The Bazaar was a bustling menagerie of sight, sound, and smell as Zek Vandree passed through, cutting a swath north through the many stalls and shops boasting their wares with his eyes upon the not-so-distant Tier Breche. A wizened old kuo-toa was haggling with a male drow slave over the price of some alchemical ingredients on his right, and as he passed them he couldn't help but snicker beneath his breath – he was no stranger to potions and salves, and he knew enough to know that the slave would be getting a poor deal indeed for the price and quantity being settled upon. On his left was a rickety stall that had been set up on the back of a cart on wheels, displaying all manner of fabrics from the drow city of Ched Nasad – cloth-of-gold and hand-spun silk, sheer ivory satin and chiffon in pastel hues and tulle in handsome jewel tones. The cart's attendant was a malnourished half-drow with a rat face and beady eyes to match, who hailed him most sweetly as he passed; on another day he may have spared the wretch a coin from his own coinpurse, but today he was on business for the ruling house of Menzoberranzan and had long since resolved to make time for no one.
Though he carried himself most proudly, inwardly he was still reeling at the summons he had received. His older brother, a self-involved brute of a weapons master called Sramek, had woken him up when the light of Narbondel was barely visible in his heat spectrum – quite early indeed – with a string of terse commands and curses as he shook him none-too-gently from Reverie. He had little explanation for Zek – Sramek was good for swinging a sword, but little else – save the scroll trimmed in pale lavender phosphorescence bearing instructions that he was to report to House Baenre with two other male drow whom Zek was hardly acquainted with. It was a curious summons indeed, one that Zek had been skeptical of from the moment his brother had thrust it into his hand, but he knew better than to question the will of the ruling house of Menzoberranzan. If the First House called for you, you came to call or some ill would inevitably befall you.
Zek didn't pretend he hadn't a clue as to why House Baenre was calling on him, for he assumed it had everything to do with his unusual skill set. He had discovered at a very young age that the art of sword fighting was not for him when the spiked mace of one of his fellow students at Melee Magthere had taken his right eye, and had found his niche in the wizard's tower of Sorcere shortly after. Life among the more cerebral sect of dark elf males was no less difficult but far more preferable in his opinion, for he had been born with a great capacity for knowledge and thirsted to learn all that he could from the mighty sorcerers who made their homes there. He had an aptitude for divine magic, but he had a passion for the school of alteration; it seemed that whatever he laid eyes on he could envision some unorthodox or unexpected use for, and he used that to his advantage with each passing opportunity.
Altering the world around him and molding it for his purposes had eventually led him to his first attempts at changing his own physical appearance, changes so subtle that only the most observant among his fellow spellcasters would ever notice. He had started with lightening the hideous scar over his empty right socket, for nothing set his blood to boiling quite like his own ruined visage glaring back at him in every mirror he encountered. From there he had moved on to varying the hue of his single working eye – he would show up to alchemy class with an acid-green left eye, and two hours later he could be find sitting in a conjuration lecture with that same eye an electric blue. His alteration instructor had once praised his skill and awarded him with a few books from his own private library regarding the art of altering one's own appearance, and from that point on his favorite pastime had become something of an obsession.
It had taken decades, but he had eventually mastered the ability to change his entire appearance at will – in recent years he had begun taking on contracts from other houses, impersonating a person of his temporary employers' choosing in order to complete a wide range of tasks. It was a good way to build a reputation in a city where the male sex was considered inferior, and it lined his pockets with a decent amount of coin.
His feet navigated him out of the Bazaar while his mind buzzed with his own musings, and by the time he had all but completed his contemplations he found himself standing at the top of the grand staircase that led up to the plateau upon which was built Tier Breche. The plateau was home to three of Menzoberranzan's most magnificent structures, the homes for all young drow depending upon their gender and their aptitude – to his immediate left was the great tower of Sorcere, the place where male drow furthered their studies in all manner of arcane magic, piercing the cavernous high ceiling like a spear. Straight ahead of where he stood was a massive structure sculptured after the likeness of a behemoth spider, lined in various hues of faerie fires and phosphorescence to enhance its many arachnid carvings – Arach Tinilith, where all female drow devoted their early years to the study, devotion, and practice of Lolth's teachings. Zek had never set foot in the school of Lolth, and fervently hoped he never had reason to. His destination, however, was on his right – the pyramidal structure of Melee Magthere, where male drow with an aptitude for the arts martial were sent to hone their skills and eventually one day become a foot soldier for their proud house, or a Weapons Master if they were exceedingly skilled and incredibly lucky.
He entered the compound unmolested but was stopped before he could enter the training chambers; one of the senior members was passing, and Zek's sorcerer's robes were a clear sign that he didn't belong here. The senior member was of a lesser house, Zek was certain, for his features were something less than noble and both his dress and his weapon hinted at common birth.
"What business have you here?" the senior student asked him with gruff suspicion, and Zek presented the scroll that had been borne from House Baenre.
"I am charged with summoning two of your own, whom I have been told are not of Melee Magthere yet are currently attending advanced classes here," Zek told him with an air of superiority. He had long since considered those male drow who specialized in martial arts to be beneath Menzoberranzan's spellcasters, and he owed this commoner nothing. "They are to accompany me to the ruling house on business, by order of Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre."
The student who had dared to impede his progress actually took the scroll from his hand and read it over scrupulously, suspicion etched into his less-than-refined features; Zek waited with a touch of impatience, wondering whether the swordsman could read at all – his brother Sramek often entertained a similar facial expression when presented with a document of any kind. Finally the student looked up with a scowl, saying, "We have no such students here. What are you about?"
