And Tiago trusted her, obviously. He had left his companion behind and recklessly rushed into the midst of their fierce enemies. If Sanibel let him die, Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre would not be merciful.
That realization, and the understanding that Tiago had planned this long before, brought an unsettling thought to Braelin. Though Tiago did not need him as a flanking protector, could he say the same? He did not have a high priestess standing behind him imparting unlimited healing.
And though he was of House Do’Urden now, was he really? Braelin Janquay was Bregan D’aerthe, minion to Jarlaxle, loyal to Jarlaxle.
Tiago had to know that.
Tiago wouldn’t care if he died in this corridor outside of Menzoberranzan.
Tiago might even welcome that. Might, indeed, have made his attack in the hope of killing off Braelin.
All thoughts of catching up to the Baenre faded, and Braelin braced himself defensively, letting the monsters come to him.
TIAGO ROLLED SIDELONG up over one hunched, simian demon and felt the explosion of pain as the balgura bit him hard on the hip. His fine adamantine armor kept the teeth from tearing too deeply, but oh, he felt the pain.
The exquisite pain followed by the ecstasy of healing warmth, the embrace of the goddess.
He rolled over the balgura’s head, turning as he landed so that as the ape-demon turned to pursue, Tiago’s readied sword cut it from belly to throat. A high sweep of Vidrinath took the head from the next demon in line.
He found himself laughing now as a trio of the beasts leaped at him to bury him under their bulk, in his turn he had noted Braelin Janquay.
Braelin understood now that Tiago considered him expendable, and that was a message the eager young weapons master wanted Jarlaxle to hear.
“Bregan D’aerthe,” he spat from under the pile of clawing and biting ape demons, his shield, magically expanded to its fullest diameter now, keeping the bulk of the attacks away, his sword arm finding its openings to stab ahead and violate demon flesh.
And the pain continued, clawed hands and toothy maws finding their hold, and the pleasure of Saribel’s healing washed over him, and the young drow knew true ecstasy.
SARIBEL COULD ONLY hope that her tireless, frantic efforts would be enough to keep Tiago from great harm, or even death. If he perished here, the priestess would take her own life rather than face the wrath of the matron mother.
Tiago was doing this to her purposely, forcing her into servitude. There would be no gratitude for her efforts here, no words of praise, no tender appreciation later on. She would only know his contempt, forever his contempt.
“Until I am Matron Mother of House Do’Urden,” she resolutely managed to tell herself between spells, and she growled out her next as she nodded with determination. With patience and fortitude, she would gain the upper hand.
Or maybe she should just let him die out there, she thought briefly. How easily she could interrupt the healing spells and let the demons rend him to bits.
It was a fleeting thought, of course, and not just because of the threat to her life should he die. Her marriage to Tiago made her a Baenre as well as a Do’Urden, and that was something she would never jeopardize.
The thought was buried a moment later, as word filtered down that the matron mother herself had come onto the scene.
Saribel redoubled her efforts, throwing every breath into a spell, filling Tiago with the blessings of Lolth.
“What is that fool doing?” she heard behind her, and recognized the voice of the terrible Quenthel Baenre.
Globes of fire appeared in the air. Glorious flames, hotter than hellfire, rushed down in killing lines, incinerating demons all around the battling young weapons master.
A sweep of Vidrinath felled another, the last one near to Tiago. He leaped around, his face a mask of insulted rage. But that expression changed when he took note of Matron Mother Quenthel.
Indeed.
Quenthel motioned to Braelin, ordering him forward.
“He is reckless,” the matron mother whispered to Saribel as she turned to leave. “And ambitious.” She paused and caught Saribel’s gaze.
“He is brilliant,” Quenthel told her. “And you will bring him to me later, uninjured.”
Saribel wisely didn’t pause in her casting to even acknowledge the matron mother.
QUENTHEL BAENRE DID not magically flee the scene, as would have been expected of so important and powerful a figure. She walked openly down the corridors of the Masterways and back into Menzoberranzan, the Clawrift on her left and the huge side chamber that held Tier Breche along the wall to her right. Word had spread of the glorious victory in the tunnels, of course, and so she wanted her people to see her returning from the field of glory, humble and magnificent all at once.
Her sister, High Priestess Sos’Umptu Baenre, was waiting for her back in the main cavern, as ordered, along with a powerful contingent of the House Baenre garrison—enough to deter any murderous hopes some plotting matron mother might entertain.
