Each day at Arach-Tinilith ended in the Academy chapel, in a session of prayer and praise to the goddess of the drow. Although the services took many forms, they were always eerie, impressive affairs. The chapel itself inspired awe, carved as it was from a single mass of black stone. Circles of seats surrounded a central platform, each row higher than the last so all could see the dark altar. Eight curving beams buttressed the circular room and met at the top of the domed chamber, becoming part of an enormous sculpture of a spider with the head of a beautiful drow female: a favored form of the Spider Queen. Raerie fire outlined the gigantic spider and cast shadows across the sea of dark faces below.
All of Arach-Tinilith gathered there, from the matron mistress to the lowliest novice priestess, and the rhythmic chanting of hundreds of dark-elven voices echoed throughout the high-domed chamber. And of all the voices raised, perhaps the most iervent belonged to Shakti Hunzrin, who had tucked within the folds of her robes papers that could not fail to destroy her hated rival.
The chanting gathered speed and power as the time for the dark ritual grew near. One of the older students slowly approached the altar, carrying before her a silver tray. On it lay a drow heart, still throbbing with life newly taken. It was the heart of a male, which was usually considered a lesser sacrifice, but this night the ritual had a special power. This night the sacrifice fulfilled one of Lloth’s most brutal requirements.
Devotion to the Spider Queen was all-important, superseding any personal loyalty. Lloth was especially offended by the possibility that one of her priestesses might become too fond of a lowly male. So from time to time, a priestess was commanded to slay her lover, a matron to sacrifice her house patron, a mother to offer up the sire of her children. Knowing this, the drow had learned to be wary of giving and receiving affection; the penalty was too cruel for all involved. But as the young priestess approached the altar, the hard set of her face and the blood on her delicate hands proved she had been equal to the task.
The priestess lifted the tray high, and the thunderous chant rose to a single, keening note. In voices as haunting and high-pitched as elven flutes, the drow females began to sing a ritual song of summoning. Matron Triel Baenre stepped forward, robed in the somber black of a high priestess. Her voice, magically enhanced to match the power of the assembled singers, chanted a low-pitched prayer in weird counterpoint to the song.
Tonight the song and the chant were largely a formality, for Lloth rarely spoke now except to the most powerful of her priestesses. It was whispered in Menzoberranzan that the loss of so many priestesses in the war and in the struggle for position that continued to this day had diminished the very power of the goddess. In times past—before the Time of Trouble, before the disastrous war—ceremonies such as this were often rewarded with some manifestation of Lloth’s approval: a new spell, the creation of a magical item, the summoning of a scurrying rush of spiders, even an appearance of one of the goddess’s minions. On rare occasions, the avatar of Lloth herself appeared to her faithful. But it seemed as if those times had passed.
Suddenly the faerie fire died, plunging the chamber into utter blackness. The song and the chant fell silent, and every eye was fixed in fearful fascination upon the faint glow dawning in the very heart of the chapel.
In the midst of the room, where the altar had been but a moment before, stood a huge, hideous creature. Its formless body resembled a mound of half-melted wax, and large bulbous eyes shone with baleful red light as it glared out at the assembly.
A mixture of elation and dread gripped Lloth’s faithful. This was a yochlol, a creature from the lower planes and a handmaiden of the Spider Queen. For good or ill, the yochlol’s appearance meant Lloth’s eyes were upon them.
“Anarchy.”
The yochlol’s voice was faint and airy, a mere wisp of ^ sound, yet every ear in the room heard the single word of 4 warning.
The creature’s body shifted and flowed, and an armlike appendage shot toward the student priestess and knocked the silver tray from her still-uplifted arms. The sacrificed heart flew across the room to land in the lap of an aged priestess. In the utter silence the sound of the tray hitting the stone floor was a ringing portent of doom.
The yochlol oozed forward and snatched up the heart from the old priestess’s bloodstained lap. It held the sacrifice aloft.
“Another life taken,” the creature hissed. “Do you think this carnage pleases Lloth?”
Triel Baenre stepped forward and sank into a respectful bow. “For centuries untold, this has been the custom of the drow, by the command of Lloth. Teach us where we have erred.”