"You question the word of a matron mother?" Zek gasped with mock outrage, thoroughly enjoying himself now. "The matron mother of our ruling house, no less? Perhaps you would do well to present me to one of your instructors, who I daresay will be far more knowledgeable than you." If his blockheaded tour guide knew he was being insulted he didn't let on, merely turned his back and led the way down one of the many sweeping corridors that delved deeper into the complex; Zek followed along soundlessly, smirking to himself with glee.
The first instructor they encountered was also someone with whom Zek was not familiar, but he wore the sigil of House Fey-Branche embroidered in rubies upon the breast of his lightly-padded armor; Zek courteously bowed low, for he knew well enough how best to present himself, and when. The student leading him passed over the scroll with a word of introduction and settled for glaring menacingly at Zek while his superior's eyes raced over the parchment. When he had finished – considerably faster than his protégé, Zek noted with amusement – he released the scroll and let it roll back up in his hand looking thoughtful.
The senior student misinterpreted his master's silence. "Shall I escort the wizard out through the nearest window?"
The master's laser like crimson eyes narrowed forbiddingly and he rapped his pupil none-too-gently on the back of the head; Zek did well to hide his smirk, but inside he was positively alight with wicked mirth. "I would be better served throwing you out into the street, for oftentimes I am convinced that you would command more prowess mucking the rothe stables!" The master boasting the Fey-Branche insignia roared. "Why are you not overseeing your first years? You will be flayed alive for your lack of vigilance! Away with you!" When the senior student had slunk away with his head bowed and his eyes fixed sullenly upon the floor, the Fey-Branche noble beckoned Zek forward with one hand. "Your charges are not of Melee Magthere, but of Bregan D'aerthe – they attend regular classes as per their master's orders, when they are not otherwise occupied. I will take you to them."
They continued on their way in silence, for it wasn't as if they had anything to talk about and Zek was now deep in thought. What use could House Baenre possibly have for riffraff from Bregan D'aerthe? In Menzoberranzan the band was little more than a motley collection of mercenaries, male drow who had no house affiliations and were little better than a menagerie of hired swords who sold their services to whomever boasted the fullest purse. He couldn't imagine that House Vandree would ever have anything to do with traitors, vagabonds, and homeless waifs such as these – what reason could the ruling house of Menzoberranzan possibly have for summoning them?
"Here," the master said aloud, effectively derailing Zek's train of thought, and they passed through a door on the right side of the hallway.
Inside it was almost uncomfortably warm – Zek wisely shifted his vision from the infrared spectrum to the normal spectrum of light, for the heat filled his eyesight with jarring shades of orange and red and made glimpsing anything confusing. The chamber was quite small and sparsely furnished with only a few matching shelves lining the walls opposite the door; each shelf was filled with alchemical ingredients of various colors and consistencies, some of which even Zek was loathe to name. In the center of the room stood four young male drow clustered around an alchemy lab, at the head of which stood one of the members of Bregan D'aerthe; Zek only knew him from the cut of his clothing and the emblem he wore upon a choker at his throat, the symbol of the mercenary band. His white hair he wore in a ponytail at the base of his skull and his eyes were a curious shade of fuchsia, a touch too light to be considered red and thus an anomaly. He was shorter than Zek and carried no weapons on his person that the alterationist could see, but he did wear a cape clasped upon his right shoulder that concealed most of that side of his body. The younger students glanced up when the door slid shut behind Zek but the sellsword didn't – he merely continued about his business, combining alchemical ingredients with deft movements of dexterous fingers, his oddly-hued eyes intent about his work.
The Fey-Branche master cleared his throat pointedly, and at last the mercenary looked up. "Master Auvryndar, a summons for you."
"Very well." The one called Master Auvryndar entrusted the student on his immediate left with the mortar and pestle he had been using, and hurriedly murmured very specific instructions. "An ounce more nightshade, no more, do you understand? Grind it into a powder – that's good, make it very fine – and then you can add your moonstone. Two carats will suffice. Mix well, and you'll have a paralysis potion fit to coat your weapons with. Carry on." The dark elf with the odd fuchsia eyes moved away from the younger students then, leaving them to carry on about the potion making, and reaching Zek he extended his hand. "A summons, you say? I confess, I wasn't expecting such a thing. What can you tell me about it?"
Impulsively Zek opened his mouth to remind the mercenary of his place and to mind his words, but he thought better of it when they shook – there was something about the mercenaries of Bregan D'aerthe that made him feel distinctly uneasy. "Only that we are to make for House Baenre without delay," he offered, for that was really all the information he had. "I am Zek, of House Vandree."
The mercenary nodded knowingly; the understanding in his eyes was unnerving. "And I am called Mourntrin of House Auvryndar – though those who know me find it more fitting to call me Mourn."
Zek nodded along sagely, but did not ask why such a mantra would be fitting. He found that he would rather not find out. House Auvryndar was a prestigious house in the drow city Ched Nasad, which Zek himself had visited once or twice many years past – it was shrouded with mystery, and whisperings even suggested that perhaps the Matron Mother of House Auvryndar was far more than she seemed. He found himself wondering what business had brought Mourn to Menzoberranzan, and how he had fallen in with the brigands of the infamous mercenary clan – for the present, though, he decided to keep such inquiries for another day.
"I am also to bring Xuntath with us," Zek remembered, his eyes sweeping the scroll that had come from House Baenre. "Do you know of him?"
Mourn nodded once, his face impassive, his eyes strangely lifeless. Zek found himself intimidated and unnerved by him. "I will take you to him, and then we will see what it is the Baenres want with us."
