Undeniably, the Baenres knew how to march, and all the city would tremble at their passing. It took breathless Mez’Barris many heartbeats to realize that this procession was not normal, even for the Festival of the Founding. Not any more, at least. She had not seen such a thing from the vaunted Baenres in decades, a century and more, even, not since …
“Yvonnel,” she whispered, and it was clear to her that Matron Mother Quenthel was making an important statement, to the entire city, and likely, given the departure of Matron Zeerith and the Xorlarrins, most keenly of all, she was sending a warning to Matron Mez’Barris.
Malagdorl gave a little growl as the lead of the procession moved past House Barrison Del’Armgo, barely fifty feet from the balcony where the Armgo nobles had gathered. Weapons Master Andzrel Baenre led the procession, riding a lizard with a barding of jewels and bells, sitting tall and proud.
“Indeed,” Mez’Barris said, noting the source of his ire, and so full of her own spittle. “Tell me again why you have not found the opportunity to kill that one?”
Malagdorl lowered his eyes. The great rivalries between the weapons masters of the first two Houses went back many decades, to the legendary fights between Uthegental Armgo and Dantrag Baenre. So it had seemed would be the case with their successors, and Malagdorl wanted nothing more. But Andzrel had shied from any conflicts of late.
Mez’Barris knew why. She knew of Tiago, growing strong and building a great name for himself, and she knew of Elderboy Aumon, Quenthel’s oldest son, who had just completed his first year at the Academy. Andzrel was playing cautiously, because any mistake he might make would see him supplanted as weapons master by one of the two eager upstarts.
On and on, the procession went. Finally Mez’Barris noted Gromph, surprisingly far back in the long line, riding a spectral mount of shifting hues and amorphous magic. It seemed a hellhorse, then a rothé-like creature, then something in between, then something entirely different.
A smile creased Mez’Barris’s tight lips. Gromph hated Quenthel as much as she did, she knew—or thought she knew—and with the rise of the stature of wizards among Lolth’s flock, he would be the downfall of Mez’Barris’s rival.
“They will not dine with the Xorlarrins?” Priestess Taayrul asked when it was clear that the Baenre army was moving past the wizard spire of the Third House and out of Qu’ellarz’orl altogether. By that point, the Baenre line stretched all the way from the Baenre gate to the giant mushrooms that separated Qu’ellarz’orl from the rest of the city.
“It is the Founding,” Malagdorl reminded her with confidence. “They are to dine with a House that is not allied …” His voice faded with his confidence as the two priestesses stared at him with clear amusement that he would be so concerned with such a quaint tradition.
“Matron Mother Quenthel seeks to make new inroads, no doubt,” said Mez’Barris. “With the impending departure of the Xorlarrins, she has perhaps finally realized her open flank.” She nodded as she spoke, confident of her assertions. House Xorlarrin and House Baenre, First and Third, surrounded Barrison Del’Armgo, but while both of the next Houses in line, Faen Tlabbar and Mizzrym, were allied with Baenre, the two remained bitter rivals, a competition that would only intensify with House Faen Tlabbar’s greatest ally, House Xorlarrin, removed from Menzoberranzan. Indeed, the coveted rank of Third House would be opened, likely for one of these to fill the void. In terms of the relationship between Houses Baenre and Armgo, then, this could not be seen as good news for Matron Mother Quenthel. While Faen Tlabbar and Mizzrym together might be more powerful than Xorlarrin alone, the Matron Mother of House Baenre could never count on them, together or separately, to hold back the ambitions of House Barrison Del’Armgo as she had counted on Matron Zeerith Xorlarrin.
“And so the meticulous detail in the grand parade of Baenre,” Mez’Barris remarked quietly, and nodded knowingly. Her daughter and the weapons master stared at her. “They try to project strength and order to quell the chaos that will surely reach Quenthel’s front door.”
Taayrul’s eyes popped open wide at that remark, and even dull Malagdorl caught on to the reference of Quenthel without the appropriate title offered in deference.
Houses in Menzoberranzan had gone to war for less.
