Something must be done about that Baenre brat!” stormed Zeld Mizzrym. The priestess fairly quivered with wrath, and beneath the black and pur-l pie folds of her robe her bosom rose and fell in an indignant rhythm.
Matron Triel Baenre leaned back in her chair and surveyed the mistress in charge of the first-year students. Her raised brow warned the angry drow to tread carefully. “What has my niece been accused of this time?” she asked, pointedly emphasizing the relationship.
“More pranks,” gritted out Zeld, who was apparently too angry to take the hint. “This morning Shakti Hunzrin found a field of mushrooms growing under her bed—in the appropriate fertilizer, I might add.”
The matron mistress sighed. Liriel had spent less than three days within the spider-shaped compound, yet she was the suspected perpetrator of nearly a dozen little pranks. She was good at it, Triel had to give her that much, but the Baenre matron feared the young female would go too far. A less skilled prankster would have been caught in the act by now, and the day would certainly come when Liriel would also misstep, Triel had plans for the talented young female, plans that did not include turning her into an ebony statue in order to instruct other students in the merit of observing proprieties.
“Can you prove that Liriel was involved?” she demanded coldly.
The mistress hesitated. “No, I suppose not. But Shakti stands adamant in her accusations, and she does have the right to accuse and censor a younger student.”
Triel sighed again. It was not uncommon for novice priestesses to develop among themselves academic rivalries, personal vendettas, and free-floating hatreds. In fact, such was excellent training for life beyond the Academy and was seldom discouraged. But this was becoming a problem. Although Shakti Hunzrin was not Liriel’s only victim, she was becoming a favorite target. Not that anyone cared. Shakti’s family was not a major power, and even some of the wealthy commoners looked down at the Hunzrin family business, snobbishly considering the farming nobles to be little more than jumped-up clod kickers. Shakti did not help matters, with her ubiquitous pitchfork and her endless, droning monologues about the care and breeding of rothe. In addition, the Hunzrin girl was utterly humorless, vindictive to her peers, and ruthlessly vicious in her dealings with servants and younger students. The humiliating pranks played against her had evened a dozen scores and had earned Liriel a great deal of quiet applause. In short, things at Arach-Tinilith hadn’t been dull.
Just last night, chapel had been disrupted when Shakti—a diligent, plodding student who was slowly near-ing high priestess status—approached the altar to offer the evening sacrifice. Shakti’s magical pitchfork had followed her, its tines moving in a wickedly precise imitation of her distinctive, waddling gait. Liriel had denied involvement, of course, but Triel knew what she knew. There was little the matron could do about the matter, for strangely enough, Lloth had not been displeased. It seemed even an evil goddess enjoyed a bit of dark humor now and again. In time the capricious Spider Queen would no doubt tire of Liriel’s antics, but at the moment the impish female was a novelty, and she stood in the full favor of Lloth. “We serve the goddess of chaos,” Triel pointed out. “Lloth be praised,” the mistress intoned reflexively. “But someday soon that spoiled little wench will go too far!”.
“And when that day comes, Lloth will instruct me,” snarled Triel. “See that you do not presume to speak where the Spider Queen does not!”
Zeld’s eyes widened as she realized how badly she had overstepped. She dropped into a deep bow. “I beg your pardon, and Lloth’s,” she murmured, and her fingers instinctively fluttered through the rite of supplication meant to ward off the Spider Queen’s disfavor.
Triel cut the prayer short. “How is Liriel progressing with her studies?”
“In some things, extremely well,” the mistress admitted. Her voice was calmer now, and she chose her words with greater care. “She has an uncanny ability to learn and memorize spells. It is rumored she has been trained as a wizard.” Zeld voiced that observation with the rising inflection of a question. Triel responded only with a cold, level stare.
“You are letting her progress at her own pace, as I instructed?”
