Perhaps even more than his obvious wealth and famed magical power, Gromph’s ability to select his consorts was a testament to his status. In this matriarchal city, males had a decidedly subservient role, and most answered to the whims of females. Even one such as Gromph Baenre had to chose his playmates with discretion. His current mistress was the youngest daughter of a minor house. She possessed rare beauty, but little aptitude for clerical magic. The latter gave her low status in the city and raised her considerably in Gromph’s estimation. The archmage of Menzoberranzan had little love for the Spider Queen goddess or her priestesses.
Here in Narbondellyn, however, he could for a time forget such matters. The security of his mansion was ensured by the warding runes outside, and the solitude of his private study protected by a magical shield. This study was a large high-domed chamber carved from black stone and lit by the single candle on his desk. To a drow’s sensitive eyes, the soft glow made the gloomy cave seem as bright as noonday on the Surface. Here the wizard sat, perusing an interesting book of spells that he’d acquired from the rapidly cooling body of a would-be rival.
Gromph was old, even by the measures of elvenkind. He had survived seven centuries in treacherous Menzoberranzan, mostly because his talent for magic was matched by a subtle, calculating cunning. He had survived, but his seven hundred years had left him bitter and cold. His capacity for evil and cruelty was legendary even among the drow. None of this showed in the wizard’s appearance, for thanks to his powerful magic he appeared young and vital. His ebony skin was smooth and lustrous, his long-fingered hands slender and supple. Flowing white hair gleamed in the candlelight, and his arresting eyes—large, almond-shaped eyes of an unusual amber hue—were fixed intently upon the spellbook.
Deep in his studies, the wizard felt, rather than heard, the faint crackle that warned him that someone had passed through the magic shield. He raised his eyes from the book and leveled a deadly glare in the direction of the disturbance.
To his consternation, he saw no one. The magical shield was little more than an alarm, but only a powerful sorcerer could pass through with an invisibility spell intact. Gromph’s white, winged brows met in a frown, and he tensed for battle, his hand inching toward one of the deadly wands on his belt.
“Look down,” advised a lilting, melodic voice, a voice that rang with mischief and childish delight.
Incredulous, Gromph shifted his gaze downward. There stood a tiny, smiling female about five years of age, easily the most beautiful child he had ever seen. She was a tiny duplicate of her mother, whom Gromph had recently left sleeping in a nearby suite of rooms. The child’s face was angular, and her elven features delicate and sharp. A mop of silky white curls tumbled about her shoulders, contrasting with baby skin that had the sheen and texture of black satin. But most striking were the wide amber eyes, so like his own, that regarded him with intelligence and without fear. Those eyes stole Gromph’s annoyance and stirred his curiosity.
This, then, must be his daughter. For some reason that thought struck a faint chord in the heart of the solitary, evil old drow. He had no doubt fathered other children, but that was of little concern to him. In Menzoberranzan, families were traced solely through the mother. This child, however, interested him. She had passed through the magical barrier.
The archmage pushed aside the spellbook. He leaned back in his chair and returned the child’s unabashed scrutiny. He was not accustomed to dealing with children. Even so, his words, when he spoke, surprised him. “So, drowling. I don’t suppose you can read?”
It was a ridiculous question, for the child was little more than a babe. Yet her brow furrowed as she considered the matter. “I’m not sure,” she said thoughtfully. “You see, I’ve never tried.”
She darted toward the open spellbook and peered down at the page. Too late, Gromph slapped a hand over her golden eyes, cursing under his breath as he did so. Even simple spells could be deadly, for magic runes attacked the untrained eye with a stab of searing light. Attempting to read an unlearned spell could cause terrible pain, blindness, even insanity.
Yet the little drow appeared to be unharmed. She wriggled free of the wizard’s grasp and skipped over to the far side of his desk. Stooping, she fished a scrap of discarded parchment from the wastebasket. Then she rose and pulled the quill from Gromph’s prized bottle of everdark ink. Clutching the pen awkwardly in her tiny fist, she began to draw.
Gromph watched her, intrigued. The child’s face was set in fierce concentration as she painstakingly scrawled some wavering, curly lines onto the parchment. After a few moments she turned, with a triumphant smile, to the wizard.
He leaned closer, and his eyes flashed incredulously from the parchment to the spellbook and back. The child had sketched one of the magic symbols! True, it was crudely drawn, but she had not only seen it, she had remembered it from a glance. That was a remarkable feat for any elf, at any age.
On a whim, Gromph decided to test the child. He held out his palm and conjured a small ball that glowed with blue faerie fire. The little drow laughed and clapped her hands. He tossed the toy across the desk toward her, and she deftly caught it.
“Throw it back,” he said.
The child laughed again, clearly delighted to have found a playmate. Then, with a lighting-fast change of mood, she drew back her arm for the throw and gritted her teeth, preparing to give the effort her all.
Gromph silently bid the magic to dissipate. The blue light winked out.
And the next moment, the ball hurtled back toward him, almost too fast for him to catch. Only now the light was golden.
“The color of my eyes,” said the little girl, with a smile that promised heartache to drow males in years to come.
The archmage noted this, and marked its value. He then turned his attention to the golden ball in his hand. So, the child could already conjure faerie fire. This was an innate talent of the fey drow, but seldom did it manifest so early. What else, he wondered, could she do?
Gromph tossed the ball again, this time lobbing it high up toward the domed ceiling. Hands outstretched, the precocious child soared up toward the glowing toy, levitating with an ease that stole the archmage’s breath. She snatched the ball out of the air, and her triumphant laughter echoed through the study as she floated lightly back to his side. At that moment, Gromph made one of the few impulsive decisions of his long life.
“What is your name, child?”
“Liriel Vandree,” she returned promptly.
Gromph shook his head. “No longer. You must forget House Vandree, for you are none of theirs.”
He traced a deft, magical pattern in the air with the fingers of one hand. In response, a ripple passed through the solid rock of the far wall. Stone flowed into the room like a wisp of smoke. The dark cloud writhed and twisted, finally tugging free of the wall. In an instant it compressed and sculpted itself into an elf-sized golem. The living statue sank to one knee before its drow master and awaited its orders.
“The child’s mother will be leaving this house. See to it, and have her family informed that she met with an unfortunate accident on her way to the Bazaar.”
The stone servant rose, bowed again, and then disappeared into the wall as easily as a wraith might pass through a fog bank. A moment later, the scream of an elven female came from a nearby chamber—a scream that began in terror and ended in a liquid gurgle.
Gromph leaned forward and blew out the candle, for darkness best revealed the character of the drow. All light fled the room, and the wizard’s eyes changed from amber to brilliant red as his vision slipped into the heat-reading spectrum. He fastened a stern gaze upon the child.
“You are Liriel Baenre, my daughter and a noble of the First House of Menzoberranzan,” he announced.
The archmage studied the child’s reaction. The crimson glow of heat and warmth drained from her face, and her tiny, pale-knuckled hands gripped the edge of the desk for support. It was clear that the little drow understood all that
had just occurred. Her expression remained stoic, however, and her voice was firm when she repeated her new name.
Gromph nodded approvingly. Liriel had accepted the reality of her situation—she could hardly do otherwise and survive—yet the rage and frustration of an untamed spirit burned bright in her eyes.
This was his daughter, indeed.
About the Author
Ed Greenwood created the FORGOTTEN REALMS® world in the midseventies as the setting for his home AD&D® campaign. After numerous articles in DRAGON® magazine, his world had attracted enough of a following to justify TSR’s purchase of it. From his home in Canada, Ed has been fleshing out the Realms ever since.
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