The march of House Baenre wove through every neighborhood in Menzoberranzan, even up to the raised area of Tier Breche, where stood the three houses of the drow academy, and then across the West Wall, across the whole of the city, before winding back to the neighborhood known as Narbondellyn, which was immediately across the mushroom forest from Qu’ellarz’orl. From every balcony and every window, drow looked on, and as was so typical of Menzoberranzan, half did so with trepidation, the other half with appreciative nods at the constancy Baenre represented.
The procession split as it neared Narbondellyn, select guard groups taking position outside of House Fey-Branche’s opened gates. Only the royal group passed through, including the siblings, Quenthel, Sos’Umptu, and Gromph; Quenthel’s daughter Myrineyl; Weapons Master Andzrel Baenre; and Patron Velkryst, Quenthel’s current chosen mate and once a Xorlarrin House wizard.
Even if this had not been the Festival of the Founding, this particular group of six would not have walked with fear, though surely almost every drow who saw them coming would cower.
Matron Byrtyn Fey met them at the door, flanked by Minolin and Patron Calagher. Byrtyn seemed a bit surprised by the small number in attendance, and both Gromph and Quenthel caught a flash of something else—annoyance?—as Brytyn looked past them and noted the army the Baenres had set in place outside her compound.
Matron Byrtyn’s stride revealed nervousness as she led the way to the dining hall, where a feast had been set out on a table flanked by nearly two score chairs. Half were filled by Fey-Branche nobles, the other half clearly intended for the Baenres. Byrtyn waved her hand, a signal, obviously, to dismiss all but her closest family members.
“Do let them all stay,” Matron Mother Quenthel whispered to her. “You may fill the rest of the chairs if you so please.” She looked at Minolin. “Your brother is not about? It would please me to see him again.”
The uncharacteristic gesture rocked Minolin, clearly, and she and her mother exchanged nervous glances, as if to silently question whether the Baenres were gathering them all together for a slaughter.
“We are the eldest two Houses in the City of Spiders,” Matron Mother Quenthel remarked. “Time has frayed our bonds, it would seem, but in this new era of the goddess’s resurgence, we do well to rewind those ties.”
A flash of surprise and a flash of hope crossed Byrtyn’s face, subtly, but Gromph certainly caught every bit of it. It was common knowledge that Zeerith Xorlarrin was already moving many of her resources to Gauntlgrym, and whispers hinted that the pressure was on for Zeerith to surrender her House rank and her place on the Ruling Council. Fey-Branche was the Sixth House of Menzoberranzan, so surely in the line of ascension; was Matron Mother Quenthel offering her support for the third rank?
Gromph noted the gaze of Minolin Fey, which he returned with a tiny shrug, his indifference eliciting a bit of a snarl from the priestess. She was on edge, the archmage realized, and he silently congratulated his sister, if he could still think of Matron Mother Quenthel as such, for her blunt and devious twist of the mood.
Matron Byrtyn filled the chairs with the worthiest members of her House, the six Baenres sorted themselves out among the group, mingling appropriately and not all in one area. Andzrel and G’eldrin Fey, old friends from the Academy, both heralded weapons masters, gathered at the far end with other warriors to discuss the recent events at Melee-Magthere, while Patron Velkryst and Fey-Branche House wizard Zeknar led the discussion about the return of the Weave. Gromph, though, did not join his wizard fellows, and instead kept himself near to Matron Mother Quenthel, who sat at the head of the table, of course, with Matron Byrtyn to her right and Minolin Fey to her left.
The food was scrumptious, the mus
ic magnificent and not overbearing, and the celebration handled with all the meticulous detail that one would expect of a noble House second only to House Baenre in longevity and tradition among the ranks of Menzoberranzan. As was customary, the conversation remained light, with few words of scorn for Houses that were not in attendance, and with each of the Matrons taking turns in directing the others to voice opinions about one or another promising situation. In the City of Spiders, after all, this was the day, typically the only day, of communal hope and renewal, the one day reserved for the premise that the whole of Menzoberranzan was greater than the familial parts.
“I was so thrilled to receive your invitation,” Matron Mother Quenthel said to Byrtyn at one point.
