"Agreed” said Matron Baenre. "Males can get so presumptuous at times, especially wizards! Still, I wish that I had Gomph at my side more often these days. He has been appointed Archmage of Menzoberranzan, you know, and seems always at work on Narbondel or some other such tasks”
Malice just nodded and held her tongue. Of course, she knew that Baenre's son was the city's chief wizard. Everybody knew. Everybody knew, too, that Baenre's daughter Triel was the Matron Mistress of the Academy, a position of honor in Menzoberranzan second only to the title of matron mother of an individual family. Malice had little doubt that Matron Baenre would somehow work that fact into the conversation before too long.
Before Malice took a step toward the stairs to the altar, her newest escort stepped out from the shadows. Malice scowled openly when she saw the thing, a creature known as an illithid, a mind fIayer. It stood about six feet tall, fully a foot taller than Malice, most of the difference being the result of the creature's enormous head. Glistening with slime, he head resembled an octopus with pupilless, milky white eyes.
Malice composed herself quickly. Mind fIayers were not mknown in Menzoberranzan, and rumors said that one had befriended Matron Baenre. These creatures, though, nore intelligent and more evil than even the drow, almost always inspired shudders of revulsion.
"You may call him Methil” Matron Baenre explained. "His true name is beyond my pronunciation. He is a friend!'
Before Malice could reply, Baenre added, "Of course, Methil gives me the advantage in our discussion, and you are not accustomed to illithids!' Then, as Malice's mouth drooped open in disbelief, Matron Baenre dismissed the illithid.
"You read my thought” Malice protested. Few could insinuate themselves through the mental barriers of a high priestess well enough to read her thoughts, and the practice was a crime of the highest order in drow society.
"No!" Matron Baenre explained, immediately on the defensive. "Your pardon, Matron Malice. Methil reads thoughts, even the thoughts of a high priestess, as easily as you or I hear words. He communicates telepathically. On my word, I did not even realize that you had not yet spoken your thoughts!'
Malice waited to watch the creature depart the great hall, then walked up the steps to the altar. In spite of her efforts against the action, she could not help peeking up at the transforming spider-and-drow image every now and then.
"How fares House Do'Urden?" Matron Baenre asked, feigning politeness.
"Well enough” replied Malice, more interested at that moment in studying her counterpart than in conversing. They were alone atop the altar, though no doubt a dozen or so clerics wandered through the shadows of the great hall, keeping a watchful eye on the situation.
Malice had all that she could handle in hiding her contempt for Matron Baenre. Malice was old, nearly five hundred, but Matron Baenre was ancient. Her eyes had seen the rise and fall of a millennium, by some accounts, though drow rarely lived past their seventh-and certainly not their eighth-century. While drow normally did not show their age-Malice was as beautiful and vibrant now as she had been on her one-hundredth birthday-Matron Baenre was withered and worn. The wrinkles surrounding her mouth resembled a spider's web, and she could hardly keep the heavy lids of her eyes from dropping altogether. Matron Baenre should be dead, Malice noted, but still she lives.
Matron Baenre, seeming so beyond her time of life, was pregnant, and due in only a few weeks.
In this aspect, too, Matron Baenre defied the norm of the dark elves. She had given birth twenty times, twice as often as any others in Menzoberranzan, and fifteen of those she bore were female, everyone a high priestess! Three of Baenre's children were older than Malice!
"How many soldiers do you now command?" Matron Baenre asked, leaning closer to show her interest.
"Three hundred” Malice replied.
"Oh," mused the withered old drow, pursing a finger to her lips. "I had heard the count at three-hundred fifty”
Malice grimaced in spite of herself. Baenre was teasing her, referring to the soldiers House Do'Urden had added in its raid on House DeVir:
"Three hundred” Malice said again.
"Of course” replied Baenre, resting back.
"And House Baenre holds a thousand?" Malice asked for no better reason than to keep herself on even terms in the discussion.
"That has been our number for many years”
Malice wondered again why this old decrepit thing was still alive. Surely more than one of Baenre's daughters aspired to the position of matron mother. Why hadn't they conspired and finished Matron Baenre off? Or why hadn't any of them, some in the later stages of life, struck out on their own to form separate houses, as was the norm for noble daughters when they passed their fifth century? While they lived under Matron Baenre's rule, their children would not even be considered nobles but would be relegated to the ranks of the commoners.
"You have heard of the fate of House DeVir?" Matron Baenre asked directly, growing as tired of the hesitant small talk as her counterpart.
