The boy-that was what he was, wasn't it?-was just as entranced as he had been when he was fourteen.
Aestith may have grown out his hair and wore it in elaborate braids; he may have painted his skin and wore a woman's garments, but he was still male. Ondalia smirked to herself. The boy had so quickly leapt into bed with her, and was as submissive as any other male she had taken. His body was fascinating in the way that a monstrosity was fascinating.
She had not assumed it would be so easy; she had been fooled by the title he had been gifted with.
He sullied the name really. A priestess should not be so quick to get on their knees. Still, it had its uses. If she groomed him appropriately, this subservience should last even after he was properly altered.
She almost laughed. Her future spouse had all the power and prestige of a priestess, but was still very much male. Perhaps the body mattered less than the mind in such terms; aside from one thing and his stature, he looked quite effeminate. What form his body took would not change his mind or demeanor, and no matter how he tried to pretend, he was still male in many ways. What an interesting development.
Ondalia and Aestith faced one another before the altar. In ordinary circumstances, a third priestess would be present, but no circumstances about this were ordinary. They had decided against involving Priestess Ter'resa. They didn't need the possible leverage she would have, and the union was already unwonted.
The ceremony would marry them, but it would also consecrate and dedicate the temple. Aestith had done his best, but it had only recently been carved out of the earth. The wayward boy had even hired laborers instead of used slaves. He should have used slaves, worked them to early deaths so that their sweat and blood went into the stone and when one died, poured their body into the mix to strengthen the temple. But he had odd sensibilities.
After he had bathed her and washed her hair, as he sat behind her, still covered in sweat and gently combing her hair, she had asked him about its construction. He had admitted every surface-like quirk of it. He said after he had run the maths on it, the laborers were cheaper and could accomplish the task more quickly, as they already knew what they were doing and the same people could come back bell by bell and continue where they had left off. He had claimed that it was worth the gold if he could spare the headache of acquiring new labor and risking revolt. He was foolish, but he was a boy and a child. He was too young even for the seminary college, let alone to have actually become a cleric.
Praise Lolth, but she loved chaos-and wasn't it bizarre to have given a young boy so much power? Did it not infuriate and confuse Ondalia herself?
Ondalia had healed his wounds sustained by her, lest he not look his best at the ceremony, and she would tolerate nothing less than the best he could be if he were to be beside her until she disposed of him.
Even when Aestith had the honor of being fully female, he would be far too subservient to ever think of taking her place. She would have to break Amalette's teeth, as it were, but it could be done. It had all been remarkably easy.
The thought made her brow wrinkle. Had it been too easy? This favor had been decades in the making. House Rix was ripe for plunder through other means, and Aestith was obsessed with Ondalia. Things had fallen into perfect order over decades and she had merely taken advantage of it, as was her right. Then why did she feel like it should have been more difficult?
Lolth, and life itself, required struggle.
The wedding required a sacrifice. Ondalia would have been satisfied to procure a suitable offering herself, but Aestith had been adamant that he would supply it.
The altar had never seen blood. It was virginal, and the first sacrifice Aestith had prepared lay chained to it. The chains were so tight that the male could not even rattle them. The pale drow stretched over the altar like a dead animal waiting to be gutted. He had been stripped of any clothing that might have hidden his betrayal and his shame, for he had become like the fae, and nothing could be as foul. A series of colorful tattoos ran from his temple to his ankle like a moon elf. A gag had been placed between his lips and pulled tight enough to hurt. The fae-like drow's hair spilled over the altar in a dilettantish mess. Only the pale one's fear-filled chlinoclere eyes seemed normal.
She would have to ask Aestith later where he had found such a creature.
Spiders, ranging from giant to tiny, wove webs and filled the empty recesses, and she realized then why she had felt at such unease; the temple was new and the spiders had yet to fully make it their home. There were too few webs, and so it looked uncanny. Of course it had felt strange.
Ondalia was resplendent in fine webbing, dotted with small gemstones and pearls. Her throat glittered with them. The train of the gown swept the floor several feet back. Her silver stiletto heels were trimmed in pearls. Her nails glittered with silver gilding. Her hair had been woven and decorated with gems.
Aestith was dressed more modestly, which befit his current status, in glamerweave silk. Tiny illusory spiders wove webs over the deep purple gown, then they scurried into the dark recesses of the gown, where they seemed to be ever-moving. From somewhere above Aestith, new illusory spiders would drop down and weave all over again. The train was let down but could be bustled, a shorter but more practical length than Ondalia's. His shoes had a more sensible heel, but enough to give him a bit of height. Black diamonds decorated his throat and ears. His hair had been pinned onto his head in braids, black pearls decorating it. His lips were painted a dark red she approved of.
