Because she does not care that we know,” the matron mother explained. “Yvonnel is secure now that she is in control. She is pleased to let us view this great achievement—and can we deny that it is exactly that? What power must it take to maintain such a distinctive illusion? Perhaps she shows us this to learn if we, knowing now the truth, can see through her facades.” She gave a helpless little laugh. “Though I am confident that we will not, and so is our dear Yvonnel, no doubt.”
It was obvious to the other two that Sos’Umptu wasn’t very happy with that answer, but she said nothing to deny it. She stood there shaking her head, again studying the paintings as if looking for clues. Finally she simply shrugged and sighed and let it go.
What could be said, after all?
MATRON MOTHER ZHINDIA’S audience chamber was right next to the chapel, close enough for her, First Priestess Kyrnill Melarn, and their guest to hear the screams from Braelin as his long and excruciating transformation began.
“You are interested in the ceremony?” Zhindia asked her guest, seeing the priestess staring at the wall with clear intrigue.
“I have only witnessed it once,” Kiriy Xorlarrin replied, “when I was much younger. I have heard that it is quite satisfying.”
“Immensely,” Zhindia confirmed.
“But it would not do,” said Kiriy. “We cannot have Braelin seeing me here with you now.”
“There is no danger,” Kyrnill explained. “When Braelin walks as a drider, he will remember nothing but the agony of this day. And for the rest of his miserable days, if any thoughts against Lolth or the matron mother he serves enter his head, he will revisit that agony. He could never find the strength to betray your secret.”
“Do they suspect House Melarn?” Zhindia asked.
“House Do’Urden is full of clever nobles now,” Kiriy replied. “I have led them astray, as we agreed, into thinking that Bregan D’aerthe likely ambushed their patrol, but that theory will not hold long, particularly if the wizard Jaemas is somehow in league with Jarlaxle, as we believe.”
“We should move quickly then,” said Kyrnill.
“We must move quickly, particularly if these other whispers from the tunnels prove true,” said Zhindia.
Kiriy looked at her curiously.
“A sickness of the mind,” Mat
ron Mother Zhindia explained. “Some say it is the thinning of the Faerzress. Others pose that the presence of the demon lords in the Underdark is the cause of the madness. But we know better. It is House Do’Urden, its mere existence, that so offends Lady Lolth. It will not stand.” She looked directly at the First Priestess of House Xorlarrin and qualified the remark, “Not in its present form.”
Kiriy nodded. They were going to tear down the hierarchy of House Do’Urden, murder that abomination Matron Mother Baenre had placed on the throne, and replace it with a House to the liking of the Spider Queen. It would be a House devout, in Melarn’s own image, a House that would correct both the abomination of Matron Mother Baenre and the wayward path Matron Mother Zeerith had steered for House Xorlarrin at the same time. And it would be a House with males put in their proper place in accordance with the edicts of Lolth, at long last.
If the fall of the abominable House Do’Urden also led to the fall of House Baenre, might the new Xorlarrin quickly ascend the city’s ranks? The thought teased Kiriy, particularly if they could wrangle an alliance with their once arch-rival, House Barrison Del’Armgo.
The promise of glory for the Xorlarrins remained, if the family had the foresight and the courage.
The promise of a new House devout, in Lolth’s favor, and in alliance with the new powers of Menzoberranzan: House Melarn and House Barrison Del’Armgo.
House Xorlarrin, led by Matron Mother Kiriy.
“WHAT ELSE DID you give to the child beyond the memories of Yvonnel the Eternal?” Quenthel asked Methil later on when they were alone.
“I did as I was instructed,” the illithid answered in his gurgling voice. “Much as I did for you.”
“Much, but not all,” Quenthel accused. “There is more than simple illusion at play with that one. But it is not magical illusion at all, is it?”
“I am quite sure that it is,” Methil answered. “Your mother had some understanding of the old illusionary magic, and I know that this child was quite attentive when those memories were imparted.”
“More than that!” a frustrated Quenthel retorted. “A simple illusion would alter Yvonnel’s appearance somewhat. Even I can do that, and I cared little for that part of your … instruction. It’s not difficult for one skilled in the Art to simply alter her appearance, but what Yvonnel is doing is beyond that. She is not merely altering her appearance, but subtly managing the expectations and desires of each individual who looks upon her, even multiple individuals in the same room with her at the same time. And she’s doing it in a way that will gain her the greatest individual advantage over each observer.”
“Indeed, and she is doing it continually.”
“How?”
“I do not know,” the illithid replied. “Her sensitivity to the perceptions of others is instinctual.”
“No, she took this from you,” Quenthel said. “When your tentacles were in Minolin Fey’s womb, this baby, this creature, took more than you were offering. She borders on the mind magic of the illithids, if she is not fully there.”
“You would be better served in directing this to Lady Lolth,” Methil replied. “I do not doubt the power of Yvonnel. She is as strong as the Eternal.”
“I am as strong as the Eternal!” Quenthel snapped back.
Methil didn’t answer, and the matron mother understood that as a clear repudiation of her claim—and she knew, to her ultimate frustration, that Methil was correct in his assessment.
“The powers come so easily to her,” Quenthel lamented, more to herself than to the mind flayer. “To maintain such a ruse …”
CHAPTER 9
The Cycle of Life
HE WAS A LITTLE OLDER, A LITTLE THICKER, HIS HEAD A BIT SHINIER, but Catti-brie recognized Niraj’s brilliant and inviting smile. She flew above the Desai encampment, just a short distance south of the mountainous area where the floating city of Shade Enclave had tumbled from the sky to crash and break apart in the foothills. He tended some sheep, filling a water trough and taking the time to speak to and pat each and every one.