"Of what house?" Malice asked pointedly. At this time, there was no such thing as House DeVir in Menzoberranzan. By drow reckoning, the house no longer existed; the house never existed.
Matron Baenre cackled. "Of course” she replied. "You are matron mother of the ninth house now. That is quite an honor!'
Malice nodded. "But not as great an honor as matron mother of the eighth house!'
"Yes” agreed Baenre, "but ninth is only one position away from a seat on the ruling council!'
"That would be an honor indeed” Malice replied. She was beginning to understand that Baenre was not simply teasing her, but was congratulating her as well, and prodding her on to greater glories. Malice brightened at the thought. Baenre was in the highest favor of the Spider Queen. If she was pleased with House Do'Urden's ascension, then so was Lloth.
"Not as much of an honor as you would believe” said Baenre. "We are a group of meddling old females, gathering every so often to find new ways to put our hands into places they do not belong!'
"The city recognizes your rule!'
"Does it have a choice?" Baenre laughed. "Still, drow business is better left to the matron mothers of the individual houses. Lloth would not stand for a presiding council exactjng anything that even remotely resembled total rule. Do you not believe that House Baenre would have conquered all of Menzoberranzan long ago if that was the Spider Queen's will?"
Malice shifted proudly in her chair, appalled by such arrogant words.
"Not now, of course” Matron Baenre explained. "The city is too large for such an action in this age. But long ago, before you were even born, House Baenre would not have found such a conquest difficult. But that is not our way. Lloth encourages diversity. She is pleased that houses stand to balance each other, ready to fight beside each other in times of common need” She paused a moment and let a smile appear on her wrinkled lips. "And ready to pounce upon any that fall out of her favor”
Another direct reference to House DeVir, Malice noted, this time directly connected to the Spider Queen's pleasure. Malice eased out of her angry posture and found the rest of her discussionfully two hours long-with Matron Baenre quite enjoyable.
Still, when she was back on the disk and floating out through the compound, past the grandest and strongest house in all of Menzoberranzan, Malice was not smiling. In the face of such an open display of power, she could not forget that Matron Baenre's purpose in summoning her had been twofold: to privately and cryptically congratulate her on her perfect coup, and to vividly remind her not to get too ambitious.
Chapter 5
Part 2
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Malice just nodded and held her tongue. Of course, she knew that Baenre's son was the city's chief wizard. Everybody knew. Everybody knew, too, that Baenre's daughter Triel was the Matron Mistress of the Academy, a position of honor in Menzoberranzan second only to the title of matron mother of an individual family. Malice had little doubt that Matron Baenre would somehow work that fact into the conversation before too long.
Before Malice took a step toward the stairs to the altar, her newest escort stepped out from the shadows. Malice scowled openly when she saw the thing, a creature known as an illithid, a mind fIayer. It stood about six feet tall, fully a foot taller than Malice, most of the difference being the result of the creature's enormous head. Glistening with slime, he head resembled an octopus with pupilless, milky white eyes.
Malice composed herself quickly. Mind fIayers were not mknown in Menzoberranzan, and rumors said that one had befriended Matron Baenre. These creatures, though, nore intelligent and more evil than even the drow, almost always inspired shudders of revulsion.
"You may call him Methil” Matron Baenre explained. "His true name is beyond my pronunciation. He is a friend!'
Before Malice could reply, Baenre added, "Of course, Methil gives me the advantage in our discussion, and you are not accustomed to illithids!' Then, as Malice's mouth drooped open in disbelief, Matron Baenre dismissed the illithid.
"You read my thought” Malice protested. Few could insinuate themselves through the mental barriers of a high priestess well enough to read her thoughts, and the practice was a crime of the highest order in drow society.
"No!" Matron Baenre explained, immediately on the defensive. "Your pardon, Matron Malice. Methil reads thoughts, even the thoughts of a high priestess, as easily as you or I hear words. He communicates telepathically. On my word, I did not even realize that you had not yet spoken your thoughts!'
Malice waited to watch the creature depart the great hall, then walked up the steps to the altar. In spite of her efforts against the action, she could not help peeking up at the transforming spider-and-drow image every now and then.
"How fares House Do'Urden?" Matron Baenre asked, feigning politeness.
"Well enough” replied Malice, more interested at that moment in studying her counterpart than in conversing. They were alone atop the altar, though no doubt a dozen or so clerics wandered through the shadows of the great hall, keeping a watchful eye on the situation.
