“Baenre is dead. Reign long, Matron Triel.”
These words had been spoken many times, with varying degrees of sincerity, throughout the day as one by one the nobles, soldiers, and commoners of House Baenre filed past the fearsome black throne—a sentient wonder in whose gleaming depths writhed the spirits of Baenre victims—to pledge fealty to their new matron.
Triel Baenre herself was not an imposing sight. She was well under five feet tall, her body as slim and straight as a child’s. By the standards of drow elves, she was not particularly attractive. Her white hair was long and thin, braided tightly and wrapped around her small head like a crown. She was clad simply: a long hauberk of elven chain mail draped over the simple black robe of a priestess. Yet Triel did not require the conventional trappings of royalty. She was one of the highest-ranked priestesses of Lloth in the city, and in the full favor of her goddess. The young matron exuded power and confidence, and she greeted each of her subjects with a regal nod.
In truth, Triel was not as comfortable with her new role as she appeared to be. Seated upon her mother’s throne, she felt aa if she were a child playacting. By the blood of Lloth, she swore silently, her feet did not even touch the floor! A minor indignity, perhaps, but to Triel’s troubled mind her dangling feet seemed to be an omen, a sign she was not equal to the task before her.
Triel knew that, by any measures known to her, she should have been ecstatically happy with her elevation. She was now matron mother of Menzoberranzan’s first house. Triel was no stranger to power—as matron mistress of the clerical school Arach-Tinilith, she held a position of great honor—but she had never truly aspired to her late mother’s throne. The former matron had reigned for so many centuries she had seemed eternal. Even her given name had been lost to memory. To generations of drow, Triel’s mother was Baenre, was Menzoberranzan. Thus each repetition of “Baenre is dead” echoed through Triel’s mind like a portent of doom, until she felt she must scream aloud or go mad.
But at last the ceremony ended, and Triel was left alone to face the task of rebuilding the shattered household. It was a formidable challenge. A house’s strength lay in its priestesses, and far too many had fallen in her mother’s war. Many of the former matron’s daughters—and their daughters in turn—had gone on to form houses of their own. In theory, these minor houses were allies of House Baenre, but their primary concern was spinning their own webs of power and intrigue.
In addition to its lack of priestesses, the first house was without a weapon master. Triel’s brother Berg*inyon had gone missing during the war. As leader of the mighty lizard riders, he had led the attack on Mithril Hall’s surface-dwelling allies, and he had never returned to his family home. Many drow had fallen in the terror and confusion that followed dawn, and it was not unlikely the Baenre weapon master was among them. Triel suspected otherwise. She’d often sensed that the young male’s instincts for self-preservation far outstripped his loyalty to his house. Whatever the truth behind his disappearance, Berg’inyon was lost to her. He might be a mere youth—barely sixty years of age—but he was a strong fighter, and he would be difficult to replace. Lloth forbid, Triel thought with immense distaste, she might even be required to take on a patron to fill the role of weapon master!
Yet Triel’s most immediate task was to choose her own successor at Arach-Tinilith. Usually the position of Academy matron went to the highest-ranking priestess of Lloth in House Baenre. After Triel, that would be Merith, a commoner taken into the Baenre ranks years ago when her considerable clerical powers began to emerge. Merith coveted the title of matron mistress, but this was simply out of tüe question. In any capacity, she was a potential disgrace to House Baenre. The former daughter of a streetsweeper had no understanding of the subtle nuances of protocol, no - appreciation for the intricate warp and weft of intrigue. She was also sadistic in the extreme. In situations that called for a stiletto, Merith was a dwarven battle-axe. Triel expected her dear adopted sister to contract a rare, fatal illness any day now.
That left Sos’Umptu, the keeper of the Baenre chapel, as the most likely candidate. Sos’Umptu was Baenre-born, her favor with Lloth was secure, and her standing as a priestess impressively lofty. So after due consideration Triel sent for her younger sister and offered her Arach-Tinilith.
Sos’Umptu, far from being pleased at her promotion, was horrified at the suggestion she leave the Baenre chapel. Triel coaxed, wheedled, and threatened, but in the end she conceded that, at least for the time, she herself must fill both roles. Her younger sister received this decision with a relieved sigh, then glanced at the door that led toward her beloved chapel.