Too much blood stains the streets of Menzoberranzan,” announced the yochlol in its otherworldly whisper. Too few drow remain, yet you slay each other without thought for the consequences. In your selfish ambitions, you have endangered all. By the decree of Lloth, this striving between houses must cease. Likewise, the struggle for personal power within each house must end. Until Lloth instructs otherwise, there is to be peace among her followers. Tonight, at the hour of Narbondel’s Black Death, the twenty most powerful houses that remain will gather together in Qu’ellarz’orl.”
The yochlol named them in turn, from House Baenre down to House Vandree. “So you are ranked by the word of Lloth, and so you will remain until it pleases the goddess to release you from this enforced peace. Any house that has not settled its affairs and chosen a matron by the appointed hour will be summarily destroyed,” the creature admonished. “Go now, each to her own house, and carry with you the word of Lloth.”
Another tremor passed through the yochlol’s form, and the handmaiden melted into a bubbling puddle. Steam rose from the seething mass, forming into a multitude of wraith-like spiders and floating up toward the carved image of Lloth that surrounded the chapel with its stone embrace. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the manifestation of the yochlol was gone.
The drow priestesses sat stunned and silent. Lloth, the Spider Queen, the Lady of Chaos, was calling for peace! No one was sure what to make of such a thing!
Again Matron Triel broke the silence. “You have heard. At the appointed hour, we will meet at House Baenre.”
Scowls met this announcement. The yochlol had decreed the gathering take place in Qu’ellarz’orl. This, the most prestigious district of Menzoberranzan, took its name from the tiny cave that served as a meeting chamber for the Ruling Council. Every female in the room aspired to sit in that chamber, and most of them understood this meeting might realistically be their only chance to do so. Nonetheless, no one dared to protest the directive of the matron mistress. By the word of Lloth, Triel Baenre was still matron of the first house. There were practical considerations, also, for in all of Qu’ellarz’orl, only the vast Baenre chapel was large enough to house such a gathering.
So the drow slipped away into the darkness. As each female hurried to her family fortress, she pondered how best to turn these new developments to her own advantage. The strange, unnatural peace would end in due time, and much could be done in preparation for that delightful day.
A lone figure stood at the base of Narbondel, the natural stone pillar that supported the vast cavern and marked the passing of time. Gromph Baenre, the archmage of Menzoberranzan, waited and watched as the magical heat in the core of the pillar sank toward its lowest point. Soon it would be midnight—Narbondel’s Black Death—and he would cast the powerful spell that started the process anew.
Although there were none about to see and envy him, Gromph’s proud stance suggested he was keenly aware of the impressive picture he made. The magnificent cloak of the archmage, a glittering piwafwi whose many pockets held more magic than all of the Sorcere, was draped proudly about his shoulders. Jeweled broaches adorned his shoulders and held the cape in place. The archmage touched one of them, a fist-sized sapphire that held the magic needed to enspell the city’s timeclock.
Gromph knew he was striking even without the trappings of power. Tall and handsome, as fit and youthful in appearance as any student of the fighting school, he could draw eyes to him in admiration as well as in fear and respect. And he was greatly feared, for in all of Menzoberranzan no wizard was as mighty as he. This dark hour was uniquely his, and the casting of this spell was a daily, private celebration of his own power.
The wizard began to meditate, to gather his thoughts in preparation for the casting. Then, from the corner of his eye, he noted a driftdisc floating down the broad street toward him. Behind it marched not the usual armed escort, but a group of robed priestesses.
Gromph frowned as he recognized the matron of Barrison DeFArmgo, the second-most powerful house of Menzoberranzan. What might she be doing at this hour, riding forth in state?
His puzzlement grew as he noted another driftdisc approaching from elegant Narbondellyn. Close behind it were several slave-carried litters. More priestesses came, some mounted on lizards, others on foot. They streamed past him on all sides, nearly all the priestesses of the city, moving with quiet determination toward the Baenre fortress.
