Homeland (25 page)

“House Do’Urden?” Matron Baenre questioned, surprised that any would implicate Matron Malice. By all of Baenre’s knowledge, Malice remained in high regard with the Spider Queen, and House Do’Urden had recently placed two instructors in the Academy.

“For what crime do you dare to charge House Do’Urden?” asked one of the other matrons.

“Are these words of fear, SiNafay?” Matron Baenre had to ask. Several of the ruling matrons had expressed concern about House Do’Urden. It was well known that Matron Malice desired a seat on the ruling council, and, by all measures of the power of her house, she seemed destined to get it.

“I have appropriate cause,” SiNafay insisted.

“The others seem to doubt you,” replied Matron Baenre. “You should explain your accusation—quickly, if you value your reputation.”

SiNafay knew that more than her reputation was at stake; in Menzoberranzan, a false accusation was a crime on par with murder. “We all remember the fall of House DeVir,” SiNafay began. “Seven of us now gathered sat upon the ruling council beside Matron Ginafae DeVir.”

“House DeVir is no more,” Matron Baenre reminded her.

“Because of House Do’Urden,” SiNafay said bluntly.

This time the gasps came out as open anger.

“How dare you speak such words?” came one reply.

“Thirty years!” came another. “The issue has been forgotten!”

Matron Baenre quieted them all before the clamor rose into violent action—a not uncommon occurrence in the council chamber. “SiNafay,” she said through the dry sneer on her lips. “One cannot make such an accusation; one cannot discuss such beliefs openly so long after the event! You know our ways. If House Do’Urden did indeed commit this act, as you insist, it deserves our compliments, not our punishment, for it carried it through to perfection. House DeVir is no more, I say. It does not exist!”

Alton shifted uneasily, caught somewhere between rage and despair. SiNafay was far from dismayed, though; this was going exactly as she had envisioned and hoped.

“Oh, but it does!” she responded, rising to her feet. She pulled the hood from Alton’s head. “In this person!”

“Gelroos?” asked Matron Baenre, not understanding.

“Not Gelroos,” SiNafay replied. “Gelroos Hun’ett died the night House DeVir died. This male, Alton DeVir, assumed Gelroos’s identity and position, hiding from further attacks by House Do’Urden!”

Baenre whispered some instructions to the matron at her right side, then waited as she went through the semantics of a spell. Baenre motioned for SiNafay to return to her seat then faced Alton.

“Speak your name,” Baenre commanded.

“I am Alton DeVir,” Alton said, gaining strength from the identity he had waited so very long to proclaim, “son of Matron Ginafae and a student of Sorcere on the night House Do’Urden attacked.”

Baenre looked to the matron at her side.

“He speaks the truth,” the matron assured her. Whispers sprang up all around the spider table, of amusement more than anything else.

“That is why I summoned the ruling council,” SiNafay quickly explained.

“Very well, SiNafay,” said Matron Baenre. “My compliments to you, Alton DeVir, on your resourcefulness and ability to survive. For a male, you have shown great courage and wisdom. Surely you both know that the council cannot exact punishment upon a house for a deed committed so long ago. Why would we so desire? Matron Malice Do’Urden sits in the favor of the Spider Queen; her house shows great promise. You must reveal to us greater need if you wish any punishment against House Do’Urden.”

“I do not wish such a thing,” SiNafay quickly replied. “This matter, thirty years removed, is no longer in the realm of the ruling council. House Do’Urden does indeed show promise, my peers, with four high priestesses and a host of other weapons, not the least of which being their secondboy, Drizzt, first graduate of his class.” She had purposely mentioned Drizzt, knowing that the name would strike a wound in Matron Baenre. Baenre’s own prized son, Berg’inyon, had spent the last nine years ranked behind the wonderful young Do’Urden.

“Then why have you bothered us?” Matron Baenre demanded, an unmistakable edge in her voice.

“To ask you to close your eyes,” SiNafay purred. “Alton is a Hun’ett now, under my protection. He demands vengeance for the act committed against his family, and, as a surviving member of the attacked family, he has the right of accusation.”

“House Hun’ett will stand beside him?” Matron Baenre asked, turning curious and amused.

“Indeed,” replied SiNafay. “Thus is House Hun’ett bound!”

“Vengeance?” another matron quipped, also now more amused than angered. “Or fear? It would seem to my ears that the matron of House Hun’ett uses this pitiful DeVir creature for her own gain. House Do’Urden aspires to higher ranking, and Matron Malice desires to sit upon the ruling council, a threat to House Hun’ett, perhaps?”

“Be it vengeance or prudence, my claim—Alton DeVir’s claim— must be deemed as legitimate,” replied SiNafay, “to our mutual gain.” She smiled wickedly and looked straight to the First Matron. “To the gain of our sons, perhaps, in their quest for recognition.”

“Indeed,” replied Matron Baenre in a chuckle that sounded more like a cough. A war between Hun’ett and Do’Urden might be to everyone’s gain, but not, Baenre suspected, as SiNafay believed. Malice was a powerful matron, and her family truly deserved a ranking higher than ninth. If the fight did come, Malice probably would get her seat on the council, replacing SiNafay.

