Matron Malice studied the child. Everything seemed in place, and a good thing, too, for Nalfein, elderboy of House Do’Urden, was dead, and this boy, Drizzt, would have a difficult job replacing the valuable son.
“His eyes,” Vierna said again.
The matron shot her a venomous look but bent low to see what the fuss was about.
“Purple?” Malice said, startled. Never had she heard of such a thing.
“He is not blind,” Maya was quick to put in, seeing the disdain spreading across her mother’s face.
“Fetch the candle,” Matron Malice ordered. “Let us see how these eyes appear in the world of light.”
Maya and Vierna reflexively headed for the sacred cabinet, but Briza cut them off. “Only a high priestess may touch the holy items,” she reminded them in a tone that carried the weight of a threat. She spun around haughtily, reached into the cabinet, and produced a single half-used red candle. The clerics hid their eyes and Matron Malice put a prudent hand over the baby’s face as Briza lit the sacred candle. It produced only a tiny flame, but to drow eyes it came as a brilliant intrusion.
“Bring it,” said Matron Malice after several moments of adjusting. Briza moved the candle near Drizzt, and Malice gradually slid her hand away.
“He does not cry,” Briza remarked, amazed that the babe could quietly accept such a stinging light.
“Purple again,” whispered the matron, paying no heed to her daughter’s rambling. “In both worlds, the child’s eyes show as purple.”
Vierna gasped audibly when she looked again upon her tiny brother and his striking lavender orbs.
“He is your brother,” Matron Malice reminded her, viewing Vierna’s gasp as a hint of what might come. “When he grows older and those eyes pierce you so, remember, on your life, that he is your brother.”
Vierna turned away, almost blurting a reply she would have regretted making. Matron Malice’s exploits with nearly every male soldier of the Do’Urden house—and many others that the seductive matron managed to sneak away from other houses—were almost legendary in Menzoberranzan. Who was she to be spouting reminders of prudent and proper behavior? Vierna bit her lip and hoped that neither Briza nor Malice had been reading her thoughts at that moment.
In Menzoberranzan, thinking such gossip about a high priestess, whether or not it was true, got you painfully executed.
Her mother’s eyes narrowed, and Vierna thought she had been discovered. “He is yours to prepare,” Matron Malice said to her.
“Maya is younger,” Vierna dared to protest. “I could attain the level of high priestess in but a few years if I may keep to my studies.”
“Or never,” the matron sternly reminded her. “Take the child to the chapel proper. Wean him to words and teach him all that he will need to know to properly serve as a page prince of House Do’Urden.”
“I will see to him,” Briza offered, one hand subconsciously slipping to her snake-headed whip. “I do so enjoy teaching males their place in our world.”
Malice glared at her. “You are a high priestess. You have other duties more important than word-weaning a male child.” Then to Vierna, she said, “The babe is yours; do not disappoint me in this! The lessons you teach Drizzt will reinforce your own understanding of our ways. This exercise at ‘mothering’ will aid you in your quest to become a high priestess.” She let Vierna take a moment to view the task in a more positive light, then her tone became unmistakably threatening once again. “It may aid you, but it surely can destroy you!”
Vierna sighed but kept her thoughts silent. The chore that Matron Malice had dropped on her shoulders would consume the bulk of her time for at least ten years. Vierna didn’t like the prospects, she and this purple-eyed child together for ten long years. The alternative, however, the wrath of Matron Malice Do’Urden, seemed a worse thing by far.
Alton blew another web from his mouth. “You are just a boy, an apprentice,” he stammered. “Why would you—?”
“Kill him?” Masoj finished the thought. “Not to save you, if that is your hope.” He spat down at the Faceless One’s body. “Look at me, a prince of the sixth house, a cleaning steward for that wretched—”
“Hun’ett,” Alton cut in. “House Hun’ett is the sixth house.”
The younger drow put a finger to pursed lips. “Wait,” he remarked with a widening smile, an evil smile of sarcasm. “We are the fifth house now, I suppose, with DeVir wiped out.”