“We are, Matron Mistress. The girl has been tested carefully, and found ready to leap ahead in several areas of study. She shows an astonishing aptitude for magical travel. Today she began studying the lower planes with the twelfth-year class. At the rate she learns, she may be able to summon smaller denizens, perhaps even plane-walk, before her first year is over. However,” Zeld cautioned, “Liriel is disgracefully ignorant in many areas, far below acceptable standards even for a first-year novice. Her formal education has been sadly neglected. She knows almost nothing of Menzoberranzan’s great history, and precious little about the worship of the Spider Queen. And while she understands social protocol well enough, she has no idea of how to conduct herself within the ranks of Lloth’s clergy.”
“It is your job to fill in these gaps,” the matron mistress pointed out coldly. “If indeed Liriel has found time to play pranks, she is not being kept properly occupied.”
Zeld stiffened, but she knew better than to argue with powerful Triel. “You have my word: House Baenre will gain
Daughter of the Drew another high priestess in record time.”
“Excellent. I want to be kept informed of Liriel’s activities.”
“Oh, I’m sure you will hear of them,” the mistress said dryly. “Remember, she was placed in a twelfth-year class to study planar travel. For at least part of the day, Liriel and
Shakti Hunzrin will be classmates.”
In the privacy of her dormitory room, Shakti Hunzrin hurled her treacherous pitchfork against the wall. The impact of the weapon and its clattering descent were muffled by the priestess’s shrieks of rage.
The next items to take flight were Shakti’s clothes. Somehow, her garments had been saturated with the scent of rothe manure, and the furious female tore them off and flung them aside. She stalked over to her washstand and sniffed at the water in the pitcher. At least that had not been tainted with the odor, she thought grimly. She poured some water into the basin and began to scrub herself with a sponge.
There was no doubt in Shakti’s mind who was responsible for this latest indignity. She remembered the disbelief and rage in Liriel Baenre’s eyes when she had commanded the new student to serve her at breakfast. Shakti had been totally within her rights to do so, yet Liriel had openly, boldly denied her the respect she had earned through twelve years of hard labor in this spider-shaped prison. And even worse, the little chit had gotten away with it!
Just another example, Shakti thought bitterly, of how badly managed the city was. The priestesses set the rules and disregarded them at will. To Shakti’s eyes, Liriel could do whatever she liked, and for no better reason than the name she had inherited. A Baenre could do no wrong, it seemed, not even after the old matron had led Menzoberranzan into near ruin. But whatever else the past two days might have brought, at least they had given Shakti a focus for her rage, and her resentment, and her frustration. All that was wrong with Menzoberranzan finally had a name.
Shakti hated Liriel Baenre. The purity and strength of that emotion surpassed anything the young priestess had ever experienced. She hated Liriel for her royal birth, and for all the turmoil caused by her grandmother’s long reign and disastrous war. She bated the girl for her beauty and her instant popularity at the Academy. She hated Liriel’s sharp wit; whenever the wench was about, Shakti sensed there was a joke being told that she herself could not perceive. Worse, Shakti felt certain she was the butt of that joke. She hated Liriel for her quick mind, and the ease with which the girl learned things that should have taken her years of toil. But most of all, Shakti hated Liriel for the freedom she had enjoyed for fifteen years. She herself had been forced to enter the Academy at the onset of puberty. Why should a Baenre be treated any differently? For all of those injustices, vowed the Hunzrin priestess, Liriel Baenre would pay dearly.
The dark elf dressed and armed herself quickly, then slipped down the winding halls that led toward the dormitory of the first-year students. Liriel, of course, had been given her own room even though most priestesses had to coexist in twos and threes until their fifth year of study. All of the first-year students were in class, an hours-long lecture on the atrocities committed against the drow by faerie elves, followed by the usual exhortation to spread Lloth’s glory by conquering first the Underdark, and then exterminating all other races of elves. It was a fine speech, Shakti thought bitterly, and as usual completely ignored by the priestesses in power. When Menzoberranzan had finally marched to battle, it was against a distant hive of dwarven drones. And what did that disastrous attempt have to do with the First and Second Directives of Lloth? Less than nothing, fumed Shakti. But if it served no other purpose, at least the indoctrination session would grant her the privacy she needed for the task ahead.
