Nalfein looked up at the knock on his doorframe and felt a wave of relief crash over him. "Tathlyn said you and Lythrana were dead," he said, standing up so quickly he almost dropped the armor he had been servicing.
"Her reports were exaggerated," Thraele said dryly and she stepped in. She was still exhausted and battered, but at some point her weary brain had decided that now was as good a time as any to go see him. It wasn't a bad idea, actually—she was too tired to feel any residual anger at him. "Though we are certain she wishes otherwise. If she wants to kill us, we suggest severing our head and burning it separately from our body."
Nalfein chuckled. "You are hard to take down," he said. He'd never been a real fight with Thraele, but he'd been in enough practice bouts with her to know it wasn't a good idea. He winced when he saw the hole in her armor from where the sword had run her through, still stained with blood—a lot of it. "Lythrana's healing spells got some use, I assume."
"You would be correct," Thraele said, easing herself down into one of the chairs at his small table. "Still, our bruises have bruises. But this is not the first time. We recall many training bouts with the woman who was our aunt where much damage was done upon the assumption that our mother would mend the wound. It was never a painless healing." Those memories had come to her on the way back, as she limped along with the others. They had been afraid to really stop for long for most of the trip, so Lythrana had reserved her spells in case of more combat rather than expending them in the hopes of a full eight hours of uninterrupted rest. It meant Thraele walked all the way back on a bad leg, their mounts unfortunately lost due to the ambush.
"Did she die?" Nalfein asked. When Thraele raised an eyebrow at him, he clarified, "Your aunt?"
"We hope so," Thraele said bitterly. She had scraped together enough images to recognize that it was her aunt who had left her to die. But the woman's name and more than her shadowy visage or her voice escaped her. You're weak, bug, she heard in cruel tones in her head when she grasped at those memories. She sighed and brushed a lock of hair back out of her eyes. "This is for you." She held out a somewhat battered envelope. It had a smear of blood on one corner. Apologetically, she added, "We would have cleaned it up, but we have not yet returned to either House Barrison Del'Armgo or Sindyrrith's home. It is from Lythrana."
"Lythrana?" he said, surprised.
"Since you cannot speak to her, she supposed that writing would have to suffice," Thraele said. Her expression was particularly difficult to understand at the moment. "But we should talk before you read it."
"About her?" Nalfein said, worried.
Thraele shook her head and rested her hand over the hole in her armor. It still ached powerfully, even days later. The pain at least served to keep her awake. "About what happened last we spoke," Thraele said. She had told Lythrana, so it wasn't as though it was some great secret anymore. It was just…admitting that level of weakness to Nalfein felt different, maybe because she wanted him to see her at her best rather than know what she'd been like at her lowest. "We know it was psionics, because we are familiar with psionics. We…do not like them." She saw Nalfein tense defensively. "We like you, Nalfein. It is not you. Not even your powers. It is the memory of our last experience with psionics that we still carry."
"And that was?" he said a bit tersely.
She looked down and away from him before pulling in a deep breath. "For…a very long time, we were the thrall of a mindflayer," she said.
Whatever he had been expecting to hear, that was not it. It triggered a huge surge of a very unfamiliar emotion that hit him like a lightning bolt: guilt. "Thraele, I never meant to hu—"
"We know," she said, offering him a small smile. "It is hard not to react on instinct, not to push away and run. But we thought that we would make an effort."
Nalfein hesitated for a moment. "What were you, before all that happened?"
Thraele shook her head, eyes a deep, red-tinged purple color in the faint magical light. "We do not recall. Slowly, things drift back. It is like looking into a kaleidoscope, though it is slowly healing now. Words that mean little: Matron, family, duty, faith, mother." She smiled a little bit. "We have a sneaking suspicion that you would not have liked us. We have memories of being taught into rigidity and arrogance."
"Well, I think the second half stuck," Nalfein said with a chuckle. His amusement only intensified when she glared at him. "What, can't handle a tease?"
"You are fortunate that we are tired," she said, sighing out the last word. He could see her eyes starting to drift closed for a moment. Then she moved her fingers to the hole in her armor and jabbed two fingers into the sore spot in her abdomen. It immediately woke her up, a painful hiss coming through her teeth. "Better now."
"Goddess, Thraele, don't hurt yourself," Nalfein said.
She gave him a half smile that was tight with pain. "Now is not a time to sleep," she said. "We must stay awake somehow."
