She couldn’t deny the possibility.
We will kill him … the sentient sword began to whisper, but she blocked it out. That sword was as arrogant as any wizard or warrior Doum’wielle had ever known, other than perhaps Tiago himself, and it probably believed its ridiculous whispers.
Doum’wielle knew well enough that if she battled Tiago Baenre, he would cut her into little pieces with hardly an effort.
And that could well happen, and could well happen very soon, before they returned to Menzoberranzan.
Even if not, the young woman had to rub her face nervously, for what life awaited her in the dark corners of the drow city? She had only been there a short while, and that in a privileged position, treated as a noble of Barrison Del’Armgo, even.
But she had seen the sidelong glances, the hateful stares, the disgusted glances aimed her way. They called the matron mother of House Do’Urden, this elf named Dahlia, Matron Mother Darthiir. Darthiir—that was their word for the surface elves, and it was spoken with more contempt than iblith, the drow word for living offal. In the minds of the dark elves, Dahlia, a surface elf, was filthier than garbage.
Which was why Matron Mother Quenthel had elevated Dahlia to sit at the Ruling Council. By putting Matron Mother Darthiir in command of House Do’Urden, by giving Dahlia a seat at the spider-shaped table, Quenthel Baenre had thumbed her nose openly at Doum’wielle’s great-aunt Mez’Barris Armgo, and at all her other rivals. Matron Mother Quenthel had brazenly put forth the worst insult she could find to the sensibilities of the drow, daring them to defy her.
When they could not, when they could offer little protest against the worst insult possible—a surface elf, no less!—Matron Mother Quenthel’s hold on the city had grown much tighter.
Half of Doum’wielle’s blood was made up of that same surface elf heritage, that same worst insult, and Doum’wielle had been raised among the darthiir.
Khazid’hea called to her again, but Doum’wielle ignored it. The sword couldn’t really grab at her from this distance any longer. She had no thoughts of abandoning it, though, and figured it might be the only thing that kept her alive in the trials she was certain to face in short order.
How had it come to this?
How had she gone from being a princess of the Glimmerwood to being the plaything of a dark elf noble who served House Do’Urden beside her father and her?
And Tierflin, her brother—her murdered brother! Why … how …?
Doum’wielle dropped her face into her hands and fought back sobs.
The door to her room banged open, and Tos’un rushed into the room. She turned to him, expecting him to leap upon her, but he veered suddenly and went to the sword instead, swiftly drawing it from its scabbard.
Then he came on, and the look on his face warned her that he was going to kill her.
She fell back, but Tos’un stopped short and flipped the sword to hand it forth to her, pommel down.
“Take it,” he told her.
She paused.
“Take it!”
Doum’wielle grabbed up Khazid’hea, and the sword flooded her with calming thoughts.
“Little Doe,” Tos’un said. “Oh, my Little Doe. Fear not and regret not, I pray you. What is done is behind us and cannot be undone. The road before us is one of danger, I agree, but also one of promise!”
Doum’wielle wanted to shout out the reminder of what the drow had done to her, but she bit it back, and indeed, before she could formulate any other retort, she was already beginning to understand her father’s reasoning.
“Your resolve is your only armor,” Tos’un explained. “Any doubts will be seen as weakness, or worse, as regret. And if you regret the past, if our hosts get any hint at all that you might revert to the foul ways of darthiir, your end will not be pleasant. And understand, my daughter, that in such an instance, I will stand beside them.”
He stared at her with hard eyes, then turned on his heel and left the room, leaving a dumbfounded Doum’wielle staring at her deadly sword.
How had Tos’un known her doubts? She hadn’t spoken a word …
The thread of thought dissipated in a vision of power and glory: her parade as a returning hero to Menzoberranzan; her private audience with the matron mother herself. Perhaps she would be the one to help mend the ties between the elven peoples, surface and drow.
She was half-drow, and so they would accept her, and those whispers of “darthiir” would not land on her, but on the hopeless and helpless Dahlia.