“No, stay with me a while,” Triel said tiredly. “I must speak with you on another matter. House Baenre needs high priestesses desperately, especially nobles Baenre-born. You know I have no daughters of my own, nor am I likely to have any. I must rely on my sisters and their children to rebuild our strength. You keep the birth records; what can you tell me about our prospects? Any outstanding talents among the young females?”
The keeper of the chapel cleared her throat. “Probably the most gifted among them would be Liriel. Gromph’s daughter?” she prompted, when Triel showed no sign of recognition.
Memory fell suddenly into place, and Triel’s eyes widened in wonder as she considered the possibilities. Gromph’s pampered, wayward daughter, a high priestess of Lloth. How preposterous, and how delightful!
From what Triel could recall, Gromph had fathered the child some four decades past and had inexplicably claimed her as his own. Liriel bore the name of her father’s house, which was almost unheard of in their matriarchal society. Her mother, a useless beauty from some minor house, had disappeared, and for many years little had been heard of the child, except disapproving whispers that Gromph allowed the girl to run wild. With the onset of adolescence, Liriel had forged a place for herself in the frenetic social life of certain wealthy circles. Triel had heard tales of Liriel’s exploits, which earned the girl notoriety and admiration in nearly equal parts. Although considered headstrong and capricious, Liriel reportedly had exceptional powers of mind and magic. What better use for such talents than the service of Lloth?
Triel smiled wickedly. How that would enrage Gromph! By law and custom, noble females entered the clerical college with the onset of puberty or upon their twenty-fifth birthday, whichever came first. Gromph had not required his daughter to attend—perhaps he had even forbidden it! The archmage was hardly devout in the service of Lloth, and Triel had caught glimpses of Gromph’s bitter resentment toward the priestess rulers. Yet if Matron Triel commanded, Gromph would have little choice but to send his daughter to Arach-Tinilith.
And Liriel Baenre, as a high priestess of Lloth, would become not only a bright jewel in the crown of House Baenre, but also a powerful reminder to ambitious Gromph as to where the true power in Menzoberranzan lay.
Triel turned to regard her younger sister. “Why, SoslJmptu,” she said slyly, “you surprise me! I had not thought you capable of such devious subtlety.”
Sos’Umptu flinched and said nothing, for she had learned through hard experience to be leery of compliments. Indeed, Triel’s eyes hardened dangerously as she continued to observe her younger sister.
“It would seem,” the new matron continued, “the keeper of the chapel has talents that reach beyond her chosen sphere of influence. See that your ambitions do not do likewise!”
Sos’Umptu sank into a deep reverence. “I desire only to serve Lloth, and my sister the matron mother,” she said fervently.
Although it was almost beyond belief, Triel sensed the younger Baenre daughter spoke truth. The matron was not certain whether to regard Sos’Umptu’s unnatural lack of ambition with relief or scorn, but she smüed at her sister and bid her to rise. “Your devotion does you credit,” Triel said dryly, “and your idea has merit. Have someone find the girl and bring her here at once.”
“Do you want Gromph to be present when you speak to his daughter?”
Heat flooded Triel’s face until her countenance shone like an angry ruby. “I do not require my brother’s blessing, in this matter or any other,” she snapped.
“Of course not, Matron Triel,” Sos’Umptu hastened to say, dipping into another respectful bow. “But I thought you might, perhaps, enjoy witnessing Gromph’s distress?”
The dangerous glint in Triel’s eyes warmed to become a comrade’s gleam. “My dear sister, for the sake of House Baenre, you must venture out of your chapel more often!”
Meanwhile, far from House Baenre’s audience hall, Gromph’s daughter skipped lightly through the tunnels of the Underdark. Her eyes gleamed red as they pierced the darkness ahead, and an occasional cross-draft rippled through the thick white hair that fell in wavy locks to her waist. She was dressed for travel in boots and breeches fashioned from thin, supple leather, a shirt of quilted silk, and a vest of fine chain mail. A three-foot, barbed-tip spear rested on her shoulder, and in her free hand she carried a small bolo, which she twirled in elaborate patterns as she walked.
