R. Salvatore - Archmage

“Good,” the baby replied. “I was thinking the same. Sos’Umptu, should she survive, serves House Baenre well from Arach-Tinilith. Were I to bring her in to my side and put you in the Academy, it might embolden your mother to believe that she still commands your loyalty.”

The child put on a very sweet smile then and Minolin Fey felt her heart warming at the sight, and all she wanted to do was rush over and hug Yvonnel close to her breast and smother her in kisses.

“I have no desire to destroy your House,” the baby said, abruptly tugging Minolin Fey back to the present and throwing aside the warm compulsion. For a brief instant, Minolin Fey thought herself a foolish child, reaching to pat a purring housecat, only to discover it to be a guardian familiar, all teeth and murderous claws.

But then, before she could truly register that Yvonnel was magically toying with her, she wanted to rush over and hug the child, her baby, once more.

“You need to make sure that Matron Byrtyn knows that,” the baby said, and it took the confused Minolin Fey a moment to realign her thoughts to the conversation at hand.

“That you wish her and her House no harm?”

“Yes. Her House, which is your House.”

“No,” Minolin Fey said before she could think better of arguing. Black wings of panic rose up around her, thrumming about the edges of her thoughts.

“No?”

“I am Baenre now,” she replied.

“Not Fey-Branche?”

“Baenre!” Minolin Fey declared.

“And who do you serve, Minolin or Baenre?”

“The Matron Mo. .” Minolin Fey flinched as she heard the reflexive response pouring forth, particularly to this particular audience.

“To all who look, I am the loyal servant of Matron Mother Baenre,” she tried to clarify, using the wide caveat and undefined title as she tried to wriggle free.

“And who is that?” the devious little child asked.

Minolin Fey licked her suddenly dry lips. She felt backed into a cage. As far as she knew, Quenthel still held the favor of Lolth and thus, the legitimate title of Matron Mother Baenre. Was this wretched little deviant creature testing her, ready to report her blasphemy to Quenthel should she answer otherwise?

Or would Yvonnel destroy her if she pledged her fealty to Quenthel? And the daughter of Byrtyn Fey held no illusions. Despite the tiny, cherubic little body of Yvonnel, Minolin had no doubt whatsoever that this child, steeped in the knowledge of Yvonnel the Eternal, could easily obliterate her.

“Yv. . Matron Mo. .” she stammered, and wicked little Yvonnel turned her lips into an amused smile.

“Whomever Lady Lolth determines is the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan,” poor Minolin Fey sputtered.

“Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre,” Yvonnel told her, and then, with that mischievous grin so common with this little one, and so ominous to Minolin Fey, who understood the level of mischief this little one could accomplish, Yvonnel added, “for now.”

Catti-brie crouched by the mound of black stone, delicately running her fingers across the veins of angry red still flaring from the molten lava entombed within. Even with the protection of her ring, the woman felt the heat here, and the power. This was a direct line to the primordial, she knew, and it was still connected to the pulse and strength of the beast, still thrumming with the threat of catastrophe.

She put her ear to the mound and called softly, then listened to the distant voice of the great primordial beast.

Sometime later, she opened her eyes and worked hard not to gasp, for in her communion with the primordial, the woman had been as overwhelmed as in her communion with her goddess Mielikki. The power, the wisdom, the strength of this creature seemed so far beyond her-to think that most would only see the fury and bared power of the thing, would think it a volcano, inanimate and unconscious, a natural firestorm akin to a great tornado or hurricane or any other natural disaster.

But no, Catti-brie had understood for a long while, and knew without the slightest doubt now, this primordial was a preternatural and supernatural disaster, and one full of energy and magic beyond her comprehension.

But not beyond her curiosity.

The woman lifted her staff, the silver-gray cypress branch with its blue sapphire crown, in both hands, hovering the end over the hot mound. She felt a connection of divine powers, and a comfortable communion. Without even thinking of the action, indeed, without even fearing that she would destroy this staff from the cherished garden of her youth, Catti-brie drove the butt end down hard, punching it through the cooling crust and right into the molten lava below. She began to chant, though she knew not the words- dreos. . corrachag-cagailt. . toitean -as she slid the staff downward into the red liquid stone. The heat assailed her, stinging her eyes, but still she pressed the staff downward, sliding her hands until she was holding only the bulbous, gemmed top of it, the rest submerged. The skin on her fingers reddened, despite the protection of her, but the sting didn’t deter her from her. .

From her what, she wondered? She supposed it was spellcasting, but she couldn’t be sure, for all of this was beyond her. Mielikki had given her the staff, Kipper had added a prized possession to it, and now she was dipping it in the blood of a primordial of fire. It made no sense.

She slowly lifted her hand and eased the staff back out. She dared grab it in the middle with her other hand, wincing as the dripping lava bit at her.

Almost immediately, the blue tendrils of her magic, both arcane and divine, came forth from the bottoms of her sleeves, wrapping her hand in healing magic and wrapping the staff in. . in what, she did not know.

She pulled the staff free and moved it to the side, tapping it on the ground to let the rest of the loose lava fall away.

Catti-brie stared at this enchanted weapon, the gift of Mielikki and of the primordial. No longer was it light gray, silvery, as it had been, but black and streaked with lines of glowing red. And the sapphire was not blue-oh, what had she done? — but rather, glowing an angry red.

And she could feel the staff teeming with power.

And she knew how to get at that power!

But something was lost, she feared, as she stared at the staff, something precious, something beautiful. What had she done?

She glanced at the mound, to see that the top was already cooling to black, then looked at her staff to see that it, too, was cooling. To her great relief, as the red glow dissipated, so, too, did the staff and the gemstone return to its previous colors and textures. She held it up in front of her eyes, clutched it tightly in both hands. She could feel the power contained within.

The power of Mielikki.

The power of the Magi stone.

The power of the primordial.

The power of Catti-brie.

“Thank you,” she whispered and she knelt before the mound once more and placed a hand upon it. Her fingers still trembled with the vibrations of power within the stone, and she knelt there staring at the cooling lava for a long while, until she heard someone clear her throat. She turned to see Penelope and Kipper standing behind her.

“What do you know?” Penelope asked.

“More than the rest of us, I gather,” Kipper added.

“This vein ties to the primordial being that feeds the forges,” Catti-brie explained. “Directly.”

“The one you told us about-in the pit beyond the Forge?” asked Penelope, and Catti-brie nodded.

“A being of tremendous power,” Catti-brie explained. “A godlike creature that sacked Neverwinter, burying it under a mountain of ash and lava. Were it not for the swarm of water elementals trapping it within the pit, it would do so again, and perhaps send forth its power to consume Port Llast, or Luskan, or even Waterdeep.”