Rage, hot and fierce, burned in Gromph’s heart. It was obvious an important meeting had been called, and he had not been included, or even informed. Something momentous was happening, and he must know what it was.
He grasped the house insignia that hung about his neck, and spoke the words that would transport him with the speed of thought to the Baenre stronghold. To his utter astonishment, nothing happened. The powerful archmage of Menzoberranzan stood alone in the center of the dark courtyard, barred from his family home.
Because he could do nothing else, Gromph turned to the cold stone pillar and began to recite the words of the spell.
Triel Baenre sat at the heart of the Baenre chapel, looking out over the dark faces before her. Although this was her stronghold, her kingdom, she felt ill at ease with the task ahead and was not sure how to begin such a meeting.
For good or ill, the decision was taken from her. A small, rather wizened drow female made her way boldly toward the Baenre throne. The other priestesses fell back to make room for her, and even Triel rose to her feet and offered the seat of honor to the newcomer.
For the old drow was Hesken-Faj, the matron of House Symrywin and the most powerful priestess in all of Menzoberranzan. Although her house had been ranked a mere eighteenth for centuries untold, the matron had a power that all recognized and respected. Hesken-Faj was often called “the eyes of Lloth,” and on the rare occasions she ventured from her house she was granted great respect.
But Hesken-Faj waved away Triel’s offer of the throne. “I have been sent to speak, not to rule,” she said impatiently. The old female turned to the assembled priestesses, clearly eager to have her say and be off.
To each new matron, Lloth sends congratulations. Rule long and well, and restore the faith of Lloth to its former power. You have already heard there is to be no more war in Menzoberranzan. The city must be restored. No priestess shall slay another, and all healthy drow children must be reared, even the males. Until Lloth directs otherwise, the Ruling Council will enforce these new laws.”
The old drow then named the eight matrons who would lead the city. “See that you rule well,” she admonished, “for Lloth’s peace is temporary and easily broken. Know that those who break peace for their own advancement will be destroyed. Those who extend Lloth’s reign will be rewarded. That is all I have to say.” With those words, the matron became as insubstantial as mist and faded from sight.
Triel cleared her throat. “All have heard. Now that the Ruling Council has been established, all future meetings will be restricted to the Eight. If any of you have words to speak that concern this general council, you may do so now.”
Shakti Hunzrin leaped to her feet. Such a moment might never come again, and she meant to seize it with both hands. Lloth might have averted anarchy for the moment, but Shakti would do what damage she could.
“Something has come to my attention that concerns each drow present,” Shakti began. “A novice priestess has dabbled in strange magic, human magic. To what purpose, I cannot know. This priestess possesses an amulet, a human artifact of great antiquity that allows her to carry drow magic up into the Lands Above.”
Shakti took several sheets of parchment from the folds of her robe and held them high. “I have here the proof, written in this priestess’s own hand. This magic is wielded by Liriel, of House Baenre. To this council I give my discovery, and the task of deciding what must be done with it.”
There was a momenta-just a moment—of blank and utter shock. Then the meeting exploded into chaos. The priestesses received this news with wildly varying opinions. Some argued excitedly about the possibilities, others loudly called for the death of the Baenre traitor, still others—grim-faced—muttered prayers to Lloth.
Finally Matron Triel rose to her feet. Despite her lack of physical stature, all eyes turned upon her as she stood before them, her small face blazing with wrath.
“Silence!” Triel thundered.
Silence fell, complete and immediate. The single word carried the force of a spell, and not one person in the chapel could have spoken even if she had dared to try.
“This is disturbing news,” the Baenre matron admitted. She spoke in a cold, perfectly even voice, but the look she gave Shakti was one of pure malice. “Of course you all realize this discovery puts me, personally, in a most difficult position. Liriel Baenre’s actions took place under my rule, and it hardly matters whether she acted with my approval or without my knowledge. I am grateful indeed for Lloth’s peace,” Triel added honestly and pointedly. “But in the spirit of this new unity, we will discuss what might best be done, and we leave the decision in the hands of Lloth. You,” she said, pointing toward a stunningly beautiful female seated with the delegation from House Faen Tlabbar. “Speak your mind, Matron Ghilanna.”