Behind her, well out of reach of the whirling weapon, trudged a young drow couple. The female wore the insignia of House Shobalar, a lesser clan known for the rare female wizards it produced. The other drow was an exceptionally handsome male, elaborately dressed but for the single-braided hair that marked him as a commoner. Both of these drow carried spears identical to Liriel’s, and they darted wary glances here and there as they maneuvered through the field of small, sharp stalagmites that thrust upward from the rocky floor.
The tunnel was narrow, barely wide enough for three or four drow to walk abreast. Countless eons past, trickling water had carved a series of furrows into the rocky walls, leaving long, narrow stone ridges rising up on both sides of the tunnel. The passage resembled the rib cage of some giant beast, and Liriel’s companions found it more than a little unnerving. They kept firm grip on their weapons and silently cursed the impulse that had led them out of the relative safety of Menzoberranzan. The Underdark was unpredictable and full of danger. Few ventured out into it without considerable strength of arms and magic. Yet when Liriel Baenre issued an invitation, how could they refuse?
Liriel was by far the most popular female in their set, a group of wealthy young drow both noble and common who pursued pleasure and intrigue with typical drow passion. She was younger than most of them—still short of her fortieth birthday, which placed her in the midst of the long, tumultuous period of drow adolescence—and she possessed the fresh beauty similar to that of a human girl not yet seventeen. She also enjoyed the wealth and station of a House Baenre noble. But many of the city’s young drow possessed wealth, status, and beauty. Liriel was exceptional for her ready laugh and a zest for life that was rare in grim Menzoberranzan. Admittedly eccentric in her tastes, she preferred the pursuit of adventure and magical knowledge to social intrigue. Still, few could deny her quirky charm. Many young drow vied for the chance to share her adventures. Those who survived could count on enhanced social standing, as well as a few good stories to share at that evening’s round of parties.
Even with this pleasing prospect before them, Liriel’s companions grew more uneasy with every step. The utter darkness of the passage did not inconvenience them in the slightest, but the silence deeply unnerved them. In Menzoberranzan, the noise of the city melted into a constant, spell-muffled murmur spiced by an occasional scream. In these tunnels their quiet footsteps thudded in their ears with a hollow, echoing sound, like stones falling into a deep well. Liriel, of course, walked like a shadow, thanks to her enchanted elven boots and two dozen years’ experience with such exploration. Her gait was light and eager, her eyes fixed on the adventure ahead.
Yet Liriel was not unaware of her companions’ discomfort. She knew Bythnara Shobalar well; the two of them had trained together from a young age. Gromph had apparently tired of his precocious daughter soon after adopting her, and sent her to House Shobalar to be fostered and trained by that clan’s female wizards. A childhood rivalry had sprung up between Liriel and Bythnara that had followed them throughout the years. Liriel took this in stride, and in fact found it rather enjoyable. It sharpened both their efforts and added a necessary spice to their friendship. Despite their mutual interest in magic, the two had little in common. Bythnara did not share Liriel’s delight in adventure or her sense of fun. The female wizard could be remote at times—and downright dull the rest of the time—but Liriel was well accustomed to the limits of friendship.
“Are we almost there?” Bythnara complained behind her.
“Soon.”
“But we’ve been walking for hours, and by now Lloth only knows where we could be! We could die out here, and no one would know the difference!”
Liriel glanced back over her shoulder and winked at her friend. She did not, however, slow her pace in the slightest. “Correction, Bythnara: you could die out here and not know the difference.”
The wizard’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a threat?”
“Of course not,” Liriel said mildly, turning back to the path ahead. “It’s an insult. When I die, I’ll no doubt realize something has changed. You, on the other hand…”
“Perhaps I don’t run through life at your pace, but that is no matter for scorn. ‘Caution is the better part of wisdom.”
“Bythnara quoted in a tight voice.
“And the major part of boredom,” Liriel returned lightly.
“What about you, Syzwick?” she asked the male. Bythnara’s latest consort was the son of a well-to-do perfume merchant. He was obscenely wealthy, highly decorative, spirited yet manageable—all qualities that made him very popular with the females in their set. “Are you having second thoughts, as well?”
“Of course not,” the male said staunchly, shifting his spear to his other shoulder. “Still, we have been gone quite a long time.”
