Author's Note: It's been way, way too long since I last worked with these characters. I'm hoping that this will be a little more fleshed out than Chasing was. And yes, there is some character overlap between this storyline and Sabal A'Daragon's.
Silence reigned supreme in the halls of House Duskryn, its velvet cloak draped over the ivory throne and rolling down the stone steps like a funeral shroud. Matron Mother Siniira was seated there at the center of the frigid cold like a queen of ice complete with the iron crown of her line. Where a fire of passion had once raged, now there were only embers of a burning dream.
Ten years had never in her centuries of life felt so excruciatingly long. She rose from her seat and returned to her habit of leisure: patrolling the halls lost in memories both nostalgic and painful. Around every corner was the echoes of a laughing child or a cooing infant. The ache at the center of her chest had not numbed-instead she salted her wounds and let the desire for vengeance grow from that agony. But she said nothing of it. How could she when there were no words for the depth of hatred she felt?
"Matron, may I have a moment of your time?" a silver voice said sweetly. It was Zesstra, her eldest child.
Siniira turned and looked at her daughter. Zesstra had much of her father's will and arrogance in her bearing, hidden under a veneer of charm. Ambition was the fire that burned in her eyes. But the Matron saw little of herself in this particular child. Instead, she felt almost like she was looking at some contemptible and alien race.
"A moment, yes," Siniira said. Her chest felt like it tore as the red hot needles of hatred dug into her and set her stomach churning. Her appetite had been poor these days-fortunate, considering the many attempts to poison her. It was more of a nuisance than a genuine threat due to her own caution. How quickly people seemed to forget that she had clawed her way to the top, treading on the bodies of her enemies at every step. Obviously she would need to offer a refresher course soon for the worst offenders...one of whom was standing in front of her now.
"Lir-"
Siniira's eyes narrowed into a glare that left Zesstra fighting not to check for frostbite. "If you think I will be drawn into some dispute between you and your sister, you are sorely mistaken," she said sharply.
Zesstra flinched back unconsciously. If Siniira had been disapproving before, she was now cruel in her cold way. A yawning void had opened between her and her daughters as the tension in the house became a sort of subtle, political war. The matriarch of House Duskryn was not inclined to forget or to forgive. "But-"
The Matron rounded on her eldest. "Because clearly what happens between the two of you is the most pressing of matters in all of Menzoberranzan. Not surface raids or city politics or the favor of Lloth or the future of this house," she said, voice heavy with sarcasm.
The priestess knew that her mother was in a mood and backed down. "I apologize for troubling you, Matron," Zesstra said, bowing slightly and retreating.
It was the anniversary of Siniira's greatest regret and a time she preferred to spend far, far away from her family. Ten years to the day. She had nursed her pain a long time and now she was finally ready to enact her vengeance with the calculating and purposeful dedication that had earned her the throne.
Zekatar was waiting for her in her chambers, his false smile plastered on his face. He was only Patron now, the title of Weapons Master passed on to Keldzar for "services rendered" at Zesstra's urging. Siniira had agreed because it suited her own purposes in humiliating Zekatar and stripping him of valuable influence.
"You look tired, Matron," he said as she stepped in past him with a swish of her robes. It was true; thin lines had etched themselves into her forehead and the corners of her mouth, adding a sort of premature age to her. After all, Siniira was still a drow woman in her prime years. They disappeared when she was relaxed, but that was a sight he had not seen in a very long time. Not since Valyne.
Zekatar still thought she was beautiful, if cold. He didn't love her or even hold much fondness for her. Instead, he found that he needed her as a protector and a benefactor. And he resented her for it, just as he resented the way she had so easily removed his power from him.
Unlike any other male drow that might have been in his position, he made no move to offer himself for stress relief. Since the assassination attempt that had nearly killed her and rendered her barren, she had no interest in his presence in her bed. Nor did she take any other lover as far as he was aware. But Siniira had always been incredibly secretive, even for a drowess. Where other Matrons might brag about that kind of thing, her lips remained tightly sealed. It left him incredibly off balance at every turn and regarding every subject. He was never certain what she knew concretely and what she was only supposing. The answer was probably that she knew a great deal more than he would have liked and possessed an accurate enough guess to come uncomfortably close to the truth that he might have preferred to keep hidden.
"House Faen Tlabbar and House Mizzrym are in a spat," he said to fill the foreboding silence. "Our troops on city rotation have been peeling their soldiers apart. Too many people with tempers running too high."
"They will yield. If not to us, then to Baenre. If not to Baenre, then to the Church," Siniira said absently as she picked up a hairbrush from her vanity's top and examined her reflection with a critical eye. "Mind you, I could say the same about your daughters. But instead of exercising caution, they behave as though they were untouchable. Your influence, I suspect."
"And what will you do to correct it?" Zekatar asked.
"Some problems correct themselves," she said simply. It was a long shot, a hedged bet, but Siniira had to hope that it would work. She was keeping her cards very close to her chest of late, preparing the House for what was to come. Even Zekatar and Yasrena had no knowledge of what her intentions truly were. She prided herself on that. There was a sharp double knock at the door and Siniira struggled to keep a smile off her face. "Enter!"