Each of them wore a circlet.
Amalette and Jaalie looked on, silent witnesses. Ondalia's guards and some of her slaves stood waiting, should they be required. A kamadan laid to one side in a jeweled collar.
The ceremony had gone on nearly an hour and would culminate with the death of the white drow. Aestith had seemed to have practiced the ceremony. His movements and words were steady and precise. He did not hesitate or tremble, nor stumble over his words. He would, indeed, make an excellent priestess, and perfectly suited to Ondalia's needs.
The boy, naturally, couldn't have really been chosen by Lolth. That was a foolish pipedream Aestith deluded himself with. She had no doubt of the outcome of the Trial, only that Aestith's conclusion from it was different than the reality. He was a cleric, and a priestess by Trial and right, but that meant little enough, she knew now. His devotion to Lolth ran deeper than his devotion to her, and that, too, she could use to her advantage. It was as though he had been divinely tailored to serve Ondalia.
Aestith completed his part of the ritual, speaking his own vows in Elvish, for a blending of tongues was unsuitable to address the goddess in. He stepped back.
It was time. Ondalia drew her dagger, as the more senior priestess, and stood over the other. Aestith stood beside her where he could freely observe, and perhaps learn something of technique or skill. He had likely never witnessed a proper sacrifice.
She touched the sacrifice's face, held his messy hair to keep his head still. The tip of the dagger pricked his pale skin.
The chain holding his arm closest to her evaporated like a fine mist. His hand shot out, plucked the circlet from her head. In the same motion, he pushed himself off of the altar and rolled, landing on the other side. Tiny droplets of his blood splashed on the altar. The black porous marble seemed to greedily absorb the blood.
One of her guards moved swiftly to her side to protect her. She rounded on Aestith, dagger poised. She shouted a prayer, intent to strike him down with a spell. No sound escaped her throat. The guard stepped toward her defensively, then a hand grabbed her.
The quaggoth shimmered into a male drow.
Blood drained from her features. Xaiviryn smiled lazily, his grip on her arm firm. She moved to strike, to call on her powers. Lolth aided her arm. Aestith might have been out of range, but Xaiviryn had stepped into her reach. Someone else grabbed her other arm. At first, she was confused, then horrified. Kai.
This is what had happened to Kai, why he had been absent so long. He had betrayed her.
How dare he? His family were sworn to her.
And been kept carefully at heel his entire life. He wanted out from under it.
Around the room, her guards and slaves shed their disguises as such, the lowly males smirking as they watched. The disgraced Evyxes was among them. If not for the Silence, she would have told him that he could reclaim his place at home if he would aid her now. No doubt a paladin had fared poorly on the surface.
Aestith stepped in front of her. His lips formed a prayer, silent. His dagger, that relic from some bygone era long out of fashion, poised in his hand.
They drug her back, over the altar. She twisted her arms as she sought to break their grip. Her ankle buckled and she fell against Kai. The webbing tore. Her back pressed against the cold stone. She tried to catch herself and dropped her dagger with a clatter.
Fear lanced through her veins. She yanked hard to one side, not to break free, but to have one last act of vengeance. She drug Kai's arm with her, toward Aestith. Jaalie's bow bent back, but she didn't have a clear shot no matter which angle she moved to.
Aestith was delicate. She had learned as much only the previous bell. He was petite and fragile in many ways, muscled enough to carry a rapier and a shield but despite that, weak of arm. She grabbed his wrist and bent it back. He flinched as she pried the dagger from his grip. She spun it in hand, a long-practiced motion. He reached to block her, too slow. This attempt at her murder was feeble. How could they have assumed they could so easily get away with it?
Aestith's chest bore the mark of Lolth. It was darker than his lowborn magnetite skin and pressed into his flesh like a brand. She was uncertain if it were a happenstance wound that had healed in such a way, or if he had cleverly orchestrated some kind of brand and had put the mark there himself.
It didn't matter. She brought the dagger down over the mark. The blade was meant for such a motion, honed to precision. The males holding her gasped, in silence. Aestith's lips parted, as if in shock. He reached a hand up, maybe to defend himself, to try to block the knife's assent. He moved something from his hair, flailing for a moment madly. The dagger tore through the spidersilk gown.
The blade caught in mithril chain. She jerked her wrist to flip the dagger around and pierce the tender throat.
Aestith brought a thin stiletto upwards. It clanged and tangled between the eight blades and caught at the guard. The thin blade threatened to break as Ondalia pushed against it. She had him. This was a farce. The stiletto would break and Aestith would not be quick enough to get the second, even if it would matter.
