"She's here," Zekatar whispered in Zesstra's ear. It was unnecessary. She could feel the ripple of change in the way everyone stood when the doors to the audience hall opened. Tension buzzed in the air among the collected matriarchs and officers. Every important or influential part of House Duskryn was here and waiting for whatever was to come next. Down the cleared aisle, Zesstra could see her sister approaching. Lirayne's armor was dirtied by smoke and blood, but she hardly looked exhausted. Her glare was unwavering and her bearing perfectly proud with chin held high. It needled at Zesstra even though it was a familiar posturing. And at her sister's shoulder was the favored soul, a dangerous creature if ever there was one. Zesstra doubted her niece was well glued together and that made her unpredictable.

"Sister, welcome home," Zesstra said with a smile she didn't feel, standing at the base of the steps leading up to the throne. "Let's save the niceties—I know the Matron is dead."

"You'd be surprised, Zesstra," Lirayne said, reaching into the bag. She found the wrapped circlet and pulled it out. She could see the way her sister's eyes focused on it and recognized the naked ambition there. They were treading now on fragile ground, an inaudible cracking sound speaking of danger ahead. "She's the one who sent me."

"Because you're the favorite?"

"Because I was with her," the younger cleric said. She motioned to Llolfaen, who backed away to a respectful distance quietly. "You don't want to do this, Zesstra. You know it's foolish. That it's not worth the risk with Siniira still alive. Just bide your time for when she dies." She spoke almost soothingly, carefully avoiding a patronizing tone. If she could stave off this fight, she would. There was too much risk. It didn't matter how much she wanted to just cut that miserable, lying tongue out of her sister's head before ramming it down her throat.

"This is my birthright. I am tired of waiting," Zesstra said, hand moving to her spiked chain. She was competent with a sword, skilled with a mace, and an expert with the dagger, but she had always favored her father's chosen weapon for battle. It could tangle and snare someone like Lirayne easily, even to the point of disarming her, if wielded by someone who knew what they were doing. "You will give me the crown."

Lirayne let the cloth fall away, hearing the soft murmur of interested voices as the circlet of iron was revealed to them, graven with web patterns and the symbol of their House at the front. "Come and take it from me, Zesstra," she said with a deceptive quiet. Her barely restrained rage was already churning under the surface. She'd always fought better when her temper was roused and now she felt like the pressure in her chest was fit to burst at any moment. It burned.

Zekatar and Keldzar both moved towards her threateningly, only to abruptly stop when Llolfaen moved into their way, a spell flickering to life in each hand. Neither of them were unwise enough to try to tangle with her and Mourndar was watching carefully as he always did, waiting to see who would win before making any clear decision. He'd most recently been on Lirayne's side, but only because she was in the better position. Now, without the Matron, the playing field was almost perfectly level. Any drow would find that unnerving, even someone as experienced and generally fearless as Lirayne. She had to be hesitating, Mourndar told himself. That's why she hasn't rushed in like she used to.

It was either that, or the impossibly stubborn, arrogant priestess had learned.

Zesstra stalked forward. "I'll take it off your corpse," she said, even as a little ripple of uncertainty ran through her. Lirayne was far too calm. She had something up her sleeve. Zesstra knew that she would have if she was in Lirayne's shoes. It didn't make sense for her to just walk in and expect to win.

The time for talking was over, as far as Lirayne was concerned. She raised her blade and started to circle, watching Zesstra. Her vision narrowed until there was room for nothing else. This was the reason she had asked Llolfaen to watch her back. She was too busy focusing on the very much imminent threat of her sister. She had her plan and she was sticking to it—she knew something Zesstra didn't know. All that time spent handling Siniira's affairs, particularly the House defenses, had taught her more than a few neat little secrets about the many defensive positions and enchantments of the various areas of the House. That included the audience hall.

"I hear you lost your little human pet. So sad," Zesstra taunted, trying to goad her sister into something foolish. She whipped the spiked chain at Lirayne's head. Unable to parry it, Lirayne dropped to one knee, much to the older cleric's amusement. "You know, you look good like that. I could get used to seeing you down there."

The jab at Galen's absence stabbed straight into a very sensitive wound, but Lirayne kept her temper on a very tight leash. She had to think clearly. If she just rushed in, she would die. She kept the crown itself in her left hand, very much prepared to hit Zesstra with it no matter how prized it was. The Matron would definitely understand. She knew her mother had thought more than once about laying her hand on her eldest. But she hadn't, which was interesting in and of itself.

For her part, Zesstra was irritated. Her sister wasn't taking any bait. Just advancing methodically, stepping in angles so that no matter where Zesstra wanted to go, she was headed straight back. The steps made tricky terrain as she lashed out again and again, ever rewarded by a miss. This was the problem. Lirayne was far too practiced in warfare and combat than she was and always had been. She lashed out with a massively powerful spell, expertly hurled at Lirayne.