“It’ll be worth every moment,” Liriel promised. She stopped suddenly, flinging out a hand to indicate they should do likewise. She pointed downward, and both of her companions gasped.
The trio stood on the very edge of a riverbank. Several feet below them lay a calm, dark expanse of water. The river ran deep, silent, and very cold. Its waters were said to come from lands of ice far above the Underdark. Although the air here was warmer than the water, a constant cloud of mist floated over the river like a guardian wraith.
The boat is moored right below us,” Liriel said, pointing down at a long, narrow skiff.
She leaped out over the dark water. Summoning her natural ability to levitate, she hung in the air for a moment and then floated down to land lightly at the bow of the boat. Her companions followed suit with considerably less gusto. They quickly seated themselves to calm the rocking of the craft. They knew they could not afford to tip over, and not just because of the icy waters.
For they were hunting pyrimo, small, fierce fish that could strip a full-grown lizard mount to the bone in minutes. These fish were extremely aggressive, known to leap from the water to attack animals that came to drink at the river’s edge. So sharp were their teeth and so powerful their jaws that the first bite was often painless, unnoticed. The pain came quickly enough, though, for any blood in the water summoned dozens of the voracious fish. Hunting them was a dangerous sport, and accidents were not infrequent.
The first challenge was simply getting this far, for the tunnels that led to the river were seldom traveled and rarely patrolled. The river itself was a hazard—deceptively calm, given to sudden eddies and strong, random under- tows. And the fish were dangerous even in death. Their flesh was delicate, tasty—and highly toxic. Carefully prepared, pyrimo were more potent than wine, and any party at which they were served instantly became an event. Fatalities among the diners did occur from time to time, but they were rare. Carefully trained chefs prepared pyrimo knowing their own lives depended on the result.
But the party was hours away, and before them lay the challenge of the hunt. Liriel placed a booted foot on the bank and shoved hard. Her boat, tethered to the rocky bank by a light mithril chain, glided toward the center of the river. When the craft stilled, Liriel took up her spear and stood in the prow, feet braced wide for balance. Bythnara echoed her stance in the stern, while Syzwick took a seat in the center for ballast. The boat was designed so two could hunt at a time, one on either end and well out of each other’s reach. The fish attacked even when impaled, and more than one drow had been bitten by his hunting companion’s speared catch. Whether by accident or design, who could say?
Liriel took two small flasks from the bag at her waist and tossed one to Bythnara. The flasks were enspelled to keep the contents—fresh rothe blood—warm. Liriel opened her flask and poured a single drop of blood into the water. To the drow’s heat-sensitive eyes, the droplet appeared bright red. It would be visible for only a moment, for the icy waters would cool it quickly. Liriel readied her spear and watched intently. The glowing drop disappeared, suddenly and completely.
Liriel’s spear flashed down into the water. She raised it triumphantly—a fish about the size of her hand thrashed and wriggled on the point. Pyrimo were impossible to see in the water, for their body temperature matched exactly that of the chill river. Clearly visible in the warmer air, the fish was a smooth oval, with silvery scales and delicate fins—a pretty thing, except for the steely, fanged jaws that spanned the width of its body.
“Catch, Syzwick,” Liriel said casually, and with a flick of her spear she tossed the lethal fish toward the male. The drow paled and cringed away. No need: the fish slapped wetly into the box at his feet,
“If you’d missed…” Syzwick began.
Liriel sent him a saucy grin. “I haven’t yet! Don’t worry, love, the last thing I’d want to do is drop a hungry pyrimo in your lap,” she purred. “One bite, and you’d be no good to anyone.”
Bythnara’s lips tightened; seeing this, Liriel suppressed a sigh. Her friend could be so possessive at times! Liriel had meant only to tease Syzwick a bit, knowing the handsome male appreciated bawdy humor. But Bythnara always mistook such remarks as statements of intent.
Syzwick did not notice the female wizard’s peevish expression; he grinned lasciviously at Liriel and raised an eyebrow.
“One bite?” he challenged.
Liriel swept him with an appraising glance. “Perhaps two,” she allowed.
Bythnara snorted and gave her flask of blood a vicious shake. Bright droplets scattered into the river.
