R.A. Salvatore: Maestro

“I did not give you permission to smite her,” the girl said evenly.

With a growl, Quenthel swung again, more forcefully. Yvonnel crossed her arms in front of her and waved them out wide. Again the hammer appeared, this time aiming for Yvonnel’s face. But as the spectral image descended, it hit a shimmering field the girl had enacted. As it plunged through, it came out instead in front of Quenthel, and she yelped as her own hard strike smacked her in the face and sent her stumbling backward to the ground.

Not even bothering to stand back up, Minolin Fey scrambled away, making curious mewling noises all the way to the door. She slammed that door behind her as she exited.

“You dare!” Quenthel cried, unsteadily trying to stand, blood streaming from one nostril and from the side of her face.

“I ‘dare’? You think that a simple trick?”

“Some dimensional warp of space,” Quenthel spat, blood coming with every word.

“Against the likes of a spectral hammer?” said the girl incredulously. “Do you not understand who I am?”

Quenthel found solid footing then and hoisted her snake-headed scourge, replacing the hammer on her belt. She advanced, growling with every step.

Yvonnel put her hands on her hips, as petulantly as she could manage, and shook her head and sighed.

“Really, must it come to this?”

“You are an abomination!” Quenthel retorted.

“You have so quickly forgotten the Festival of the Founding in the House of Byrtyn Fey?”

That stopped the advance of the matron mother, and she stood there, suddenly unsure, her eyes darting about.

“Expecting a yochlol?” Yvonnel teased.

They both knew the truth now.

“Did you not tell your brother to marry Minolin Fey so that I would be born in and of House Baenre?” Yvonnel asked. “You even named me, did you not? Oh yes, except that you were instructed as such. Yvonnel the Eternal, born once more to be your successor, yes?”

Now Quenthel was herself looking for an escape.

“And here I am.”

“You are a child!”

“I am, in body.”

“No!” Quenthel demanded. “Not now, not yet! You are not old enough-even with your magical physical advancement, you are but half the age to begin your training in Arach-Tinilith.”

“My training ?” Yvonnel asked with an incredulous laugh. “Dear Quenthel, who in this city will train me?”

“Hubris!” Quenthel said, but there was not much conviction in the roar.

“Yngoth is the wisest of the snakes on your scourge,” said Yvonnel. “Go ahead, High Priestess, ask her.”

“High Priestess?” Quenthel yelled in protest. She came forward, closing the ground, lifting the scourge for a strike.

“High Priestess Quenthel,” came the response, but not from Yvonnel. It came from one of the heads on her scourge, from Yngoth.

Quenthel looked at the snake in shock.

“She believes herself matron mother,” Yvonnel said to the snake. “Tell her the truth.”

Yngoth bit Quenthel in the face.

She staggered back, trying to sort it out, but not quickly enough understanding the terrible danger to her. Yngoth bit her again, and by that time, the other four scourge heads had also sunk their fangs into Quenthel’s tender flesh. Fires of poison burned through her. She should have thrown the scourge aside, of course, but she couldn’t think quickly enough in that terrible moment.

The snakes struck again, and again after that, each bite filling her with enough venom to kill a score of drow.

She stumbled, but still she held the scourge, and still the snakes bit at her.

She fell backward, the weapon falling beside her, and as she writhed in fiery agony, the snakes bit her again.

And again.

She had never known such pain. She cried out for death to take her.

And there was the child, Yvonnel, she saw through bleary, bloody eyes, standing over her, looking down at her, smiling down at her.

Darkness closed in from the corners of her vision. She did see Yvonnel reaching down; she did feel Yvonnel grasping the gathering of her gown. She felt light as darkness engulfed her. She was light, she believed, because Yvonnel lifted her up with just that one hand, so easily hoisted her from the floor.

A pinprick of light broke the darkness-perhaps the tunnel to the Demonweb Pits and eternity.

But that pinprick widened, and Quenthel felt as if cool waters poured over the burning venom coursing in her veins. It was impossible! No spell could defeat that amount of deadly poison so quickly.

But the light widened and Quenthel realized that she was in her chair again, in her throne, the throne of the matron mother. And there was the young woman, Yvonnel, staring at her, smiling at her.

“Do you understand now?” Yvonnel asked.

Quenthel’s mind wheeled-she was terrified that Yvonnel was reading her every thought. She should be dead. The poison of any of her snakes would kill a dark elf. The repeated bites of all five would kill a dark elf in mere moments.

“You live,” Yvonnel answered the obvious question. “Yet no priestess could have administered enough healing, divine or alchemical, to pull you back from the death brought by your snakes’ venom.”

Quenthel’s eyes widened as her gaze drifted lower, as her eyes focused on the scourge, her scourge, that Yvonnel carried. The five snakes wrapped lovingly around Yvonnel’s beautiful black arms.

“Fear not, I will fashion my own scourge,” Yvonnel explained. “Indeed, I look forward to it.”

“Who are you?”

“You know.”

Quenthel shook her head helplessly.

“You wonder why you are alive,” said Yvonnel. “Of course you do! Why would you not? Wouldn’t I be better served to let you die? Oh, I see,” she said with a perfectly evil grin. “You fear that I saved you from the snake poison so that I might make your death even more painful!”

Despite herself, Quenthel began to tremble and to gasp for air.

“Perhaps it will come to that, but it need not,” said Yvonnel. “You are fortunate, in that I do not wish to yet reveal myself to the Ruling Council and the city, and thus, I desire your services. You see, for all who look upon House Baenre, you will remain the matron mother. Only you and I will know better.”

She paused there and cast a grin at Quenthel. “You do know better,” she said.

Quenthel swallowed hard.

“Who am I?” Yvonnel asked, and those five snake heads of Quenthel’s scourge unwrapped from the girl’s arm and came up hissing and swaying ominously, reaching Quenthel’s way.

“The dau-” Quenthel started to reply, but stopped when she noted Qorra, the third and most potent viper, moving to strike.

“Think carefully,” Yvonnel said. “Prove to me that you are not too stupid to properly serve my needs.”

Quenthel forced herself to close her eyes, to reach into the memories and wisdom of Yvonnel the Eternal.

“Take your time, my aunt, my sibling, my daughter. Who am I?”

Quenthel opened her eyes. “You are the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan.”

The girl’s smile sent a thousand waves of warmth cascading through Quenthel, and the snakes slithered back into the loving embrace of Yvonnel’s arm.

“Only you and I will know that,” Yvonnel explained. “Prove your worth to me. I will be in need of powerful high priestesses, of course, and perhaps a new headmistress of Arach-Tinilith. Are you worthy of such a position?”

Quenthel wanted to reply, indignantly, that she was already the matron mother. How could she not be worthy?

But she said no such thing. She nodded meekly, and accepted the scourge when this young woman, this mere girl, handed it back to her.

“Other Houses hold you in contempt,” Yvonnel explained, walking aside as Quenthel composed herself and straightened in her throne. “They hold the name Baenre in contempt. That cannot hold, of course. They will conspire, and if those conspiracies come to fruition, you will be their target, for now at least.” She spun gracefully on her heel, her smile wide. “Perhaps they will kill you,” she said happily. “But perhaps not. And in that event, and if you have served me well in the tendays coming, then you will survive this. You will serve in my House Baenre, and in my Academy, and you will know honor and glory and great power.