Exile

by R. A. Salvatore

  “SiNafay lives!” Malice cried.

  “No,” the withered matron mother corrected. “She who was SiNafay Hun’ett lives.”

  Now Malice was beginning to understand. House Baenre had always been opportunistic. Could it be that Matron Baenre was stealing the high priestesses of House Hun’ett to add to her own collection?

  “You will shelter her?” Malice dared to ask.

  “No,” Matron Baenre replied evenly. “That task will fall to you.”

  Malice’s eyes went wide. Of all the many duties she had ever been appointed in her days as a high priestess of Lloth, she could think of none more distasteful. “She is my enemy! You ask that I give her shelter?”

  “She is your daughter,” Matron Baenre shot back. Her tone softened and a wry smile cracked her thin lips. “Your oldest daughter, returned from travels to Ched Nasad, or some other city of our kin.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Malice demanded. “It is unprecedented!”

  “Not completely correct,” replied Matron Baenre. Her fingers tapped together out in front of her while she sank back within her thoughts, remembering some of the strange consequences of the endless line of battles within the drow city.

  “Outwardly, your observations are correct,” she continued to explain to Malice. “But surely you are wise enough to know that many things occur behind the appearances in

  Menzoberranzan. House Hun’ett must be destroyed―that cannot be changed―and all of the nobles of House Hun’ett must be slaughtered. It is, after all, the civilized thing to do.” She paused a moment to ensure that Malice was fully comprehending the meaning of her next statement. “They must appear, at least, to be slaughtered.”

  “And you will arrange this?” Malice asked.

  “I already have,” Matron Baenre assured her.

  “But what is the purpose?”

  “When House Hun’ett initiated its attack against you, did you call upon the Spider Queen in your struggles?” Matron Baenre asked bluntly.

  The question startled Malice, and the expected answer upset her more than a little.

  “And when House Hun’ett was repelled,” Matron Baenre went on coldly, “did you give praise to the Spider Queen? Did you call upon a handmaiden of Lloth in your moment of victory, Malice Do’Urden?”

  “Am I on trial here?” Malice cried. “You know the answer, Matron Baenre.” She looked at SiNafay uncomfortably as she replied, fearing that she might be giving some valued information away. “You are aware of my situation concerning the Spider Queen. I dare not summon a yochlol until I have seen some sign that I have regained Lloth’s favor.”

  “And you have seen no sign,” SiNafay remarked.

  “None other than the defeat of my rival,” Malice growled back at her.

  “That was not a sign from the Spider Queen,” Matron Baenre assured them both. “Lloth did not involve herself in your struggles. She only demanded that they be finished.”

  “Is she pleased at the outcome?” Malice asked bluntly.

  “That is yet to be determined,” replied Matron Baenre.

  “Many years ago, Lloth made clear her desires that Malice Do’Urden sit upon the ruling council. Beginning with the next light of Narbondel, it shall be so:’

  Malice’s chin rose with pride.

  “But understand your dilemma,” Matron Baenre scolded her, rising up out of her chair. Malice slumped back immediately. “You have lost more than half of your soldiers,” Baenre explained. “And you do not have a large family surrounding and supporting you. You rule the eighth house of the city, yet it is known by all that you are not in the Spider Queen’s favor. How long do you believe House Do’Urden will hold its position? Your seat on the ruling council is in jeopardy even before you have assumed it!”

  Malice could not refute the ancient matron’s logic. They both knew the ways of Menzoberranzan. With House Do’Urden so obviously crippled, some lesser house would soon take advantage of the opportunity to better its station. The attack by House Hun’ett would not be the last battle fought in the Do’Urden compound.

  “So I give to you SiNafay Hun’ett… Shi’nayne Do’Urden . . a new daughter, a new high priestess,” said Matron Baenre. She turned then to SiNafay to continue her explanation, but Malice found herself suddenly distracted as a voice called out to her in her thoughts, a telepathic message. Keep her only as long as you need her; Malice Do’Urden, it said. Malice looked around, guessing the source of the communication. On a previous visit to House Baenre, she had met Matron Baenre’s mind flayer, a telepathic beast. The creature was nowhere in sight, but neither had Matron Baenre been when Malice had first entered the chapel. Malice looked around alternately at the remaining empty seats atop the dais, but the stone furniture showed no signs of any occupants.