“Don’t put so much blood into the water at one time,” Liriel cautioned her sternly. She could tolerate Bythnara’s foul temper, but only up to a point. “You don’t want to start a frenzy.”
That thought sobered the jealous young wizard, and for a long time the two females hunted in silence. Perched on the very tip of the boat, Liriel worked quickly, leaning out over the water and spearing one fish after another. She herself did not care for the pyrimo, beyond the challenge of the hunt, but the fish had another value to her that her companions could not begin to fathom. The prospect of another hazardous adventure beckoned Liriel this day, and she was too pleased with life to allow Bythnara’s snit to spoil her mood.
The boat shifted slightly, and from the corner of her eye Liriel saw that Bythnara had seated herself and put aside her spear. The female grimaced and rubbed at her neck. She reached into her travel bag and removed a small vial. She poured some pungent liniment into her hand and began to massage the sides of her neck.
A warning light flashed in LirieFs mind. She had hunted pyrimo many times, and well knew the strain caused by the watchful tension and lightning-fast spear thrusts. Bythnara was massaging the wrong muscles.
For a moment Liriel felt a familiar, hollow feeling in her chest, the dull empty ache that came anew with each betrayal. She quickly thrust it aside and coolly, surreptitiously studied her childhood friend. As Liriel suspected, Bythnara’s massaging fingers moved in a complex, familiar pattern. The wizard was casting a spell. It was not a common spell, but Liriel had learned it just last week from her new and powerful tutor. Bythnara, of course, did not know this. Liriel’s teacher had forbidden her to share with anyone the spells he taught her, and for once she blessed the greedy, paranoid nature of Menzoberranzan’s wizards.
Bythnara rose, stretching, unaware her prey had sensed the hunt-within-a-hunt. The wizard’s next move, Liriel knew, would be to fling out a hand and send a fireball sizzling toward the prow of the boat.
Keeping her feet spread in a hunting stance, Liriel once again summoned the natural magic of levitation. Then, in one quick, fluid movement, she rose high into the air, whirled, and threw her spear like a javelin. The barbed tip tore into Bythnara’s chest, and the wizard’s languid yawn turned into a rounded O of shock and pain. Arms wind-milling, she toppled backward into the water.
Instantly the pyrimo were upon her. Liriel floated above the river’s misty shroud, watching with an impassive expression as the water below her churned and roiled, turning red in the darkness as it was warmed by the blood of her treacherous friend.
When the wild rocking of the boat stilled and the waters had once again turned cool and dark, Liriel drifted back down. Syzwick still lay flat on the floor of the boat, where he had wisely thrown himself in an effort to keep the craft upright.
Liriel regarded the handsome male for a long moment as she considered what best to do with him. The scented liniment Bythnara had used had no doubt come from his father’s store. It seemed likely that Syzwick had plotted with Bythnara, Perhaps the female wizard had told her consort something that might help Liriel understand the motive for this attack. If so, Liriel intended to get some answers. She kicked him, none too gently.
Syzwick scrambled onto the center seat, his eyes frantic as they met Liriel’s implacable crimson gaze.
“I’ll swear to anything you like,” Syzwick said, the words fairly bursting from him. “I’ll say Bythnara attacked you. That’s believable enough, considering how much she hated you. She’s always hated you—jealous, mostly—and has never bothered to hide the fact. Everyone knows it. Everyone will believe us,” the male babbled on, “for she’s spoken often enough of wanting to see you dead. Mind you, as far as I know she had no real plans to move against you. And I swear—I swear it by Lioth’s eighth leg!—that I would never go along with such a plan, even if she’d had one and demanded my help! You know that, Liriel. All her talk about wanting you dead—it was only talk; you know how these things go.”
“Yes,” Liriel said in a dull, tight voice.
She knew very well, indeed. And finally, Syzwick’s frantic chatter was starting to make sense. The male honestly did not know of Bythnara’s attack. He had seen only that Liriel had slain his lover, and his only concern was his own survival. Murder—for such it was in Syzwick’s eyes—was perfectly acceptable, even lauded, among dark elves, provided it could not be proven. Syzwick was a witness, and he fully expected to be eliminated. The male was pleading for his life, promising to swear that Liriel had acted in self-defense.