Zek allowed the mercenary to lead him out of the stuffy alchemy chamber, gratefully shifting his vision back into the infrared spectrum as he frowned at the shorter drow's back. For his sake, Zek hoped Mourn remembered his manners before they found themselves before the throne of Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre – though not nearly as tyrannous as her late mother, Quenthel was a force to be reckoned with and would hardly tolerate the insolence of an upstart male from a house of no consequence.
They didn't have far to go – Mourn eased open the door directly across from them and closed it just as quietly, his eyes skimming their new surroundings perceptively and his tread light and cautious. Zek was annoyed at the mercenary's caution, but when he turned his attention to the room at large he could immediately see why his companion was being so wary – they were interrupting a training session, and quite a strange one at that.
No less than five senior students of Melee Magthere – including a friend of his brother Sramek's, the second son of House Freth – squared off against a single wiry drow whose face was hooded and cowled; he wore not armor but the garb of a commoner, though Zek could sense strange magical auras surrounding him that suggested he was far more than he appeared at first glance, and Zek knew that his eyes were closed because only darkness projected from beneath his hood. As the first of the senior students hefted his hauberk and leapt forward with a battle cry upon his lips, Zek found himself hoping that the lone drow in the center of their circle was struck down in the opening exchange.
Even with his eyes closed he sidestepped the first blow precisely, his weight balanced perfectly upon the balls of his feet as he spun a graceful pirouette and ducked just beneath the slashing hauberk; two more of his opponents, armed with a short sword and a pair of daggers, respectively, lunged into the fray but were similarly foiled when their adversary first ducked, then launched himself into a midair horizontal spin that brought him flying out of reach of the twin daggers. The rest of the battle was difficult for Zek to follow, though he knew from the frustrated grunts of the Melee Magthere students that each attack found only air; with each blow that the lone drow gracefully dodged Zek found himself awed and increasingly more intimidated, and thought perhaps he was beginning to understand just why House Baenre had called upon the talents of two members of Bregan D'aerthe.
The battle was over just as quickly as it had begun, the moment the hooded drow came down gracefully upon his feet and opened his eyes.
Zek had only a fraction of a second to perceive that those eyes were white as snow and empty as the most limitless void, and then all was chaos as the melee students shrieked aloud and dropped their weapons to the ground; with those chilling eyes the hooded drow mercilessly drove his enemies to the ground, twisting their weapons into useless scraps of metal and wringing pitiable cries of agony from their throats –
"Xuntath," Mourn finally spoke up quietly, a smirk playing about the corners of his mouth, "we have business elsewhere. End this mockery and let us be on our way."
As abruptly as the carnage had began it now stopped; Xuntath's eyes cut to the door, where he recognized his fellow mercenary, and the melee students slumped to the floor and lay still. Several masters and a few other senior students struck up a spattering of awed and disbelieving applause, but in response to their praise Xuntath simply lifted his hands and walked his fingers deftly through the eloquent drow sign language. Not all battles can be won by strength of arm, as you can plainly see, he told the masters, the slight emphasis to his digits a clear display of his distaste for his opponents and their lack of skill. I suggest you train this lot to hone their wills as well, or they will find themselves in dire straits against those with a capacity for such arts. Then he turned and made his way toward Mourn, and Zek caught a glimpse of the sigil inscribed upon the token upon the choker he wore.
He is of House Oblodra, Zek thought to himself, equal parts loathing and uneasy, but then Xuntath joined them and he had to struggle to purge the distaste from his expression.
House Oblodra had been eradicated by House Baenre during the Time of Troubles, a cataclysmic event whose repercussions resounded throughout the whole of the Underdark and reshaped the hierarchy of Menzoberranzan itself. The curious Oblodra family had been wielders of psionics, a rare sect of mind magic that afford them unspeakable powers that they harnessed at will with a single thought. When the goddess Lolth had abandoned her followers and the female drow had lost their divine powers, House Oblodra had moved against countless houses in an attempt to gain power and prestige throughout the city – Lolth's priestesses were without their magic, but the Obladras were not. In the end even House Baenre had found itself threatened by the growing power of House Oblodra, and in one of the most devastating inter-house battles in the history of Menzoberranzan the ruling house had eventually triumphed and eradicated the would-be usurper. Zek had heard it told that the first son of House Oblodra, Kimmuriel, was something of a lieutenant within the ranks of Bregan D'aerthe, but he had never imagined that there might be two psionists employed by the mercenary band.
"We have been summoned by House Baenre," Mourn explained, and Xuntath's expression soured.
What could they possibly require of us? he signed, his movements a little jerky in his annoyance. Lolth knows the Baenres are not fond of Bregan D'aerthe, and even less fond of male drow finding success of any kind that the priestesses of the Spider Queen did not afford them.
Zek blinked his single working eye slowly once in disbelief, his dislike for the mercenaries of Bregan D'aerthe mounting with each passing moment. Did these houseless vagabonds have no shame? For countless centuries the members of House Baenre had been considered the Spider Queen's own descendants, born from the crystalline webs that she herself weaved deep in the Abyss, and all denizens of Menzoberranzan were bound to serve them as faithfully as they might serve Lolth herself. To speak such ill of the ruling family of their city was akin to besmirching their own goddess's name, something that Zek stood very firmly against – he might have castigated them then, but remembering his mandate he decided against it. Let the Baenres exercise their displeasure, a punishment more severe than his own could ever be. Perhaps that would remind them of their place.