Gromph watched Minolin stiffen, for the invitation had been solicited in no uncertain terms, of course. “We are the elders, the cornerstones of Menzoberranzan, the constancy within the swirl of continually shifting power and allegiance.” Baenre gave a little, almost embarrassed, laugh and added, “Although some things, like the pinnacle of Menzoberranzan’s power, are indeed eternal.”
An amazing show of hubris by that self-proclaimed pinnacle, Gromph thought. He wasn’t surprised as, obviously, were both Byrtyn and Minolin, or taken aback, but rather, more intrigued. Had his sister made this remark only a day earlier, Gromph would have thought it a clumsy blunder, but now, after her intimate melding with the experiences of Yvonnel, he knew it to be a cunning twist.
Matron Mother Yvonnel the Eternal did not make mistakes, and so Gromph now expected—to his own surprise—the same competence from Quenthel.
“Where has the trust and friendship between Baenre and Fey-Branche gone?” she asked with an exaggerated sigh.
“Thinned by death, no doubt,” Matron Byrtyn replied, a subtle hint of annoyance creeping into her voice.
Gromph coughed to cover his chuckle. “Thinned by death” was a perfect description, the old archmage thought, for House Fey-Branche had lost so many nobles over the last few decades to untimely death. Byrtyn and her House had retreated, defensively crouched, with more than a little suspicion that House Baenre had played a role in many of those untimely deaths—with good reason.
“Yes,” Quenthel agreed, playing along. “Too much thinned.”
Minolin Fey shifted in her seat, clearly uncomfortable, on the verge of blurting out the obvious and totally inappropriate question as to why Matron Mother Quenthel had demanded this shared dinner.
“I am told that Matron Zeerith will soon depart,” Matron Byrtyn said. “What will become of the Xorlarrin tower on Qu’ellarz’orl, I wonder?”
“It will not be open to the new Third House,” Matron Mother Quenthel replied.
“Whomever that will be,” said Matron Byrtyn, somewhat slyly.
“It will not be Fey-Branche, if that is your thought,” Matron Mother Quenthel replied, and now even Gromph could not suppress his incredulity. Minolin shifted again—and seemed on the verge of lashing out. Matron Byrtyn rocked back away from Quenthel, her mouth hanging open. Around them, everyone at the table quieted suddenly, and Gromph began considering the words to a spell that would efficiently evacuate him from this potentially lethal bar fight.
“You are no ambitious child, Byrtyn,” Matron Mother Quenthel went on, undeterred, and indeed even upping the stakes here by leaving off the female’s title. “It is no secret in the city that Fey-Branche is considered without allies and that Matron Zhindia of the fanatical Melarni has set her eyes on ascending the ladder. Were you to reach for Matron Zeerith’s seat at the Ruling Council, you would have three superior Houses coveting your downfall.”
“Such banter is not appropriate on the Festival of the Founding,” Minolin Fey interrupted.
“Nor is it an excuse for a priestess to forget her place,” Matron Byrtyn scolded.
“Your exchange will cost both our Houses the favor of Lolth,” Minolin pleaded with Matron Mother Quenthel.
“Dear child,” Matron Mother Quenthel, who was no older than Minolin, replied, her voice dripping with condescending sweetness, “do not ever again make the error of explaining to me the desires of Lolth.”
There was an old saying among the drow that the ears of a Matron Mother were so keen they could catch the rustle of a strand of hair falling to the floor. In that moment, the room became so suddenly quiet that Gromph believed the proverb was not an exaggeration.
Matron Mother Quenthel looked to Matron Byrtyn, as if inviting her to speak, but the other woman did not oblige, and instead went back to her meal, as did everyone else. Not another word was spoken for a long, long while.
House servants cleared the plates quickly when the meal was ended, and Matron Brytyn led the group to an adjacent, even larger room where the attendees milled around in smaller groups. Gromph made his way to Velkryst and the other wizards, but kept his attention quietly attuned to the focus of the evening, the matron mothers and their respective high priestesses. He watched as Sos’Umptu rushed over to speak with Matron Byrtyn, pointing off to the south, to another set of rooms. A moment later Brytyn, Sos’Umptu, and Myrineyl moved off that way, leaving Matron Mother Quenthel—so conveniently!—alone with Minolin Fey.
