R. Salvatore: Night of the Hunter

Kimmuriel had not even been involved in the efforts their brother Jarlaxle had expended in saving the grievously wounded illithid. But Quenthel didn’t need to know that-or to know that Jarlaxle was even related to them!

“How long have you known about the mind flayer?” Quenthel asked suspiciously.

Gromph looked at her as though he didn’t understand. “As long as you …” he started to reply.

“How long have you known him to be out here?” the matron mother clarified.

“Many months,” Gromph replied, though as he considered the question, he realized it had probably been many years.

“And you did not think to inform me?”

Gromph again stared at her as if he didn’t understand. “You think to use Methil as Yvonnel once utilized him?” Before Quenthel could reply, he added, “You cannot! The creature is quite damaged, I assure you, and would cause you considerable grief and nothing more in that role.”

Quenthel’s hand flashed up, palm outward, at the illithid, who had moved too close for comfort. She uttered a spell of command. “Halt!”

Normally such a spell would never have proven effective on a creature of such intellect, but when Matron Mother Quenthel uttered a command, it carried much greater weight indeed. That, perhaps combined with Methil El-Viddenvelp’s clearly diminished mental capacity, had the illithid skidding to an abrupt and complete stop.

“Then why are we here?” Quenthel asked her brother pointedly.

“Because Yvonnel would know,” he replied, and he turned to the iron box set upon the floating disc. He waved his hand over it, the cover magically lifting, and said, “Behold.”

Quenthel gasped again as she peered into the box to see a withered head, split down the middle and somewhat stitched back together, a head she surely recognized, the split head of her long-dead mother!

“What is that?” she asked, falling back in horror. “You dare to blaspheme-”

“To preserve,” Gromph corrected.

“How did you get that … her? Who?”

“Bregan D’aerthe, of course. The same ones who saved Methil, here.”

“This is unconscionable!”

“You mean to resurrect Yvonnel?” The tremor was clear in her voice, Gromph noted, and rightly so-such an act would steal profoundly from the current matron mother, after all.

Gromph shook his head. “Our dear dead mother is far beyond that. The magic that had kept her alive for too many centuries is long dissipated. To bring her back now, well, she would just wither and shrivel and be dead once more.”

“Then why do you have that?” Quenthel asked, pointing to the box, and she even dared to edge closer and glance in once more at the horrid thing.

“A curiosity at first,” said Gromph. “Have you not complained to me many times about my collections?”

“This is beyond even your morbid sensibilities,” Quenthel said dryly.

The archmage shrugged and smiled. “Indeed, you may be right, but …” He paused and nodded his chin past his sister. Quenthel turned and found the illithid in a highly agitated state, shivering and hopping about, with disgusting drool spilling down over the front of its white robe.

Quenthel turned an angry glare back at her brother. “Explain!” she demanded. “What desecration-”

“It would seem that I have preserved more than the physical head of our dead mother,” Gromph replied casually. “For, as I have learned from Kimmuriel Oblodra of Bregan D’aerthe, and he from the illithids, the physical mind is full of patterns, tiny connections that preserve memories.” As he spoke, he waved his hand, and the disc floated past Quenthel toward Methil, whose tentacles waggled insatiably.

“You would not dare!” the matron mother said, to both of them.

“I already have, many times,” Gromph replied. “To your benefit, I expect.”

Quenthel shot him an angry glare.

“The Spider Queen knows of it,” the archmage explained. “So said the Mistress of Arach-Tinilith, with whom I spoke.”

Quenthel’s eyes flared with anger and her hand fell to her dreaded whip, but all five of the snakes screamed in her thoughts to hold back. Trembling with rage, for she knew well her conniving brother’s confidante, the matron mother composed herself as much as possible and whispered through gritted teeth, “You confided in Minolin Fey, above me?”

“On Lolth’s command,” came the damning reply, so easily and confidently spoken.

Quenthel cried out, and she winced then and swung around, then fell back a step when she saw Methil leaning over the opened iron box, the creature’s tentacles waggling within it, waggling within the skull of Matron Mother Yvonnel Baenre, no doubt!

“I revealed nothing to dear Minolin in specific detail, of course,” Gromph casually continued. “Only in cryptic generalities.”

“You would choose House Fey-Branche over House Baenre?”

“I would choose a powerful Mistress of Arach-Tinilith as a confidante in a matter most urgent to the Spider Queen. Minolin Fey understands that any betrayal on her part will be a move against Lolth and not one against House Baenre. Understand, Matron Mother, that the Spider Queen is not angry with me. Indeed, given the handmaiden’s response to Sos’Umptu and Myrineyl this day, I hold confidence that Lady Lolth expected this all along, and certainly she sanctions it, and likely she orchestrated it. And it is, in the end, your own fault, dear sister.”

Anger flashed in Quenthel’s eyes. “Minolin Fey is a weakling,” she said. “A fool of the highest order, and too stupid to even understand her own ignorance.”

“Yes, accept the truth of my insult,” Gromph came right back without fear. “How do you judge your tenure as the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan?”

“Who are you to ask such a question of me?”

“I am the archmage. I am your brother. I am your ally.”

“The city thrives!” Quenthel argued. “We expand to Gauntlgrym on my doing!”

“Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?” Gromph asked slyly, for they both knew the truth. Titanic events were going on all around them with the end of the Spellplague, and Lady Lolth herself was at play in the realm of arcane magic, Gromph knew, and yet, through it all, the denizens of Menzoberranzan had been mere spectators, after all.

And while House Baenre’s hold on the city seemed as solid as ever at a cursory glance, the Baenre nobles knew the truth. The departure of House Xorlarrin, the Third House of the city and the one of greatest arcane power, was a tremendous risk that could bring great tumult to Menzoberranzan. Perhaps it would be seen as an opportunity for ascension to the ultimate rank by Matron Mez’Barris Armgo of House Barrison Del’Armgo, Baenre’s rival, who had long coveted the title held by Yvonnel and now by Quenthel.

Appearances aside, Gromph knew it and Quenthel knew it: Menzoberranzan teetered on the edge of civil war.

“Our friend is ready for you,” Gromph said.

Quenthel looked at him curiously for a moment, then, catching the reference, her eyes went wide as she spun around to face the illithid, who was standing right behind her. Quenthel took a fast step away, or tried to, but Gromph was quicker, casting a spell of holding upon her-a dweomer that never should have taken hold on the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan.

Unless Lady Lolth allowed it, Quenthel realized to her horror as she froze in place.

Still, she fought against the magic with all her strength, thoroughly repulsed, as Methil El-Viddenvelp’s waggling tentacles reached for her tender skin, touched her neck and face, slithered up her nostrils.

Her expression became a mask of indignation, of outrage, and the purest anger Gromph had ever seen. He knew that if she found the power to break away at that moment, she would launch herself at him, physically and magically, to punish and bite and tear. She’d put her five-headed snake whip to work in short order, letting them strike at him, filling him with their agonizing venom, letting them chew into his belly and feast on his entrails.