Forgotten Realms: Homeland - The Legend of Drizzt Book I

by R. A. Salvatore

  Malice sat through it all, trying to appear unimpressed.

  Hundreds of curious soldiers watched the procession as it made its way to the central structure of House Baenre, the great purple-glowing chapel dome. The common soldiers left the entourage, leaving only the four high priestesses to escort Matron Malice inside.

  The sights beyond the great doors to the chapel did not disappoint her. A central altar dominated the place with a row of benches spiraling out in several dozen circuits to the perimeter of the great hall. Two thousand drow could sit there with room to stretch. Statues and idols too numerous to count stood all about the place, glowing in a quiet black light. In the air high above the altar loomed a gigantic glowing image, a red-and-black illusion that slowly and continually shifted between the forms of a spider and a beautiful drow female.

  “A work of Gromph, my principal wizard,” Matron Baenre explained from her perch on the altar, guessing that Malice, like everyone else who ever came to Chapel Baenre, was awestruck by the sight. “Even wizards have their place.”

  “As long as they remember their place,” Malice replied, slipping down from the now stationary disk.

  “Agreed,” said Matron Baenre. “Males can get so presumptuous at times, especially wizards! Still, I wish that I had Gromph at my side more often these days. He has been appointed Archmage of Menzoberranzan, you know, and seems always at work on Narbondel or some other such tasks.”

  Malice just nodded and held her tongue. Of course, she knew that Baenre’s son was the city’s chief wizard. Everybody knew. Everybody knew, too, that Baenre’s daughter Triel was the Matron Mistress of the Academy, a position of honor in Menzoberranzan second only to the title of matron mother of an individual family. Malice had little doubt that Matron Baenre would somehow work that fact into the conversation before too long.

  Before Malice took a step toward the stairs to the altar, her newest escort stepped out from the shadows. Malice scowled openly when she saw the thing, a creature known as an illithid, a mind flayer. It stood about six feet tall, fully a foot taller than Malice, most of the difference being the result of the creature’s enormous head. Glistening with slime, the head resembled an octopus with pupil-less, milky white eyes.

  Malice composed herself quickly. Mind flayers were not unknown in Menzoberranzan, and rumors said that one had befriended Matron Baenre. These creatures, though, more intelligent and more evil than even the drow, almost always inspired shudders of revulsion.

  “You may call him Methil,” Matron Baenre explained. “His true name is beyond my pronunciation. He is a friend.”

  Before Malice could reply, Baenre added, “Of course, Methil gives me the advantage in our discussion, and you are not accustomed to illithids.” Then, as Malice’s mouth drooped open in disbelief, Matron Baenre dismissed the illithid.

  “You read my thought,” Malice protested. Few could insinuate themselves through the mental barriers of a high priestess well enough to read her thoughts, and the practice was a crime of the highest order in drow society.

  “No!” Matron Baenre explained, immediately on the defensive.

  “Your pardon, Matron Malice. Methil reads thoughts, even the thoughts of a high priestess, as easily as you or I hear words. He communicates telepathically. On my word, I did not even realize that you had not yet spoken your thoughts.”

  Malice waited to watch the creature depart the great hall, then walked up the steps to the altar. In spite of her efforts against the action, she could not help peeking up at the transforming spider-and-drow image every now and.

  “How fares House Do’Urden?” Matron Baenre asked, feigning politeness.

  “Well enough,” replied Malice, more interested at that moment in studying her counterpart than in conversing. They were alone atop the altar, though no doubt a dozen or so clerics wandered through the shadows of the great hall, keeping a watchful eye on the situation.

  Malice had all that she could handle in hiding her contempt for Matron Baenre. Malice was old, nearly five hundred, but Matron Baenre was ancient. Her eyes had seen the rise and fall of a millennium, by some accounts, though drow rarely lived past their seventh—and certainly not their eighth—century. While drow normally did not show their age—Malice was as beautiful and vibrant now as she had been on her one-hundredth birthday—Matron Baenre was withered and worn. The wrinkles surrounding her mouth resembled a spider’s web, and she could hardly keep the heavy lids of her eyes from dropping altogether. Matron Baenre should be dead, Malice noted, but still she lives.

