R. Salvatore - Night of the Hunter

“Matron Mother Quenthel seeks to make new inroads, no doubt,” said Mez’Barris. “With the impending departure of the Xorlarrins, she has perhaps finally realized her open flank.” She nodded as she spoke, confident of her assertions. House Xorlarrin and House Baenre, First and Third, surrounded Barrison Del’Armgo, but while both of the next Houses in line, Faen Tlabbar and Mizzrym, were allied with Baenre, the two remained bitter rivals, a competition that would only intensify with House Faen Tlabbar’s greatest ally, House Xorlarrin, removed from Menzoberranzan. Indeed, the coveted rank of Third House would be opened, likely for one of these to fill the void. In terms of the relationship between Houses Baenre and Armgo, then, this could not be seen as good news for Matron Mother Quenthel. While Faen Tlabbar and Mizzrym together might be more powerful than Xorlarrin alone, the Matron Mother of House Baenre could never count on them, together or separately, to hold back the ambitions of House Barrison Del’Armgo as she had counted on Matron Zeerith Xorlarrin.

“And so the meticulous detail in the grand parade of Baenre,” Mez’Barris remarked quietly, and nodded knowingly. Her daughter and the weapons master stared at her. “They try to project strength and order to quell the chaos that will surely reach Quenthel’s front door.”

Taayrul’s eyes popped open wide at that remark, and even dull Malagdorl caught on to the reference of Quenthel without the appropriate title offered in deference.

Houses in Menzoberranzan had gone to war for less.

The march of House Baenre wove through every neighborhood in Menzoberranzan, even up to the raised area of Tier Breche, where stood the three houses of the drow academy, and then across the West Wall, across the whole of the city, before winding back to the neighborhood known as Narbondellyn, which was immediately across the mushroom forest from Qu’ellarz’orl. From every balcony and every window, drow looked on, and as was so typical of Menzoberranzan, half did so with trepidation, the other half with appreciative nods at the constancy Baenre represented.

The procession split as it neared Narbondellyn, select guard groups taking position outside of House Fey-Branche’s opened gates. Only the royal group passed through, including the siblings, Quenthel, Sos’Umptu, and Gromph; Quenthel’s daughter Myrineyl; Weapons Master Andzrel Baenre; and Patron Velkryst, Quenthel’s current chosen mate and once a Xorlarrin House wizard.

Even if this had not been the Festival of the Founding, this particular group of six would not have walked with fear, though surely almost every drow who saw them coming would cower.

Matron Byrtyn Fey met them at the door, flanked by Minolin and Patron Calagher. Byrtyn seemed a bit surprised by the small number in attendance, and both Gromph and Quenthel caught a flash of something else-annoyance? — as Brytyn looked past them and noted the army the Baenres had set in place outside her compound.

Matron Byrtyn’s stride revealed nervousness as she led the way to the dining hall, where a feast had been set out on a table flanked by nearly two score chairs. Half were filled by Fey-Branche nobles, the other half clearly intended for the Baenres. Byrtyn waved her hand, a signal, obviously, to dismiss all but her closest family members.

“Do let them all stay,” Matron Mother Quenthel whispered to her. “You may fill the rest of the chairs if you so please.” She looked at Minolin. “Your brother is not about? It would please me to see him again.”

The uncharacteristic gesture rocked Minolin, clearly, and she and her mother exchanged nervous glances, as if to silently question whether the Baenres were gathering them all together for a slaughter.

“We are the eldest two Houses in the City of Spiders,” Matron Mother Quenthel remarked. “Time has frayed our bonds, it would seem, but in this new era of the goddess’s resurgence, we do well to rewind those ties.”

A flash of surprise and a flash of hope crossed Byrtyn’s face, subtly, but Gromph certainly caught every bit of it. It was common knowledge that Zeerith Xorlarrin was already moving many of her resources to Gauntlgrym, and whispers hinted that the pressure was on for Zeerith to surrender her House rank and her place on the Ruling Council. Fey-Branche was the Sixth House of Menzoberranzan, so surely in the line of ascension; was Matron Mother Quenthel offering her support for the third rank?

Gromph noted the gaze of Minolin Fey, which he returned with a tiny shrug, his indifference eliciting a bit of a snarl from the priestess. She was on edge, the archmage realized, and he silently congratulated his sister, if he could still think of Matron Mother Quenthel as such, for her blunt and devious twist of the mood.

Matron Byrtyn filled the chairs with the worthiest members of her House, the six Baenres sorted themselves out among the group, mingling appropriately and not all in one area. Andzrel and G’eldrin Fey, old friends from the Academy, both heralded weapons masters, gathered at the far end with other warriors to discuss the recent events at Melee-Magthere, while Patron Velkryst and Fey-Branche House wizard Zeknar led the discussion about the return of the Weave. Gromph, though, did not join his wizard fellows, and instead kept himself near to Matron Mother Quenthel, who sat at the head of the table, of course, with Matron Byrtyn to her right and Minolin Fey to her left.

The food was scrumptious, the music magnificent and not overbearing, and the celebration handled with all the meticulous detail that one would expect of a noble House second only to House Baenre in longevity and tradition among the ranks of Menzoberranzan. As was customary, the conversation remained light, with few words of scorn for Houses that were not in attendance, and with each of the Matrons taking turns in directing the others to voice opinions about one or another promising situation. In the City of Spiders, after all, this was the day, typically the only day, of communal hope and renewal, the one day reserved for the premise that the whole of Menzoberranzan was greater than the familial parts.

“I was so thrilled to receive your invitation,” Matron Mother Quenthel said to Byrtyn at one point.

Gromph watched Minolin stiffen, for the invitation had been solicited in no uncertain terms, of course. “We are the elders, the cornerstones of Menzoberranzan, the constancy within the swirl of continually shifting power and allegiance.” Baenre gave a little, almost embarrassed, laugh and added, “Although some things, like the pinnacle of Menzoberranzan’s power, are indeed eternal.”

An amazing show of hubris by that self-proclaimed pinnacle, Gromph thought. He wasn’t surprised as, obviously, were both Byrtyn and Minolin, or taken aback, but rather, more intrigued. Had his sister made this remark only a day earlier, Gromph would have thought it a clumsy blunder, but now, after her intimate melding with the experiences of Yvonnel, he knew it to be a cunning twist.

Matron Mother Yvonnel the Eternal did not make mistakes, and so Gromph now expected-to his own surprise-the same competence from Quenthel.

“Where has the trust and friendship between Baenre and Fey-Branche gone?” she asked with an exaggerated sigh.

“Thinned by death, no doubt,” Matron Byrtyn replied, a subtle hint of annoyance creeping into her voice.

Gromph coughed to cover his chuckle. “Thinned by death” was a perfect description, the old archmage thought, for House Fey-Branche had lost so many nobles over the last few decades to untimely death. Byrtyn and her House had retreated, defensively crouched, with more than a little suspicion that House Baenre had played a role in many of those untimely deaths-with good reason.