That pair headed off as well, but to the west.
Gromph rubbed his thumb against a ring on his index finger, secretly sending an invisible projection in their wake, his senses following the duo as they crossed out of the room, down a small corridor, and through a set of double doors onto a balcony looking out to the pillar of Narbondel, and beyond it to the western reaches of Menzoberranzan.
Matron Mother Quenthel looked back, her expression curious. A wave of her hand shut the door—and did more than that, Gromph realized, for his spell was no more, the connection broken. Beside him, Velkryst chattered on about something to do with the Xorlarrin expedition to Gauntlgrym, the Fey-Branche mages hanging on his every word. The success of the Xolarrins, the one drow House that elevated arcane magic to the level of the divine, held great implications for them as wizards and as male drow. Gromph pretended to listen. Of course he knew far more about the goings-on in Gauntlgrym than Velkryst ever would, since he had arranged the expedition in the first place. But he kept his gaze to the west, to the doors through which Matron Mother Quenthel and Minolin Fey had exited, almost expecting an explosion of some kind to tear the western wing off the compound of Fey-Branche.
He couldn’t predict the movements of Quenthel any longer, he realized then, and he could not control them or even influence them to any great extent.
The implications of his gift to his sister weighed heavily upon his old shoulders.
“I owe you a great apology,” Baenre said to Minolin when they were alone. The heat glow of Narbondel had begun to diminish by then, the day growing late.
The priestess stared at Baenre, suspicion dominating her expression.
“For years now, I have been abusing you, thinking you worthy of my disdain, thinking you a sniveling child and nothing more,” the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan went on. “I only allowed you to remain in a position of power at Arach-Tinilith because doing so spoke to the city of the glories of old. House Fey-Branche should be powerfully represented in the Academy of Lolth, of course, but then, since it was pathetic you, how powerful would the position truly prove?”
Minolin stiffened at the insult, her eyes narrowing, one fist clenching at her side. She wanted to lash out, but Baenre knew Minolin would not summon the courage to do so. This one was not a fighter but a plotter, working with subterfuge and caution within the shadows.
“Little did I understand the adamantine of your bones,” Baenre went on, “or the cleverness lurking behind your dull eyes.”
Those eyes flared at that remark! Minolin was obviously off-balance, insulted and angry, indeed, but also cornered by an enemy she knew she could not hope to defeat.
“You thought you had Gromph in your web,” Baenre openly taunted. “You truly believed that you could turn his distrust and disapproval of mere Quenthel agai
nst the Eternal Baenre?”
The blunt remark had Minolin falling back a step. Her game was over, clearly. For years she had quietly worked on Gromph, using every wile, whispering undermining words against Quenthel—the witch Quenthel!—whom Gromph had hated through the decades.
Matron Mother Quenthel watched all of those thoughts play out on the trapped priestess’s face, circling through anger and fear, the willingness to throw herself into the fray against the hope that somehow, some way, she could mitigate this personal disaster. And that circle was a spiral, Baenre knew, and one driving Minolin ever downward into despair. Yes, she would play through the logic here—she was no fool, but a calculating and devious witch, a true devotee to Lady Lolth!
And so Minolin knew, without doubt, that the sudden insight of her arch-enemy, this Matron Mother standing before her, had to have come from Lady Lolth herself.
And so she knew that she was surely doomed.
Minolin lifted a hand—even a mouse would fight in such a corner—but of course Matron Mother Quenthel was the quicker. The Scourge of Quenthel appeared in her hand, the five writhing snake heads hungrily striking at poor Minolin, taunting her telepathically as they invaded her tender flesh. The priestess’s eyes widened with horror as she felt the pleasure of K’Sothra, who would taste blood to be content. Minolin gasped and fell away as Zinda’s fangs reached for her face, for it was fear that Zinda most desired from her enemies.
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