  Matron Baenre, seeming so beyond her time of life, was pregnant, and due in only a few tendays.

  In this aspect, too, Matron Baenre defied the norm of the dark elves. She had given birth twenty times, twice as often as any others in Menzoberranzan, and fifteen of those she bore were female, every one a high priestess! Ten of Baenre’s children were older than Malice!

  “How many soldiers do you now command?” Matron Baenre asked, leaning closer to show her interest.

  “Three hundred,” Malice replied.

  “Oh,” mused the withered old drow, pursing a finger to her lips. “I had heard the count at three-hundred fifty.”

  Malice grimaced in spite of herself. Baenre was teasing her, referring to the soldiers House Do’Urden had added in its raid on House DeVir.

  “Three hundred,” Malice said again.

  “Of course,” replied Baenre, resting back.

  “And House Baenre holds a thousand?” Malice asked for no better reason than to keep herself on even terms in the discussion.

  “That has been our number for many years.”

  Malice wondered again why this old decrepit thing was still alive. Surely more than one of Baenre’s daughters aspired to the position of matron mother. Why hadn’t they conspired and finished Matron Baenre off? Or why hadn’t any of them, some in the later stages of life, struck out on their own to form separate houses, as was the norm for noble daughters when they passed their fifth century? While they lived under Matron Baenre’s rule, their children would not even be considered nobles but would be relegated to the ranks of the commoners.

  “You have heard of the fate of House DeVir?” Matron Baenre asked directly, growing as tired of the hesitant small talk as her counterpart.

  “Of what house?” Malice asked pointedly. At this time, there was no such thing as House DeVir in Menzoberranzan. To drow reckoning, the house no longer existed; the house never existed.

  Matron Baenre cackled. “Of course,” she replied. “You are matron mother of the ninth house now. That is quite an honor.” Malice nodded. “But not as great an honor as matron mother of the eighth house.”

  “Yes,” agreed Baenre, “but ninth is only one position away from a seat on the ruling council.”

  “That would be an honor indeed,” Malice replied. She was beginning to understand that Baenre was not simply teasing her, but was congratulating her as well, and prodding her on to greater glories. Malice brightened at the thought. Baenre was in the highest favor of the Spider Queen. If she was pleased with House Do’Urden’s ascension, then so was Lolth.

  “Not as much of an honor as you would believe,” said Baenre. “We are a group of meddling old females, gathering every so often to find new ways to put our hands into places they do not belong.”

  “The city recognizes your rule.”

  “Does it have a choice?” Baenre laughed. “Still, drow business is better left to the matron mothers of the individual houses. Lolth would not stand for a presiding council exacting anything that even remotely resembled total rule. Do you not believe that House Baenre would have conquered all of Menzoberranzan long ago if that was the Spider Queen’s will?”

  Malice shifted proudly in her chair, appalled by such arrogant words.

  “Not now, of course,” Matron Baenre explained. “The city is too large for such an action in this age. But long ago, before you were even born, House Baenre would not have found such a conquest difficult. But th
at is not our way. Lolth encourages diversity. She is pleased that houses stand to balance each other, ready to fight beside each other in times of common need.” She paused a moment and let a smile appear on her wrinkled lips. “And ready to pounce upon any that fall out of her favor.”

  Another direct reference to House DeVir, Malice noted, this time directly connected to the Spider Queen’s pleasure. Malice eased out of her angry posture and found the rest of her discussion—fully two hours long—with Matron Baenre quite enjoyable.

  Still, when she was back on the disk and floating out through the compound, past the grandest and strongest house in all of Menzoberranzan, Malice was not smiling. In the face of such an open display of power, she could not forget that Matron Baenre’s purpose in summoning her had been twofold: to privately and cryptically congratulate her on her perfect coup, and to vividly remind her not to get too ambitious.

  or five long years Vierna devoted almost every waking moment to the care of baby Drizzt. In drow society, this was not so much a nurturing time as an indoctrinating time. The child had to learn basic motor and language skills, as did children of all the intelligent races, but a drow elf also had to be grilled on the precepts that bound the chaotic society together.

