R. Salvatore: Night of the Hunter

I am very glad of that!

And, in a curious way (and a surprising way to me), I hold no regrets for the last few years of my journey through a life confusing, frightening, and grand all at once. My time with Dahlia, and particularly with Entreri, was one of learning, I must believe. To see the world through a cynical perspective did not hurl me back to the days of my youth in Menzoberranzan, and thus encapsulate me in darkness, but rather, has offered to me a more complete understanding of the consequence of choice, for I broke free of the cynicism before knowing what fate awaited me atop Bruenor’s Climb.

I am not so self-centered as to believe that the world around me is created for me! We all play such self-centered games at times, I suppose, but in this case, I will allow myself one moment of self-importance: to accept the reunion of the Companions of the Hall as a reward to me. Put whatever name you wish upon the gods and goddesses, or the fates, or the coincidences and twists that move the world along its path-it matters not. In this one instance, I choose to believe in a special kind of justice.

Indeed, it is a foolish and self-serving claim, I know.

But it feels good.

— Drizzt Do’Urden

It seemed just another day for Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre as she went to her evening prayers. Her magnificent black robes, laced like flowing spiderwebs, swirled around her as she regally moved along the center aisle, passing the inferior priestesses at the many side altars of the Baenre House Chapel. The slightest breeze could send the spidery ends of that robe drifting upward and outward, blurring the form of the matron mother, giving her the appearance of etherealness and otherworldliness.

Quenthel’s sole surviving sister, Sos’Umptu, the first priestess of the House and keeper of the chapel, had preceded her to prayer this evening, and now prostrated herself, face down on the stone floor, legs tucked in a tight kneeling position. Quenthel considered that image as she neared, noting that Sos’Umptu had her forearms and hands flat on the floor above her head, up toward the altar, a position of complete supplication and apology, even, and not the typical form for daily prayers by the leading priestesses. A priestess of Sos’Umptu’s station rarely assumed so humble an entreaty.

Quenthel walked up close enough to hear her sister’s chanted prayer, and indeed, it was an apology, and a desperate one at that. The matron mother listened for a bit longer, hoping to catch some hint of why Sos’Umptu would be apologizing, but caught nothing specific.

“Dear sister,” she said when Sos’Umptu finally broke from her fevered chant.

The first priestess raised her head and turned to glance back.

“Supplicate,” Sos’Umptu whispered urgently. “At once!”

Quenthel’s first instinct was to lash out at Sos’Umptu for her disrespectful tone and for daring to order her to do anything. She even put a hand to her snake-headed whip, where the five writhing, sentient serpents continued their eternal dance. She was surprised as she grasped the weapon, though, for even K’Sothra, the most bloodthirsty of the serpents, warned her away from that course-and rare indeed was it for K’Sothra to ever counsel anything but the lash!

Hear her , purred Hsiv, the advisor serpent.

Sos’Umptu is devout , Yngoth agreed.

With the counsel of the serpents, the matron mother realized that only a matter of great importance would ever coax such irreverence from her sister. After all, Sos’Umptu was much like Triel, their deceased older sister, reserved and quietly calculating.

The matron mother straightened her robes out behind her and fell to her knees beside the first priestess, face down, arms extended in full surrender.

She heard the screaming-shrieking, actually-immediately, the discordant cacophony of demons, and of Lady Lolth herself, full of outrage and venom.

Something was very much amiss, clearly.

Quenthel tried to sort through the possibilities. Menzoberranzan remained on edge, as did most of Toril, as the world continued its realignment after the end of the Spellplague, some five years previous. But the drow city had fared well in that time, Quenthel believed. House Xorlarrin, Third House of Menzoberranzan, in league with House Baenre, had established a strong foothold in the dwarven complex formerly known as Gauntlgrym, and soon to be known as Q’Xorlarrin. The great and ancient Forge, powered by nothing less than a primordial of fire, had blazed to life, and weapons of fine edge and mighty enchantment had begun to flow back to Menzoberranzan. So secure did the new sister city seem that Matron Zeerith Xorlarrin herself had begun to make preparations for her departure, and had requested of Menzoberranzan’s ruling council that it approve the name Q’Xorlarrin for the new settlement, and as the permanent abode for her powerful House.

Replacing that House on the Council of Eight could prove messy, of course, as was always the case when those Houses immediately below the top eight ranks saw a chance at ascendance, but Quenthel remained confident that she had those issues under control.

Bregan D’aerthe, too, was thriving, with the resulting trade flowing in and out of Menzoberranzan. Under the leadership of Kimmuriel and Jarlaxle, the mercenaries had come to dominate the surface city of Luskan, and quietly, so as to not provoke the curiosity or ire of the lords of the surrounding kingdoms, particularly the powerful city of Waterdeep.

The matron mother subtly shook her head. Menzoberranzan was operating quite smoothly under her leadership. Perhaps these screams were prompted by something else. She tried to widen her focus beyond the reach of Menzoberranzan’s tentacles.

But the sudden shriek in her head left no doubt that Lolth’s anger this night was focused-and focused squarely on House Baenre, or at least, on Menzoberranzan. After a long while of accepting the telepathic berating, Quenthel lifted herself up to a kneeling position and motioned for Sos’Umptu to do likewise.

Her sister came up shaking her head, her expression as full of confusion as Quenthel’s own.

The source of Queen Lolth’s ire? Quenthel’s fingers asked in the intricate drow sign language.

Sos’Umptu shook her head helplessly.

Matron Mother Quenthel looked at the grand altar, its standing backdrop a gigantic drider-like figure. Its eight spider legs were tucked in a squat, and it bore the head and torso of a female drow, the beautiful figure of Lady Lolth herself. Quenthel closed her eyes and listened once more, then fell to the floor in supplication yet again.

But the shrieks would not provide focus.

Quenthel gradually came back to a kneeling position no less confused or concerned. She crossed her arms over her chest and rocked slowly, seeking guidance. She put her hand on her sentient weapon, but the serpents remained silent, uncharacteristically so.

At length, she lifted her hands and signed to her sister, Get you to Arach-Tinilith and retrieve Myrineyl!

“Sister?” Sos’Umptu dared to openly question. Arach-Tinilith, the training academy for drow priestesses, served as the greatest of the drow academies, elevated on Tier Breche above the school of warriors, Melee-Magthere, and Sorcere, the school for promising young wizards.

Quenthel shot Sos’Umptu a threatening glare.

I should retire to the Fane of Quarvelsharess , Sos’Umptu’s fingers flashed, referring to the great public cathedral of Menzoberranzan, one Sos’Umptu had been instrumental in creating, and in which she served as high priestess. I only visited Chapel Baenre so that I would not be tardy for evening prayers .