No, she would be Little Doe, who used the cursed surface blood in her veins as a means to further aid her newfound family, as she had done in diverting the dwarves of Adbar into the Cold Vale to be slaughtered by Hartusk and the great Old White Death.
She stared at the sword and smiled.
She imagined Tierflin’s blood bubbling up around her hands, warm and sticky.
It was not an unpleasant feeling.
He sat cross-legged, feet up tight beneath him, his hands on his bent knees, palms upward. His back was straight and tall, stretched to its limits, but it was a posture achieved with an effortless grace. Brother Afafrenfere was well-practiced in this art of meditation and so his consciousness was far, far away, floating free in the clarity of nothingness. He was at rest and he was at peace, absorbing mere existence, letting his life energy flow freely, letting the outside world in.
He didn’t guide the thoughts that began to come to him as he moved to deeper levels of universal consciousness. He didn’t fight the flittering images, memories, and notions, didn’t deny them. There was only truth here in this deep meditative trance.
He felt again the movements of his body, techniques and attack routines far beyond his experience. Grandmaster Kane had taken him to that easeful place, had controlled his twists and strikes and blocks with a fluidity and precision Afafrenfere had never imagined possible. He knew that the great monks of the Order of the Yellow Rose were tremendous warriors, able to defeat fully armed and armored heroes with their bare hands and no more armor than a simple woolen robe, but never had he imagined the speed and grace and anticipation he had known in that brief and ferocious battle.
His life-force had seemed a tangible thing to him then, like a line of glowing energy within him, one he could clearly visualize, one that, in the end, he could actually grab.
As he had done under the tutelage of Grandmaster Kane, or rather, under the spell of the possessing spirit of the great man. Kane had borrowed from Afafrenfere’s life energy, had focused it and shaped it like a missile, and that simple slap, just a tap, had sent the energy into the enemy, vibrating, growing, fusing with the monster’s own life-force and corrupting it to Afafrenfere’s—to Kane’s—will.
He had killed a frost giant with a touch and a command.
The mere thought of the power nearly sent Afafrenfere careening from his meditation, but he held his place, his stillness, and his nothingness.
In this exercise, too, he was being aided by the spirit he had allowed to accompany him on this journey. In this meditation, perhaps the most personal of experiences, Afafrenfere knew that Kane was with him.
For a moment, that repulsed him. His physical form shuddered, and he nearly broke the trance in sudden revulsion, trying only to get away.
But he felt the calming influence of the ancient Grandmaster of Flowers, the greatest man of his order, a monk who had transcended the physical to become a being of the higher planes.
Even here, yes, he realized. Even in his meditative trance. He was deeper into it than he had ever achieved before because Kane was showing him how to receive, how to sink, how to let that which was in his heart be guided not at all by that which was in his muddled mind.
And so he was at peace again.
And he felt the movements and the quivering palm.
He was training without moving, mentally creating muscle memory through simple but profound insight.
The possibilities of the world, of this existence, seemed vast
er and wider and more intriguing. Every day promised knowledge.
Brother Afafrenfere was truly at peace.
She spent most of her waking moments plotting, as was required of every matron mother, particularly the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan. Every strand of her web had to be precise and carefully nurtured—and carefully watched. The insect uncaught would surely try to break those strands, and the fall of one strand could lead to catastrophe.
She had pushed them all very hard. She had strengthened her alliances, bought off potential rivals, and then pressed hard with her demands on the Ruling Council and particularly with the rejuvenation of House Do’Urden.
She had made enemies and cowed them; that was the drow way. But such actions required vigilance.
Quenthel sat in her private chambers, surrounded by beautiful slaves who would not move unless she told them to move. Her thoughts turned inward, exploring the memories of Yvonnel the Eternal that had been imparted to her by the illithid Methil. From Yvonnel, Quenthel learned to better spin that web. From Yvonnel, Quenthel understood the length she could go to cow Mez’Barris Armgo, among others, and the diligence she would need to prevent that one and her cohorts from finding their way around her spidery designs.