The newly elevated matron rose in a whisper of silk and the gentle tinkle of silver jewelry. House Faen Tlabbar had suffered more inner turmoil than most, for both its former matron and her heir had been slain. All the city knew Ghilanna had won her position through a vicious, bloody battle with her seven sisters, yet the female’s delicate appearance was completely at odds with her deadly reputation. Ghilanna Tlabbar was tall and slender, as vain of her appearance and reputedly as wanton in her habits as any Tlabbar female. Unlike most of the priestesses in attendance, she dressed not in somber robes but in an exquisite black gown. Black seed pearls and fine embroidery graced the tightly molded, daringly cut bodice, and the entire length of her legs was clearly visible through the gossamer layers of her skirts. Yet her lovely, painted face was set hi grim lines.
“This new magic could mean the end of matron rule,” Ghilanna said bluntly. The people of Menzoberranzan submit to our rule—at least in part—because they lack options. Few can survive in the wild Underdark for long, and indeed such a life would hardly be worthy of the name. Nor is there a place for us in the Lands of Light. Recent events have proved that dramatically. But consider this: if wizards could cast their spells on the surface with all the power they wield Below, what would keep them under our command? Their eyes are trained to the light, and with their magic they could survive, perhaps even thrive, in the world above.
“Even the commoners,” Ghilanna continued earnestly, “the artisans and the soldiers, might be tempted to try to carve out a place for themselves Above. And why not? The lowliest drow has at her command powers that a human wizard might envy. We possess a natural resistance to magic that is the envy and horror of other magic-wielding races. Their spells slide off us like so many drops of water. Invisibility, silence, darkness, invulnerability to magic—these things are the heritage of every drow. Never forget that few can match the deadly skill of a drow fighter—and who among us is not trained in arms? Consider all these things, and ask yourselves how many drow would remain in Menzoberranzan, under our rule, if they knew they had the power to thrive elsewhere.”
Mez’Barris Armgo, the matron of House Barrison Del’Armgo, was the next to receive Matron Triel’s permission to speak. As ruler of the second house, Mez’Barris was clearly furious such permission was necessary. To add to this insult, the young matron of a lower house had spoken first! Yet Triel had firm control of the assemblage, and the best Mez’Barris could do was vent her ire on the upstart Tlabbar matron. The look she cast over the lovely female was one of utter disdain.
“That was a fine speech,” sneered Mez’Barris. “Trust Ghilanna to bring style and flair even to blasphemy. And blasphemy it was—only thus can we describe her words,” Mez’Barris shouted in ringing, impassioned tones. “Do we or do we not rule by the grace and power of Lloth? The Spider Queen is not threatened by a girl-child’s magical trinket, and neither are we, her priestesses!”
She sat down amid a murmur of agreement.
“I agree with Matron Mez’Barris that this discovery poses little threat to the matriarchy. Quite the contrary. This could benefit us all,” put in Matron Miz’ri. Her clan, House Mizzrym, was notable for its trade contacts, its willingness to deal with nondrow, and its delight in treacherous double-dealings. The matron’s red eyes held a hard gleam now as she considered the delightful possibilities.
“With this trinket, as you call it,” Miz’ri went on, “we could go into the Lands of Light armed as never before. Who could stand before our merchant bands, our raiding parties? Consider the wealth! This new magical device is a tool, like any other. We have it, and we should use it.”
Kyrnill Kenafin rose to speak. Her house was currently ranked tenth, but her arrogant manner and cruel, crimson
Daughter of the Drew eyes marked her as the tyrant she was. In House Kenafin, priestesses reigned supreme, and they took immense delight in subjugating and terrorizing the house males.
“This talk of commoners, males, and wizards wielding such a thing is utter nonsense. Do they dare to handle a snake-headed whip of a high priestess? Of course not! Likewise, if the priestesses of Lloth claim this new magical item as our own—as well as all copies made at our command—who will gainsay us?” Kyrnill punctuated her question with a hard, cocky smile.