The younger priestess barely managed to shield herself from the brunt of the blast. Still she staggered backwards, wounds opening across her flesh. They were not as deep as Zesstra had hoped, but they were still somewhat satisfying. Lirayne could smell and taste her own blood, dripping down her chin. It was a good hit.

They started playing that deadly game of two priestesses in a duel for power. Weapons flashed and gleamed as each one sought to strike with them even as they battered at each other's defenses. Lirayne had taken the time to cast some resistances on her armor that kept the worst at bay, but she was taking damage much faster than Zesstra. Her sister was definitely the more skilled cleric between the two of them, no matter how favored by Lloth she might have been. They were close, but close wasn't enough.

Zesstra snagged a lucky hit, her chain curling around Lirayne's sword arm and curling tight with an expert twitch of the older cleric's hand. The sword fell out of the younger sister's hand and clattered to the ground. But even that wasn't quite the victory Zesstra wanted—Lirayne grabbed the chain with bloodied fingers and yanked hard, throwing Zesstra off balance. The younger cleric kicked out, her foot connecting with the center of her older sister's chest and knocking her back. There was an unpleasant moment where her heart stopped under the effect of that cardiac thump, but then it resumed its stuttering heartbeat only a second later. Zesstra lost her weapon, still held by Lirayne.

Lirayne had to unwind the spiked chain from her arm, easing the piercing barbs out of her flesh as much as she could. Flesh still tore and bled, but it was better than having it torn out. This way she could still use her arm. "You will not win this," Zesstra snarled, letting loose another spell as she drew her dagger.

Lirayne almost fell on the uneven footing of the steps when the blast of dark divine magic hit her, but she managed to keep her balance with the confidence of a cat. She threw the chain to the side and drew her own dagger. The chain would be useless if Zesstra closed with her. But unlike her sister, she snuck the knife out and hid it along the back of her thigh. As much as she'd said she wanted to spare Zesstra for the Matron to handle, she was fighting like it was life or death. Because it was. Zesstra would not be so forgiving to her. Behind her, the other nobles of House Duskryn were watching enthralled, save for Llolfaen. The young priestess was keeping her eyes out for threats just like she'd promised her mother she would. That meant archers up in the gallery, the crowd itself, the antechambers to the sides, and the nobles near her.

Zesstra lunged, but Lirayne was ready. She whipped her own knife up, barely catching her sister's blade in time to avoid a lethal slash to her throat. The younger cleric punched with her other gauntleted hand, hitting her unarmored sibling in the ribs. Zesstra had always favored robes, but she was quickly learning that it had its disadvantages even if she could move a little more freely. Lirayne never seemed slowed down by her armor, dancing nimbly from position to position as if she was only wearing smoke. It was because she'd spent so much of her life in it. There wasn't quite a crack, but Zesstra did cry out as the metal bruised her ribs and tore up the skin over the top of them. Blood started to seep through her robes.

Her recovery was quick, however, and she rammed her blade through Lirayne's upper arm, then twisted it and ripped it out. The second sister's weapon arm went dead, but before Zesstra could finish her off, Lirayne whipped a crescent kick into her lower leg that actually broke Zesstra's ankle at the same moment she shoved backwards.

Zesstra fell straight back into the throne, and the moment she sat in it, the magical markings seemed to come to life. They glowed with a brilliant light and seemed to writhe on the dragon-bone itself, recognizing that this was not their master. Zesstra screamed out as agony struck her like a lightning bolt, convulsing even though she couldn't let go of the arms or stand up to free herself. The throne itself was in revolt without the circlet. She might have died if Lirayne hadn't grabbed her by her wrist and yanked her forward.

The eldest's whole body went slack and she crumpled to the floor, completely neutralized. The collective breath that had been held by their audience was exhaled now that they knew what was going to happen. Or at least, they thought. Instead of finishing her sister off, Lirayne sheathed her knife and went to collect her sword. Once she had it in hand, she turned to the assembled notables of the House. "Anyone else?" she asked, holding out the circlet.

Not a single person stepped forward.

"Zekatar! Keldzar!" Lirayne barked, breaking the spell. "Return my sister to her quarters. She is under house arrest until the Matron returns and makes her ruling." Still clutching the circlet, Lirayne eased herself down to sit on the last step at the top of the throne's raised dais, her back actually resting against the throne. The defenses remained inactive, if only because she was holding the crown and not sitting in the chair itself.

Llolfaen approached her mother and knelt down, immediately casting a healing spell. Lirayne hissed a little in pain, but her wounds started to close neatly. "That went surprisingly well," the young priestess commented. "I take it you knew the throne would do that."