Matron Baenre looked around at the other matrons, and guessed from their hopeful expressions that they shared her thoughts. Let Hun’ett and Do’Urden fight it out; whatever the outcome, the threat of Matron Ma lice would be ended. Perhaps, Baenre hoped, a certain young Do’Urden male would fall in battle, propelling her own son into the position he deserved.

Then the First Matron spoke the words SiNafay had come to hear, the silent permission of Menzoberranzan’s ruling council.

“This matter is settled, my sisters,” Matron Baenre declared, to the accepting nods of all at the table. “It is good that we never met this day.”

ave you found the trail?” Drizzt whispered, moving up beside the great panther. He gave Guenhwyvar a pat on the side and knew from the slackness of the cat’s muscles that no danger was nearby.

“Gone, then,” Drizzt said, staring off into the emptiness of the corridor in front of them. “‘Wicked gnomes, my brother called them when we found the tracks by the pool. Wicked and stupid.” He sheathed his scimitar and knelt beside the panther, his arm comfortable draped across Guenhwyvar’s back. “They’re smart enough to elude our patrol.”

The cat looked up as if it had understood his every word, and Drizzt rubbed a hand roughly over Guenhwyvar’s, his finest friend’s, head. Drizzt remembered clearly his elation on the day, a tenday before, when Dinin had announced—to Masoj Hun’ett’s outrage—that Guenhwyvar would be deployed at the patrol’s point position beside Drizzt.

“The cat is mine!” Masoj had reminded Dinin.

“You are mine!” Dinin, the patrol leader, had replied, ending any further debate. Whenever the figurine’s magic would permit, Masoj summoned Guenhwyvar from the Astral Plane and bid the cat to run up in front, bringing Drizzt an added degree of safety and a valued companion.

Drizzt knew from the unfamiliar heat patterns on the wall that they had gone the limit of their patrol route. He had purposely put a lot of ground, more than was advised, between himself and the rest of the patrol. Drizzt had confidence that he and Guenhwyvar could take care of themselves, and with the others far behind, he could relax and enjoy the wait. The minutes Drizzt spent in solitude gave him the time he needed in his endless effort to sort through his confused emotions. Guenhwyvar, seemingly non-judgmental and always approving, offered Drizzt a perfect audience for his audible contemplations.

“I begin to wonder the worth of it all,” Drizzt whispered to the cat. “I do not doubt the value of these patrols—this tenday alone, we have defeated a dozen monsters that might have brought great harm to the city—but to what end?”

He looked deeply into the panther’s saucer eyes and found sympathy there, and Drizzt knew that Guenhwyvar somehow understood his dilemma.

“Perhaps I still do not know who I am,” Drizzt mused, “or who my people are. Every time I find a clue to the truth, it leads me down a path that I dare not continue upon, to conclusions I cannot accept.”

“You are drow,” came a reply behind them. Drizzt turned abruptly to see Dinin a few feet away, a look of grave concern on his face.

“The gnomes have fled beyond our reach,” Drizzt said, trying to deflect his brother’s concerns.

“Have you not learned what it means to be a drow?” Dinin asked. “Have you not come to understand the course of our history and the promise of our future?”

“I know of our history as it was taught at the Academy,” Drizzt replied. “They were the very first lessons we received. Of our future, and more so of the place we now reside, though, I do not understand.”

“You know of our enemies,” Dinin prompted.

“Countless enemies,” replied Drizzt with a heavy sigh. “They fill the holes of the Underdark, always waiting for us to let down our guard. We will not, and our enemies will fall to our power.”

“Ah, but our true enemies do not reside in the lightless caverns of our world,” said Dinin with a sly smile. “Theirs is a world strange and evil.” Drizzt knew who Dinin was referring to, but he suspected that his brother was hiding something.

“The faeries,” Drizzt whispered, and the word prompted a jumble of emotions within him. All of his life, he had been told of his evil cousins, of how they had forced the drow into the bowels of the world. Busily engaged in the duties of his everyday life, Drizzt did not think of them often, but whenever they came to mind, he used their name as a litany against everything he hated in his life. If Drizzt could somehow blame the surface elves—as every other drow seemed to blame them—for the injustices of drow society, he could find hope for the future of his people. Rationally, Drizzt had to dismiss the stirring legends of the elven war as another of the endless stream of lies, but in his heart and hopes, Drizzt clung desperately to those words.

He looked back to Dinin. “The faeries,” he said again, “whatever they may be.”

Dinin chuckled at his brother’s relentless sarcasm; it had become so commonplace. “They are as you have learned,” he assured Drizzt. “Without worth and vile beyond your imagination, the tormentors of our people, who banished us in eons past; who forced—”

“I know the tales,” Drizzt interrupted, alarmed at the increasing volume of his excited brother’s voice. Drizzt glanced over his shoulder. “If the patrol is ended, let us meet the others closer to the city. This place is too dangerous for such discussions.” He rose to his feet and started back, Guenhwyvar at his side.