"I know not," the master of Sorcere said at last, when he was certain he had championed his ire. "Let us make haste to Qu'ellarz'orl and find out." He deliberately kept them at his back as he led the way out of Melee Magthere to display that he did not feel threatened by them, but the instinctive urge to keep them in his sights was present as they made their way and he couldn't help but wonder if they could sense his true discomfort.
They did not converse as they descended the grand staircase leading down from Tier Breche; judging by the position of the magical heat burning upon the great spire of Narbondel, the only timepiece the drow had constructed near the center of the great underground city, Zek guessed that the changing of the guard around the noble houses built upon Narbondellyn and Qu'ellarz'orl would have concluded by the time they arrived. They passed through the Bazaar but Zek did not allow them to linger about the shops, keeping a determined pace until they had moved out of the heart of the bustling square and emerged with Eastmyr and the Braeryn, the lower districts where the ill-fortuned and lesser races made their homes, on their left. Zek lifted his chin a little higher as they passed the nearest collection of run-down hovels that constituted part of the Braeryn, reminding himself of his noble birth and high station, and it served to bolster his confidence where his two silent companions were concerned.
South of the Braeryn was a finely-constructed privacy fence that separated the lower districts from Narbondellyn, a distinguished residential district in which dwelled a handful of Menzoberranzan's most prestigious drow families; Zek led them between the rock garden of House Godeep and the formidable stalagmites that served as deterrent to the left flank of House Srune'lett, each with a handful of mounted drow soldiers patrolling the exterior. The master of Sorcere nodded haughtily to anyone they passed, gaining confidence with each step he took, for his own house was just visible beyond the courtyard that sprawled behind House Srune'lett and he drew strength from the sight of its magnificent stalagmite towers piercing into the limitless cavern ceiling and the emerald green faerie fires burning with majestic subtlety about its boundaries. He hailed the guard keeping the peace outside House Vandree, and then they were scaling the ornately-carved staircase that led from Narbondellyn up to Qu'ellarz'orl.
Here was built the grandest and most powerful drow houses in Menzoberranzan, the eight structures that were a part of the Ruling Council that governed the flourishing dark elf city. Zek lost a measure of his swelling pride the moment he stood among the grandiose and imposing houses that constituted the most prominent families of their society; no less than two of House Vandree would fit within the squat but sprawling boundaries of House Agrach Dyrr, and it had been said that the army under the command of House Barrison Del'Armgo numbered at four times the amount of soldiers that House Vandree could boast. House Baenre loomed at the very back of Qu'ellarz'orl, its intimidating edifices limned with deep violet faerie fire and its gated courtyard barred and awash with guards; Zek couldn't help feeling awed by the sheer majesty of the residence of the ruling house, which more closely resembled a palace than anything else.
Predictably they were stopped by stern-faced guards bearing the sigil of Baenre as they approached; Mourn and Xuntath stood idly by, their faces impassive and almost bored as Zek hastened to present the parchment upon which was scrawled their summons. The legitimacy of the letter could hardly be questioned, emblazoned as it was with the Baenre insignia in dark purple wax, and soon enough the gate was opened for them and a small contingent of the guard escorted them through the courtyard. Zek allowed his single burgundy eye to wander about his unfamiliar surroundings as they made their way to the sweeping entrance, taking in the obsidian sculptures of terrifying spiders and comely female drow that symbolized Lolth in both of the forms she often chose to take. Craning his neck back he could see that in several places the piercing stalagmites connected with stalactites jutting from the unfathomable ceiling; where these joined the Baenres had built platforms, upon which patrolled small groups of drow robed in rich piwafwis and armed with deadly hand crossbows.
Woe betide those foolish enough to intrude upon House Baenre, Zek found himself thinking, and then they had passed through the angular archway and into the impossibly spacious foyer.
The guard leading the small contingent of soldiers that comprised their formal escort presented their summons to a mute male drow slave, who nodded with understanding right away and gestured for them to follow; Zek led the way after him, unnerved by the resounding silence of the too-large hallways, up to a pair of great obsidian double doors upon which was carved with stunning intricacy the resurrection of Lolth to end the Time of Troubles. The depiction was sublime – the goddess in her cocoon in the deep darkness of the Abyss, the sacrifice of the battle captive Danifae to serve as the Spider Queen's new Yor'thae, and the triumphant rebirth of Lolth as she bestowed her divine blessing upon the unwaveringly faithful and executed her retribution upon those who had conspired against her in her dormant state. Zek had only a handful of seconds to admire the delicate carvings upon the doors before the slave was bowing them inside, and straightening he accepted the summons and strode purposefully forward. He was of House Vandree, a Master of Sorcere. He would not be intimidated by the grandeur that surrounded him.
The doors opened into an ovular-shaped audience chamber upon whose walls was etched a breathtaking illustration of the history of House Baenre and its many great accolades; Zek was able to name the failed assassination attempt on former matron mother Triel Baenre by a member of the Jaezred Chaulssin, the great battle between Archmage Gromph Baenre and the Lichdrow Dyrr, matron mother Quenthel Baenre usurping power from her sister Triel, and the fall of the traitor House Oblodra from its position of Third House to extinction. He glanced curiously over his shoulder at Xuntath, wondering how the psionist would swallow a grand depiction of the eradication of his once-exalted house and all of his ancestors, but was disappointed to find him looking as detached as ever. Zek cut his single working eye to the high-backed obsidian throne in the center of the audience chamber, expecting to find himself in the presence of the great Matron Mother Quenthel herself, and couldn't help feeling a little affronted to find it wasn't Quenthel sitting there awaiting him. He worked hard to keep the confusion from his face as he led their approach, sifting through his knowledge of the ruling house as he struggled to identify the female drow awaiting them haughtily upon the throne, and it was only when he bent the knee at the foot of her revered seat and bowed his head in obeisance that recognition dawned upon his downturned face – this was Quartana Baenre, second eldest daughter to Matron Mother Quenthel, she whom the priestesses dwelling within Arach Tinilith reverently called The Seer.