She couldn’t suppress her smile—so rare a sight, that!—when she let Yvonnel’s memories take her back to the Time of Troubles, when House Oblodra had used the chaos among the gods to press their advantage. Their psionic powers had worked without interruption, while every other House in the city, most especially Baenre, had been crippled by the absence of the Spider Queen.
But Yvonnel had played that time out beautifully, and so House Oblodra was no more.
It would not be difficult for Quenthel to replicate Yvonnel’s successes. All she needed was care. All she needed to do was spin the web precisely and hold her guard over the precious strands of intrigue.
And now Quenthel could succeed where Yvonnel had failed—in fact, she had already done so. She had wreaked havoc on the Silver Marches with few drow soldiers lost. She had dishonored the rogue Do’Urden by inciting the wrath of the folk of Luruar against the mere mention of his name.
The war had gone as planned.
Was there now more that Matron Mother Quenthel might gain from this surface incursion?
The air in front of her comfortable chair shimmered, signaling an arrival, and Quenthel sat up straighter and neatly crossed her hands on her lap.
Gromph stepped out of his teleport spell to stand right in front of her.
“You granted Tiago his permission?” Matron Mother Quenthel asked.
“Fifteen tendays, as we agreed.”
Quenthel nodded.
“All of Menzoberranzan’s drow have been recalled, as you commanded,” Gromph said. “Only Tiago and the other nobles of House Do’Urden remain, along with the two hundred that Matron Mother Zeerith Xorlarrin supplied for the effort. Whether they remain or not—”
“They will,” Matron Mother Quenthel interrupted.
Gromph looked at her curiously, and skeptically.
“Zeerith cannot resist,” Quenthel explained. “She knows her place as a satellite of House Baenre—her city survives at our suffrage alone. But in this war, she has been granted a measure of independence, which she covets above all. She will not turn from the Silver Marches until she is sure there is no more to be gained.”
“There is no more to be gained now,” said Gromph. “Not without risking the wrath of great surface nations. Will Cormyr come to the aid of Everlund if that city is pressed too greatly? Will Silverymoon lash back with magical fury to overwhelm the Many-Arrows legions? And how long will the stupid orcs keep the dwarves in their holes?”
“That is not our concern, Archmage. Q’Xorlarrin is not Menzoberranzan, should the powers of the World Above seek vengeance beyond the borders of the Silver Marches.”
“But House Do’Urden is our concern, and her nobles remain.”
“Including two of Matron Mother Zeerith’s children, and descendants of House Barrison Del’Armgo.”
“And a Baenre—”
“No!”
Gromph backed away a step, clearly taken aback, and the predictable reaction brought a wicked smile to the face of Matron Mother Quenthel. Tiago had been one of Quenthel’s favorites after all. Would she so readily disown him as a rogue?
“Every drow from Menzoberranzan who went to the Silver Marches marched under the banner of a single House,” Quenthel explained. “A rogue House, plotting independently through a scheme that was put in place by the advance spy of House Do’Urden.”
“Drizzt,” Gromph said.
Quenthel nodded.
“And if Tiago confronts Drizzt?” Gromph asked. “You understand that is why he begged to remain.”
“Of course.”
“And if he gets his wish and finds Drizzt Do’Urden?”
“There are two possibilities.”
“Do tell.”
“If Tiago kills Drizzt, the peoples of the Silver Marches, the kingdoms of Luruar, will be indebted to House Baenre for ridding them of their scourge, will they not?”
Gromph’s incredulous scowl showed Quenthel that he did not agree.
“If Drizzt is victorious,” Quenthel pressed on, her voice rising with her sudden certainty, “then we will claim great losses at the hands of a common enemy.”
Gromph’s incredulity faded then, replaced by a smile that soon became a chuckle.
“Do not mock me, Archmage,” Quenthel warned.