“Not yet!” Alton growled.
“Momentarily,” Masoj assured him, fingering the crossbow quarrel.
Alton slumped even farther back in the web. To be killed by a master was bad enough, but the indignity of being shot down by a boy….
“I suppose I should thank you,” Masoj said. “I had planned to kill that one for many tendays.”
“Why?” Alton pressed his new assailant. “You would dare to kill a master of Sorcere simply because your family put you in servitude to him?”
“Because he would snub me!” Masoj yelled. “Four years I have slaved for him, that back end of a carrion crawler. Cleaned his boots. Prepared salve for his disgusting face! Was it ever enough? Not for that one.” He spat at the corpse again and continued, talking more to himself than to the trapped student. “Nobles aspiring to wizardry have the advantage of being trained as apprentices before they reach the proper age for entry into Sorcere.”
“Of course,” Alton said. “I myself trained under—”
“He meant to keep me out of Sorcere!” Masoj rambled, ignoring Alton altogether. “He would have forced me into Melee-Magthere, the fighters’ school, instead. The fighters’ school! My twenty-fifth birthday is only two tendays away.” Masoj looked up, as though he suddenly remembered that he was not alone in the room.
“I knew I must kill him,” he continued, now speaking directly to Alton. “Then you come along and make it all so convenient. A student and master killing each other in a fight? It has happened before. Who would question it? I suppose, then, that I should thank you, Alton DeVir of No House Worth Mentioning,” Masoj chided with a low, sweeping bow. “Before I kill you, I mean.”
“Wait!” cried Alton. “Kill me to what gain?”
“Alibi.”
“But you have your alibi, and we can make it better!”
“Explain,” said Masoj, who, admittedly, was in no particular hurry. The Faceless One was a high-level wizard; the webs weren’t going anywhere anytime soon.
“Free me,” Alton said earnestly.
“Can you be as stupid as the Faceless One proclaimed you?”
Alton took the insult stoically—the kid had the crossbow. “Free me so that I may assume the Faceless One’s identity,” he explained. “The death of a master arouses suspicion, but if no master is believed dead …”
“And what of this?” Masoj asked, kicking the corpse.
“Burn it,” said Alton, his desperate plan coming fully into focus. “Let it be Alton DeVir. House DeVir is no more, so there will be no retaliation, no questions.”
Masoj seemed skeptical.
“The Faceless One was practically a hermit,” Alton reasoned. “And I am near to graduation; certainly I can handle the simple chores of basic teaching after thirty years of study.”
“And what is my gain?”
Alton gawked, nearly burying himself in webbing, as if the answer were obvious. “A master in Sorcere to call mentor. One who can ease your way through your years of study.”
“And one who can dispose of a witness at his earliest convenience,” Masoj added slyly.
“And what then would be my gain?” Alton shot back. “To anger House Hun’ett, fifth in all the city, and I with no family at my back? No, young Masoj, I am not as stupid as the Faceless One named me.”
Masoj ticked a long and pointed fingernail against his teeth and considered the possibilities. An ally among the masters of Sorcere? This held possibilities.
Another thought popped into Masoj’s mind, and he pulled ope
n the cabinet to Alton’s side and began rummaging through the contents. Alton flinched when he heard some ceramic and glass containers crashing together, thinking of the components, possibly even completed potions, that might be lost by the apprentice’s carelessness. Perhaps Melee-Magthere would be a better choice for this one, he thought.
A moment later, though, the younger drow reappeared, and Alton remembered that he was in no position to make such judgments.
“This is mine,” Masoj demanded, showing Alton a small black object: a remarkably detailed onyx figurine of a hunting panther. “A gift from a denizen of the lower planes for some help I gave to him.”
“You aided such a creature?” Alton had to ask, finding it difficult to believe that a mere apprentice had the resources necessary to even survive an encounter with such an unpredictable and mighty foe.
“The Faceless One—” Masoj kicked the corpse again—”took the credit and the statue, but they are mine! Everything else in here will go to you, of course. I know the magical dweomers of most and will show you what is what.”