“I would like to know,” began Ker Horlbar, one of the two ruling matrons of House Horlbar, “why this claim was brought against House Baenre in defiance of Lloth’s peace?”
Several of the drow priestesses exchanged arch glances. The Horlbar clan depended upon agriculture for their wealth and position, and their chief rival in this pursuit was House Hunzrin. Lloth might declare peace, but her followers would still find a way to strive against each other.
“It is not my purpose to accuse the first house,” protested Shakti, again rising to her feet. “This discovery goes beyond the ambitions of any single drow. It may be even more important than increasing the wealth and position of House Horlbar.”
This barbed response brought a chorus of mocking laughter and some scattered applause from the assembled drow. Even some of the priestesses who had frowned when Shakti first rose to speak sent approving nods and long, measuring glances her way. The young female was not yet a high priestess, nor her mother’s heir to House Hunzrin. In Menzoberranzan, power was not given, but seized. Any female willing and able to do so was worthy of serious consideration.
The discussion went on for some time. Triel listened as each priestess spoke, but no answer came to her. Even if her own house had not been involved, this discovery had more depth of possibility, more layers of danger and implication, than even a drow could fathom so quickly.
At last she turned to Zeerith Q*Xorlarrin. The regal female was renowned for her diplomatic skills and was often called upon to mediate in disputes between houses. Even now Zeerith sat serene amid the controversy. This situation would surely test even her fabled judgment.
“What do you say on this matter, Matron Zeerith?” Triel demanded. She was confident the matron’s judgment, although seemingly impartial, would honor the long-term alliance between houses Xorlarrin and Baenre. “Speak, and we will accept your counsel as if it came from the mouth of Lloth.”
The matron rose. “Clearly, we need to know more about this human artifact. Since it is an instrument of magic, I suggest it be entrusted to the collective masters of the Sorcere. Only the mage school has the resources needed to study and reproduce such an item. They will do so, of course, under the close supervision of the Ruling Council. Until a decision is made, we must keep this knowledge from the common folk. I say any priestess who speaks of this amulet outside of this room, except to the master wizards of the Sorcere, will be punished by the Ruling Council and suffer loss of rank and honor, with the threat of worse to follow when Lloth’s peace is revoked.”
Most of the drow nodded, silently accepting Matron Zeerith’s decree.
“Now, as to the young novice who started all of this,” con-turned Zeerith unexpectedly. “By the decree of Lloth, no priestess can slay another. It seems to me that Liriel Baenre has not yet reached that status, and she is therefore not protected by the Spider Queen’s decree. Furthermore, Liriel Baenre has shown herself to be a wizard of considerable power, yet she has not submitted to the mind-search tests required to determine her loyalty to Lloth. For both these offenses, I call for her death. That is my decision, and, by the word of Matron Triel, it is the will of Lloth.”
This decree, so unexpectedly harsh from the subtle, conciliatory Xorlarrin matron, sent a ripple of dark murmurs through the room.
“No.”
The single word shocked them all into silence. SoslJmptu Baenre, the usually reticent keeper of the Baenre chapel, walked to the center of the room. She stood before the altar and faced them all, her slender form rigid with certitude. “No,” she repeated. “This is not the will of Uoth.”
Triel rose from her throne, shaking with wrath. She was not happy with Zeerith’s sentence, but she had pledged before all the powers of Menzoberranzan to follow’the Xorlarrin matron’s advice. Her authority had already been sadly undermined by this whole affair, and the unexpected defiance of loyal Sos’Umptu was more than the beleaguered young matron could bear.
“You defy me?” she raged, bearing down upon her younger sister. “How is it that the Queen of Spiders speaks to you, against the wisdom of your own matron mother?”
“Lloth speaks to us all,” Sos’Umptu said stoutly. The priestess turned and pointed to the magical image of Lloth, the shapeshifting spider that hovered over the altar. The priestess waited until the illusion shifted to the form of a draw female. “Look at her face.”
For the first time Triel noticed the illusion’s striking resemblance to her errant niece. There was no way she could miss it now, for the eyes of the drow female were no longer the glowing crimson typical of dark elves. They were a strange, very distinctive shade of amber. And the lips of the magical image were curved in a smile of dark amusement.