  A second telepathic message left her no doubts.

  You will know when the time is right.

  “…and the remaining fifty of House Hun’ett’s soldiers,” Matron Baenre was saying. “Do you agree, Matron Malice?”

  Malice looked at SiNafay, an expression that might have been acceptance or wicked irony. “I do,” she replied.

  “Go, then, Shi’nayne Do’Urden,” Matron Baenre instructed SiNafay. “Join your remaining soldiers in the courtyard. My wizards will get you to House Do’Urden in secrecy:’

  SiNafay cast a suspicious glance Malice’s way, then moved out of the great chapel.

  “I understand,” Malice said to her hostess when SiNafay had gone.

  “You understand nothing!” Matron Baenre yelled back at her, suddenly enraged. “I have done all that I may for you, Malice Do’Urden! It was Lloth’s wish that you sit upon the ruling council, and I have arranged, at great personal cost, for that to be so.”

  Malice knew then, beyond any doubt, that House Baenre had prompted House Hun’ett to action. How deep did Matron Baenre’s influence go, Malice wondered? Perhaps the withered matron mother also had anticipated, and possibly arranged, the actions of Jarlaxle and the soldiers of Bregan D’aerthe, ultimately the deciding factor in the battle. She would have to find out about that possibility, Malice promised herself. Jarlaxle had dipped his greedy fingers quite deeply into her purse.

  “No more,” Matron Baenre continued. “Now you are left to your own wiles. You have not found the favor of Lloth, and that is the only way you, and House Do’Urden, will survive!”

  Malice’s fist clenched the arm of her chair so tightly that she almost expected to hear the stone cracking beneath it. She had hoped, with the defeat of House Hun’ett, that she had put the blasphemous deeds of her youngest son behind her.

  “You know what must be done,” said Matron Baenre. “Correct the wrong, Malice. I have put myself forward on your behalf. I will not tolerate continued failure!”

  “The arrangements have been explained to us, Matron Mother,” Dinin said to Malice when she returned to the adamantite gate of House Do’Urden. He followed Malice across the compound and then levitated up beside her to the balcony outside the noble quarters of the house.

  “All of the family is gathered in the anteroom,” Dinin went on. “Even the newest member,” he added with a wink.

  Malice did not respond to her son’s feeble attempt at humor. She pushed Dinin aside roughly and stormed down the central corridor, commanding the anteroom door to open with a single powerful word. The family scrambled out of her way as she crossed to her throne, on the far side of the spider-shaped table.

  They had anticipated a long meeting, to learn the new situation confronting them and the challenges they must overcome. What they got instead was a brief glimpse at the rage burning within Matron Malice. She glared at them alternately, letting each of them know beyond any doubt that she would not accept anything less than she demanded. Her voice grating as though her mouth were filled with pebbles, she growled, “Find Drizzt and bring him to me!”

  Briza started to protest, but Malice shot her a glare so utterly cold and threatening that it stole the words
away. The eldest daughter, as stubborn as her mother and always ready for an argument, averted her eyes. And no one else in the anteroom, though they shared Briza’s unspoken concerns, made any motion to argue.

  Malice then left them to sort out the specifics of how they would accomplish the task. Details were not at all important to Malice.

  The only part she meant to play in all of this was the thrust of the ceremonial dagger into her youngest son’s chest.

  Chapter 2.

  Voices in the Dark

  Drizzt stretched away his weariness and forced himself to his feet. The efforts of his battle against the basilisk the night before, of slipping fully into that primal state so necessary for survival, had drained him thorougly. Yet Drizzt knew that he could afford no more rest; his rothe herd, the guaranteed food supply, had been scattered among the maze of tunnels and had to be retrieved.