"You could sleep here," Nalfein offered. When he saw the words of refusal forming, he sighed. "Thraele, you're in no condition to protect Lythrana right now, even if you were there. At least catch an hour or two of rest here while she's with the Matron before storming back over to House Barrison Del'Armgo. I have no reason to stab you while you're unconscious."
"That we know of," Thraele said, though her defensiveness was weak and mostly feigned.
He chuckled as she reluctantly moved to her feet. Nalfein went over and started setting to work on the clasps and belts that held her armor on.
Thraele swatted at him. "What are you doing?" she said by way of protest, narrowing her eyes at him.
"I'm helping you with your armor," he drawled. "You're barely keeping your eyes open. There's no way you're doing this on your own and you're not sleeping in your dirty armor on my bed."
"There is a perfectly good couch," Thraele said frostily, though she mostly stopped trying to bat his hands away.
"That I plan on using in the next hour," Nalfein said. He found her disgruntled expression endearing rather than off-putting, probably because he knew that Thraele wasn't likely to actually do him harm. Besides, he thought it would be a good gesture now that things between them were back to normal. The idea of her as a thrall still bothered him on a fundamental level—some people deserved that kind of suffering, but not Thraele, in his opinion—but he had some inkling that she would talk about it when she was ready. "Thraele, please? It will make me feel better."
She sighed and relented at that, allowing him to take off her armor with no further protests. By the time she was free, she was starting to sway a little bit. Nalfein helped her into the bedroom and eased her down onto the bed. His room was fairly Spartan, but he knew the bed was more comfortable than the couch. She was still wearing the same clothes that she had during the fight, but they'd been washed on the road, so she wasn't getting blood and dirt all over his bed. He could still see holes and tears in the cloth, however, where she'd been wounded. There were bandages underneath, likely Lythrana's work. "Thank you," Thraele mumbled out as she closed her eyes and let her head rest on the pillow, barely audible. "You are a good friend."
Nalfein was surprised to hear her say that she considered him a friend, particularly with the damage he'd done to her trust, but he didn't comment. Instead, he just smiled. "Get some sleep," he said before stepping back out into the main room. The envelope on the table caught his eye. If Thraele had come this far out of her way, he assumed it was important. Lythrana had probably sent her with it, which was a confusing notion. What did the noble want? Perhaps the contents of the envelope would have an answer for him.
What he found was not an answer. It was a font of other questions. It was a missive feeling out the waters, written in hesitant but well-chosen words. Apparently she did remember him from the Academies, which made him smile a little bit despite himself. He wasn't certain if she would have ever approached him even knowing he was interested—Lythrana had struck him as quiet for a noble. That she was reaching out to him now was more than he had ever expected. There was warmth to her words that he had thus far really only felt from Thraele. It was definitely interest, even if it came in an oblique way. She seemed more interested in getting to know him than getting him into bed immediately, which was…perplexing.
For the first time in his life, Nalfein didn't know how to handle a woman. He'd always been good at obeying and sensing moods and tailoring his behavior to match a drowess's expectations. But Lythrana's letter was leading to a place far, far away from the beaten trail. If Thraele was right, and she did want him as a lover, this suggested that she might actually also want more than just a fleeting thing. He honestly wasn't certain how to feel about that. It was dangerous. It would have been even if Yvonnel hadn't slapped him with a serious prohibition. But then again, it seemed innocent enough. He read over the letter again. What could it hurt? he found himself asking. It's not like she'll pay attention for long. He picked the letter up and carried it into the bedroom where his writing desk was. Thraele appeared dead to the world, her chest rising and falling in slow, even, deep breaths.
It was strange to see her so peaceful and still. When she was awake, and maybe it was because of the secret she'd been keeping, Thraele always seemed a little bit constrained. Now she finally looked relaxed. You are a good friend. He felt a little bit proud of himself for causing her to say so. Nalfein had experienced only a little of other races besides the drow and the world beyond Menzoberranzan, but he'd heard stories from the others. He understood that a friend was more than an ally of convenience. It implied a level of trust—not that agreeing to sleep around him didn't. After all, he could plunge a dagger into her chest now that she was unarmored and relatively defenseless. He wouldn't, but he could. Thraele saying anything of that nature was a meaningful gesture to him, even if she would probably pretend she'd never uttered a sound the moment she was properly awake. It was hard to tell with Thraele. She ran hot and cold sometimes.
