R. Salvatore: Night of the Hunter

Her argument revealed to the matron mother that Sos’Umptu thought the issue bigger than House Baenre, encompassing all of Menzoberranzan, and perhaps that was true, but Quenthel was not about to take the chance of allowing her House to become vulnerable in any way.

No! Quenthel’s fingers flashed simply. She saw the disappointment on Sos’Umptu’s face, and knew it was more a matter of the reason for the ordered diversion to Arach-Tinilith than the delay in her return to her precious Fane of Quarvelsharess. Sos’Umptu was no friend to Myrineyl, Quenthel’s eldest daughter, after all! Soon to graduate from Arach-Tinilith, the whispers had already started concerning the expected struggle between Myrineyl and Sos’Umptu over the title of First Priestess of House Baenre, which was among the most coveted positions in the drow city.

You will work with Myrineyl , Quenthel’s hand signs explained, and aloud she added, “Summon a yochlol, in this temple. We will hear the call of Lady Lolth and will answer to her needs.”

Up and down the chapel, the matron mother’s words were met by rising eyes, even rising priestesses, at the proclamation. Summoning a yochlol was no minor thing, after all, and most in attendance had never seen one of Lolth’s Handmaidens.

The matron mother watched the expressions being exchanged among the lessers, wide-eyed, full of apprehension, full of excitement.

“Select half the priestesses of House Baenre to witness the summoning,” the matron mother instructed as she rose. “Make them earn their place of witness.” She threw the train of her spidery gown out behind her and imperiously strode away, appearing the rock of confidence and strength.

Inside, though, the matron mother’s thoughts roiled, the shrieks of Lolth echoing in her mind. Somehow, someone had erred, and greatly so, and punishment from Lolth was never an easy sentence.

Perhaps she should take part in the summoning, she thought, before quickly dismissing the idea. She was the Matron Mother of House Baenre, after all, the unquestioned ruler of Lolth’s city of Menzoberranzan. She would not request the audience of a yochlol, and would only accept the invitation of one, should it come to that. Besides, high priestesses were only supposed to call upon one of Lolth’s handmaidens in a dire emergency, and Quenthel wasn’t completely sure that’s what this was. If not, and the summoning invoked the further displeasure of Lolth, better that she was not among those calling!

For now, she decided, she should visit with the one she believed to be her only other surviving sibling, the Archmage of Menzoberranzan, her brother Gromph, to learn what he might know.

The Elderboy of House Baenre, the first child of the great Yvonnel, Gromph Baenre now stood as the oldest living drow in Menzoberranzan, and had long before earned the distinction as the longest-serving archmage of the city. His tenure predated not only the Spellplague but the Time of Troubles, and by centuries! It was said that he got along by getting along, and by knowing his place, for though his station afforded him great latitude within Menzoberranzan, inarguably as the most powerful male drow in the city, he remained, after all, merely a male drow.

In theory, therefore, every matron mother and every high priestess outranked him. They were closer to Lolth, and the Spider Queen ruled all.

Many lesser priestesses had tested that theory against Gromph over the centuries.

They were all dead.

Even Quenthel, Matron Mother Quenthel herself, knocked lightly and politely on the door of the archmage’s private chamber in House Baenre. She might have been more showy and forceful had Gromph been in his residence in the Academy of Sorcere, but here in House Baenre, the pretense couldn’t stand. Quenthel and Gromph, siblings, understood each other, didn’t much like each other, but surely needed each other.

The old wizard stood up quickly and offered a respectful bow when Quenthel pressed into the room.

“Unexpected,” he said, for indeed, these two spent little time in each other’s company, and usually only when Quenthel had summoned Gromph to her formal chair of station.

Quenthel closed the door and motioned for her brother to be seated. He noted her nervous movements and looked at her slyly. “There is news?”

Quenthel took the seat opposite the archmage, across the great desk, which was covered in parchment, both rolled and spread, with a hundred bottles of various inks set about them.

“Tell me of the Spellplague,” Quenthel bade him.

“It is ended, mercifully,” he replied with a shrug. “Magic is as magic was, the Weave reborn, and gloriously so.”

Quenthel stared at him curiously. “Gloriously?” she asked, considering his strange choice of words, and one that surely seemed stranger still, given the typical demeanor of Gromph.

Gromph shrugged as if it did not matter, to deflect his nosy sister. For once, regarding the movements of Lady Lolth, this situation did not yet concern her. For once, the male wizards of Menzoberranzan had been entreated by the Spider Queen before and above the domineering disciples of Arach-Tinilith. Gromph knew that his time standing above Quenthel in Lolth’s eyes would be brief, but he intended to hold fast to it for as long as possible.

Quenthel narrowed her eyes, and Gromph suppressed his smile, knowing that his apparent indifference to such godly games surely irked her. “The Spider Queen is angry,” Quenthel said.

“She is always angry,” Gromph replied, “else she could hardly be considered a demon queen!”

“Your jests are noted, and will be relayed,” Quenthel warned.

Gromph shrugged. He could hardly suppress his laughter. One of them would soon be exposing quite a bit of truth regarding the Spider Queen, he knew, but to Quenthel’s surprise, it wouldn’t be her.

“You think her current anger is regarding the Weave? The end of the Spellplague?” he asked, because he could not resist. He pictured the expression Quenthel would wear when the truth was revealed to her, and it took all that he could muster to not break out in open, mocking laughter. “Five years, it has been-not so long a time in the eyes of a goddess, true, but still …”

“Do not mock her,” Quenthel warned.

“Of course not. I merely seek to discern-”

“She is angry,” Quenthel interrupted. “It seemed unfocused, a discordant shriek, a scream of frustration.”

“She lost,” Gromph said matter-of-factly, and he laughed at Quenthel’s threatening glare.

“It’s not about that,” the matron mother said with confidence.

“Dear sister …”

“Matron Mother,” Quenthel sharply corrected.

“Do you fear that the Spider Queen is angry with you?” Gromph went on.

Quenthel rested back in her chair and stared off into nothingness, contemplating the question far longer than Gromph had anticipated-so long, in fact, that the archmage went back to his work, penning a new scroll.

“At us,” Quenthel decided some time later, and Gromph looked up at her curiously.

“Us? House Baenre?”

“Menzoberranzan, perhaps.” Quenthel waved her hand dismissively, obviously flustered. “I have set Sos’Umptu and my daughter to the task of summoning a handmaiden, that we might get more definitive answers.”

“Then pray tell me, dear sister”-Gromph folded his hands on the desk before him, staring hard at Quenthel, pointedly referring to her in that less-than-formal manner-“why did you decide to disturb my work?”

“The Spellplague, the Weave,” the matron mother flailed, again waving her hand.

“Nay, that is not the reason,” said the old archmage. “Why, Quenthel, I believe that you are afraid.”

“You dare to speak to me in that manner?”