  In the case of a male child such as Drizzt, Vierna spent hour after endless hour reminding him that he was inferior to the drow females. Since almost all of this portion of Drizzt’s life was spent in the family chapel, he encountered no males except during times of communal worship. Even when all in the house gathered for the unholy ceremonies, Drizzt remained silent at Vierna’s side, with his gaze obediently on the floor.

  When Drizzt was old enough to follow commands, Vierna’s workload lessened. Still, she spent many hours teaching her younger brother—presently they were working on the intricate facial, hand, and body movements of the silent code. Often, though, she just set Drizzt about the endless task of cleaning the domed chapel. The room was barely a fifth the size of the great hall in House Baenre, but it could hold all the dark elves of House Do’Urden with a hundred seats to spare.

  Being a weanmother was not so bad now, Vierna thought, but still she wished that she could devote more of her time to her studies. If Matron Malice had appointed Maya to the task of rearing the child, Vierna might already have been ordained as a high priestess. Vierna still had another five years in her duties with Drizzt; Maya might attain high priestesshood before her!

  Vierna dismissed that possibility. She could not afford to worry about such problems. She would finish her tenure as weanmother in just a few short years. On or around his tenth birthday, Drizzt would be appointed page prince of the family and would serve all the household equally. If her work with Drizzt did not disappoint Matron Malice, Vierna knew that she would get her due.

  “Go up the wall,” Vierna instructed. “Tend to that statue.” She pointed to a sculpture of a naked drow female about twenty feet from the floor. Young Drizzt looked up at it, confused. He couldn’t possibly climb up to the sculpture and wipe it clean while holding any secure perch. Drizzt knew the high price of disobedience, though—even of hesitation—and he reached up, searching for his first handhold.

  “Not like that!” Vierna scolded.

  “How?” Drizzt dared to ask, for he had no idea of what his sister was hinting at.

  “Will yourself up to the gargoyle,” Vierna explained.

  Drizzt’s small face crinkled in confusion.

  “You are a noble of House Do’Urden!” Vierna shouted at him. “Or at least you will one day earn that distinction. In your neck-purse you possess the emblem of the house, an item of considerable magic.” Vierna still wasn’t certain if Drizzt was ready for such a task; levitation was a high manifestation of innate drow magic, certainly more difficult that limning objects in faerie fire or summoning globes of darkness. The Do’Urden emblem heightened these innate powers of drow elves, magic that usually emerged as a drow matured. Whereas most drow nobles could summon the magical energy to levitate once every day or so, the nobles of House Do’Urden, with their insignia tool, could do so repeatedly.

  Normally, Vierna would never have tried this on a male child younger than ten, but Drizzt had shown her so much potential in the last couple of years that she saw no harm in the attempt. “Just put yourself in line with the statue,” she explained, “and will yourself to rise.”

  Drizzt looked up at the female carving, then lined his feet just out in front of the thing’s angled and delicate face. He put a hand to his collar, trying to attune himself to the emblem. He had sensed before that the magic coin possessed some type of power, but it was only a raw sensation, a child’s intuition. Now that Drizzt had some focus and confirmation to his suspicions, he clearly felt the vibrations of magical energy.

  A series of deep breaths cleared distracting thoughts from the young drow’s mind. He blocked out the other sights of the room; all he saw was the statue, the destination. He felt himself grow lighter, his heels went up, and he was on one toe, though he felt no weight upon it. Drizzt looked over at Vierna, his smile wide in amazement … then he tumbled to a heap.

  “Foolish male!” Vierna scolded. “Try again! Try a thousand times if you must!” She reached for the snake-headed whip on her belt. “If you fail …” Drizzt looked away from her, cursing himself. His own elation had caused the spell to falter. He knew that he could do it now, though, and he was not afraid of being beaten. He concentrated again on the sculpture and let the magical energy gather within his body.