Brightening at the hope that he would indeed survive this dreadful day, Alton cared little about the figurine at that moment. All he wanted was to be freed of the webs so that he could find out the truth of his house’s fate. Then Masoj, ever a confusing young drow, turned suddenly and started away.
“Where are you going?” Alton asked.
“To get the acid.”
“Acid?” Alton hid his panic well, though he had a terrible feeling that he understood what Masoj meant to do.
“You want the disguise to appear authentic,” Masoj explained matter-of-factly. “Otherwise, it would not be much of a disguise. We should take advantage of the web while it lasts. It will hold you still.”
“No,” Alton started to protest, but Masoj wheeled on him, the evil grin wide on his face.
“It does seem a bit of pain, and a lot of trouble to go through,” Masoj admitted. “You have no family and will find no allies in Sorcere, since the Faceless One was so despised by the other masters.” He brought the crossbow up level with Alton’s eyes and fitted another poisoned dart. “Perhaps you would prefer death.”
“Get the acid!” Alton cried.
“To what end?” Masoj teased, waving the crossbow. “What have you to live for, Alton DeVir of No House Worth Mentioning?”
“Revenge,” Alton sneered, the sheer wrath of his tone setting the confident Masoj on his heels. “You have not learned this yet— though you will, my young student—but nothing in life gives more purpose than the hunger for revenge!”
Masoj lowered the bow and eyed the trapped drow with respect, almost fear. Still, the apprentice Hun’ett could not appreciate the gravity of Alton’s proclamation until Alton reiterated, this time with an eager smile on his face, “Get the acid.”
our cycles of Narbondel—four days—later, a glowing blue disk floated up the mushroom-lined stone path to the spider-covered gate of House Do’Urden. The sentries watched it from the windows of the two outer towers and from the compound as it hovered patiently three feet off the ground. Word came to the ruling family only seconds later.
“What can it be?” Briza asked Zaknafein when she, the weapons master, Dinin, and Maya assembled on the balcony of the upper level.
“A summons?” Zak asked as much as answered. “We will not know until we investigate.” He stepped up on the railing and out into the empty air, then levitated down to the compound floor. Briza motioned to Maya, and the youngest Do’Urden daughter followed Zak.
“It bears the standard of House Baenre,” Zak called up after he had moved closer. He and Maya opened the large gates, and the disk slipped in, showing no hostile movements.
“Baenre,” Briza repeated over her shoulder, down the house’s corridor to where Matron Malice and Rizzen waited.
“It seems that you are requested in audience, Matron Mother,” Dinin put in nervously.
Malice moved out to the balcony, and her husband obediently followed.
“Do they know of our attack?” Briza asked in the silent code, and every member of House Do’Urden, noble and commoner alike, shared that unpleasant thought. House DeVir had been eliminated only a few days before, and a calling card from the First Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan could hardly be viewed as a coincidence.
“Every house knows,” Malice replied aloud, not believing the silence to be a necessary precaution within the boundaries of her own complex. “Is the evidence against us so overwhelming that the ruling council will be forced to action?” She stared hard at Briza, her dark eyes alternating between the red glow of infravision and the deep green they showed in the aura of normal light. “That is the question we must ask.” Malice stepped up onto the balcony, but Briza grabbed the back of her heavy black robe to stay her.
“You do not mean to go with the thing?” Briza asked.
Malice’s answering look showed even more startlement. “Of course,” she replied. “Matron Baenre would not openly call upon me if she meant me harm. Even her power is not so great that she can ignore the tenets of the city.”
“You are certain that you will be safe?” Rizzen asked, truly concerned. If Malice was killed, Briza would take over the house, and Rizzen doubted that the eldest daughter would want any male by her side. Even if the vicious female did desire a patron, Rizzen would not want to be the one in that position. He was not Briza’s father, was not even as old as Briza. Clearly, the present patron of the house had a lot at stake in Matron Malice’s continued good health.
