J. King: Realms of the Underdark

"What are we going to do, Mother?" Briza asked, jerking on the bonds to tighten them further. "The Dagger was to bring us the favor of Lloth. Surely this blasphemous act will bring the Spider Queen's displeasure instead."

"We are doomed!" Maya wailed in despair. "Not yet," Malice snapped. "Not if the crime is atoned for properly. Then Lloth will be appeased. Zaknafein must be punished for this heinous act. And there can be but one punishment."

"Death?" Vierna asked, her voice emotionless. Malice shook her head. "Death would not be enough to satisfy Lloth's anger." Her lips curled in a wicked smile. "No," she crooned, "Zaknafein's punishment will be something far worse than mere death."

Zak stared at her in growing horror. What could she mean? But even his darkest fears were nothing compared to the reality of her words.

"For your crimes against Lloth and House Do'Urden, Zaknafein, I sentence you to be made into… a drider!" Zak reeled at this pronouncement. Even Malice's daughters gasped. There was no more terrible punishment known to the dark elves. To be made into a drider was to have one's body twisted into an accursed form that was half drow, half spider, a transformation that could never be reversed.

"Take him to the Cavern of the Lost," Malice commanded. "And let me look upon his face never again!"

Zak strained against his bonds, but it was no use. He was powerless as Malice's daughters dragged him off to meet his doom.

With white-knuckled hands, Matron Malice gripped the adamantite railing and gazed at the slaves working like insects in the compound below.

"Whither now, Daermon N'a'shezbaernon?" she murmured, using the ancient name of House Do'Urden. "Has your march to glory come to an end already?"

Hands reached from behind, caressing her shoulders, running down the smooth flesh of her back. She felt warm breath against the nape of her neck. "Come to bed, Malice. I will help you forget your troubles."

With a sharp jerk, Malice shrugged off the hands and whirled around. "That's Matron Malice to you, Rizzen," she said in a venomous tone, glaring at her current patron. She had more than enough that day of disrespectful males who did not know their places.

Rizzen's eyes bulged in alarm. He fumbled over a clumsy apology.

Malice sighed then, dismissing his words with an annoyed wave of her hand. There was no point in taking her anger out on Rizzen. He was weak and malleable, and he crumbled far too easily to give her any satisfaction. She shook her head. Had Zaknafein only been more like Rizzen, this disaster would never have occurred. But then, had Zak been like Rizzen, he never would have had the strength to gain the Dagger of Menzoberra in the first place. Zaknafein had always been her bane and her boon. But he would be neither ever again.

"Leave me, Rizzen," she commanded.

Rizzen gave a deep bow, backing from the room. Malice forgot him before he was even gone.

The matron of House Do'Urden turned her mind to the matter at hand. It was crucial to understand every possible implication, to foresee every possible consequence of what had occurred. She had to be certain her house had not been placed in a position of weakness by all this. If it were, some lower-ranked house could seize this opportunity to rise in station by launching a covert attack against House Do'Urden.

Again and again, Malice went over all the potential outcomes in her mind. At last she nodded, satisfied that House Do'Urden was safe, at least for the moment. Zaknafein had thrown Menzoberra's Dagger into the Fires of Narbondel. There was absolutely no hope now that Lloth would appear within the walls of House Do'Urden tomorrow, on the Festival of the Founding. However, for his blasphemous act, Zaknafein had been sentenced to the most dire punishment known to drow. Surely that would appease Lloth and tip the scales of favor back into balance. Malice had gained no ground for her efforts, but she had to believe that she had lost none, either.

A shudder passed through her then at the thought of the judgment she had passed upon her weapons master. It was not something she had done with relish. Even as she had uttered the terrible words, her heart had cried out for her to stop. To be transformed into a drider was a fate she would hesitate to wish upon even her worst enemy. By her order, Zak would become a monster: a tortured creature of hideous aspect, forced to live out his days in pain and madness and loathing, haunting the labyrinth of the Dark Dominion.

Yet what choice had Malice had? None. What she had done was done to protect House Do'Urden. She was matron mother. The prosperity of the house came before all else. She could not forget that. Still, the awful weight of her actions pressed upon her, dragging her to her knees. A moan escaped her lips. Most days she reveled in her power as matron mother of a noble house. But sometimes power was a terrible burden.

A low humming reached her delicate, pointed ears. Malice looked up in surprise to see a small disk hovering before her. The metal circle glowed with sapphire light as it whirled in midair. A message disk! But from whom?

She held out her hand, and the disk alighted upon it, warm against her skin. An image appeared, translucent but clear, hovering over the disk's surface. It was the visage of an ancient elf woman, her dark flesh withered, her hair yellowed and scraggly, but her eyes as bright as polished stones. Malice gasped. The image was that of Matron Baenre, leader of the First House of Menzoberranzan. To Malice's further surprise, the image of the dark elf crone began to speak.

"Greetings, Matron Malice." Matron Baenre's spindly voice emanated from the image.

"Greetings…" Malice started to reply, but the image continued to talk without pause, by that, Malice knew she was not really speaking with Matron Baenre. Rather, this was a prefashioned message embedded in the disk itself.

"The Festival of the Founding is nearly upon us," the image of Matron Baenre went on. "As you know, it is the tradition on that day for the nobles of two houses that do not customarily dine together to do so. If House Do'Urden would deign to host House Baenre on this holy occasion, I would be most grateful."

Malice's heart skipped a beat in her chest. Baenre wanted to dine with House Do'Urden on the Festival Day? What marvelous fortune! Malice's plot to win a visit from Lloth had unraveled, but without doubt this was the next greatest honor. Certainly this meant that Matron Baenre favored the recent rise in station of House Do'Urden. And once it was known that House Baenre had chosen to feast with House Do'Urden for the Festival, the status of Malice's clan could rise only further.

"Will Matron Malice accept this offer?" the image hovering above the disk finished.

Though it was phrased as a polite question, Malice knew that it was not really a request, but a demand. To refuse would be suicide. Not that she would ever do so.

Malice stood and spoke in a formal tone. "Please inform Matron Baenre that I am honored to accept her gracious offer."

The image of the crone nodded, then vanished. The disk rose from Malice's hand, then whizzed away to deliver her response to House Baenre.

By force of will, Malice banished thoughts of Zaknafein from her mind. It was better if she forgot him. Besides, she had other matters to concern her now. A smile parted her dark red lips. Defeat had turned into victory. Tomorrow would be a glorious day after all.

They had strapped him to an altar of dark stone, fiat on his back, his hands and feet bound with rothe-hide thongs to the slab's four corners. A scream of utter agony echoed around the dank cavern, underscored by the eerie sound of chanting. Zaknafein craned his neck, straining against his bonds, trying to see what was happening. He was not the only one sentenced to become a drider that day.