What the female intended to do was risky in the extreme, but she was in no mood to contemplate subtleties. She found Liriel’s room, then cast a simple spell to raise a sphere of silence around her. After darting a quick look over each shoulder, she pointed her pitchfork at the door. Magical fire spat from the weapon’s tines, and the stone portal shattered without a sound. Batting aside the dust and smoke, Shakti stepped into the room.
Her rival had spared no expense where comfort was con- cerned, the priestess noted bitterly. Liriel’s room was hardly the spare, functional cell of a novice priestess. The narrow cot had been replaced by a floating bed heaped with silken cushions. A large, gilded chest stood against one wall, and a low study table was equipped with silver candlesticks and a supply of expensive tallow candles. Fine artwork hung on the walls, and Shakti’s feet sank deep into a priceless carpet as she stalked over to the carved wardrobe. She flung open the door and began to riffle though the clothes stored inside. The black, red-trimmed robes of a novice hung crammed against one side of the wardrobe; most of the space was taken up by festive gowns, scandalous undergarments and nightclothes, and frivolous dancing shoes.
Shakti sniffed. No wonder the wench had been given her own room. If even half those clothes were put to their apparently intended use, no roommate would ever be able to sleep or study.
But most interesting to Shakti were the travel garments, the sturdy boots and the assortment.of armor and weapons that were arranged in a single neat pile. It was conceivable Liriel could find time and opportunity to wear her party clothes without leaving Tier Breche, but this was gear more suited to an Underdark patrol than a coeducational debauch. Yes, it was true students had more freedom to leave the Academy these days, but it was also clear Liriel was being pushed through Arach-Tinilith with desperate, almost indecent haste. House Baenre needed high priestesses to rebuild its strength, or it would surely fall from its lofty place of power. Shakti sincerely doubted Matron Triel would approve of her precious niece leaving Arach-Tinilith for any purpose.
For the first time in nearly three days, Shakti’s lips curved in a smile. At last, she had a weapon to use against her new foe. It might be some time before she caught Liriel, but now she knew what to watch for.
It was impossible, Liriel noted wearily, for a drow to die from sheer boredom. The fact that she sat in this chair, still alive and breathing after listening to four hours of ranting, rambling diatribe, was ample proof of that.
To her amazement, the other novice priestesses seemed to be genuinely stirred by the lecture. Murmurs of excited agreement, and even an occasional shout of “Praise LlothT echoed through the lecture chamber. Perhaps the other females were simply better at dissembling. Liriel doubted that, but even if it were true she had no desire to hone her thespian skills by adding her own ecstatic shouts to the general chorus. She managed to swallow every one of the sarcastic comments that popped into her mind, and that hi and of itself was a sincere tribute of respect to Lloth. Such restraint was painfully unnatural for Liriel.
Yet the Academy was not quite as bad as she had feared. She had been allowed to bring a few simple belongings from her house, and she was granted unlimited access to Arach-Tinilith’s wonderful library of tomes and spell scrolls. She longed to explore the magical treasures of the Sorcere, as well, but she had the sense to leave that challenge for another day. Apart from lecture sessions such as the one in which she currently languished, Liriel found the lessons fascinating. Clerical magic was especially intriguing, and it immediately became clear she was far beyond her classmates in ability. The spells themselves were very like those she had cast in her first few years of mage study, with one important difference: their success depended upon the favor of Lloth.
Liriel had heard Lloth’s name aU her life, but the Spider Queen had never been real to her. Casting her first clerical spell had changed that, instantly and dramatically. The young drow had worked wizardry magic for years, drawing upon her own innate talent and the quick mind that wrapped itself around complicated spells as if swallowing them whole. With hard work, good training, and piles of money lavished on books and spell components, she’d made herself into a credible mage. But now, when she cast her first clerical spell, she called upon Lloth, and the goddess had answered.