As Zek understood it, Quartana had been afflicted with strange and curious dreams from a very young age – some said she had been born with the ability to see the future and her talent manifested itself into visions she could only glimpse at night, and still others insisted that the dreams were a gift from the Spider Queen herself, a blessed daughter for the devout and pious matron mother of House Baenre. Within the walls of Sorcere, those male drow who had spent decades, even centuries, studying ways to unlock the secrets of divining the future insisted that such powers were impossible for any mortal to obtain – the drow were long lived, certainly, but they died all the same, and though they were as ambitious as any other race their minds were perhaps not vast enough to comprehend such world-altering knowledge. Personally, Zek had heard the whisperings of Quartana's gift and thought her quite the fraud – with such a power at her disposal, could she not put an end to Menzoberranzan's most deadly and hated enemies? Was the ability to conquer entire kingdoms and mold the world however she saw fit not within her grasp? He wasn't certain, but he couldn't help but wonder how much of Quartana's gift was truth and how much was exaggeration.
"My lady," Zek greeted her graciously. "We have come – "
"I know why you have come, Zek Vandree," the priestess drawled disinterestedly, a sigh of impatience in her voice. "Did I not summon you? Hold your tongue, your impertinent wretch, and listen to my words, for I guarantee you will find them far more insightful than anything you might have said. And raise yourself from the floor - I have little interest in talking to the back of your head. I would see the wonder on your face when you learn of the great honor the Spider Queen would bestow upon you."
When he took his feet with all the dignity he could muster he found that her eyes had slipped past him, alternating appraising glances between Xuntath and Mourn, who had bowed but not knelt before her. Rather than chastise them she nodded her approval, as though somehow pleased by what she saw. "Yes… You are the ones I saw. I thought so. Praise be to the Spider Queen for making the Sight so clear to me." Quartana relaxed back into the throne as though it was she, and not her mother Quenthel, who belonged there, glancing toward the single other female drow who occupied the chamber besides her. "I doubt you are well acquainted with my companion – you are but lowly males, after all – so allow me to present Nhilue Xorlarrin to you. She has also been chosen to carry out the Spider Queen's will."
To say that Nhilue was lovely by drow standards was an understatement – she was of remarkable beauty, the likes of which Zek had not seen in his two centuries of life. Where Quartana's hair was eggshell-white with a wave about the tresses Nhilue's was straight and white as newly-fallen snow; her skin was smooth as the black marble upon which they stood, and her facial features gracefully angular as befit their elven heritage. Quartana's eyes might have been a bright and luminous ruby, but the comely Xorlarrin's were deeper and darker, plush crimson velvet; she was not as thick of limb as her female counterpart but perhaps an inch taller, her build more willowy than most drow females, giving her a deceptive look of frailty. Zek could not say that he knew her personally, but he knew well enough her reputation – it was a rare occasion in which a female dark elf was given leave to pursue any study aside from her worship to the goddess Lolth, but the name Nhilue Xorlarrin was well known throughout the tower of Sorcere as one of the most accomplished conjurers in the city of Menzoberranzan. He also knew that she was exceedingly cruel to all male drow who had the misfortune of crossing her path – it seemed fitting, somehow, that her demeanor should be as cruel as her beauty.
Remembering himself, Zek spread his hands and lowered his head – House Xorlarrin outranked House Vandree, after all, and he was but a lowly male in the presence of two very powerful priestesses of Lolth. "We are honored to be in your presence," he told them both, his tone humble and gracious, and he wished his two companions would speak up for themselves – if they thought themselves too good to converse with the daughter of the matron mother of House Baenre, they would soon see the error of such foolish thinking. "We will serve you as best we may."
"You will if you want to live," snapped Nhilue, and Zek couldn't help but marvel at her. There was venom in her words and fury in her eyes, but it seemed to him that she was more beautiful in her anger than even before.
"Now, now," Quartana chuckled sardonically, putting out a hand and patting Nhilue's arm in a placating fashion. "There will be plenty of opportunity to discipline them later, of that I have no doubt… For now, though, we must talk. The Spider Queen has determined that we shall carry out her will, and so we shall without delay. But first… I assume you are all familiar with the name Lim Tal'eyve?"
Zek knew it well enough – all drow did this day and age – but it was Mourntrin Auvryndar who answered first. "Once he was the Anointed Blade of the Jaezred Chaulssin, the male drow extremist group who plotted the overthrow of the drow priestesses during the Time of Troubles," he explained, his voice carefully neutral – it was unwise to speak of the upheaval of their matriarchal society, for the drow priestesses ruled all with an iron fist. "When the Spider Queen returned she exacted retribution upon those who had strayed from her side – Lim Tal'eyve may have been among the first to fall, for his crimes against her were heinous and unforgivable. It is said that the Spider Queen's vengeance came in the form of a Mielikki druid called Drako Falconis, who killed him before his plans to bear the Anointed Blade to the Abyss to slay the Spider Queen where she lay sleeping could come to fruition, and that afterward Lim Tal'eyve suffered unceasing tortures at the goddess's pleasure."
"Continue," Quartana bade him, lounging luxuriously back in the throne, and Zek was so engrossed in the assassin's tale that he flinched at the sound of her voice.