How ironic, she thought numbly, that in doing so he would be speaking simple truth! But she would never truly convince him of that. Nor, for her own half-understood reasons, did she want to try.
“Bythnara slipped and fell in,” she said at last.
Syzwick’s forehead furrowed in puzzlement, and he waited for Liriel to elaborate. When she did not, he accepted the lie with an eager nod.
“Bythnara was reaching for a fish when the boat struck one of those little eddies,” he said, improvising. “We were tossed about in a circle. She lost her balance and fell. We tried to reach her, but the pyrimo were upon her too quickly.”
He held his breath as he awaited the female’s response. Slowly, a grim smile crept across Liriel’s face, and Syzwick let out a sigh of soul-deep relief.
“One more thing.”
“Anything!” he swore fervently.
“Planning a deed requires layers upon layers; you know this. But after the fact, do try to keep things simple, hmm?”
Syzwick was silent for a moment. “Bythnara slipped and fell in,” he echoed.
“Good boy,” she said dryly. “You should also bear in mind that pyrimo can kill in more ways than one. I would hate to see one of my dinner guests develop, shall we say, a fatal case of indigestion.”
“I won’t say a word,” he promised. “Not ever.”
Liriel nodded, and her smile hid more than she cared to acknowledge. “In that case, let’s get you and these fish back to Menzoberranzan.”
It was turning out to be one of those days, Liriel observed, when nothing seemed to go according to plan. She’d intended to deliver Syzwick back to the city along with most of the pyrimo catch, then head back into the Underdark to barter off the rest of the toxic little goodies. She had several deals to make, some spells to learn, a tutorial to attend, a few scores to settle, and an assignation with a certain mercenary to keep—all before that night’s festivities began. In short, it was supposed to have been a fairly typical day.
First came the hunting “accident;” then, just as she was leaving her house—a miniature castle in Narbondellyn that her father had given her on her twenty-fifth birthday—the silent alarm on her Baenre ring began to pulse.
Liriel’s brow furrowed with annoyance as she dug around for the ring in the bottom of her bag. She was supposed to wear the insignia at all times, but she never wore rings. Her long, shapely hands were one of her favorite features, and she liked to ornament them with elaborate painted tatoos and glittering nail polish, but she refused to wear rings. She could hurl a knife with the best tavern cutthroat alive, and, although most drew contended jewelry did not throw off their aim, Liriel figured she took enough chances without adding that particular risk.
She found the ring and clenched it in her hand. Yes, there it was again: a silent, magical alarm, attuned to her senses alone. She’d heard it only once before, when the ring was given to her a couple dozen years ago. Every noble in Menzoberrauzan carried a house insignia; House Baenre went one step further and kept each of its members on a magical leash. At the sound of the alarm, the Baenre in question was supposed to drop everything and hasten to the family fortress. Until now, Uriel had been spared such a summons. Muttering imprecations, she saddled her riding lizard and spurred it toward her ancestral home.
House Baenre was a sprawling, impressive affair. The natural rock formations were stunning enough, but over the centuries Baenre matrons had added elaborate carvings, onion-shaped domes highlighted with purple faerie fire, and a magical webbed fence supposedly woven by Lloth herself. It was, in Liriel’s opinion, a bit much. Decadence was all fine and well, but this was definitely over the top.
The gate swung open at her approach and a line of Baenre soldiers bowed low. An ogre servant hurried forward to take her mount, and an escort of eight armed females—the matron mother’s elite guard—led her through the winding halls toward the very heart of the castle: the Baenre chapel. This, Liriel noted grimly as she marched along in the heat shadow of her escort, was starting to look very bad indeed.
An even more impressive gathering awaited her in the chapel. There were two powerful priestesses: SosTJmptu, keeper of the chapel, with her somber priestess robes and her pinched, pious face, and Triel, the newly elevated matron mother. Of the two, Liriel vastly preferred the boring and dowdy SostJmptu. The keeper rarely stepped outside her beloved chapel, but at least she was passionate about something. Triel, on the other hand, was a two-legged spider: cold, utterly practical, ruthlessly efficient. Gromph stood stiffly beside his sisters. Liriel took heart at the sight of her father until she noted the grim expression on his face. And looming above the Baenre siblings was a giant magical illusion, a tribute to Lloth that constantly shapeshifted from a giant black spider to a beautiful drow female. Gromph had created the spectacular illusion some fifty years ago to placate the former matron. It was rumored this tribute to Lloth had purchased the life of the impious arch-mage, who had angered his mother once too often. It was less well known that he’d modeled the drow female after his then-mistress. Liriel did not remember the face of her long-dead mother, but her own resemblance to the spider-drow was uncanny, and unsettling. The young drow took a deep breath and stepped into the chapel.
