R. Salvatore - Night of the Hunter

“Yes,” Quenthel agreed, playing along. “Too much thinned.”

Minolin Fey shifted in her seat, clearly uncomfortable, on the verge of blurting out the obvious and totally inappropriate question as to why Matron Mother Quenthel had demanded this shared dinner.

“I am told that Matron Zeerith will soon depart,” Matron Byrtyn said. “What will become of the Xorlarrin tower on Qu’ellarz’orl, I wonder?”

“It will not be open to the new Third House,” Matron Mother Quenthel replied.

“Whomever that will be,” said Matron Byrtyn, somewhat slyly.

“It will not be Fey-Branche, if that is your thought,” Matron Mother Quenthel replied, and now even Gromph could not suppress his incredulity. Minolin shifted again-and seemed on the verge of lashing out. Matron Byrtyn rocked back away from Quenthel, her mouth hanging open. Around them, everyone at the table quieted suddenly, and Gromph began considering the words to a spell that would efficiently evacuate him from this potentially lethal bar fight.

“You are no ambitious child, Byrtyn,” Matron Mother Quenthel went on, undeterred, and indeed even upping the stakes here by leaving off the female’s title. “It is no secret in the city that Fey-Branche is considered without allies and that Matron Zhindia of the fanatical Melarni has set her eyes on ascending the ladder. Were you to reach for Matron Zeerith’s seat at the Ruling Council, you would have three superior Houses coveting your downfall.”

“Such banter is not appropriate on the Festival of the Founding,” Minolin Fey interrupted.

“Nor is it an excuse for a priestess to forget her place,” Matron Byrtyn scolded.

“Your exchange will cost both our Houses the favor of Lolth,” Minolin pleaded with Matron Mother Quenthel.

“Dear child,” Matron Mother Quenthel, who was no older than Minolin, replied, her voice dripping with condescending sweetness, “do not ever again make the error of explaining to me the desires of Lolth.”

There was an old saying among the drow that the ears of a Matron Mother were so keen they could catch the rustle of a strand of hair falling to the floor. In that moment, the room became so suddenly quiet that Gromph believed the proverb was not an exaggeration.

Matron Mother Quenthel looked to Matron Byrtyn, as if inviting her to speak, but the other woman did not oblige, and instead went back to her meal, as did everyone else. Not another word was spoken for a long, long while.

House servants cleared the plates quickly when the meal was ended, and Matron Brytyn led the group to an adjacent, even larger room where the attendees milled around in smaller groups. Gromph made his way to Velkryst and the other wizards, but kept his attention quietly attuned to the focus of the evening, the matron mothers and their respective high priestesses. He watched as Sos’Umptu rushed over to speak with Matron Byrtyn, pointing off to the south, to another set of rooms. A moment later Brytyn, Sos’Umptu, and Myrineyl moved off that way, leaving Matron Mother Quenthel-so conveniently! — alone with Minolin Fey.

That pair headed off as well, but to the west.

Gromph rubbed his thumb against a ring on his index finger, secretly sending an invisible projection in their wake, his senses following the duo as they crossed out of the room, down a small corridor, and through a set of double doors onto a balcony looking out to the pillar of Narbondel, and beyond it to the western reaches of Menzoberranzan.

Matron Mother Quenthel looked back, her expression curious. A wave of her hand shut the door-and did more than that, Gromph realized, for his spell was no more, the connection broken. Beside him, Velkryst chattered on about something to do with the Xorlarrin expedition to Gauntlgrym, the Fey-Branche mages hanging on his every word. The success of the Xolarrins, the one drow House that elevated arcane magic to the level of the divine, held great implications for them as wizards and as male drow. Gromph pretended to listen. Of course he knew far more about the goings-on in Gauntlgrym than Velkryst ever would, since he had arranged the expedition in the first place. But he kept his gaze to the west, to the doors through which Matron Mother Quenthel and Minolin Fey had exited, almost expecting an explosion of some kind to tear the western wing off the compound of Fey-Branche.

He couldn’t predict the movements of Quenthel any longer, he realized then, and he could not control them or even influence them to any great extent.

The implications of his gift to his sister weighed heavily upon his old shoulders.

“I owe you a great apology,” Baenre said to Minolin when they were alone. The heat glow of Narbondel had begun to diminish by then, the day growing late.

The priestess stared at Baenre, suspicion dominating her expression.

“For years now, I have been abusing you, thinking you worthy of my disdain, thinking you a sniveling child and nothing more,” the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan went on. “I only allowed you to remain in a position of power at Arach-Tinilith because doing so spoke to the city of the glories of old. House Fey-Branche should be powerfully represented in the Academy of Lolth, of course, but then, since it was pathetic you, how powerful would the position truly prove?”

Minolin stiffened at the insult, her eyes narrowing, one fist clenching at her side. She wanted to lash out, but Baenre knew Minolin would not summon the courage to do so. This one was not a fighter but a plotter, working with subterfuge and caution within the shadows.

“Little did I understand the adamantine of your bones,” Baenre went on, “or the cleverness lurking behind your dull eyes.”

Those eyes flared at that remark! Minolin was obviously off-balance, insulted and angry, indeed, but also cornered by an enemy she knew she could not hope to defeat.

“You thought you had Gromph in your web,” Baenre openly taunted. “You truly believed that you could turn his distrust and disapproval of mere Quenthel against the Eternal Baenre?”

The blunt remark had Minolin falling back a step. Her game was over, clearly. For years she had quietly worked on Gromph, using every wile, whispering undermining words against Quenthel-the witch Quenthel! — whom Gromph had hated through the decades.

Matron Mother Quenthel watched all of those thoughts play out on the trapped priestess’s face, circling through anger and fear, the willingness to throw herself into the fray against the hope that somehow, some way, she could mitigate this personal disaster. And that circle was a spiral, Baenre knew, and one driving Minolin ever downward into despair. Yes, she would play through the logic here-she was no fool, but a calculating and devious witch, a true devotee to Lady Lolth!

And so Minolin knew, without doubt, that the sudden insight of her arch-enemy, this Matron Mother standing before her, had to have come from Lady Lolth herself.

And so she knew that she was surely doomed.

Minolin lifted a hand-even a mouse would fight in such a corner-but of course Matron Mother Quenthel was the quicker. The Scourge of Quenthel appeared in her hand, the five writhing snake heads hungrily striking at poor Minolin, taunting her telepathically as they invaded her tender flesh. The priestess’s eyes widened with horror as she felt the pleasure of K’Sothra, who would taste blood to be content. Minolin gasped and fell away as Zinda’s fangs reached for her face, for it was fear that Zinda most desired from her enemies.

Do not resist , the third serpent, Hsiv, advised, a soothing melody whispering through Minolin’s thoughts, and one so discordant with the excruciating pain of serpent Qorra’s fiery poison.

The fifth snake, Yngoth, did not strike, but swayed tantalizingly before Minolin’s eyes as the priestess slumped back against the wall. In those black eyes, Minolin would see hope, Matron Mother Quenthel knew, for the living serpents of her scourge imparted to her their methods, of course, and asked her permission to continue.