Without Aestith, the others would likely fall into line, even Xaiviryn. Aestith, idiot boy child he was, may not have orchestrated this betrayal, but he was the keystone in it. She could have Evyxes, and Kai. Doubtless, Kai had killed Sailanshin somehow-no matter. With House Rix disgraced after this failed attack, she could bring it easily to heel.
Her painted lips curled into a sneer. This was the best they could do, against a priestess-a real priestess?
The kamadan sprang. Its teeth latched onto her arm. She cried out as the fangs tore through her flawless skin. Its weight bore her down and she lost her balance. She dropped the dagger and it tumbled harmlessly on the stone floor. The males heaved her onto the altar. The marble was cold against her skin. Blood dripped. Long tendrils of flesh dangled from her mangled arm.
Aestith did not smile, not even in victory. He looked on with a bored interest, as if he were observing something in a play. Amalette lifted the blade from the floor and offered it to Aestith in both hands. The gesture could have been symbolic of what he was to their family.
Aestith had been on the surface for some time. Perhaps some part of him had defected, just like that leucistic drow? He adored her, had made it abundantly clear to her only a few hours ago that he did. Had his family or these others put him up to this? Of course they had-Kai and Xaiviryn and Amalette. Aestith would never do this on his own, but they must have some kind of leverage over him to force his hand. Of course, he wouldn't have wanted to do this.
She said, though she could hear nothing, "Aestith, don't you love me?"
His painted red lips pressed into a smile that touched his eyes, something warm and full of life, even tender. His devotion to her, in that expression, was plain. He had understood her voiceless words.
He made a cutting motion with one hand and the Silence fell. She almost laughed at this farce. How could they have thought little Aestith would have the wherewithal to see it through? He adored her, maybe even loved her. He would turn on the ones holding her and the pair would cut through his treacherous family. With Amalette and Jaalie out of the way, it was only natural that Aestith would become matron of Rix. The situation could really only improve. She had been considering such a move since she had begun to plan the marriage. It mattered little that it would only begin sooner.
Anything else was illogical. She couldn't die here, so close to the surface she could almost taste it. She could not have been outwitted by a merchant family, not when she so often looked to possible threats within their caste as well as the ones in her own. She couldn't have missed it. It was impossible.
He leaned toward her and whispered, "I do."
The eight-bladed dagger bit through her breast. Poison washed over her, from his divine powers and from something on the blade. Her head spun. She gagged, staring up at the statue of the Spider Queen. She felt numb. She couldn't breathe, couldn't form words. It was like an invisible weight bore down on her breast. She felt as if she were being choked. She was cold in her extremities, but a warmth spread over her chest.
Something loomed over her. Something large. Her eyes shifted toward it, but she couldn't make her head move to see it. It looked like the carved statues of the Spider Queen, like the ones placed at altars. A beautiful drow woman's face on a spider's body. It bit into her. Flesh ripped and muscle broke. Blood ran from her and pooled on the altar.
She had watched such things countless times. She had gloried in each sacrifice, never dreaming it could have been her. Did Aestith feel that elation now? She could not see him.
Small things crawled over her, biting and tearing. Their poison mingled with Aestith's. Something crawled into an open wound. It was a cruel trick of the paralytics that allowed her to feel it scamper over the exposed muscle. Her eyes watered with the pain, but she could not scream. Her mouth would not open for the sound to come out. Her throat would not produce the noise. She had always thought screaming to be childish, some primal thing no spider was capable of, and therefore no drow worthy of priestess should ever do such a thing.
She wanted to scream now. The release of a single scream would have made the silent pain that much more bearable, to drown out the rending sound of her flesh being consumed would have been, in that moment, blissful. Her ears filled with the sounds of tearing skin, of a split nerve as it broke and snapped back like elastic into her arm. The Silence had been better than this.
The large spiders came. Her eyes were held paralyzed, open, watching and unable to look away as they consumed her.
#
Aestith knelt, a respectful distance back from the altar, conscious that the other drow were doing likewise, but never daring to turn to look.
The spiders slowly moved from the altar to return to their webs as if they had never left them. He had only barely managed to glimpse the Queen of Spiders before he had respectfully knelt, but the vision would stay with him.
He was the first to rise, and he walked toward the altar. Nothing remained of Ondalia, save a bit of her beautiful hair, and a single bloodied shoe. His heart ached with her loss-that he couldn't deny. He had sacrificed that which he found most beautiful, what he was most devoted to, save one.
His eyes flicked upwards, to the statue. He knelt and prayed. He did not hear her voice, but he didn't need to; he felt her presence. He felt her satisfaction and her pleasure.
There was one final act to this play of politics.