“Your concern touches me,” Malice replied, knowing her husband’s true fears. She pulled out of Briza’s grasp and stepped off the railing, straightening her robes as she slowly descended. Briza shook her head disdainfully and motioned Rizzen to follow her back inside the house, not thinking it wise that the bulk of the family be so exposed to unfriendly eyes.
“Do you want an escort?” Zak asked as Malice sat on the disk.
“I am certain that I will find one as soon as I am beyond the perimeter of our compound,” Malice replied. “Matron Baenre would not risk exposing me to any danger while I am in the care of her house.”
“Agreed,” said Zak, “but do you want an escort from House Do’Urden?”
“If one was wanted, two disks would have floated in,” Malice said in a tone of finality. The matron was beginning to find the concerns of those around her stifling. She was the matron mother, after all, the strongest, the oldest, and the wisest, and did not appreciate others second-guessing her. To the disk, Malice said, “Execute your appointed task, and let us be done with it!”
Zak nearly snickered at Malice’s choice of words.
“Matron Malice Do’Urden,” came a magical voice from the disk, “Matron Baenre offers her greetings. Too long has it been since last you two have sat in audience.”
“Never,” Malice signaled to Zak. “Then take me to House Baenre!” Malice demanded. “I do not wish to waste my time conversing with a magical mouth!”
Apparently, Matron Baenre had anticipated Malice’s impatience, for without another word, the disk floated back out of the Do’Urden compound.
Zak shut the gate as it left, then quickly signaled his soldiers into motion. Malice did not want any open company, but the Do’Urden spy network would covertly track every movement of the Baenre sled, to the very gates of the ruling house’s grand compound.
Malice’s guess about an escort was correct. As soon as the disk swept down from the pathway to the Do’Urden compound, twenty soldiers of House Baenre, all female, moved out from concealment along the sides of the boulevard. They formed a defensive diamond around the guest matron mother. The guard at each point of the formation wore black robes emblazoned on the back with a large purple-and-red spider design—the robes of a high priestess.
“Baenre’s own daughters,” Malice mused, for only the daughters of a noble could attain such a rank. How careful the First Matron Mother had been to ensure Malice’s safety on the trip!
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Slaves and drow commoners tripped over themselves in a frantic effort to get far out of the way of the approaching entourage as the group made its way through the curving streets toward the mushroom grove. The soldiers of House Baenre alone wore their house insignia in open view, and no one wanted to invoke the anger of Matron Baenre in any way.
Malice just rolled her eyes in disbelief and hoped that she might know such power before she died.
She rolled her eyes again a few minutes later, when the group approached the ruling house. House Baenre encompassed twenty tall and majestic stalagmites, all interconnected with gracefully sweeping and arching bridges and parapets. Magic and faerie fire glowed from a thousand separate sculptures and a hundred regally adorned guardsmen paced about in perfect formations.
Even more striking were the inverse structures, the thirty smaller stalactites of House Baenre. They hung down from the ceiling of the cavern, their roots lost in the high darkness. Some of them connected tip-to-tip with the stalagmite mounds, while others hung freely like poised spears. Ringing balconies, curving up like the edging of a screw, had been built along the length of all of these, glowing with an overabundance of magic and highlighted design.
Magic, too, was the fence that connected the bases of the outer stalagmites, encircling the whole of the compound. It was a giant web, silver against the general blue of the rest of the outer compound. Some said it had been a gift from Lolth herself, with iron-strong strands as thick as a drow elf’s arm. Anything touching Baenre’s fence, even the sharpest of drow weapons, would simply stick fast until the matron mother willed the fence to let it free.
Malice and her escorts moved straight toward a symmetrical and circular section of this fence, between the tallest of the outer towers. As they neared, the gate spiraled and wound out, leaving a gap large enough for the caravan to step through.
Malice sat through it all, trying to appear unimpressed.
Hundreds of curious soldiers watched the procession as it made its way to the central structure of House Baenre, the great purple-glowing chapel dome. The common soldiers left the entourage, leaving only the four high priestesses to escort Matron Malice inside.