Nalfein agonized over every word he put on paper for the next few hours, thoughts racing to something near panic when he thought about Lythrana not liking what she might read. Unbeknownst to him, Thraele's still body was not indicative of a still mind. Her dreams took her to strange places, duergar cities and passages in the Wilds, a noble house and a ghetto of downtrodden outcasts. A succubus purred at her, touching her cheek. Arguments raged behind closed doors. Lips curved into wicked smiles. Fiery eyes glared into her own. Fingers dug into her the soft flesh under her chin. Fear, uncertainty, pain…
—"She is…adequate."—
—"Did he say you could trust me?" Onyx eyes flickered over at her as they walked, evaluating.
"No," she said honestly, not certain what to think of the question.
"Good," the almost painfully familiar man grunted. She could feel his name at the very peripheries of her mind, always just out of reach—
—"I will make you a priestess, or I will break you. I don't particularly care which one," a voice of honeyed menace whispered in her ear. She could feel fiery eyes burning into her body, sending currents of dread running down her spine. "People think nobility is simply blood. They are wrong. It is, as a scholar once wrote, based upon scorn, cunning, power, and profound indifference. The only thing you should ever care about is your own success, your own power, your own vision of what you will. There are two kinds of people in this world: those with the quality to rule, and those who are ruled. No daughter of our house who falls into the second category will be allowed to live. I will tolerate no sentiment, no weakness. Am I understood?"
"Yes, Matron," she found herself saying, trying not to flinch away or cry when those brutal fingers dug into her shoulder, hooking into the pressure points beneath her collar bone.
"See that you do," the woman whispered into her ear. "And I want one thing very, very clear: if you cannot earn it, you do not deserve it. If you do not deserve it, you will die."—
—the bite of a snakewhip into her back, tearing and pulling, venom burning in her veins. She screamed, but it brought no relief. Fingers tightened in her hair, yanking her head back. "What are you going to do, little one?" a different voice taunted her. It was familiar too. Another of her mother's sisters, not the one that had abandoned her. "Go crying to the Matron? She won't protect you forever, and the moment she isn't, you'll be ours."
There was a chuckle from someone else, a male voice. It was her uncle. "Mother isn't going to like you tormenting her, you know."
"She needs to learn her place now: at the bottom."—
—laying on the ground unable to move because of the pain, arm bent at a broken angle, ribs cracked inward, a leg dislocated, doing her best not to make it worse somehow. Her mother had told her that she should never let them see her cry, so she screamed in anger instead and cast a hateful gaze at the figures just watching her. The woman who had given birth to her laughed and approached, leaning down to touch her. Instead of sweet relief, the healing was as agonizing as the injuries, bones violently snapping back into place and muscles cramping painfully as they healed. It was a punishment for failure, administered with some small enjoyment at seeing her suffer.
"What have we learned?" that honeyed voice said, amused.
She forced herself up through the pain the moment she could actually stand on her leg, still covered in bruises and the webbing she'd cut from the golem. She'd been fighting the Patron and his two pets. "What to do to someone when they're defenseless," she snarled, eyes settling on the male who was only standing about six feet away, flanked by one and a half web golems. She'd put some serious hurt on his minions. She would not forget the way he had twisted her broken arm or kicked the place where her ribs had been cracked until they snapped.
"Very good," the woman said, crimson eyes satisfied. She made a powerful gesture and the spell hit the Patron before he could even blink. He was trapped in place by the powerful effect. "Here is your opportunity."
"What?" she said despite the fact that she knew exactly what the woman who had given birth to her was saying.
Lips curved into a cruel smile. "This is where we see if the lesson sticks, darling. Maim him. Gut him. Do your worst. We can heal him when you're finished."
She felt her own hand tighten around the dagger, but she stayed frozen in place.
"This again, bug?" her scarred aunt taunted from beside her intended victims. "Weak. You've always been weak. Infirm of purpose. When the Matron finds out, what do you think she'll do to you?"
"If you can't earn power, you don't deserve it, darling," the woman who gave birth to her purred, touching her back lightly. "And if you don't deserve it?"
"You die," she found herself saying as she advanced on the Patron.
"He hurt you, darling. We know exactly what he would do in your place. A little reciprocity seems in order," the priestess said. "Doesn't it make you angry? Furious? All those times he's hurt you, demeaned you, laughed at you, taunted you…"
Just like that, the anger was back, the fiery temper that scorched her from the inside out. So much of her life she tried to be calm and collected, but sometimes, she knew she was just like the Matron. The male drow's eyes still looked smug, as if he knew that she was going to lose her nerve. She'd frozen before, held back by some small voice inside of her that said her mother would be upset. This time was different, all the times she'd suffered at his hands rushing up from the bottom of her memory. She stepped forward and slammed the knife violently into his abdomen before twisting viciously. He let out an actual scream of pain and surprise. Female laughter surrounded her.
