Daughter of the Drow (27 page)

Anarchy was all well and good, and necessary to bring about sweeping change in Menzoberranzan society, but someone would have to bring the city back to order. Shakti was supremely confident of her management skills, but she also realized that no one person, no one faction, was strong enough to regain control. Her family controlled much of the city’s food supply, and that was a powerful tool. She would also need strong allies and ties to the world outside the city. Who better to provide both than a powerful merchant captain who was also a wizard?

And for that matter, who better to snatch Menzoberranzan from the hand of Lloth but Vhaeraun, the drow god of thievery!

The female nodded slowly. Sometime very soon she would pay a visit to this Nisstyre.

Each day at Arach-Tinilith ended in the Academy chapel, in a session of prayer and praise to the goddess of the drow. Although the services took many forms, they were always eerie, impressive affairs. The chapel itself inspired awe, carved as it was from a single mass of black stone. Circles of seats surrounded a central platform, each row higher than the last so all could see the dark altar. Eight curving beams buttressed the circular room and met at the top of the domed chamber, becoming part of an enormous sculpture of a spider with the head of a beautiful drow female: a favored form of the Spider Queen. Raerie fire outlined the gigantic spider and cast shadows across the sea of dark faces below.

All of Arach-Tinilith gathered there, from the matron mistress to the lowliest novice priestess, and the rhythmic chanting of hundreds of dark-elven voices echoed throughout the high-domed chamber. And of all the voices raised, perhaps the most iervent belonged to Shakti Hunzrin, who had tucked within the folds of her robes papers that could not fail to destroy her hated rival.

The chanting gathered speed and power as the time for the dark ritual grew near. One of the older students slowly approached the altar, carrying before her a silver tray. On it lay a drow heart, still throbbing with life newly taken. It was the heart of a male, which was usually considered a lesser sacrifice, but this night the ritual had a special power. This night the sacrifice fulfilled one of Lloth’s most brutal requirements.

Devotion to the Spider Queen was all-important, superseding any personal loyalty. Lloth was especially offended by the possibility that one of her priestesses might become too fond of a lowly male. So from time to time, a priestess was commanded to slay her lover, a matron to sacrifice her house patron, a mother to offer up the sire of her children. Knowing this, the drow had learned to be wary of giving and receiving affection; the penalty was too cruel for all involved. But as the young priestess approached the altar, the hard set of her face and the blood on her delicate hands proved she had been equal to the task.

The priestess lifted the tray high, and the thunderous chant rose to a single, keening note. In voices as haunting and high-pitched as elven flutes, the drow females began to sing a ritual song of summoning. Matron Triel Baenre stepped forward, robed in the somber black of a high priestess. Her voice, magically enhanced to match the power of the assembled singers, chanted a low-pitched prayer in weird counterpoint to the song.

Tonight the song and the chant were largely a formality, for Lloth rarely spoke now except to the most powerful of her priestesses. It was whispered in Menzoberranzan that the loss of so many priestesses in the war and in the struggle for position that continued to this day had diminished the very power of the goddess. In times past—before the Time of Trouble, before the disastrous war—ceremonies such as this were often rewarded with some manifestation of Lloth’s approval: a new spell, the creation of a magical item, the summoning of a scurrying rush of spiders, even an appearance of one of the goddess’s minions. On rare occasions, the avatar of Lloth herself appeared to her faithful. But it seemed as if those times had passed.

Suddenly the faerie fire died, plunging the chamber into utter blackness. The song and the chant fell silent, and every eye was fixed in fearful fascination upon the faint glow dawning in the very heart of the chapel.

In the midst of the room, where the altar had been but a moment before, stood a huge, hideous creature. Its formless body resembled a mound of half-melted wax, and large bulbous eyes shone with baleful red light as it glared out at the assembly.

A mixture of elation and dread gripped Lloth’s faithful. This was a yochlol, a creature from the lower planes and a handmaiden of the Spider Queen. For good or ill, the yochlol’s appearance meant Lloth’s eyes were upon them.

“Anarchy.”