Mourn nodded once, readily compliant. "It is believed that he forged some sort of accord with the Spider Queen, for several years later Lim Tal'eyve was risen and seated himself upon the throne within the accursed Castle Perilous while he razed the Bloodstone Lands. Whatever he meant to accomplish was not to pass, though, for before he could reap the rewards of his conquest he was struck down yet again by Mielikki's champion Drako Falconis. It is said that he rots in the Abyss still, existing only to bring the Spider Queen amusement."
Quartana was nodding along as Mourn's tale came to a close, but in the way her eyes glittered conspiratorially Zek had to wonder if there was indeed more to the story. "You are not wrong, but the tale of Lim Tal'eyve does not end there. The Spider Queen has graciously shared with me the lichdrow's machinations of late, and the truth of his business is appalling – knowing the goddess's love of chaos and discord he was able to secure for himself yet another bargain with her, hoping to prove his loyalty and secure his freedom by exchanging his own soul for that of another whom the Spider Queen also despises. His choice fell upon Aveil Arthien, who was once the wife of this Drako Falconis, but he was not successful in that particular endeavor. Despite his countless failures he was somehow able to make one last bargain with the Spider Queen, who aided him in leading scores of phaerimm against an ancient and powerful civilization. It was our goddess's belief that Lim Tal'eyve was doing this to cripple the power of Shar, when in fact he was pursuing his own ends." Quartana ended with a heavy sigh as though somehow pained on her goddess's behalf. "Now he is alive and well – this much I have Seen – and is undoubtedly using his new power and influence to plan a counter-offensive against our lady Lolth."
It was silent for the span of several heartbeats as they all processed this information, and Zek found that he really had only one question. "Phaerimm are very old, very strong creatures – few civilizations could stand against an attack of such a magnitude. Who has Lim Tal'eyve allied himself with, who was able to turn the tide of such an assault and live to tell of it?"
"The shadow masters of Thultanthar," Quartana told them, unable to hide her scowl of distaste when she said the name.
The place struck a faint chord of recognition in Zek, but he was unable to place it right away; across from him, Nhilue Xorlarrin looked similarly stymied. He chose to ask the obvious question for her, in the hopes that she would show him favor. "I confess, I cannot place the name."
Standing between the throne and Mourntrin, Xuntath lifted his hands and articulated the answer in the drow sign language. The last remaining city of the archwizards of the Netherese Imperium, the only such floating enclave to survive Karsus' Folly. The Empire of Shade from which rules Lord Shadow and his Twelve Princes of Shade.
Zek raised an eyebrow, his single burgundy eye flitting across each of his companions in turn to gauge their reactions. "Lim Tal'eyve has surrounded himself with mighty allies, it would seem." He turned back to Quartana Baenre, who was lounging languidly back against the throne; for the first time his eye slipped past her to study the intricate stonework that adorned the obsidian against her back, a surprisingly detailed depiction of former matron other Yvonnel Baenre's face in profile. "Forgive my insolence, priestess, but I cannot help but wonder what these events have to do with us." Half-formed assumptions had been chasing one another around his mind since the moment he had first set eyes upon the summons, but he simply couldn't determine the common denominator that they all shared. It seemed that Quartana and Nhilue had become acquainted with one another and it was clear that Xuntath and Mourn, belonging to the same organization, knew one another well enough, but Zek would hardly call them all familiar. What could the Baenre priestess have planned for them?
At last she regarded them resolutely, preparing to divulge the truth of their meeting, but Zek was in no way ready for what she had to say. "The goddess spoke to me in a dream, as she often does," Quartana began haughtily. "She has selected us for the singular honor of eliminating Lim Tal'eyve, and those now closest to him."
Only Nhilue looked at all pleased by Quartana's announcement, and judging by the stiffness of her jaw Zek suspected that was mostly for her superior's benefit; Zek did not miss the dubious glance that Mourn and Xuntath shared, which encompassed all emotions from confusion to suspicion and even alarm. He felt only a sense of dread – he was as devoted to serving the Spider Queen as any male of their matriarchal society, but anyone could see that Quartana was sending them to their deaths.
"Well?" the Baenre priestess demanded at last, her piercing crimson irises darting to each of them in turn, and it was clear in her incredulous gaze that she couldn't comprehend why they weren't rejoicing. "Are you not pleased?"
Xuntath lifted his hands and walked his fingers haltingly through a reply. It is an honor to do the goddess' bidding, to be sure, but how can you be certain that she has selected us for this task? Lim Tal'eyve is a formidable foe – you have only to examine his sordid history to see that – and we are but five. We scarcely know one another, and we will need every advantage if we are to have any hope of success.
"I have Seen it," Quartana repeated stubbornly, as if that fact should settle the matter. "All that I see will eventually come to pass. That is the way of it."
"But I do not understand," Mourn broke in, his brow creased with doubt. "Have you seen us accompanying you? What reason could you have for choosing us?"
Nhilue opened her mouth vehemently, a protest on her lips, but Quartana lifted a hand in a wordless request that she stay her words. "In my dream there were drow infiltrating the darkest, most private recesses of the Empire of Shade. I witnessed a curious hooded drow with dreadful white eyes doing battle of the minds with a shadowed creature that was obviously not of high Netherese birth. I saw a comely drow female conjure a pack of hellhounds and set them upon the Archmistress of the Citadel of Assassins. I saw a silent assassin slit the throat of a great slumbering monarch and a shadow princess-to-be. I watched a one-eyed drow impersonate Lord Shadow and murder one of his own sons. And I watched myself tear the shadow orb from Lim Tal'eyve's chest." The Baenre priestess abruptly pushed herself upright, seeming somehow too large for the elaborate throne in which she sat as she gazed around at them all. "I have spent a fortnight communing with the Spider Queen, studying these images with great care. I am not wrong in this. You are those whom I glimpsed in my dream, and we are meant to be the instruments of our goddess' destruction."