That moment was an epiphany for Liriel. The young female was not accustomed to depending upon anyone, and from her earliest years she had realized there was in truth no one there for her. She took what was offered her, but in any way that truly mattered, she walked alone and she knew it. Now, suddenly, she had the ear of a goddess!
Liriel well knew the reputation of Lloth and the fate of those who fell out of favor with the Lady of Chaos. Perhaps Lloth would someday turn against her, as well. But for now, Liriel felt gratitude, even dawning affection, for the Spider Queen. Betrayal, if indeed it came, would be nothing new to her. So Liriel said a silent prayer and did her best to tune out the strident, ranting voice of the mistress. Lloth would just have to read her heart and understand.
Finally the lecture was over. Nothing that painful could last forever, Liriel noted dryly. She darted from the hall with less than decorous haste. The next lesson was much more to her liking: studying the lower planes. Perhaps she was not free to explore the Underdark, or wander the city in the company of her pleasure-loving companions, but she was learning to look into new worlds. Now that had potential!
Liriel vowed she would plane-walk within the year. She had a great deal to learn before that would be possible, but the learning was a part of the journey.
So while her first-year classmates went to take their midday meal, Liriel hurried toward her room to collect her scrolls and her scrying bowl. The latter was a standard-issue affair, round and black and perfectly smooth, and it would do until she was able to have another one made to her liking. There was a fine artisan down in the Manyfolk district who could carve a bowl from a single piece of obsidian and set it in a silver holder engraved with runes and scenes honoring Lloth. For a moment Liriel wondered what might happen if such a bowl were left in Zz’Pzora’s lair for a while to absorb the Underdark magic. Her eyes danced as she thought about what creatures she might summon, and what mischief they might join in making!
Then Liriel saw her shattered door, and her happy mood dissipated like spent faerie fire. Cautiously she edged closer, ready to cast a sphere of darkness around anyone she might encounter. That would slow down the intruder and give her a split second to consider her next course of action. Although the philosophy “kill them all and let Lloth sort them out” worked well enough in the world at large, the Academy had its own hierarchy and a web of intrigue she did not yet fully understand. It would not be wise, for example, to attack someone who was searching her room on
Mistress Zeld’a orders.
Liriel was spared the necessity of attacking, for she found her room empty. A faint, telltale odor lingered in the air, and her lips curved in a hard little smile. It might be a few days before Shakti Hunzrin realized she herself was the source of the pungent scent. Thanks to a specially tailored cantrip, the wretched she-rothe would exude the odor of manure through her pores until Liriel tired of the game and released the spell. In the meantime, this invisible manure-trail gave her an amusing way to keep track of the priestess’s comings and goings.
The first thing Liriel did was check her book chest. To her relief, the lock was undisturbed. Shakti had been more interested in browsing through her wardrobe. An image of the stout priestess strutting about clad in some of the more revealing finery popped into Liriel’s mind, and she laughed aloud.
She abruptly sobered and surveyed the damage. Technically, she should tell Mistress Zeld about the intrusion and have the Academy repair the door at once. That would no doubt lead to an inquiry, however, and some things were best left unexamined. Even if she wanted to report Shakti, doing so might focus a bit too much attention on her own recent activities. No, there was a better way.
Liriel hurried down to the kitchens to recruit some manual labor. As she made her way toward the dungeonlike lower levels, she reflected on her recent spate of pranks. In a corner of her mind, Liriel acknowledged that she was privileged and indulged, that she’d led a much different life from that most drow of Menzoberranzan knew. But her charmed existence had ended, and the pranks had been a last—and admittedly dangerous—attempt to deny this reality. Shakti’s blatant attack signaled that she herself had pushed too far. Liriel did not intend to start a war, and she resolved to act with more discretion henceforth. She had seen the obsidian statues in the Academy’s courtyard—all that remained of students who had misstepped—and she did not wish to join them.