  Drizzt quickly surveyed the small and unremarkable cave that served as his home, ensuring that all was as it should be. His eyes lingered on the onyx statuette of the panther. He was held by a profound longing for Guenhwyvar’s companionship. In his ambush of the basilisk, Drizzt had kept the panther by his side for a long period―nearly the entire night―and Guenhwyvar would need to rest back on the Astral Plane. More than a full day would pass before Drizzt could bring a rested Guenhwyvar forth again, and to attempt to use the figurine before then in any but a desperate situation would be foolish. With a resigned shrug, Drizzt dropped the statuette into his pocket and tried vainly to dismiss his loneliness.

  After a quick inspection of the rock barricade blocking the entrance to the main corridor, Drizzt moved to the smaller crawl tunnel at the back of the cave. He noticed the scratches on the wall by the tunnel, the notches he had scrawled to mark the passage of the days. Drizzt absently scraped another one now, but realized that it was not important. How many times had he forgotten to scratch the mark? How many days had slipped past him unnoticed, between the hundreds of scratches on that wall?

  Somehow, it no longer seemed to matter. Day and night were one, and all the days were one, in the life of the hunter. Drizzt hauled himself up into the tunnel and crawled for many minutes toward the dim light source at the other end. Although the presence of light, the result of the glow of an unusual type of fungus, normally would have been uncomfortable to a dark elf’s eyes, Drizzt felt a sincere sense of security as he crossed through the crawl tunnel into the long chamber. Its floor was broken into two levels, the lower being a moss-filled bed crossed by a small stream, and the upper being a grove of towering mushrooms. Drizzt headed for the grove, though he was not normally welcomed there. He knew that the myconids, the fungus-men, a weird cross between humanoid and toadstool, were watching him anxiously. The basilisk had come in here in its first travels to the region, and the myconids had suffered a great loss. Now they were no doubt scared and dangerous, but Drizzt suspected that they knew, as well, that it was he who had slain the monster. Myconids were not stupid beings; if Drizzt kept his weapons sheathed and made no unexpected moves, the fungus-men probably would accept his passage through their tended grove.

  The wall to the upper tier was more than ten feet high and nearly sheer, but Drizzt scaled it as easily and as quickly as if it had sported a wide and flat staircase. A group of myconids fanned around him as he reached the top, some only half Drizzt’s height, but most twice as tall as the drow. Drizzt crossed his arms over his chest, a commonly accepted Underdark signal of peace.

  The fungus-men found Drizzt’s appearance disgusting―as disgusting as he considered them―but they did indeed understand that Drizzt had destroyed the basilisk. For many years the myconids had lived beside the rogue drow, each protecting the life-filled chamber that served as their mutual sanctuary. An oasis such as this place, with edible plants, a stream full of fish, and a herd of rothe, was not common in the harsh and empty stone caverns of the Underdark, and predators wandering along the outer tunnels invariably found their way in. Then it was left to the fungus-men, and to Drizzt, to defend their domain.

  The largest of the myconids moved forward to stand before the dark elf. Drizzt made no move, understanding the importance of establishing an acceptance between himself and the new king of the fungus-man colony. Still, Drizzt tensed his muscles, preparing a spring to the side if things did not go as he expected.

  The myconid spewed forth a cloud of spores. Drizzt studied them in the split-second it took them to descend over him, knowing that the mature myconids could emit many different types of spore, some quite dangerous. But Drizzt recognized the hue of this particular cloud and accepted it wholly.

  King dead. Me king, came the myconid’s thoughts through the telepathic bond inspired by the spore cloud.

  You are king, Drizzt responded mentally. How he wished these fungoids could speak aloud! As it was?

  Bottom for dark elf, grove for myconid, replied the fungus-man.

  Agreed.

  Grove for myconid! the fungus-man thought again, this time emphatically.

  Drizzt silently dropped down off the ledge. He had accomplished his mission with the fungoid; neither he nor the new king had any desire to continue the meeting.