This time when Mourn and Xuntath exchanged a silent glance it was one of a far different sort – curiosity, awe, intrigue. They had reached the same conclusion, Zek suspected, that he had – perhaps Quartana wasn't as mad as they had originally taken her for. For how else could she have known to summon them? They had absolutely nothing in common – this was, after all, the first time they had ever inhabited the same room! What if there truly was merit to her dreams? Could it be that Lolth truly had imparted her will upon her servant while she slept? Was it possible that their goddess had done such a thing before?
"Even if this is true," Mourn began diplomatically, "and we are meant to carry out the Spider Queen's agenda, how are we meant to go about accomplishing all this? The Princes of Shade will hardly feel inclined to grant us admittance when they learn that we mean them ill."
"Not only that," Nhilue added uncertainly, submissive in the face of a higher-ranking priestess' imminent wrath, "but we are the children of the Spider Queen, who is the bitter enemy of the Black Bitch Shar, whom the Shadovar are bound to serve. They would take one look at our faces and destroy us most malevolently, without pausing to ask us for our business there."
"We will not be asking for admittance," Quartana confirmed, a measure of her tension easing out of her shoulders and the smallest of conspiratorial smiles playing across her lips. "The purpose of this visit is in no way diplomatic in nature – we will not be asking permission to confront Lim Tal'eyve on even terms. The Spider Queen has named him the lowest, most abhorred traitor of our kind – for him there will be no clemency, and those who have thrown their lot in with him are now to be viewed as accomplices in his crimes. We will sneak unannounced into their city and perform our dark business in secret – Lolth has declared war upon the city of Thultanthar, and we are named as her advance guard."
A stunned silence descended upon them all as the meaning of Quartana's words slowly sunk in; the air stilled in Zek's lungs, and he found himself light-headed and dizzy. War? Upon the City of Shade? They were not surface dwellers, it was true, but word of Lord Shadow's bid for power had reached every corner of the Realms over the course of the last half year – how the Princes of Shade had intruded upon the Lords of Waterdeep in their own tower and brutally massacred them all, how Lady Alustriel of Silverymoon had surrendered her city into the hands of the shades out of fear. The lands that the Netherese had claimed in centuries past before the cataclysm known as Karsus' Folly had brought their race to near-extinction had been razed to the ground and reclaimed through blood and struggle over the course of hundreds of years – now they were bent on reclaiming what they viewed as rightfully theirs, and then some. But was it truly to be war? Was this the will of Lolth, or the delusions of one of Lolth's followers?
"You are afraid," Quartana observed disdainfully, her tone making it clear that her words were meant to serve as an observation and not a question. "You know the reputation of Thultanthar and feel terror when you consider coming to conflict with such an empire. Yet are we not as grand? Is Menzoberranzan not as fabled and mighty a city as any in all the Realms? Look at all we will be accomplishing when we succeed – and rest assured victory will be ours with the Spider Queen on our side."
She paused, waiting for them to articulate all that would be theirs in the event that such a victory was in fact within their reach, and it was Nhilue who spoke up thoughtfully on their behalf. "To take the life of Lim Tal'eyve would be a feat within itself. Such an act would be akin to slaying Drizzt Do'Urden, who has long been viewed as the ultimate traitor to our kind."
Her obvious intrigue fueled Zek's own interest, stoking the mounting flames of his determination, his dedication to this reckless cause. "If the Spider Queen has named us her champions in this, how can we fail? To eliminate the Twelve Princes of Shade… to slay the fabled Lord Shadow of legend… we would secure for ourselves the favor of Lolth for all our days. If we were to deliver this last remaining city of the once-great Netherese Imperium to our exalted lady we would gain for Menzoberranzan nearly limitless knowledge and resources. Imagine – foreign magics at our fingertips, the likes of which other nations could scarcely comprehend. A place for ourselves within the surface world, yet far from the prying eyes of its greedy and selfish inhabitants and ever-protected from the sun. Sacred lands that the world has fought to claim for millennia suddenly within our grasp." Zek Vandree found himself smiling then, white teeth stark against him ebon-skinned face, single burgundy eye shimmering with malicious excitement. "This is an opportunity for us to spread true chaos and discord in Lolth's name in such a way that has never before been attempted. How can we allow this chance to pass us by?"
Mourntrin Auvryndar was nodding along reluctantly yet resolutely, the greed and ambition characteristic of their race glimmering in the depths of his unusual fuchsia eyes. "The logic is sound, and the Spider Queen's will cannot be questioned. My talents are at your disposal, Lady Baenre. You have only to tell me the name of those you wish me to slay in Lolth's name, and by my hand it will be done."
Xuntath Oblodra's empty white irises were piercing through the darkness of his hooded face when he lifted his hands to reply. There is not a mind in all the Realms that has found the strength to withstand the powers of House Oblodra, deceased though it may be. I intend to uphold that legacy, and use these gifts to prove to the Spider Queen that not all who bear the name Oblodra are treasonous.
With their pledges made and their intentions clear, Nhilue turned back to face Quartana Baenre. "When do we begin, priestess? How will we find our way into the City of Shade?"
Quartana relaxed her posture again, smiling as though their battles were already won as she surveyed them all appreciatively. "Trust in the Spider Queen. When it is time for us to strike, she will show us the way."