"I had an inkling," Lirayne said with a small smile, watching as the two males carried Zesstra away and the crowd dispersed. "I saw the runes and translated them a couple weeks ago, just because they matched some of the ones on the main gates and it piqued my curiosity. Turned out to be very useful. Now what have we learned?"

Llolfaen raised an eyebrow. "You're really turning this into a lesson, Mother?"

"Just answer the question," the older priestess said even though her lips curled up into an even broader smile at her daughter's expression of exasperation. She might have corrected the perceived backtalk had she been any other mother, but she liked having an independent daughter who didn't fear those older or more powerful than her. Llolfaen knew when to mind her manners due to Siniira's careful instruction.

"Be aware of everything around you at all times or you'll end up tortured by an inanimate object?" the girl suggested. It earned her a quiet laugh.

"Good enough. Now I'm just going to sit here quietly for a little while. Don't feel obligated to stay. Hopefully in the next few days, the Matron will arrive and clean up this little mess," Lirayne said. She rolled her neck around and was rewarded by a few soft pops. Her muscles were still stiff with tension, but slowly relaxing. "Ugh. Never again."

"You do realize that Lirayne just demonstrated in front of the whole House that she's Matron material and Zesstra's not? Particularly that challenge at the end. She was ready to take on anyone for the crown," Mourndar said insistently, standing in his father's quarters beside Keldzar. Zekatar had already obeyed Lirayne's orders, setting a guard outside of Zesstra's door so that she couldn't leave without raising an alarm. "People will be intimidated by that. And fear means respect."

The Patron was quiet, a brooding figure near his window. His armor gleamed dully in the light of Narbondel glowing through the window. It was the Weapons Master who spoke instead. "Lirayne may have won the battle, but not necessarily the war. If Zesstra can take her by surprise, get a knife in her back, it won't matter how much the House respects her. The Goddess favors who wins."

"Here I thought you would be happy that our future Matron might be someone who doesn't use you as a boy-toy," Mourndar said idly, ignoring the black look it earned him from the fighter.

"Zekatar, we need a plan," Keldzar said. "If Lirayne comes to power, she won't forget whose side we were on."

"There may be a way to avoid unpleasantness," Zekatar said. "But it's something only I can do."

"And what's that?" Mourndar asked, a trace of sarcastic disbelief lingering in his tone.

"Ingratiate myself with Siniira again," the Patron said. "Being in her good graces would put me into Lirayne's. Then I can be sure she spares you when she rises to power. Either that, or Zesstra will build up a power base again and defeat her sister. Either way, we have a safety net."

Keldzar let out a bark of laughter. "And we're supposed to believe that you'll protect us?" he said with a mocking skepticism. "I wasn't born yesterday, Zekatar. You're out for your own skin and no one else's."

"As befits a drow. Now, if you two are quite finished whining, show yourselves out," the Patron said brusquely, motioning them out. As they left, he mulled it over in his thoughts. How to win Siniira back over? It had been difficult enough to get and hold her attention the first time, and that was without a failed assassination attempt in their history. The fact that he resented and sometimes outright hated her was wholly beside the point. Zekatar was something of a maestro of survival, and that meant doing things for the sake of continued existence. Besides, Siniira was still as beautiful as she had been in her youth. Sharing her bed wouldn't be unpleasant. It was being around her outside of that context that got him into trouble. But first, he had to get there.

It was five days before Siniira returned. She'd parted ways with Aly and Sabal at the gates, but Yvonnel had insisted on accompanying her back to her House. The Revered Daughter's weak arm was in a sling so she wouldn't keep trying to use it, but her leg had regained much of its strength on the march back. Zekatar could hear their voices carrying down the hallway towards her quarters, their words indistinct but their voices familiar.

Yvonnel was a problem as far as he was concerned. She hated him far more than Siniira did. The Matron just regarded him with a cold contempt, but the Revered Daughter actively loathed him enough to kill him herself if he stepped wrong. He cursed at her and her presence.

Siniira closed the door to her quarters once they were both, activating the wards of silence. The iron circlet was back on her brow, carefully restored to her by her younger daughter. She looked over at the Revered Daughter, studying the familiar lines of that proud face that at the moment was lined with weariness and pain from aching joints that even healing spells could only do so much for. "I do want to talk to you before you return to the Yath'Abban," she said softly, going over to pour them each a glass of wine. They both needed it. "You never told me why you saved me. That strike would have killed me. And it certainly hasn't done you any good."

Yvonnel laughed, leaning back in her seat and letting her eyelids drift low to hood her crimson eyes. "It hasn't, has it?" she said as she combed her fingers through her snow-white hair.

"You could always answer my question," Siniira said, handing a glass of dark red liquid over and seating herself in the chair. It was an expensive luxury to have it imported from the surface, but one she'd never minded sharing with the Revered Daughter. In a way, it was only fitting with their respective statuses.