All those who had seen Liriel Baenre recognized the significance of the transformation, and whispers spread the meaning of this manifestation to all present.
“We serve the Lady of Chaos,” Sos’Umptu said softly, pointing to the golden-eyed image before them. “For good or ill, Liriel Baenre has found the favor of Lloth. Remember the words of Matron Hesken-Faj: those who find other ways to extend Lloth’s reign will be rewarded. Perhaps Liriel has found such a way. What this new magic will bring us, we cannot yet know. But see before you the will of Lloth, and go your way in peace.”
The meeting ended soon after SosTTmptu’s pronouncement, and the priestesses of Menzoberranzan slipped away into the darkness.
Zeerith Q’Xorlarrin, the matron mother of House Xorlarrin, was one of the first to leave the Baenre compound. She pulled the curtains of her slave-carried litter shut and settled back against the cushions. Only then did she give vent to her emotions, hissing curses against House Baenre and its three generations of female fools.
She had gone to war at old Matron Baenre’s side, and she was still seething over what had occurred in the tunnels beneath Mithril Hall. Auro’pol, the matron of the powerful House Agrach Dyrr, had been killed by a creature of the Abyss at the command of the former Baenre matron. The war itself had been disastrous, but it was the death of Auro’pol—which was most assuredly not sanctioned by Lloth—that convinced Zeerith Q’Xorlarrin the first house no longer deserved its position. Triel Baenre was due for trouble when Lloth tired of peace, of that Zeerith was certain.
In the meantime, there were certain things Zeerith could do. She had risked much with her harsh pronouncement: her informal and unspoken alliance with House Baenre, her reputation as a fair and impartial diplomat. She had been publicly rebuked in a most dramatic fashion, and that did not sit well with the proud matron. Yet she had not lost entirely. The new magic would be entrusted to the Sorcere, where seven Xorlarrin wizards served as masters. No house in Menzoberranzan possessed more wizardly might than Xorlarrin, and whatever secrets the wizards uncovered would be whispered in the ears of Matron Zeerith before they were revealed to the Ruling Council.
The opportunity for revenge against House Baenre was not entirely lost either. Perhaps no priestess of Lloth could move directly against young Liriel, but more drow died from poisoned daggers and wizardly spells than from the high priestesses’ snake-headed whips.
Comforted by these pleasant thoughts, Matron Zeerith smiled and relaxed against the litter’s silken cushions. She had a task in mind for her dear brother Kharza-kzad. By all reports, the old fool was unduly fond of his beautiful young student.
And why, thought Zeerith, should females alone bear the burden of sacrificing those nearest their hearts?
Prom the window of his dark study, Gromph Baenre watched the city stir to life. While most of Menzoberranzan slept, he often passed the hours this way, alone in his Narbondellyn mansion. He did not sleep—he had never been able to sleep—and now he relied upon the magic that kept him youthful to sustain his life without benefit of rest. During his first few centuries of life, Gromph had found ease and restoration in the deep, wakeful reverie that was his elven heritage. For many decades now, despite the formidable discipline of his magical training, the ability to enter this waking trance had eluded him. The archmage of Menzoberranzan had forgotten how to dream.
So he sat alone, filled with sullen wrath and seething with the endless frustration that defined his existence. His mood did not improve when the magical alarm on his Baenre house insignia began to pulse with a silent, insistent summons. It seemed his dear sister Triel finally required the pleasure of his company.
For a long moment, Gromph toyed with the idea of defying the summons. Yet he dared not. Triel reigned in House Baenre, and his life would be worth nothing if he incurred her wrath.
Not that his life was worth so very much now, Gromph concluded bitterly. For once not bothering to don the robes and cape that proclaimed his powerful office, the archmage spoke the words that would take him to House Baenre.
He found Triel pacing about the family chapel. She leaped at him, her eyes wild, and seized him by the forearms,
“Where is she?” the matron demanded. “Where have you hidden her?”