In the memory, she was too angry to think. Experiencing it over again, almost passively, some part of her was horrified by what she was doing to a helpless creature, even one who had made her life misery. Most of her recognized it was necessary, even with how young she was, but there was still some part of her, the part that her mother had tried so hard to preserve, that wanted to throw up or cry.
A gauntleted hand slapped her hard on the back. "Well, bug, looks like you are all grown up after all. Do it again."—
—She could see the light leaving him. Worst of all, there was nothing she could do—
Thraele's eyes flickered open, disoriented for a moment. She turned her head to look out the window. Judging by Narbondel, it had been about three hours. She could tell from her position that she hadn't tossed and turned or flailed despite the churning memories, a clear indication of how beaten and tired her body was. It was well past time to get up. She dragged her body up out of bed, ignoring all the twinges and aches. She still felt a world better.
Nalfein was finally stopped in his writing by her hand coming to rest on his shoulder. "Relax," she advised him, recognizing the tension in his shoulders. She'd seen it in Malagos too. "We should depart. We have to meet with Lythrana."
"I'll have a reply for you next time I see you," Nalfein said, turning in his seat to look at her. For some reason, Thraele almost seemed more tired now than she had when she'd first come in. She wasn't swaying any more or losing the focus, but there was something in her eyes that gave him the impression that her sleep had not been a particularly restful one in its own way. "You alright?"
"Yes," Thraele said even though she was getting the feeling that she might have been happier never knowing her past. Perhaps it was no uglier than average, but that still did not make it pleasant. "Before we go, what is your verdict regarding the letter? For the sake of our own curiosity, not Lythrana's."
"I'm…still thinking it over," Nalfein said. He offered her a small smile. "Thank you for doing this, Thraele. I know it's outside of your job description, and I know you're trying to be…helpful." He couldn't think of a better word, even though he wanted one. She always seemed to be looking out for him without at least overtly demanding anything. It was strange, but nice. Maybe that was part of the concept of a friend rather than an ally. Thraele would know better. She seemed almost more comfortable with duergar and svirfneblin and various other Underdark races than with her own people.
Thraele smiled faintly. "Thank us when you are happy. Until then, it is just hot air," she said. Her walk was still a little bit of a limp when she left. Nalfein frowned slightly as he watched her go. He was worried about her, as unnatural of an emotion as that was. Things between them were repaired again, but there was something hanging over Thraele's head that she wasn't talking about. Maybe it was just memories of the mindflayer brought to the surface.
"Oh good," Lythrana said as she pulled her hood back. They were now ensconced in a private booth in the Well of Darkness, a tavern that offered significant privacy to its customers through the use of continual darkness spells that shrouded each booth and—in the more expensive booths—a ward of silence as well. "I thought I was going to have to do this alone."
"You would have been fine," Thraele said dismissively.
"Not if this goes wrong," Lythrana muttered. She took a deep breath, steeling herself. She could do this. She'd never made a deal of this magnitude before, but she had dealt with this particularly kind of Underdark denizen: powerful, wealthy, and from beyond Menzoberranzan's walls.
Another figure passed through the darkness. Laird Durna Thuldark of Gracklstugh was a powerful and influential woman in the Deepkingdom. Her blocky features were a little softer than average, deceptively friendly, and her dark hair was short and cropped rather than absent. Her thin, stern lips quirked up into a little smile at the sight of the drow noble. "Interesting," she said before taking a seat on the opposite side from them. "Well met, Revered Lythrana. When I heard from Nek Stonestrider that a drow noble wanted to meet with me, I hadn't expected I would be graced by a daughter of Menzoberranzan's second house."
"The pleasure is mine," Lythrana said in Dwarven, switching languages fluidly. Despite all of her concerns, she relaxed the moment she'd spoken.
There was a flicker in Durna's eyes that made Thraele smile faintly: the duergar laird was impressed. Durna chuckled. "You know, most drow don't bother to speak to me in my own tongue," she said. "But then again, I have heard that you have a remarkably dwarven mind—in the most complimentary fashion, of course."