The yochlol’s voice was faint and airy, a mere wisp of ^ sound, yet every ear in the room heard the single word of 4 warning.

The creature’s body shifted and flowed, and an armlike appendage shot toward the student priestess and knocked the silver tray from her still-uplifted arms. The sacrificed heart flew across the room to land in the lap of an aged priestess. In the utter silence the sound of the tray hitting the stone floor was a ringing portent of doom.

The yochlol oozed forward and snatched up the heart from the old priestess’s bloodstained lap. It held the sacrifice aloft.

“Another life taken,” the creature hissed. “Do you think this carnage pleases Lloth?”

Triel Baenre stepped forward and sank into a respectful bow. “For centuries untold, this has been the custom of the drow, by the command of Lloth. Teach us where we have erred.”

Too much blood stains the streets of Menzoberranzan,” announced the yochlol in its otherworldly whisper. Too few drow remain, yet you slay each other without thought for the consequences. In your selfish ambitions, you have endangered all. By the decree of Lloth, this striving between houses must cease. Likewise, the struggle for personal power within each house must end. Until Lloth instructs otherwise, there is to be peace among her followers. Tonight, at the hour of Narbondel’s Black Death, the twenty most powerful houses that remain will gather together in Qu’ellarz’orl.”

The yochlol named them in turn, from House Baenre down to House Vandree. “So you are ranked by the word of Lloth, and so you will remain until it pleases the goddess to release you from this enforced peace. Any house that has not settled its affairs and chosen a matron by the appointed hour will be summarily destroyed,” the creature admonished. “Go now, each to her own house, and carry with you the word of Lloth.”

Another tremor passed through the yochlol’s form, and the handmaiden melted into a bubbling puddle. Steam rose from the seething mass, forming into a multitude of wraith-like spiders and floating up toward the carved image of Lloth that surrounded the chapel with its stone embrace. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the manifestation of the yochlol was gone.

The drow priestesses sat stunned and silent. Lloth, the Spider Queen, the Lady of Chaos, was calling for peace! No one was sure what to make of such a thing!

Again Matron Triel broke the silence. “You have heard. At the appointed hour, we will meet at House Baenre.”

Scowls met this announcement. The yochlol had decreed the gathering take place in Qu’ellarz’orl. This, the most prestigious district of Menzoberranzan, took its name from the tiny cave that served as a meeting chamber for the Ruling Council. Every female in the room aspired to sit in that chamber, and most of them understood this meeting might realistically be their only chance to do so. Nonetheless, no one dared to protest the directive of the matron mistress. By the word of Lloth, Triel Baenre was still matron of the first house. There were practical considerations, also, for in all of Qu’ellarz’orl, only the vast Baenre chapel was large enough to house such a gathering.

So the drow slipped away into the darkness. As each female hurried to her family fortress, she pondered how best to turn these new developments to her own advantage. The strange, unnatural peace would end in due time, and much could be done in preparation for that delightful day.

A lone figure stood at the base of Narbondel, the natural stone pillar that supported the vast cavern and marked the passing of time. Gromph Baenre, the archmage of Menzoberranzan, waited and watched as the magical heat in the core of the pillar sank toward its lowest point. Soon it would be midnight—Narbondel’s Black Death—and he would cast the powerful spell that started the process anew.

Although there were none about to see and envy him, Gromph’s proud stance suggested he was keenly aware of the impressive picture he made. The magnificent cloak of the archmage, a glittering piwafwi whose many pockets held more magic than all of the Sorcere, was draped proudly about his shoulders. Jeweled broaches adorned his shoulders and held the cape in place. The archmage touched one of them, a fist-sized sapphire that held the magic needed to enspell the city’s timeclock.

Gromph knew he was striking even without the trappings of power. Tall and handsome, as fit and youthful in appearance as any student of the fighting school, he could draw eyes to him in admiration as well as in fear and respect. And he was greatly feared, for in all of Menzoberranzan no wizard was as mighty as he. This dark hour was uniquely his, and the casting of this spell was a daily, private celebration of his own power.