“Not as dangerous as the place I soon will lead you,” Dinin replied with that same sly smile.

Drizzt stopped and looked at him curiously.

“I suppose you should know,” Dinin teased. “We were selected because we are the finest of the patrol groups, and you have certainly played an important role in our attaining that honor.”

“Chosen for what?”

“In a fortnight, we will leave Menzoberranzan,” explained Dinin. “Our trail will take us many days and many miles from the city.”

“How long?” Drizzt asked, suddenly very curious.

“Two tendays, maybe three,” replied Dinin, “but well worth the time. We shall be the ones, my young brother, who enact a measure of revenge upon our most hated foes, who strike a glorious blow for the Spider Queen!”

Drizzt thought that he understood, but the notion was too outrageous for him to be certain.

“The elves!” Dinin beamed. “We have been chosen for a surface raid!”

Drizzt was not as openly excited as his brother, unsure of the implications of such a mission. At last he would get to view the surface elves and face the truth of his heart and hopes. Something more real to Drizzt, the disappointment he had known for so many years, tempered his elation, reminded him that while the truth of the elves might bring an excuse to the dark world of his kin, it might instead take away something more important. He was unsure how to feel.

“The surface,” Alton mused. “My sister went there once—on a raid. A most marvelous experience, so she said!” He looked at Masoj, not knowing how to figure the forlorn expression on the young Hun’ett’s face. “Now your patrol makes the journey. I envy you.”

“I am not going,” Masoj declared.

“Why?” Alton gasped. “This is a rare opportunity indeed. Menzoberranzan—to the anger of Lolth, I am certain—has not staged a surface raid in two decades. It may be twenty more years before the next, and by then you will no longer be among the patrols.”

Masoj looked out from the small window of Alton’s room in House Hun’ett, surveying the compound.

“Besides,” Alton continued quietly, “up there, so far from prying eyes, you might find the chance to dispose of two Do’Urden’s. Why would you not go?”

“Have you forgotten a ruling that you played a part in?” Masoj asked, whirling on Alton accusingly. “Two decades ago, the masters of Sorcere decided that no wizards are to travel anywhere near the surface!”

“Of course,” Alton replied, remembering the meeting. Sorcere seemed so distant to him now, though he had been within the Hun’ett house for only a few tendays. “We concluded that drow magic may work differently—unexpectedly—under the open sky,” he explained. “On that raid twenty years ago—”

“I know the story,” Masoj growled, and he finished the sentence for Alton. “A wizard’s fireball expanded beyond its normal dimensions, killing several drow. Dangerous side effects, you masters it, though I’ve a belief that the wizard conveniently disposed of some some enemies under the guise of an accident!”

“Yes,” Alton agreed. “So said the rumors. In the absence of evidence …” He let the thought go, seeing that he was doing little to comfort Masoj. “That was so long ago,” he said, trying to offer some hope. “Have you no recourse?”

“None,” Masoj replied. “Things move so very slowly in Menzoberranzan; I doubt that the masters have even begun their investigation into the matter.”

“A pity,” Alton said. “It would have been the perfect opportunity.”

“No more of that!” Masoj scolded. “Matron SiNafay has not given me her command to eliminate Drizzt Do’Urden or his brother. You have already been warned to keep your personal desires to yourself. When the matron bids me to strike, I will not fail her. Opportunities can be created.”

“You speak as if you already know how Drizzt Do’Urden will die,” Alton said.

An smile spread over Masoj’s face as he reached into the pocket of his robe and produced the onyx figurine, his unthinking magical slave, which the foolish Drizzt had come to trust so dearly. “Oh, I do,” he replied, giving the statuette of Guenhwyvar an easy toss, then catching it and holding it out on display.

“I do.”

The members of the chosen raiding party quickly came to realize that this would be no ordinary mission. They did not go out on patrol from Menzoberranzan at all during the next tenday. Rather, they remained, day and night, sequestered within a barrack of Melee-Magthere. Through nearly every waking hour, the raiders huddled around an oval table in a conference room, hearing the detailed plans of their pending adventure, and, over and over again, Master Hatch’net, the master of Lore, spinning his tales of the vile elves.

Drizzt listened intently to the stories, allowing himself, forcing himself, to fall within Hatch’net’s hypnotic web. The tales had to be true; Drizzt did not know what he would hold onto to preserve his principles if they were not.

Dinin presided over the raid’s tactical preparations, displaying maps of the long tunnels the group would travel, grilling them over and over until they had memorized the route perfectly.

To this, as well, the eager raiders—except for Drizzt—listened intently, all the while fighting to keep their excitement from bursting out in a wild cheer. As the tenday of preparations neared its end, Drizzt took note that one member of the patrol group had not been attending. At first, Drizzt had reasoned that Masoj was learning his duties in the raid in Sorcere, with his old masters. With the departure time fast approaching and the battle plans clearly taking shape, though, Drizzt began to understand that Masoj would not be joining them.