  Vierna, too, knew that Drizzt would eventually succeed. His mind was keen, as sharp as any Vierna had ever known, including those of the other females of House Do’Urden. The child was stubborn, too; Drizzt would not let the magic defeat him. She knew he would stand under the sculpture until he fainted from hunger if need be.

  Vierna watched him go through a series of small successes and failures, the last one dropping Drizzt from a height of nearly ten feet. Vierna flinched, wondering if he was seriously hurt. Drizzt, whatever his wounds, did not even cry out but moved back into position and started concentrating all over again.

  “He is young for that,” came a comment from behind Vierna. She turned in her seat to see Briza standing over her, a customary scowl on the older sister’s face.

  “Perhaps,” Vierna replied, “but I’ll not know until I let him try.”

  “Whip him when he fails,” Briza suggested, pulling her cruel six-headed instrument from her belt. She gave the whip a loving look—as if it were some sort of pet—and let a snake’s head writhe about her neck and face. “Inspiration.”

  “Put it away,” Vierna retorted. “Drizzt is mine to rear, and I need no help from you!”

  “You should watch how you speak to a high priestess,” Briza warned, and all of the snake heads, extensions of her thoughts, turned menacingly toward Vierna.

  “As Matron Malice will watch how you interfere with my tasks,” Vierna was quick to reply.

  Briza put her whip away at the mention of Matron Malice. “Your tasks,” she echoed scornfully. “You are too yielding for such a chore. Ma le children must be disciplined; they must be taught their place.” Realizing that Vierna’s threat held dire consequences, the older sister turned and left.

  Vierna let Briza have the last word. The weanmother looked back to Drizzt, still trying to get up to the statue. “Enough!” she ordered, recognizing that the child was tiring; he could barely get his feet off the ground.

  “I will do it!” Drizzt snapped back at her.

  Vierna liked his determination, but not the tone of his reply. Perhaps there was some truth to Briza’s words. Vierna snapped the snake-headed whip from her belt. A little inspiration might go a long way.

  Vierna sat in the chapel the next day, watching Drizzt hard at work polishing the statue of the naked female. He had levitated the full twenty feet in his first attempt this day.

  Vierna could not help but be disappointed when Drizzt did not look back to her and smile at the success.
She saw him now, hovering up in the air, his hands a blur as they worked the brushes. Most vividly of all, though, Vierna saw the scars on her brother’s naked back, the legacy of their “inspirational” discussion. In the infrared spectrum, the whip lines showed clearly, trails of warmth where the insulating layers of skin had been stripped away.

  Vierna understood the gain in beating a child, particularly a male child. Few drow males ever raised a weapon against a female, unless under the order of some other female. “How much do we lose?” Vierna wondered aloud. “What more could one such as Drizzt become?”

  When she heard the words spoken aloud, Vierna quickly brushed the blasphemous thoughts from her mind. She aspired to become a high priestess of the Spider Queen, Lolth the Merciless. Such thoughts were not in accord with the rules of her station. She cast an angry glare on her little brother, transferring her guilt, and again took out her instrument of punishment.

  She would have to whip Drizzt again this day, for the sacrilegious thoughts he had inspired within her.

  So the relationship continued for another five years, with Drizzt learning the basic lessons of life in drow society while endlessly cleaning the chapel of House Do’Urden. Beyond the supremacy of female drow (a lesson always accentuated by the wicked snake-headed whip), the most compelling lessons were those concerning the surface elves, the faeries. Evil empires often bound themselves in webs of hate toward fabricated enemies, and none in the history of the world were better at it than the drow. From the first day they were able to understand the spoken word, drow children were taught that whatever was wrong in their lives could be blamed on the surface elves.

  Whenever the fangs of Vierna’s whip sliced into Drizzt’s back, he cried out for the death of a faerie. Conditioned hatred was rarely a rational emotion.

  THE WEAPONS MASTER

  mpty hours, empty days.

  I find that I have few memories of that first period of my life, those first sixteen years when I labored as a servant.