"I'm flattered you think so," the noble said. Lythrana was actually pleased. It was a high compliment, considering how arrogant the duergar could be. They could hardly compete with the drow in that area, of course, but that was something of a race to the bottom as far as Lythrana was concerned. There was a soft rap on the wall near the booth, audible from this side even though their conversation would not be audible from the outside. Thraele stood up and passed through the wall of shadows and silence to claim their bottle of spicy duergar liqueur from the grimlock servant.
"Ah, a taste of home," Durna said, her eyes lighting up when she saw the bottle. She raised no objection to Thraele pouring them each a drink. The former thrall was doing her best to look like a dutiful servant, albeit one who was definitely a bodyguard. "Wonderful. I do love drow wine, but it's not the same."
"I hear you've been caught in Menzoberranzan for some time now," Lythrana said. "I thought you might appreciate the gesture."
"I do," Durna said with a small smile. "But a thoughtful drow is one who wants something."
Lythrana nodded. There was no point in even concealing it. She already knew of Durna by reputation. "I do have a…business offer," she said. "I can give you something that would be quite profitable for you for a long time, and it is an offer no one else in the city can make you, but only if I were to become Matron Mother: an untapped vein of hizagkuur." The metal in question was rare and more importantly, deflected a great deal of magic. It wasn't a large vein, not enough to re-armor the Deepkingdom's armies and create a large problem for Menzoberranzan, but certainly enough to armor Clan Thuldark's warriors and fill Durna's coffers.
The duergar's eyes gleamed with interest. "And how did you come by its locations?"
"A little project," Lythrana said, unwrapping the bundle she'd brought with her to produce the device that she and K'yorl had made. It glowed with a soft, purple-blue light as it slowly rotated on its stand, attuned perfectly to the ambient magical energies in the room.
Durna's eyes lit up. "Not an astrolabe, I take it? Fascinating, but we do have things that find metals, though perhaps not this well."
"It measures and catalogues the differences in faerz'ress," Lythrana said, an involuntary little smile creeping across her lips as she explained her work. "It's not finding the metal itself—it finds the disruption in the flow caused by the ore, or anything else that creates an effect. It's much more precise than anything either of our cities have managed before—I was in contact with some sages in Gracklstugh when I began research into the matter as well as with many scholars here in Menzoberranzan."
"Dwarf-headed indeed," Durna said. She leaned back thoughtfully and took a sip from her glass of her orange-colored liqueur. "I'm very interested. However, it is a big risk to back you if you make a power play, Revered Lythrana. I'll need a demonstration of your resources and capabilities before I commit to this."
Lythrana raised an eyebrow. "What did you have in mind?"
"Clearly you have an ingenious mind, but I need to know if you have and can command capable servants. Matrons are made and broken by the loyalties they wield. You cannot work your way to power alone, after all," Durna said. "So I propose a challenge. If you and your champions can complete the task, I will gladly give you my support in exchange for this ore vein."
"I'll need to know what this challenge is," Lythrana said. Thraele knew that the priestess was worried about what she might be sending her servant into. The former thrall appreciated the thought.
The duergar grinned. "Does it matter? You need what I can provide if you are going to be successful."
"And a successful woman does not walk into a game without knowing the rules," Lythrana countered.
Durna chuckled. "I like you. Your sisters would have jumped without looking. It's strange to see a daughter of Mez'Barris without blind ambition," she said. "A mine went dark. We sent four patrols, none of which returned. One of them was lead by Thangardt Firehand. He is one of my favorite servants. I would like him retrieved alive—I have reason to believe he is still very much breathing—and the mine cleared of enemies. A quaggoth shaman or priest of some stripe has set himself up there with a group of powerful ogre warriors under his command. What happens to them, I don't care, so long as they leave or die."
Lythrana fought the urge to look over at Thraele for a reassurance. "We can do that," she said firmly. "Is there a time limit?"
"Their patience with Thangardt, despite his winning personality and significant charm, will not be eternal," Durna said. "So I would suggest you depart soon. I can have a servant bring over the map showing the mine's location this evening, if that is agreeable."
"It is." The drow priestess smiled at her counterpart. "We have an agreement, then?"
Durna nodded and held out her hand. It wasn't rough and calloused like so many duergar hands—she was a trader. By the same token, Lythrana's hands were not exactly as soft and unblemished as a drow noble's should have been, not with all her work in the forge. It made Durna grin a little. "I look forward to someday calling you Matron, Lythrana of House Barrison Del'Armgo."