Gromph understood at once, for over his sister’s head loomed the magical image of Lloth, crafted by his might and magic. The beautiful illusion smiled down at him with sardonic amusement in its golden eyes. His eyes, and those of his unexpectedly resourceful daughter.
The wizard pointedly disengaged the matron’s grasping hands. “You might be more specific,” he requested coolly. There is no shortage of females in Menzoberranzan.”
“You know who I mean,” spat out Triel. “Liriel is not at Arach-Tinilith. You gave her permission to depart, and left me to look the fool. Tell me why she left, tell me where she is, tell me everything she has done!”
Gromph shrugged. “Liriel said only that she had personal matters to attend. It is not my custom to question the actions of a Baenre female.”
“Enough!” shrieked the priestess. “There is no time for such games. Where is Liriel, and where is the artifact?”
There was a moment of stunned silence. “Liriel said nothing of an artifact,” Gromph said slowly.
Triel believed him. The familiar, covetous expression on the wizard’s face convinced her beyond doubt. Artifacts were rare, even in magic-rich Menzoberranzan, and it was unlikely Gromph would permit his daughter to possess such an item if he knew of its existence, and its dangerous power.
“Then you don’t know Liriel has found a way to take drow magic to the Lands of Light,” she stated.
Gromph shook his head slowly, more in wonder than in denial. “I did not know what she had, what she planned to do. Of course I would have taken it from her.”
“And so you must,” insisted Triel. “If you do not, the artifact will end up in the Sorcere, its secrets open to all. Find it and bring it here. You and I alone will share its power, to our personal benefit and to the glory of House Baenre.”
“And what of Liriel?”
Triel shrugged. “Half of Menzoberranzan is seeking her. With or without your involvement, the girl is not likely to live out the day. No one will know whose hand dealt the blow, and it is better her efforts strengthen House Baenre.”
“But what of that?” Gromph asked, gesturing toward the golden-eyed image of Lloth that loomed over the altar. “Seldom does Lloth speak so clearly Surely it would be folly to ignore such a sign.”
“Look again,” Triel said dryly.
Even as she spoke, the image shifted and the eyes took on their usual crimson gleam. An instant later, they were amber once again.
Gromph understood at once. The Lady of Chaos delighted in pitting her followers against each other, not only for her own pleasure but in the belief that the strongest drow emerged from the struggle. Liriel might have found Lloth’s favor, but that was no guarantee of a long, happy life.
The archmage did not hesitate. It will be done,” he agreed.
“What, no regrets?” Triel mocked him.
“Only that I did not act sooner, and alone,” he said bluntly.
The matron smiled, recognizing the truth of his words. “That time is past, dear brother,” she purred. “We have an alliance now, you and I.”
She tucked her arm companionably into his and drew him out of the chapel. “We have much to discuss, for it has been an eventful night. Lloth has decreed the city be at peace so we might rebuild our strength. For now, House Baenre retains its rightful place, but we must shore up our defenses against the day this peace will end.”
Gromph allowed his sister to lead him away. He knew Triel was manipulating him, appealing to his desire for power and influence. Yet as he strolled from the chapel, arm in arm with the deadly female, he knew the alliance would be a true one for as long as it benefited them both.
News of the meeting and its events spread fast, traveling from the great houses even into the humble homes and businesses of the Manyfolk district. Before the great tune-clock Narbondel marked the beginning of the new day, nearly everyone in Menzoberranzan knew Lloth had declared a time of truce. No one knew exactly what to make of this, and throughout the city speculations and rumors were served up along with the morning meal.
In his tower chambers overlooking the Bazaar, Nisstyre pondered these new developments. On the one hand, the break in the constant, striving warfare promised better trade, and that was certainly good news for the Dragon’s Hoard. But the merchant’s real purpose, his life quest, would not be served if Lloth regained her full strength in Menzoberranzan.
He was not pleased when his lieutenant came to the door with news that a Hunzrin priestess demanded audience. Nisstyre had no desire to see any member of the Spider Queen’s clergy. But before he could give the order to have the female sent away, she pushed past the lieutenant and strode into the room.
