Prologue

The air in the birthing room was close and stale when the guards finally broke through the door. Inside the air was thick with the smell of sweat and blood and incense. At the intrusion, two slaves leapt up to block the door but despite being heavy with child herself, the young priestess Irryra Ssarash'i easily swept them aside with one strike of her snake-headed whip. When she saw that the room beyond was deserted, she shrieked and brought the whip down again on the nearest fallen slave. She did not stop until long after the bodies had stopped twitching and the blood had spread to the feet of the soldiers standing behind her.

"Find her," she snarled, gripping the doorway for support.

The three house soldiers immediately made as if to obey, but were stayed by a strong and dangerous voice behind them.

"What is the meaning of this, Irryra?"

Trembling with exertion and rage, the priestess glared at her uncle with undisguised hatred. Sweat was trickling down her back, she could hear her own heartbeat thundering in her ears and she was ready to kill anyone in her way.

"I am hunting the traitor."

Ranin Ssarash'i raised an eyebrow. "I have heard of no traitor."

"What would you know, male?" spat Irryra.

"I know what Matron Xunnil tells me, priestess" replied Ranin with mock deference. "And I know that she has given no order to capture and execute her eldest daughter."

"Xunnil is a shrunken bat dependant on a traitor and a heretic. Who do you think will be Matron after her?"

"I never presume to guess the future, my lady. I concern myself with the present. Matron Xunnil is my matron now, and I will not risk her displeasure. If you wish to kill your sister, that is your business. Do as you like. I can no longer tell the difference between most of you anyway. What's one less? But I will not have my soldiers involved in these petty machinations."

At that, Irryra allowed herself a twisted smile. "No machinations are ever petty. At your age you should know that. And you will soon regret your impudence, worm."

"This house needs its' Weapons Master," her uncle replied without fear. "Even with all your parlour tricks, you still need our swords. Remember that when you become queen of your little hill, my lady. Good luck in your search."

With that he turned and strode away. Unused to defiance, Irryra was momentarily stunned into silence. Clenched tightly around the handle of her whip, the ebony skin of her knuckles drained to the colour of ash.

"You can be replaced," she hissed at Ranin's back.

He paused and looked over his shoulder. His lip curled into a smirk.

"So can you, my lady. So can we all."

Faerdh Ssarash'i was lost. She was still too dazed from her birth pains to remember her way through the tunnels. Overcome by terror and desperation, her yellow eyes stinging with tears, she picked a tunnel at random and threw her remaining strength into running. She ran and ran and ran, picking her way over stone and around corners. All the while she clutched the frightened, mewling bundle to her chest. Her first child. Her only.

She did not recognize or understand her attachment to this creature in her arms. She had never felt any such feeling, had never known another drow to have such feelings. But she knew what she was supposed to do. It was in danger. And she would not let it die.

With every step she took she knew this was the truth.

She. Would. Not. Let. It. Die.

As she passed through a cavern, she tripped over a stalagmite. She twisted in mid-air, curling around her child, so that she would take the full force of the fall. Winded, but uninjured, she staggered to her feet and began to move again. She knew where she was now. She was so close! Just a little further!

"Where are you going, sister?"

At the sound of that sibilant voice, Faerdh was suddenly overcome by exhaustion. Irryra. How did she-? But of course. Irryra always knew everything. Was always everywhere.

"I should have strangled you when you were born."

"Yes," agreed Irryra. "You should have. But you didn't. The first of your mistakes. You were always unfit to be Matron. Unfit to be in the family. And now this."

With some difficulty, Faerdh stood up straight and slowly turned around to face her sister. She held her child close. It was silent, as though it sensed the peril it was in.

"I bore this child," she said. "I will not let you destroy it."

Irryra's beautiful face was flushed with heat. "It is an abomination. Lloth's laws demand that it die!"

Faerdh held her head high. "I have given everything I have to Lloth. But I cannot let her take this from me too."

"Blasphemy!"

As a blast of energy came streaking towards her, Faerdh ducked and instinctively cast the counter-spell.

"Are you insane?" She shrieked at the younger priestess. "It was that sort of magic that brought us to this pass! What do you think that will do to your own child?"

"If it comes out wrong, then I will kill it and have another. That is what is done."

"I cannot do that."

"I was never going to give you the option."

With her back against the cavern wall, Faerdh began muttering a protective spell but with a single gesture and a word Irryra tore her defenses away.

Faerdh was panting and trembling all over. "That stuff…will be…the death of you."

"Perhaps," conceded Irryra. "But it will be a long time coming."

She waved her hand and with an unholy scream of agony Faerdh fell to a heap on the stone floor. Her infant fell from her nerveless hands. It began to cry, but could not be heard over the shrieks of its' mother.

"Yours however," added Irryra, holding her hand over the writhing body of her sister, "will be very soon indeed."

After several minutes, the priestess finally pulled her hand away. Blood was dribbling from Faerdh's mouth and she was barely conscious. Even with the spell lifted, her body was wracked with spasms.

"However did you survive this long?" asked Irryra, her lip curled in disgust. "Get up."

Faerdh couldn't control her muscles well enough to obey the order, so Irryra was forced to drag her into a sitting position against the wall. The older priestess tried to reach for her child, but couldn't raise her arm. Tears were streaming from her eyes. Irryra grabbed her sister's chin and forced her to look up to meet her cruel red gaze.

"What?"

"I…don't want…to die…" The words came out in a gurgle of blood.

"Poor Faerdh," sneered Irryra. "So soft. So vulnerable. You always were so. But I can change all that for you, sister. Call it a gift."

Faerdh barely had time to register the horror of what was happening to her. Her last scream came out as barely a choked croak as her lungs were transformed. Within the space of a few heartbeats every inch of her flesh was turned to stone. Her last expression of terror was forever immortalized on her face. Her stony fingers reached out to her sister, an eternal attempt to push her away, to beg for mercy, to tear out her throat.

As Irryra stared at the statue that was once her sister, she felt momentarily overwhelmed by the scope of her own power. She was shaking with excitement and adrenalin. She stood up and took a moment to steady herself. She looked down at the whimpering child at her feet and remembered her purpose.

"Don't fret, sister," she said to the frozen face. "Your brat will serve a great purpose."

She bent to pick up the infant but was suddenly overcome by a powerful and familiar pain. She knew it was coming, but so soon? There was no time to get back to the upper levels. She would have to do this alone. She was strong, and she had done this before. It was just as well. She knelt down and let her labour pains wash over her. She gritted her teeth and prepared herself to give birth with only a bastard child and her sister's trapped soul for company.