The Baenres were cheered all the way back to their compound. Matron Mother Quenthel soaked in that glory, and understood that it was a necessary and not superfluous parade, both for the reputation of her House and her as matron mother. All along that path she was reminded of the damage that had come to her beloved city.
Destruction due to the idiocy of her missing brother.
Quenthel knew Gromph had summoned the Prince of Demons into Menzoberranzan, quite unannounced.
The monstrous behemoth had left now, but had cut a swath of absolute destruction in his wake. Demogorgon’s slashing tail had dug trenches in the walls of Sorcere, nearly toppling major parts of the structure. The beast had torn down the gates and walls of several houses, including two of the ranking Houses with matron mothers sitting on the Ruling Council.
And Demogorgon had dug a trench, for no apparent reason other than he could, halfway across the city and back—to this very exit into the wilds of the Underdark.
Many drow had been slain on the beast’s journey, Demogorgon’s massive tentacles whipping out to grasp unfortunate dark elves, wrenching them in to be devoured or hurling them halfway across the city to splatter into a stalagmite or stalactite. Many others had clawed their own eyes out, driven mad by the gaze of the godlike demon.
All because of Gromph.
Quenthel could barely contain her growl.
“There were greater demons than the manes and balgura out in the caverns,” Sos’Umptu informed her, something Quenthel had already suspected.
“Your priestesses spied them?”
“Lurking beyond the circular cavern, yes.”
“Named beasts?”
Sos’Umptu nodded. “Beasts recognized, yes.”
“And?”
“The spells of banishment failed,” Sos’Umptu admitted.
Quenthel stopped her march and stared hard at the priestess. Sos’Umptu could only shrug.
“You should have been out there among the priestesses,” Quenthel said, her voice betraying great concern.
“There were many high priestesses positioned in that cavern,” Sos’Umptu replied with her typical lack of discernable emotion. “Their spells are as potent as my own. Though they knew the demonic names, they could not banish the beasts.”
“They erred in identifying—”
“No,” Sos’Umptu dared to interrupt. “It is as we feared, Matron Mother. The barrier of the Faerzress itself has been harmed. The demons cannot be banished.”
Quenthel turned away, staring instead at the looming compound of House Baenre, her face showing that she was trying to process this startling and dangerous news.
“But we can kill them,” Sos’Umptu offered. “When we return to your chambers, I will bring forth a magical divination of the circular cavern where the battle was primarily waged. You will see, Matron Mother. The beasts are piled many deep—empty, destroyed husks.”
Quenthel looked at her incredulously.
�
��We won!” Sos’Umptu said, and she did a fair job of acting as though she cared. “A glorious victory! Few of our children of Menzoberranzan were wounded, fewer still killed, and the demon horde is piled high in death.”
Quenthel’s expression became very slightly more incredulous.
“A thousand Abyssal creatures dead, do you think?” Quenthel asked.
“Perhaps twice that,” Sos’Umptu replied.
“My dear Sos’Umptu, they are demons. Do you think the Abyss will run out?”
AN EXHAUSTED MINOLIN Fey walked into the nursery in her private quarters at House Baenre. She faltered immediately and nearly fell over, seeing a young woman standing over Yvonnel’s small bed
“Who …?” she started to ask, but stopped, her eyes going wide, as the woman—likely not yet twenty years of age—turned and flashed her a perfectly smug and wicked smile.
“You do not approve, Mother?” the girl, who was indeed Yvonnel, asked.
“How?”
“It is a simple spell, though an old one,” Yvonnel explained. “A version of a haste dweomer employed by wizards in the days before the Spellplague, before the Time of Troubles, even. A wonderful spell, speeding the movements and attacks of the recipient, but one that came with the unfortunate—or in this case, fortunate—side effect of aging the recipient as if a year had passed.”
Minolin Fey was only half-listening to the explanation. She was caught by the sheer beauty of this creature in front of her. Sheer beauty, she knew, beyond anything she could have imagined. Painful beauty; to look upon Yvonnel was to despair because one could not be so beautiful as she. Her skin glowed with smoothness, like satin and steel woven as one, delicate yet impossibly strong. Her soft touch could ignite every nerve in one she seduced, teasing with softness even as her fingers closed around the moaning victim’s throat.
“Haste,” Yvonnel said suddenly, and more emphatically, breaking Minolin Fey out of her near stupor.
“You … You know the arcane arts?” Minolin Fey stammered.