  Off at a swift pace, Drizzt leaped the five-foot-wide stream and padded out across the thick moss. The chamber was longer than it was wide and it rolled back for many yards, turning a slight bend before it reached the larger exit to the twisting maze of Underdark tunnels. Around that bend, Drizzt looked again upon the destruction wreaked by the basilisk. Several half-eaten rothe lay about―Drizzt would have to dispose of those corpses before their stench attracted even more unwelcome visitors―and other rothe stood perfectly still, petrified by the gaze of the dreaded monster. Directly in front of the chamber exit stood the former myconid king, a twelve foot giant, now no more than an ornamental statue.

  Drizzt paused to regard it. He had never learned the fungoid’s name, and had never given it his, but Drizzt supposed that the thing had been his ally at least, perhaps even his friend. They had lived side by side for several years, though they had rarely encountered each other, and both had realized a bit more security just by the other’s presence. All told, though, Drizzt felt no remorse at the sight of his petrified ally. In the Underdark, only the strongest survived, and this time the myconid king had not been strong enough. In the wilds of the Underdark, failure allowed for no second chance.

  Out in the tunnels again, Drizzt felt his rage beginning to build. He welcomed it fully, focusing his thoughts on the carnage in his domain and accepting the anger as an ally in the wilds. He came through a series of tunnels and turned into the one where he had placed his darkness spell the night before, where Guenhwyvar had crouched, ready to spring upon the basilisk. Drizzt’s spell was long gone now and, using his infravision, he could make out several warm-glowing forms crawling over the cooling mound that Drizzt knew to be the dead monster.

  The sight of the thing only heightened the hunter’s rage. Instinctively, he grasped the hilt of one of his scimitars. As though it moved of its own accord, the weapon shot out as Drizzt passed the basilisk’s head, splatting sickeningly into the exposed brains. Several blind cave rats took flight at the sound and Drizzt, again without thinking, snapped off a thrust with his second blade, pinning one to the stone. Without even slowing his pace, he scooped the rat up and dropped it into his pouch. Finding the rothe could be a tedious process, and the hunter would need to eat.

  For the remainder of that day and half of the next, the hunter moved out away from his domain. The cave rat was not a particularly enjoyable meal, but it sustained Drizzt, allowing him to continue, allowing him to survive. For the hunter in the Underdark, nothing else mattered.

  That second day out, the hunter knew he was closing in on a group of his lost beasts. He summoned Guenhwyvar to his side and, with the panther’s help, had little trouble finding the rothe. Drizzt had hoped that all of the herd would still be together, but he found only a half dozen in the area. Six were better than none, th
ough, and Drizzt set Guenhwyvar into motion, herding the rothe back toward the moss cave. Drizzt set a brutal pace, knowing that the task would be much easier and safer with Guenhwyvar by his side. By the time the panther tired and had to return to its home plane, the rothe were comfortably grazing by the familiar stream.

  The drow set out again immediately, this time taking two dead rats along for the ride. He called Guenhwyvar again when he was able and dismissed the panther when he had to, then again after that, as the days rolled by without further sign. But the hunter did not surrender his search. Frightened rothe could cover an incredible amount of ground, and in the maze of twisting tunnels and huge caverns, the hunter knew that many more days could pass before he caught up to the beasts.

  Drizzt found his food where he could, taking down a bat with a perfect throw of a dagger―after tossing up a deceptive screen of pebbles―and dropping a boulder onto the back of a giant Underdark crab. Eventually, Drizzt grew weary of the search and longed for the security of his small cave. Doubting that the rothe, running blind, could have survived this long out in the tunnels, so far from their water and food, he accepted his herd’s loss and decided to return home via a route that would bring him back to the region of the moss cavern from a different direction.

  Only the clear tracks of his lost herd would detour him from his set course, Drizzt decided, but as he rounded a bend halfway home, a strange sound caught his attention and held it.

  Drizzt pressed his hands against the stone, feeling the subtle, rhythmical vibrations. A short distance away, some thing banged the stone in succession. Measured hammering.

  The hunter drew his scimitars and crept along, using the continuing vibrations to guide him through the winding passageways.

  The flickering light of a fire dropped him into a crouch, but he did not flee, drawn by the knowledge that an intelligent being was nearby. Quite possibly the stranger would prove to be a threat, but perhaps, Drizzt hoped in the back of his mind, it could be something more than that.