R. Salvatore - Archmage

The image of K’yorl taking revenge on House Baenre was an undeniably pleasing one to Kimmuriel. He hoped that K’yorl wouldn’t destroy Gromph’s mind, catching him by surprise as she surely would. For he couldn’t wait to witness the flow of unfiltered thoughts in the archmage when he realized his foolish hubris and the ruin he had brought upon his own House.

“Shall we begin?” Gromph ordered as much as asked. “I have much to do this day.”

He started toward Kimmuriel, but the psionicist held up his hand to give Gromph pause.

“I have come bearing news from Bregan D’aerthe and Jarlaxle,” Kimmuriel explained in the face of Gromph’s surprised expression. “A great army of dwarves has entered the upper chambers above Q’Xorlarrin, intent on reclaiming the ancient homeland they name Gauntlgrym.”

“What dwarves?”

“From the Silver Marches,” Kimmuriel answered, and Gromph sighed.

“They are led by King Bruenor Battlehammer of Mithral Hall, who killed your mother, Matron Mother Yvonnel, soon after the Time of Troubles,” Kimmuriel explained. “The same Bruenor, yes, reborn into the world to fight Many-Arrows and for this task, some say. They are formidable and determined, with ranks thousands deep, and Matron Mother Zeerith will not defeat them, Jarlaxle assures me. They will retake the Forge and chase the Xorlarrins and their slaves into the lower tunnels, and the experiment known as Q’Xorlarrin will be no more.”

“Jarlaxle believes this?”

“You know enough of him to understand his excellence in predicting these matters.”

“I know enough about him to understand that much of what he says is said with motives other than those the message conveys,” Gromph replied.

“Take of it what you will. By Bregan D’aerthe’s contract and protocol, I should have gone straight to the matron mother, or perhaps even the Ruling Council with this information, but given our. . clandestine relationship, I thought it wiser to let the archmage deliver this unsettling and startling news.”

“Not so startling,” Gromph said. “Through the gemstone connection of your own creation, I have seen that Tiago has been moving west, in the direction of Q’Xorlarrin.”

“Perhaps to return to his mother and House.”

“More likely in pursuit of Drizzt Do’Urden, I assumed,” Gromph replied. “Tiago is singularly minded. He will have his day with Drizzt. Nothing is more important to him than that.”

“Or Drizzt will have the day.”

Gromph shrugged as if it did not matter, and to these two, of course, it certainly did not. Neither Tiago nor Drizzt held any importance to either of them in the long game.

“It is likely that the rogue Drizzt is beside his friend Bruenor,” Kimmuriel said.

“I should look in on Tiago then.”

Those words revealed a lot to Kimmuriel. If he had been in Gromph’s place, he would have been watching Tiago closely, almost continually-as he was with his own scrying stone, of course.

“The scrying wearies you,” Tiago said.

Gromph admitted it with a nod. “The power does not come easily. I see it there, just at the edge of my reach. To send my mind through the stone unbalances me, and I return weakened and vulnerable.”

“And with powerful demons flying all about your city and tower you cannot afford such vulnerability,” Kimmuriel reasoned. “So you look in on Tiago only sporadically and only briefly.”

Gromph straightened and squared his shoulders imperiously.

“It will grow easier,” Kimmuriel assured him. “These powers of the mind are new to you-I am amazed at the progress you have already made. Such psionic scrying is a difficult task for any, even an illithid, and that you can perform it at all is testament to your mental strength, and offers great hope that you will one day-one day soon, perhaps-attain psionic greatness to rival your arcane prowess.”

The compliments performed as Kimmuriel had hoped, and Gromph eased back and visibly relaxed. And the kind words were only partly a lie, Kimmuriel knew, for Gromph was indeed powerful in mind magic-and as intelligent as any drow ever known. Intelligence alone didn’t guarantee psionic prowess-the brilliant Jarlaxle was quite fumbling with regard to the psionic powers, after all-but when one had that aptitude, as with Gromph, great intelligence would present great opportunity, a ceiling as high as the sky in the World Above.

“Are you prepared to resume our sessions?” Kimmuriel asked.

“Of course. There are demons all around, but more than a few answer to the demands of Archmage Gromph.” He closed his eyes and held his arms out wide, beckoning Kimmuriel to come forth psionically.

And so the son of House Oblodra did, telepathically imparting his lesson into the consciousness of Gromph Baenre.

And while he was there, telepathically imparting some small inflections of the chant he had been given in the Abyss, and putting them just below Gromph’s consciousness, in a place where the archmage would find them when next he attempted a summoning, and putting them there in such a way that Gromph would believe them an epiphany, a deeper understanding of the relationship and miscibility of the Art and psionics. Yes, Kimmuriel could feel Gromph’s confidence.

The archmage was just arrogant enough to believe that he was exploring new territory in this supposed combination of the two powers, as if such potential had never occurred to the hundreds of brilliant psionicists to come before him, or to the illithids, whose intelligence was beyond question.

When the session ended a short time later, Kimmuriel was quick to take his leave, and Gromph was eager to let him go.

And off Gromph went as well, straight to House Baenre’s spidery gate, and to the audience chamber of his sister, Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre.

Quenthel calmly listened to his report of the dwarves’ march into Gauntlgrym, her eyes and steady hands not betraying the least nervousness. An army was marching upon House Xorlarrin, perhaps her strongest ally. An army of wretched dwarves, marching from the region where she had initiated a war. An army now preparing for battle against Menzoberranzan’s satellite city of Q’Xorlarrin, which granted to Quenthel a trading route to rival that of House Hunzrin.

“You cannot send our House soldiers,” Gromph finished. “Not in this dangerous time.”

Matron Mother Baenre nodded in agreement.

“Matron Mother Mez’Barris, perhaps?” Gromph said, and he chuckled at the thought of the warriors of House Barrison Del’Armgo being sent forth for the defense of House Xorlarrin, who ranked among their most hated rivals.

“She would refuse, and would be within her rights to refuse,” Quenthel answered. “If I demanded this of Matron Mother Mez’Barris, then even those Houses allied with us would fear that they might be next, and no House would willingly spare her soldiers now with the city in such chaos.”

“Will you send Do’Urden?” asked the archmage. “Surely you control that House fully, and among its nobles are Matron Mother Zeerith’s own two children.”

“The garrison of House Do’Urden is made up of too many soldiers from too many Houses-noble Houses who would resent the losses,” the matron mother replied, again shaking her head. “Nor would I wish to risk the proxy vote of Matron Darthiir on the council.”

She had refused Gromph’s every suggestion, yet she was smiling. She clearly knew something, and once again Gromph was reminded of his sister’s improved prowess. When he thought of his daughter, blessed with the knowledge and memories of Yvonnel and surely to succeed Quenthel, he felt a tinge of regret at ever having introduced Quenthel to the illithid Methil.

“You have few options,” he said.