The young woman laughed at her. “I am one with the Spider Queen, who sought to make the Weave her own. Or have you forgotten?”
“N-no,” Minolin Fey stuttered, rather inanely, and trying to decipher the statement. Yvonnel claimed to be one with the Spider Queen? How high were her ambitions after all?
“You are often overwhelmed,” Yvonnel said with a nasty little laugh. “No matter, your most important duties are behind you now.”
She felt her expression turn curious.
“I am born, and clearly weaned,” Yvonnel explained. “I have no need to suckle at your breast, nor any such desire. Not for nourishment, at least.”
The way she finished that thought had the high priestess’s knees trembling. Despite the awfulness of the thought she knew that she could not begin to deny Yvonnel of anything she wanted. It took all of Minolin Fey’s willpower not to throw herself prostrate on the floor at that moment, begging Yvonnel to take her, or kill her, or do whatever she so desired.
In that moment of terror, not just of Yvonnel but of her own weakness in the face of this mighty being, Minolin Fey truly appreciated the girl’s claim that she was one with the Spider Queen.
She was—that was clear now. This was not a child standing in front of her, not even one infused with the memories of Yvonnel the Eternal. No, this was something much more.
With a deceptively childlike laugh, Yvonnel went through a series of movements and chanted softly. A slight glow came over her, and her hair, already thick and halfway down her back, grew a bit longer and curled at the bottom.
“I am two full decades of age now,” she said. “Do you think any young warriors would find me attractive?”
Minolin Fey wanted to answer that any living creature would fall before her, that any drow in Menzoberranzan—in all the world—would not resist her for more than a heartbeat.
“Twenty-five, I think,” Yvonnel remarked, and Minolin Fey looked at her with puzzlement.
“Twenty-five years,” the girl clarified. “I seek an age that will afford me the respect I need, but also an age of perfect beauty and sensuality.”
“Is there any age where you would not be such, either way?” Minolin Fey heard herself saying.
Yvonnel’s grin let the high priestess know in no uncertain terms that she was caught within the web of this one’s charms.
“You will do well when I am matron mother,” Yvonnel said.
“I am …” Minolin Fey felt as if she had just been granted a great reprieve. “I am your mother,” she stammered, nodding eagerly. “My pride …”
The girl waved her hand, and though she was across the room, the magical slap hit Minolin Fey so hard it sent her stumbling to the side.
“No more,” Yvonnel said. “That duty is behind you and forgotten. You will survive and thrive, or you will fail, on your loyalty and service moving forward. I would think nothing of destroying you.”
Minolin Fey cast her gaze down, staring at the floor as she tried to find some way out of this.
And then she felt a soft touch on her chin—and such a touch! A thousand fires of pleasure erupting within her as Yvonnel so easily lifted up her face to stare her in the eye. Minolin Fey feared that she would go blind, being so near such beauty.
“But you have an advantage, Priestess,” the girl said. “I know that I can trust you. Show me that I can respect your service, too, and you will find a wonderful life in House Baenre. One of pleasure and luxury.”
Minolin Fey braced herself, expecting another slap, another brutal reminder of how quickly that could be taken away.
It didn’t come. Instead, Yvonnel gently brushed the tips of her fingers down the side of Minolin Fey’s face, and that touch, so impossibly soft, so wondrously calling out to every nerve to bring them forth and lighting them with sensations of pure pleasure, left in its wake a line of pure ecstasy.
“Come,” Yvonnel said. “I believe it is time for Quenthel to learn the truth of her niece.”
“You wish an audience with the matron mother?”
“You will get me that meeting immediately,” the girl answered. “I give you this one task. Do not fail me.”
Minolin Fey held her breath then, feeling very trapped. The way Yvonnel had said that made it quite clear to her that it was one task for now, but there would be an endless stream of subsequent tasks later. And her personalization of the last remark, bidding Minolin Fey not to fail her instead of simply not to fail, showed the high priestess that this dangerous child would simply not accept failure.
This strange little daughter to whom she had given birth was the promise of great reward and the promise of perfect pain, tantalizing and terrifying all at once.
It was bad enough for Minolin Fey that in Gromph’s absence she survived only at the sufferance of Matron Mother Quenthel. But even worse was the thought that her only chance at flourishing might well be this dangerous child, whether reincarnation of Yvonnel the Eternal or avatar of Lady Lolth herself—or some weird mixture of the two.
Dangerous. So very dangerous.
“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.
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