R. Salvatore - Night of the Hunter

“Methil will show you the way, and will instruct you how to enact the spell,” Gromph explained to Tsabrak.

“Spell?”

“The Darkening,” Matron Mother Quenthel said. “You are preparing the greatest battlefield of this age, for the glory to the Spider Queen.” She nodded, then turned on her heel and left, but tarried long enough in the hallway to hear the first delicious screams of Tsabrak as the illithid sent its tentacles into his brain. Methil wouldn’t truly hurt him, she knew-indeed, far from it! — but none could feel that intimate intrusion without a bit of screaming, after all.

Her soldiers and scouts had spied out every corner of the Q’Xorlarrin complex, and Matron Zeerith’s children had done an impressive job of preparing the substructure of this ancient dwarven homeland to serve as a proper drow outpost-they would call it a city, but of course Matron Mother Quenthel would never let it rise to quite that level, that it might rival Menzoberranzan.

She didn’t knock on the next door, but pushed right through, to find Saribel Xorlarrin, a minor priestess by all accounts, but one that Tiago had inexplicably decided to take as a wife.

Saribel stared at her in puzzlement for just a moment, then cried out “Matron Mother!” and fell to her knees.

“Get up, child,” Matron Mother Quenthel said.

As Saribel rose, Quenthel cupped her chin and forced her head up as well, that she could look her in the eye.

“I am returning to Menzoberranzan with my entourage,” the matron mother explained. “I will leave only a few behind, including the illithid, who works with your uncle, Tsabrak. The creature is of no concern to you or any others.”

“Yes, Matron Mother,” Saribel replied, her eyes instinctively lowering.

Matron Mother Quenthel grabbed her more roughly and forced her to look up once more. “Tsabrak has work to do,” she explained. “He will not be impeded. When he returns to the east, he will take as many of your contingent as he pleases. If he instructs any to join him, your sister or brother or even your mother, if Matron Zeerith is here before he departs, then so be it. His word will be followed.”

“Yes, Matron Mother, I will go if ordered …”

“Not you,” Matron Mother Quenthel sternly corrected. “No, you will gather Tiago and return to me in Menzoberranzan. Where is he?”

“He is out of the complex, on the surface with Ravel and others.”

“I know that, you simpleton. Where have they gone?”

Saribel blinked repeatedly and seemed as if she was looking for an escape.

“Dear child,” Quenthel said, and her tone made it a clear threat.

“They had word of enemies,” Saribel blurted, “in a small city of humans and dwarves, not far. They have gone to eradicate …”

The matron mother blew an exaggerated sigh. “Impulsive children,” she said. “When they return, you will gather up Tiago and return to me at House Baenre, immediately.”

“Yes Matron Mother, but I am … I was left here to prepare the way for Matron Zeerith.”

“You will gather up Tiago and return to me at House Baenre, immediately,” Matron Mother Quenthel repeated slowly and evenly, her tone showing no room for debate.

“Yes, Matron Mother.”

“Do not expect to return here,” Quenthel Baenre warned. “Ever.”

Saribel withered under those words and Quenthel’s continuing glare, but she didn’t dare argue.

“Fear not, child,” Matron Mother Quenthel added with her knowing grin. “You will find a place of honor in a fine House of Menzoberranzan and that is no small thing. Perhaps you will one day sit on the Ruling Council.” Even as she spoke the words, Quenthel thought them ridiculous, for Saribel Xorlarrin was hardly worthy of her surname. Even Matron Zeerith had little to say about Saribel that was not rife with derision. But still, Quenthel thought, perhaps having such a stooge on the Ruling Council would secure her a second vote on any issue she wanted. Her smile turned genuine for just a moment before she reminded herself that she was getting way out in front here. Too many things still had to be accomplished before any of this would come to fruition, with the first battle of words no doubt looming.

She had a surprising announcement to make, after all, when next the Ruling Council was joined, and even her allies at the table might take exception.

But she was moving along the path beautifully, Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre believed. With the addition of High Priestess Minolin Fey to the Baenre ranks, and Gromph’s coming child, House Fey-Branche had been secured as an ally. The avatar of Lolth had confirmed the alliance, clearly, and the Fey-Branche family would never dare go against so obvious an imprimatur!

And now Quenthel found herself on the verge of diffusing the predicted battle between Andzrel and Tiago, to the satisfaction of both, and to the benefit, ultimately, of House Baenre.

She heard the continuing screams of Tsabrak Xorlarrin echoing down the hall when she left Saribel’s chamber. She remembered when she had screamed like that, when Methil’s tentacles had wriggled up her nose and into her brain.

If only she had understood then, as she did now, the beauty Methil had been imparting to her, the understanding of the millennia, the wisdom of her great mother, the clear vision of Lady Lolth’s grand scheme!

Quenthel would welcome another intimate intrusion by the illithid if such a gain was to be found again. She suspected that Tsabrak would feel the same.

He was learning the spell now, perhaps the greatest spell a drow would cast, at least since Matron Mother Yvonnel Baenre had created the tentacles that had grabbed House Oblodra and torn it from its stone roots to drop the whole of the place into the Clawrift.

“The Darkening,” she whispered as she moved along, and she wished that she could go all the way out to the east with Tsabrak to witness the beauteous spectacle!

She had only one more visit to make before heading home to Menzoberranzan, and she waited patiently in the hall, enjoying the music of the screams for just a short while until Gromph came out of Tsabrak’s room, Methil close behind.

“Tsabrak is prepared?” she asked.

“Almost,” the archmage answered. “He will scream again, but at least now he has come to understand that there is indeed a reason. Still, we will find some pleasure in his pain.”

Quenthel smirked at her brother, who was indeed, she knew, finding great pleasure in tormenting Tsabrak. As much as Gromph tried to deny it, Quenthel suspected that there was a bit of trepidation and even envy within him regarding Tsabrak.

Or perhaps she just hoped there was.

The trio went to Berellip Xorlarrin’s room, collected the high priestess, and traveled to the Forge, where goblins scrambled all around to supply the drow craftsmen as they worked their magic.

“I have heard much of this place,” the matron mother said to Berellip. “Blacksmith Gol’fanin has told me that there is no forge upon Toril to exceed the heat and power of this one.”

“He does not exaggerate,” Berellip assured her, and she waved her arm out at the great Forge of Gauntlgrym, set in the middle of the long and narrow chamber.

“It is an oven. I do not need to view an oven,” Matron Mother Quenthel said with a derisive chortle that set Berellip back on her heels.

“Show us the source of the power within those furnaces,” Gromph explained, and the Xorlarrin priestess nodded excitedly and hustled to a small mithral door set back behind the main forge, halfway along the room’s long side wall. Beyond it lay a narrow tunnel that had once been sealed with several doors, it seemed.

“Portals designed by dwarves to keep all others out,” Berellip explained as they passed through one empty jamb where a door had been removed.