The door opened to admit Revered Yvonnel, who raised an eyebrow to see Zekatar in the Matron's chambers. He was the Patron, but that didn't mean it was a common sight. "Matron Siniira, a pleasure as always," she greeted before turning slightly narrowed eyes on the male but saying nothing to him. "I'd prefer to discuss the matter that brings me here privately."
Zekatar had never understood what it was that the Eye of Lolth had against him, but she seemed to find him constantly distasteful where she tolerated other males, particularly the Matron's guards, with a certain sort of amused pleasantry. Then again, none of the personal dynamics involving Yvonnel were particularly clear. After all, she called on the Matron frequently enough that he might have thought they carried on a friendship were it not for the way they were constantly at each other's throats politically. And yet, whenever one could crush the other utterly, they held off. It was disconcerting.
Siniira's lips quirked into a faint half-smile at the clear dislike in the priestess's demeanor. Yvonnel always had been an exceptional judge of character. "Zekatar, you're dismissed. And do inform the guards that we are not to be disturbed."
He obeyed, stepping out of the Matron's quarters and closing the door behind him. There was a brief moment after it clicked shut where the wards of silence had to regain their power. Yvonnel carefully waited a beat before speaking even as her entire posture relaxed almost imperceptibly. The priestess considered very few people in her life to be equal: they were either above or, usually, below. Siniira was a notable exception. "I wanted to thank you," she said casually. "Though really, I should be flattered that Baenre can be bothered enough to send assassins."
The Matron Mother's skeptical look was just a little bit too innocent, immediately informing Yvonnel that her suspicions had been perfectly founded. "I have no idea what you're referring to."
"Indeed? Perhaps assassins always drop over dead at my feet from powerful divine magic, very coincidentally when you walk by, and I'm just now noticing," Yvonnel teased, falling into a comfortable chair next to the powerful cleric. She reached up and smoothed a finger over the faint lines appearing at one corner of the Matron's mouth. "These are going to start becoming permanent soon."
Siniira shrugged, but the tension in her shoulders and her jaw had eased noticeably. "You usually thank me by courier."
"It's been ten years to the day. I thought you would want company that isn't your mouth-breathing moron of a Patron." Yvonnel rolled her eyes at the last part and moved her hand back to her lap, regarding her sort-of rival. The average drow was a petty, vain creature ill-inclined to strike up any relationship with someone who had bested them in the past. But as the last scion of X'larraz'et'soj, she had learned to be fluid and long-sighted. The church had offered her power as well as security, but Siniira wielded influence, something equally valuable, and happened to be scintillating conversation even on her worse days. Their rivalry had long ago cooled into mutual respect, but they kept up competition as both misdirection and a chance for each to challenge the other into excelling.
There were just certain lines now that neither of them crossed. They might put each other at a disadvantage politically, but never stooped to attempting to ruin their opponent's life. The mental scoreboard was wiped free of favors and they tipped the scales a little more in favor of the other at any turn where they weren't in direct competition. However incredibly unorthodox and likely scandalous-were anyone to find out-it was, both had prospered from it.
"Jealous, are we?"
Yvonnel again arched an eyebrow, her expression one of faint irritation. She knew that behind the impassive look lay silent laughter directed solely at her. For a supposedly unreadable woman, the Matron was quite expressive. "As I so often am of lower life forms, clearly," she said dryly. "Just for that, I should keep the results of my inquiries to myself."
"But you won't. You enjoy the idea of your spies being more successful than my own," Siniira pointed out. Her tone was just a touch more distant as she steeled herself for the unpleasant news she didn't doubt was coming. It had been a great deal of time since the rumors died out with no evidence to sustain them and as every day passed it took a little it more hope with it.
Now was not the time to preen, Yvonnel knew. Instead, the priestess charged straight into the heart of the matter with an honesty she knew would be refreshing. "Valyne is still alive, Siniira. Just beyond the reach of your thoroughly extensive spy network. The surface, to be precise."
Siniira almost collapsed with relief, instead tightening her grasp on the edge of the vanity and carefully lowering herself into the chair in front of it. They were sitting side by side now. "You're certain?" she murmured, gratitude clinging to every syllable. The favors and gold that had gone into obtaining that information were probably countless. Not for the first time, she thanked the Goddess for saving Yvonnel from the rest of her family's fate.
"If I'm wrong, I'll gladly offer to hold Triel's sacrificial dagger with my kidney," the Eye of Lloth said. The change that such a small piece of information had wrought in the Matron was remarkable in how dramatic it was. Yvonnel could count the number of drow women she knew who indulged in such attachments on one hand. She still hadn't decided whether it was a sign of weakness, insanity, or strength. "That kind of incompetence should be incompatible with life. Speaking of which, have you considered throwing your Patron away? I highly recommend out a window."
"He still serves a purpose." There was a brief, companionable silence before Siniira spoke again. "If she's on the surface...what if she doesn't return?"
Yvonnel frowned at the uncertainty in the powerful cleric's voice. "Would you have abandoned the House if you were in her position, Siniira?" she asked pointedly. "She will return. She will be ready. Have faith. You mean to trust her with the future of the House, after all."
"I should have protected her." The Matron's face was serious and distant, like a statue carved of onyx looking forward into a world only she could see.
"It is only in the darkness that one comes into their own. You did as necessity dictated. Now she will make up the difference," the Revered Daughter said firmly, confident in her own prediction. The Goddess arranged every situation for a purpose. Surely this was no exception.