The time for midday meal had passed, and the kitchen dungeons were quiet now. There, up to her elbows in a vast kettle of soapy water, was an ogre female. The creature was fully twice the size of the slender drow and seemed fash- ioned to inspire fear-tinged loathing. Muscles bulged under the ogress’s leathery hide, and canine fangs jutted up from her lower jaw. Her face was set in a hate-filled scowl. Clad only in a leather apron, the ogress attacked the pots with a ferocity that suggested a mortal vendetta against dirt.
Trays of sliced raw fish lay on a nearby table, ready to be spiced and served at the evening meal. The drow selected a nice tidbit and popped it into her mouth, then turned a comrade’s smile upon the ogress.
“Chirank, I have another job for you,” she said.
The female’s face lit up. “If Chirank do job, what you give this time?” she said in a deep growl.
Liriel held up a large gold coin. The ogre seized the coin with a soapy paw and bit down on it hard. She regarded the deep tooth marks with pleasure and grunted happily.
Seeing that the deal was made, the drow took a step forward. “You remember where my room is?… Good. There was a battle of sorts there, and I need someone to clear away the mess at once.”
“Much blood? Drow bodies?” Chirank asked hopefully.
“Not this time,” the dark elf replied in a dry tone. “All it needs is a little light housekeeping. Then there is the small matter of the missing door.”
“Chirank not take,” the ogress said defensively.
“Of course not. But you could, if you wanted to?”
The ogress shrugged, her animal eyes wary.
Liriel came one step closer. “Remember the room where you put the rothe manure? I want you to go there, steal the door, and hang it on my doorposts. You’ll need to replace the lock, as well.”
“Hard to do,” Chirank bargained.
The elf held up two more coins. “You and I both know you can pick locks as fast as any halfling. No one will see you, I promise.”
“You make Chirank look like drow again?” the ogress asked with a mixture of fear and fascination.
Liriel considered. It wasn’t a bad idea. Although Chirank was a house slave and might well be sent into the student quarters on some errand or other, her presence might draw unwanted attention. So Liriel quickly cast the illusion that made the hulking ogre appear to be a delicate drow female dressed in the flowing robes of a high priestess. The drow pursed her lips and considered the overall effect.
“Grab that spoon over there,” she suggested, pointing to a long metal ladle drying on a rack.
As the ogress did as she was bid, Liriel shaped the spell for a second illusion. The ladle in Chirank’s hand changed into the snake-headed whip favored by priestesses. This one was particularly fearsome, with four angrily writhing heads and a handle fashioned from smoke-blackened bone. The ogress shrieked and dropped the whip. It fell to the stone floor with a metallic clatter.
“Hear that? It’s just a ladle,” Liriel soothed. “If you carry that and walk fast, no one will stay around you long enough to realize they don’t recognize the face you’re wearing.”
The drow’s reasoning made sense. Everyone in the Academy, from the lowliest slaves to the most advanced students, gave wide berth to an angry, whip-wielding high priestess. Chirank bent and gingerly picked up the writhing whip. She clanked it against her wash kettle a couple of times to reassure herself it was indeed nothing more than a harmless spoon. Finally she nodded, visibly impressed.
“You got this magic, why you need Chirank?” the ogress asked, reasonably enough. “This Shakti drow fear you, if this magic you use.”
“Let’s just say I prefer not to be noticed,” Liriel said.
The ogress grunted in understanding. She well knew the wisdom of keeping out of sight as much as possible. Even so, she would do all the little drow asked of her, this time and any other. This drow treated her like a pack sister. They didn’t trust each other, but they worked together for theft and for vengeance. That was as close to home as Chirank was ever likely to get again. And with the gold the dark elf gave her, Chirank might be able to have a dagger smuggled in. Ogres were not trusted with sharp utensils of any kind, and for good reason. Chirank was a slave and would no doubt spend the rest of her days laboring for the dark elf priestesses, but when she died it would be an ogre’s death, and her body would be covered with the blood of many drow.
The ogress smiled so fiercely that her tusks pierced the magical illusion and gleamed against her drow-h’ke face.
“Time to raid,” she growled happily.