“Here at last,” observed Triel in her tight, expressionless voice.
Liriel saluted her with deep bow. “At your command, Auntie Triel.”
“Matron Triel,” Sos’Umptu reprimanded sharply, her outrage at this lack of respect written clearly on her face. She took a deep breath and prepared to launch into the usual tirade.
But Triel waved her sister to silence. She leaned forward and fixed Liriel with a long, searching gaze. “It has come to my attention that your twenty-fifth year has come and gone. Yet you did not enter the Academy, as is law and custom for all those of noble blood. Almost fifteen years wasted in frivolity, when you should have been preparing to serve House Baenre.”
Liriel raised her chin and faced the matron squarely. “I have used the time well. My father,” she emphasized, glancing pointedly at the archmage, “arranged for me to have the best magical training possible.”
“You have not attended the Sorcere,” Triel pointed out, naming the mage school.
“Technically, no,” Liriel agreed. Gromph had refused to sponsor her at the Sorcere, arguing that as the sole female there and as his daughter, she would be the target of much intrigue and would bring undue controversy upon the family. Promising her she would not feel the lack of such training, he used his power and wealth to secure for her the best tutors and gave her a generous allowance that enabled her to purchase whatever books and spell components she fancied. She cast a quick glance at Gromph, hoping he would support her. The archmage’s tight, closed expression indicated she could expect no help there.
“But I have studied with several of the Sorcere’s masters. My current tutor is Kharza-kzad Xorlarrin,” she added, naming a powerful wizard who specialized in the Grafting of battle wands.
Triel snorted derisively. “By all reports, you’ve been instructing the old he-rothe, not the other way around! Kharza-kzad’s boasts have spread from the Sorcere to Melee-Magthere and even into Arach-Tinilith. Your exploits have been the talk of the Academy.”
So have yours, Liriel thought with mutinous rage. It was well known that Triel had never taken a consort, and dark whispers suggested the matron mother’s tastes were deviant even by drow standards. But to speak of such matters aloud would be less than wise. Nor did Liriel see any reason to either confirm or deny her tutor’s boasts. She responded to Triel’s baiting only with a noncommittal leer.
The Baenre matron glanced toward Gromph’s scowling face, and a tiny smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “In fact,” she continued softly, “I think one could say many are looking forward to the day you finally enter the Academy.”
There. The old wretch had finally shown her steel. Liriel’s heart sank, but she knew there was no possible way to parry the blow to come. Well, she thought grimly,, she could definitely imagine worse fates. Tbe loss of freedom would be hard to take, but she truly enjoyed the study of magic. And Kharza’s boasts, although completely untrue, saved her the trouble of establishing a fun-loving reputation. She could hit the Academy running, in a manner of speaking.
“When?” Liriel asked bluntly.
“Considering you’re fifteen years late, there’s no real hurry. Tomorrow will be soon enough,” Triel said. Her red eyes glowed with malicious amusement.
“At your command, Auntie Triel,” Liriel agreed. “I will report to the Sorcere before Narbondel reaches midpoint.”
Triel’s smile broadened. “I’m afraid you misunderstand, dear child,” she said with false sweetness. “You will report to Arach-Tinilith.”
“What!”
The word burst from Liriel on a shriek of rage and disbelief. She whirled to face her father. The archmage raised his hand, and the look on his face was so forbidding that his daughter’s protests and entreaties died unspoken.
“It is the custom of the city, and it is Matron Triel’s wish,” he said stiffly.
With great difficulty, the young drow managed a nod. Furious at Triel for shunting her off to the clerical school, she was almost as angry at herself for falling into the nasty little trap the old spider had laid for her. Triel had deliberately led her to believe she would be attending the Sorcere, when all along the matron had intended to send her to the clerical school. Liriel paid little heed to Triel’s words of instruction and dismissal, and was only vaguely aware of her father’s hand on her shoulder, guiding her none too gently out of the chapel.