How did you find our new associates? the familiar voice of Xuntath Oblodra wafted through his mind later that night, for they were back in the headquarters of Bregan D'aerthe surrounded by their peers and he did not dare speak of such private business aloud. Mourn avoided eye contact, continuing about his business as though nothing were amiss, for they were still in the dining hall and it would seem only natural for him to stare blankly down at his plate without attracting any attention. Xuntath's presence hovered over him like a cloud, awaiting confirmation that Mourn had heard him, and taking a swig of wine he eyed his accomplice over the rim of his goblet pointedly.
Outside. He thought the word clearly, for he was not at all attuned to these strange psionics that Xuntath and his descendants had come by so easily and often had to struggle to impart even the simplest words and phrases. He hoped that would be enough for the orphaned Oblodra, who preferred to speak using his telepathy or the drow sign language and not through any verbal exchange. Thankfully Xuntath nodded and did not protest, rising immediately from his seat three tables away and slipping out of the dining hall, and Mourn lingered long enough to finish the last few bites of his meal before following suit.
The primary headquarters of the mercenary band Bregan D'aerthe were situated within the deep crevasse of the Clawrift, in which it was rumored that ghosts and wraiths could be found aplenty. In truth, there was little credence to these claims – the lieutenants of the organization had facilitated such rumors long ago in order to keep prying eyes and ears out of their domain, and to ensure the relative secrecy of their organization's movements. Xuntath was awaiting him when Mourn made his way out of the great hall where meals were taken and large meetings were held and beckoned to him wordlessly, and they fell into step side-by-side and made their way further into the limitless blackness of the Underdark.
There was a subterranean pool to the east of Menzoberranzan where members of the mercenary band often went when they had leisure time to spend and they found themselves heading that way without agreeing to do so. The cavern in which the pool resided had a low ceiling with sharp stalactites jutting from the ceiling that made it appear much like the maw of an ancient, wicked beast; phosphorescent lichen grew in abundance, giving the cave a natural blue-green glow by which to see. The pool was too small to be considered a lake but deceptively deep in the center – the soft illumination of the lichen made it appear only waist-height on most drow, but its mirror-like surface masked depths up to forty feet in the center that had claimed the lives of many a careless wanderer in the past. Mourn stooped to pick up a rock as they neared the shore and cast it into the shallows with a deft flick of his wrist; the stone skipped the water four times, leaving a wake of gentle ripples at each point of impact before sinking beneath the fluorescent surface.
Xuntath's hands flashed – he was not possessed of Mourn's patience. The arrangement?
Mourn skipped a second rock, this one flat as a coin and white as bone, but he lost it in the harsh glow off the surface as he turned back to sign a reply – better to err on the side of caution, he knew. It is a curious predicament that we find ourselves in, but not unwelcome. You know I have been awaiting an opportunity such as this for quite some time.
I do know. Xuntath's eyes shone an electric blue-green in the light cast off the lichen, unblinking, fathomless. The Baenre priestess is assured already of the smoothness of this operation… She thinks it inconceivable that we could fail in these matters. I had heard of these visions of hers, but of her stubbornness and naivety I knew nothing.
The orphaned Auvryndar chuckled beneath his breath in agreement – he had seen enough of Quartana's arrogance during their audience with her earlier that day to know that Xuntath's words held merit. Still, what proof do we have that she does not commune with Lolth while she sleeps? Every word she speaks could be true – and if it is, I have little choice but to follow her into the Empire of Shade.
Her words may be false, Xuntath pointed out remorselessly, hardly one to beat around the bush. Her words may be misinterpreted, or worse – what she has 'Seen', if she has seen anything at all, may not come to pass. I have studied the Sight, for I once had a sister who claimed to be in possession of such all-seeing powers. The things that she claimed would occur did not always play out as she had seen them – for example, if those within Thultanthar that Quartana has named as targets become wise to our movements –
- They might interfere, Mourn finished confidently, knowing that he was correct in his assumption. They might take steps to alter the course of the future – even if that future is something a goddess has set into motion.
Xuntath was nodding along sagely, his response an ever-cryptic, Nothing is certain.
Then Lim Tal'eyve may not be dwelling among the Shadovar at all, Mourn supposed, his fingers jerky with irritation. He had sacrificed too much for that to be the case. He needed this. More now rode upon his ability to come into contact with Lim Tal'eyve than perhaps anyone could begin to fathom – even Xuntath Oblodra, who had been his co-conspirator from almost the very start.
He must be, Xuntath countered, his voice almost reassuring, and for the normally taciturn psionist that was saying something. Why else would the Spider Queen declare all-out war upon Thultanthar if it was not in some way connected to him? His list of transgressions against her runs long, longer perhaps than even those of Drizzt Do'Urden – one must assume that Lolth is willing to sacrifice much to bring him to heel. The question is, how much are you willing to risk to complete your true aim?
Mourntrin Auvryndar took up another rock in his hand, turning it over in his fingertips as he frowned down at it, deep in thought. He had come a long way – he could still recall with startling clarity clawing his way out of the smoldering wreckage of his doomed house in Ched Nasad, eventually emerging the only survivor from an inner-house battle that had, in one fell swoop, eliminated every single one of his kin. He had scraped by from the moment he had become an orphan, grasping at every opportunity that came his way no matter how insignificant it seemed, fighting inch for bloody inch until he had arrived at the place he was today – alive and strong, feared and successful, junior lieutenant to the controversial yet deadly mercenaries of Bregan D'aerthe.
So really, Xuntath's question was not applicable. He had already risked everything to get to where he was.
All that I am, he said at last, launching the rock that had grown warm in his hand, and it skipped so seamlessly across the water that he heard it clack onto the opposite shore.
He took that as a good sign.