“It will not work,” Gromph said bluntly.
Quenthel sucked in her breath, verily trembling with anger that she would be so boldly challenged as she spun one of the strands of her web.
“It was Tiago who flew about the Cold Vale on the great dragon, holding aloft the head of dwarf king Bromm,” Gromph reminded. “It was Tiago who took the head of King Firehelm of Sundabar, and took that, too, on his dragon parade.”
Quenthel began to twitch, trying to reconcile these truths against her plans.
“Duke Tiago, he called himself,” Gromph went on. “Duke Tiago of Nesmé, and hundreds died under his months of tyranny. He is no hero to the people of Luruar, Matron Mother. His name is more hated than that of Drizzt, I am sure.”
“His name,” Quenthel mused.
“Tiago Baenre,” said Gromph.
“Nay,” Quenthel corrected, and her sly grin returned. “Tiago Do’Urden.”
“Perhaps I should have brought him back,” said Gromph.
“No,” Quenthel replied, her mind spinning as she tried to adjust her thinking to where this might all lead. “What more can they do in the Silver Marches, in your estimation?”
“Everlund is vulnerable,” Gromph admitted. “Beyond that, I do not know. They have dragons, after all, and a host of frost giants.”
“Will they keep the dwarves in their holes?”
Gromph shrugged. “Without the forces of Menzoberranzan guarding the tunnels, and with the spring melt on in full, and the fighting on the surface soon to resume, it is likely that the dwarves will find their way out. Whether they come forth or not to the aid of the other kingdoms of Luruar, I cannot say. There is bitter animosity now, from all I can glean.”
The matron mother nodded and became more at ease. “Fifteen tendays,” she said, “and we will have our answers. Let it play out.”
“There are many possible outcomes,” Gromph warned.
“There is chaos, you mean,” Quenthel corrected, speaking the word with reverence.
“Chaos is joy,” Gromph recited, one of the litanies of the Spider Queen. “But should we not prepare to control the end of this chaotic time?”
“As our dear dead mother would do?” Quenthel asked sarcastically, and she tapped her forehead to remind him of the gift Methil had given her.
Gromph conceded that with a nod.
“Watch closely, but from afar,” Quenthel ordered.
“To guide the chaos?”
“Ultimately,”
said Matron Mother Quenthel, who sounded very much like her mother in that decisive moment.
CHAPTER 12
WHERE ARE THE DAMNED DRAGONS?
THE GOBLIN SHAMAN WISELY DUCKED AWAY INTO THE COMPANY OF others of its kind at the sight of the great Tiago.
The drow was in a foul mood this day, storming around the camp of the Many-Arrows minions besieging the city of Silverymoon. He had drawn the orc leaders together around a large fire and made no secret of his displeasure as he dressed them down.
The goblin wasn’t well versed in the orc language, but his skills had improved enough—and it really wasn’t that much different from the goblin tongue anyway—so that he could make out the gist of the dark elf’s rant.
They hadn’t pressured Silverymoon enough, apparently. The city was too intact. The defenders should be reeling, short on food and without morale.
It sounded rather silly to the goblin shaman, who knew well that the wizards and priests within the magical city had easily enough fed the citizenry with conjured food and drink.
This drow was flailing in anger, nothing more.
After the tirade died down, however, Tiago selected a few of the orc leaders and herded them into a tent, setting many guards, giants mostly, to keep the perimeter wide.
The goblin shaman milled around with the horde, easing his way to a cubby behind some stacked crates. He took a deep breath, trying to still his nerves. He didn’t like dealing with drow in this manner. He could fool the orcs and goblins and surely the ogres easily enough, and evoke no more than a curious glance from a giant, but a dark elf might see right through him.
But so be it, he silently told himself, and he fished the small potion vial from his belt and imbibed it.
He waited a moment for the effects to take place, then moved out as silently as he could, cutting as direct a course for the command tent as possible. He might be heard, but he wouldn’t be seen. The potion was one of invisibility.