They were almost to the door when Triel called her name. Still numb with shock, Liriel turned to face the older female. All pretense of pleasantry had faded from the matron’s face, and Liriel was stunned by the triumphant, icy malice in Triel’s narrowed gaze.
“Listen well, my girl: once you’re in the Academy you will follow the same rules as every other novice. Much is expected of you. You will excel in your studies, uphold the honor of House Baenre, and earn the favor of Lloth, or you will not survive. It is that simple.” She gave Gromph an arch glance, and Liriel an icy smile. “But you have one last night to carouse. Do have a good time.”
“Have a good time,” Liriel mimicked bitterly as she and the archmage strode down the hall. “This, from someone whose idea of fun involves whipping people with snakes!”
Her blasphemous remark drew a shocked chuckle from Gromph. “You must learn to guard your tongue,” he admonished. “Few of the Academy’s mistresses are burdened with a sense of humor.”
“Don’t I know it! Father, do I really have to become a priestess?” she demanded. “Can’t you do anything to stop this?’
Liriel knew the words were a mistake the moment she spoke them. No one stayed healthy for long by pointing out to proud, frustrated Gromph that there were limits to his power.
The expected rage did not come. “It is my will you become a priestess,” the archmage said coldly.
He was lying, of course, and he made no effort to hide the
Elnine Cunningham fact. Was her future not worth even that much, effort?
“You have many talents,” he continued, “and as a priestess you could accomplish a great deal.”
“For the greater glory of House Baenre,” she said bitterly.
“That too,” Gromph agreed cryptically. He was silent for a long moment, as if carefully weighing his next words. “Do you know why we wizards are tolerated in Menzoberranzan?”
Liriel cast a quick, startled glance at her father. “Target practice?”
“Don’t be flip with me!” snapped the archmage. “It is important you understand. Consider this: Lloth is the sole recognized deity in the city, and her priestesses rule virtually unopposed. Why does Menzoberranzan need males at all, except to breed still more priestesses? Why grant males the power to wield magic?”
“Few drow females—at least in Menzoberranzan—have the sort of innate magical talent needed for wizardry,” she responded.
“So? Why tolerate wizards at all?”
The young drow thought this over. “There are limits to clerical powers,” she reasoned.
“Not that any priestess would admit to it,” he agreed in a sour tone. “But know this: few drow females have magical talent, and wizards have access to powers that followers of Lloth cannot manage. This power is carefully monitored by the matriarchy, of course, but Menzoberranzan needs her wizards.”
The archmage reached into a hidden pocket of his cloak and drew out a small book. “This is yours. Learn it well, for you would surely go mad in Arach-Tinilith without the escape this book offers you.” He paused for a grim smile. “I had this compiled for you—a task that spanned several years and cost the lives of a number of wizards—knowing this day would come.”
That was quite a pitch, even for melodramatic Gromph, Liriel thought with a touch of wry humor. She took the book and opened it to the first spell. She skimmed the page, and the meaning of the symbols came to her with a rush of excitement and disbelief.
“This is a spell for summoning a gate!”
“And so is every other spell in the book,” he agreed. “With this knowledge, you can travel where no priestess can follow.”
Liriel leafed through the spellbook, her excitement growing by the moment. Magical travel was extremely difficult in the Underdark, and those who tried it often ended up as a permanent part of the landscape. This gift would give her greater freedom than she had ever enjoyed. Best of all, her father had foreseen this day, and prepared for it! Liriel hugged the precious book to her chest.
“I can’t begin to thank you!” she cried joyfully.
Gromph Baenre smiled down at her, but his amber eyes remained cold. “Not yet, perhaps, but when the time comes I will tell you how you can properly express your gratitude. Become a priestess and seize what power you can. But never forget you are a wizard first and foremost. Your loyalty belongs to me.”
The warmth fled from Uriel’s heart. She held the arch-mage’s hard gaze, and her golden eyes mirrored his. “Don’t worry, Father,” she said softly. “Lloth forbid I should ever forget what I am to you.”