The giant crow remained up high and circling. Catti-brie allowed herself a few moments to remember the earliest days of her second life. She had slept so peacefully in the arms of Kavita, and had enjoyed, with the perspective of an adult, the unconditional love and fatherly protection of Niraj as he fawned over her.
She would have her own children this time around, she told herself, and her crow head nodded. In that first life, there had been so many pressing needs—one adventure after another. Catti-brie didn’t regret any bit of that existence, didn’t lament her lack of progeny, but this time, it felt right to her. She was determined that she would share with Drizzt the warmth of familial love she had shared with these two.
But she had a terrible feeling that it wouldn’t come to pass, that Drizzt wouldn’t return to her this time. Had she waited too long already?
She shook aside her doubts and circled lower. When she was halfway to the ground, Niraj looked up at her. His eyes went wide and he stumbled back a step—this crow descending upon him and the tribe’s sheep was as large as he!
“Ah, back!” he stammered, and he backstepped and tried to shoo the sheep behind him.
Catti-brie swerved to the far end of the field and set down, transforming back into her human form. She approached an apprehensive Niraj, her face brightly smiling, her arms out to her sides.
For a moment, he seemed confused, but the word “Zibrija” slipped from his mouth.
Zibrija, the desert flower, the nickname Niraj had placed on his beloved daughter two decades ago.
Catti-brie held her arms out wider and shrugged, the sleeves of her magical garment dropping loosely above her elbow, revealing her spellscars. He sprinted at Catti-brie and crushed her in such a hug it lifted her from the ground and sent them both a few steps back the way Catti-brie had come.
“Zibrija, my child!” he said, his voice thick with emotion, his cherubic brown cheeks already wet with tears. “Zibrija!”
“Father,” she replied, and she hugged him back just as tightly. She loved this man, her father, with all her heart.
“Oh, the tales I have to tell you,” she whispered in his ear. She could tell he wanted to respond, but didn’t dare try to talk for fear that his voice would issue only a happy wail. He hugged her all the closer.
“Tell me that my mother is well,” Catti-brie whispered, and Niraj squeezed tighter and nodded emphatically.
Finally the brown-skinned man took a deep breath and steadied himself, and managed to push Catti-brie back to arms’ length.
“My Ruqiah,” he whispered, using the name she had been given at her second birth. “We never surrendered hope that we would see you again, but still … I cannot tell you how my heart wants to push right out of my chest!”
“You need not tell me,” Catti-brie replied. “I know.”
Niraj pulled her in close for another lengthy, tight hug.
“My mother,” Catti-brie whispered after a few moments, and the man nodded again and moved back, turning to the side and never letting go of her hand as he led her away.
Many eyes turned upon them as they entered the tent encampment of the Desai tribe, and many whispers erupted in their wake. Catti-brie resisted the temptation to cast a spell to heighten her hearing. She heard her name, Ruqiah, several times. The tribe remembered her.
“Whatever happened to that boy?” she asked Niraj. “The one who threw me into the mud?”
“Tahnood,” Niraj said solemnly, his tone alerting her. He turned to meet her concerned stare as he finished, “He did not survive the war.”
Catti-brie’s regret washed away almost immediately on deeper concerns as she registered the last word.
“The war?” she echoed.
“The Netherese,” Niraj explained. “The plains were afire with battle for many months. The crows of our lands are fatter now.”
He turned to her and gave a sly wink. “Not as thick as the crow who spied upon me at
the sheep pen, though.”
Catti-brie managed a smile, but her heart was heavy. “Did you fight?”
“We all fought.”
The woman didn’t know what to say, and settled on, “I am sorry, Father. I should have returned to you.”
“My greatest joy in that dark time is that you were not here. Would that Kavi, too, had found another home for those dark years.”
“Not with me,” Catti-brie remarked. “I assure you my own road was no brighter.” She stopped the march and tugged Niraj’s hand to force him to stop, too, and to look at her. “I have so much to tell you. I don’t know if you’ll enjoy my tale or not, but it is one I must share honestly.”
“You are alive and seem well.”
She smiled and nodded.
“Then no tale you tell me can wound me, my little Zubrija.”
When they entered the family tent, Catti-brie had to leap across the floor to catch Kavita, who gasped and collapsed in joy at the sight of her.
Catti-brie gladly buried her face in Kavita’s thick black hair, and she drank in the smell of the woman, the smell of her childhood.
“You haven’t aged,” Catti-brie whispered in the woman’s ear.
Kavita kissed her on the cheek.
“Nayan keeps her young,” Niraj said, and when Catti-brie looked back at him, he nodded his chin toward the far end of the room.
Catti-brie’s gaze locked on the small bed, and her jaw drooped open.
“Nayan?” she whispered, pulling back from Kavita. She looked to her mother, who smiled and nodded then motioned for her to go and see.
Catti-brie quietly moved across the room. She saw a bit of movement first, under some blankets, and she paused, overwhelmed by the thought that she had a brother—overwhelmed and not sure how to even consider this child. Was he really her brother? Similarly, were Niraj and Kavita actually her parents? She had come back to the world fully conscious of her previous life, a life where she had been born to other parents, though she had barely known, and remembered nothing of, her father, and had known her mother not at all.