The wizard began to meditate, to gather his thoughts in preparation for the casting. Then, from the corner of his eye, he noted a driftdisc floating down the broad street toward him. Behind it marched not the usual armed escort, but a group of robed priestesses.

Gromph frowned as he recognized the matron of Barrison DeFArmgo, the second-most powerful house of Menzoberranzan. What might she be doing at this hour, riding forth in state?

His puzzlement grew as he noted another driftdisc approaching from elegant Narbondellyn. Close behind it were several slave-carried litters. More priestesses came, some mounted on lizards, others on foot. They streamed past him on all sides, nearly all the priestesses of the city, moving with quiet determination toward the Baenre fortress.

Rage, hot and fierce, burned in Gromph’s heart. It was obvious an important meeting had been called, and he had not been included, or even informed. Something momentous was happening, and he must know what it was.

He grasped the house insignia that hung about his neck, and spoke the words that would transport him with the speed of thought to the Baenre stronghold. To his utter astonishment, nothing happened. The powerful archmage of Menzoberranzan stood alone in the center of the dark courtyard, barred from his family home.

Because he could do nothing else, Gromph turned to the cold stone pillar and began to recite the words of the spell.

Triel Baenre sat at the heart of the Baenre chapel, looking out over the dark faces before her. Although this was her stronghold, her kingdom, she felt ill at ease with the task ahead and was not sure how to begin such a meeting.

For good or ill, the decision was taken from her. A small, rather wizened drow female made her way boldly toward the Baenre throne. The other priestesses fell back to make room for her, and even Triel rose to her feet and offered the seat of honor to the newcomer.

For the old drow was Hesken-Faj, the matron of House Symrywin and the most powerful priestess in all of Menzoberranzan. Although her house had been ranked a mere eighteenth for centuries untold, the matron had a power that all recognized and respected. Hesken-Faj was often called “the eyes of Lloth,” and on the rare occasions she ventured from her house she was granted great respect.

But Hesken-Faj waved away Triel’s offer of the throne. “I have been sent to speak, not to rule,” she said impatiently. The old female turned to the assembled priestesses, clearly eager to have her say and be off.

To each new matron, Lloth sends congratulations. Rule long and well, and restore the faith of Lloth to its former power. You have already heard there is to be no more war in Menzoberranzan. The city must be restored. No priestess shall slay another, and all healthy drow children must be reared, even the males. Until Lloth directs otherwise, the Ruling Council will enforce these new laws.”

The old drow then named the eight matrons who would lead the city. “See that you rule well,” she admonished, “for Lloth’s peace is temporary and easily broken. Know that those who break peace for their own advancement will be destroyed. Those who extend Lloth’s reign will be rewarded. That is all I have to say.” With those words, the matron became as insubstantial as mist and faded from sight.

Triel cleared her throat. “All have heard. Now that the Ruling Council has been established, all future meetings will be restricted to the Eight. If any of you have words to speak that concern this general council, you may do so now.”

Shakti Hunzrin leaped to her feet. Such a moment might never come again, and she meant to seize it with both hands. Lloth might have averted anarchy for the moment, but Shakti would do what damage she could.

“Something has come to my attention that concerns each drow present,” Shakti began. “A novice priestess has dabbled in strange magic, human magic. To what purpose, I cannot know. This priestess possesses an amulet, a human artifact of great antiquity that allows her to carry drow magic up into the Lands Above.”

Shakti took several sheets of parchment from the folds of her robe and held them high. “I have here the proof, written in this priestess’s own hand. This magic is wielded by Liriel, of House Baenre. To this council I give my discovery, and the task of deciding what must be done with it.”

There was a momenta-just a moment—of blank and utter shock. Then the meeting exploded into chaos. The priestesses received this news with wildly varying opinions. Some argued excitedly about the possibilities, others loudly called for the death of the Baenre traitor, still others—grim-faced—muttered prayers to Lloth.

Finally Matron Triel rose to her feet. Despite her lack of physical stature, all eyes turned upon her as she stood before them, her small face blazing with wrath.

“Silence!” Triel thundered.

Silence fell, complete and immediate. The single word carried the force of a spell, and not one person in the chapel could have spoken even if she had dared to try.