The priestess stood stiffly before his desk, her arms full of books. Nisstyre leaned back in his chair and took in the unpromising details: the purple-trimmed black vestments of a student priestess, the symbol of a minor house, and the fanatic expression on her pinched face.
“Yes?” he inquired. The single word managed to convey a staggering lack of interest or encouragement.
“I am Shakti of House Hunzrin. And you,” hissed the priestess, you do not worship Lloth!”
Nisstyre’s coppery brows rose. “I take it the art of conversation is not among the subjects taught at Arach-Tinilith.”
“You are also a wizard,” Shakti continued, inexorable in her purpose. “A powerful wizard, yet you have not taken the test of loyalty to Lloth required by all who practice magic in this city. You stir up discontent among Lloth’s faithful, and turn them to Vhaeraun, that so-called god of thievery. For any one of those offenses, you could be dipped in melted cheese and staked out for the scurry rats to devour!”
“Hmm,” Nisstyre murmured appreciatively. He considered this scenario for a moment, no doubt tucking it away for future use, before he turned his attention fully upon his visitor.
“I will say this for you, priestess, you have a creative touch where torture is concerned. And yet,” he added, leaning forward and fixing her with his unnerving black gaze, “some might call you unwise. Suspecting me of such power, you come here, to my place, to threaten me?”
“I’m here to do business,” she corrected him. “I want you to hunt down a certain female. I will pay you well.”
He waved away this offer. “Surely there is someone more suitable to the task than the captain of the Dragon’s Hoard. The city does not lack for assassins and bounty hunters.”
“You will notice I did not ask you to kill the female,” Shakti said with careful emphasis. “I ask only that you find her and bring her possessions to me. What you do with her is entirely up to you, so long as she is not seen in Menzoberranzan again. Surely you can handle so simple a task.”
“So could a mercenary band, at a much lower price. The city has many such bands. Go hire one of them.”
“I cannot,” she said reluctantly. “I cannot risk word getting back to any of the city’s matrons. Lloth has forbidden one priestess to slay another.”
“I begin to understand your dilemma,” Nisstyre said with a touch of amusement. His reputation for handling questionable deals with great discretion had brought him many similar offers over the years. “How unpleasant for you, being forced to do business with a suspected heretic. But why me, especially?”
Shakti threw the books on his desk. “You sold these books. They tell of the surface world and are forbidden in the city!”
“So we’re back to threats now,” the merchant observed. “I must say, this is getting rather tiresome. Unless you have something interesting to offer me—“
*”I offer you Liriel Baenre!”
Nisstyre received this announcement with a moment’s silence.
“You needn’t shout,” he admonished the young priestess. He kept his face carefully impassive except for the faint, sardonic smile that curved his lips. “I admit the offer has a certain appeal, but of what practical value is a Baenre princess to a merchant band?”
Shakti put both hands on the desk and leaned in. “Liriel Baenre carries a magical device that could be very helpful in your work. It is a matter of much conflict among the priestesses of Lloth. I can say no more about it at this tune, but bring it to me, and I will share its secrets with you.”
“But you are a priestess of Lloth.”
“That, and perhaps more.” Shakti met his gaze squarely. “From time to time, a cleric of Lloth is sent into a rival church as a novice, to act as the eyes of Lloth. The Spider Queen permits this spying, and sometimes encourages it. It may be possible for a priestess of Lloth to work with those who follow Vhaeraun. Information can be spoken both ways, to the benefit of all. It is an enormous risk. I am willing to take it.”
Nisstyre gazed at Shakti Hunzrin for a long time, weighing her sincerity and considering the immense value of her offer. He measured the hatred in her voice when she spoke
Liriel’s name, the fanatic gleam in her eye, and decided to accept the alliance. But, unlike the priestess, he was not willing to speak so openly, or commit himself to so dangerous a course.
“The Dragon’s Hoard is famous for acquiring nearly anything, regardless of the cost,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “I will get you your princess, but I warn you, the reward had better be worth the trouble.”
“Trust me,” she agreed grimly.
The concept was so ludicrous that both merchant and priestess burst out laughing.