"I could," Yvonnel agreed. She set the wine aside untouched and leaned forward enough to rest her good elbow on her knee. "But I have no wish to, Siniira. If you cannot grasp why I did it on your own, there is no point in continuing the discussion. To me it is patently obvious."

"I want to understand, Yvonnel. I know it's important. It saved my life, after all," Siniira said softly, tempted to reach out to touch her not-quite-rival's hand. Were they friends? Drow didn't really have a good grasp of the concept. But there was certainly something in the way the priestess looked at her now, mixed with a definite disappointment. But before she could press a response out of the crimson-eyed drowess, there was a sharp knock on the door that broke the conversation. Siniira recognized it right away. "That's Zekatar."

"And my cue to leave," Yvonnel said, that familiar sour taste in her mouth. She hid it well, giving Siniira that small, polite smile that she'd perfected over centuries to mask anything and everything she felt. She rose and went to the door, opening it. The first thing Zekatar saw was a glare that should have killed him. Yvonnel brushed past him with a muttered, "Patron."

Siniira sighed. Yvonnel hadn't even given her a proper goodbye. But then again, her mood hadn't been the best since being cut apart, which was understandable. It was just rare for Siniira to find herself on the receiving end. "Zekatar, to what do I owe the visit?" she asked dryly, a little amused by the way fear flashed across the grizzled male's face when he saw the Revered Daughter.

"I was checking to see if you knew about Zesstra's predicament," he said, stepping in and closing the door.

"Llolfaen explained to me in the hall. How unfortunate for you," Siniira said. She motioned for him to sit down and take up the abandoned wine glass. "I'll deal with it tomorrow. Has anything else exciting cropped up in my absence?"

"Nothing," Zekatar said, accepting the rare hospitality quickly. It wasn't like her to be so generous, but he was not going to protest. Perhaps this wouldn't be as difficult as he'd thought. A lot of years had passed. Perhaps she'd grown weary of carrying her grudge with him. Yes, Siniira Duskryn had a long memory, but even she was known to forget, if not forgive. "You seem stiff. If you like, I could take care of that."

Siniira raised an eyebrow. "And what, I wonder, warrants such dutiful charity?"

"I am ever your servant, Matron," he said with all the fake sincerity he could muster. His voice remained like honey. He knew that if even a hint of the venom in his heart peeked through that he would be thrown out in an instant. Siniira was a strange drowess like that, unwilling to take to bed anyone that held some ill will towards her. Or perhaps it was more recent, an artifact of the attempt on her life that he'd orchestrated.

"You're being obliging. What do you want?" she said with narrowed eyes even as he rose and moved behind her chair. She didn't relax when he started to methodically rub her shoulders and work the kinks out.

"You." He could still imagine them together in ways that sent blood rushing south so fast that it almost made his head spin. He'd always thoroughly enjoyed his time in her bed. She was adept at finding that fine line between pain and pleasure that was his favorite place to be, at remaining in the pleasantly controlling spectrum of dominant behavior. She never took things too far, a trait the rest of his lovers had and still lacked. It would be very, very pleasant to be back there even if she otherwise retained her contempt for him.

Siniira made a sound of disbelief. She'd been alive more than long enough to know when someone was trying to worm their way into her good graces for their own gain. On the other hand, it had been a long time. One time wouldn't be that unwise. After all, it wasn't like—

No, this was Zekatar. She had her line in the sand drawn. So she relaxed under his touch and for a moment enjoyed the sensation of someone expertly rubbing the knots out of her tensed shoulders. Then gently she reached up and covered his hand with her own, holding with a very light pressure that told him that he'd won. Zekatar grinned for just a brief second, tasting victory. At least, until her grip changed.

Suddenly something in his wrist made an unpleasant grinding sound and his whole hand and arm twisted under her expert leverage and tight grip. She had him in a joint lock and forced him around her chair to stand in front of her before twisting hard enough to drop him to his knees. "How likely do you think I am to enjoy being toyed with, Zekatar?" she said pleasantly, insistently pressing and keeping him just at the very limit of his joints. A fraction of a touch of pressure more and his bones would start snapping like twigs.

"Not likely, Matron," he managed to get out between gritted teeth.

"Such a smart man," she said, tweaking his wrist slightly in a way that sent a jolt of agony running up his arm. Her movement was so precise it didn't quite break the bones. He would be looking at probably a few days of pain in his right arm. "I'm only going to say this once, and I want you to obey very quickly. Get. Out."

As soon as she released him, he bolted for the door with incredible speed and left Siniira sitting alone in her quarters with a faintly satisfied smile on her full lips. It always felt good to put the Patron back in his place. Someday soon she would replace him, but until then she nurtured her grudge. Hatred kept her edges sharp, even if it was far from her favorite emotion.