Malice had all that she could handle in hiding her contempt for Matron Baenre. Malice was old, nearly five hundred, but Matron Baenre was ancient. Her eyes had seen the rise and fall of a millennium, by some accounts, though drow rarely lived past their seventh-and certainly not their eighth-century. While drow normally did not show their age-Malice was as beautiful and vibrant now as she had been on her one-hundredth birthday-Matron Baenre was withered and worn. The wrinkles surrounding her mouth resembled a spider's web, and she could hardly keep the heavy lids of her eyes from dropping altogether. Matron Baenre should be dead, Malice noted, but still she lives.
Matron Baenre, seeming so beyond her time of life, was pregnant, and due in only a few weeks.
In this aspect, too, Matron Baenre defied the norm of the dark elves. She had given birth twenty times, twice as often as any others in Menzoberranzan, and fifteen of those she bore were female, everyone a high priestess! Three of Baenre's children were older than Malice!
"How many soldiers do you now command?" Matron Baenre asked, leaning closer to show her interest.
"Three hundred” Malice replied.
"Oh," mused the withered old drow, pursing a finger to her lips. "I had heard the count at three-hundred fifty”
Malice grimaced in spite of herself. Baenre was teasing her, referring to the soldiers House Do'Urden had added in its raid on House DeVir:
"Three hundred” Malice said again.
"Of course” replied Baenre, resting back.
"And House Baenre holds a thousand?" Malice asked for no better reason than to keep herself on even terms in the discussion.
"That has been our number for many years”
Malice wondered again why this old decrepit thing was still alive. Surely more than one of Baenre's daughters aspired to the position of matron mother. Why hadn't they conspired and finished Matron Baenre off? Or why hadn't any of them, some in the later stages of life, struck out on their own to form separate houses, as was the norm for noble daughters when they passed their fifth century? While they lived under Matron Baenre's rule, their children would not even be considered nobles but would be relegated to the ranks of the commoners.
"You have heard of the fate of House DeVir?" Matron Baenre asked directly, growing as tired of the hesitant small talk as her counterpart.
"Of what house?" Malice asked pointedly. At this time, there was no such thing as House DeVir in Menzoberranzan. By drow reckoning, the house no longer existed; the house never existed.
Matron Baenre cackled. "Of course” she replied. "You are matron mother of the ninth house now. That is quite an honor!'
Malice nodded. "But not as great an honor as matron mother of the eighth house!'
"Yes” agreed Baenre, "but ninth is only one position away from a seat on the ruling council!'
"That would be an honor indeed” Malice replied. She was beginning to understand that Baenre was not simply teasing her, but was congratulating her as well, and prodding her on to greater glories. Malice brightened at the thought. Baenre was in the highest favor of the Spider Queen. If she was pleased with House Do'Urden's ascension, then so was Lloth.
"Not as much of an honor as you would believe” said Baenre. "We are a group of meddling old females, gathering every so often to find new ways to put our hands into places they do not belong!'
"The city recognizes your rule!'
"Does it have a choice?" Baenre laughed. "Still, drow business is better left to the matron mothers of the individual houses. Lloth would not stand for a presiding council exactjng anything that even remotely resembled total rule. Do you not believe that House Baenre would have conquered all of Menzoberranzan long ago if that was the Spider Queen's will?"
Malice shifted proudly in her chair, appalled by such arrogant words.
"Not now, of course” Matron Baenre explained. "The city is too large for such an action in this age. But long ago, before you were even born, House Baenre would not have found such a conquest difficult. But that is not our way. Lloth encourages diversity. She is pleased that houses stand to balance each other, ready to fight beside each other in times of common need” She paused a moment and let a smile appear on her wrinkled lips. "And ready to pounce upon any that fall out of her favor”
Another direct reference to House DeVir, Malice noted, this time directly connected to the Spider Queen's pleasure. Malice eased out of her angry posture and found the rest of her discussionfully two hours long-with Matron Baenre quite enjoyable.
Still, when she was back on the disk and floating out through the compound, past the grandest and strongest house in all of Menzoberranzan, Malice was not smiling. In the face of such an open display of power, she could not forget that Matron Baenre's purpose in summoning her had been twofold: to privately and cryptically congratulate her on her perfect coup, and to vividly remind her not to get too ambitious.
Chapter 5
Weaning
For five long years Vierna devoted almost every waking moment to the care of baby Drizzt. In drow society, this was not so much a nurturing time as an indoctrinating time. The child had to learn basic motor and language skills, as did children of all the intelligent races, but a drow elf also had to be grilled on the precepts that bound the chaotic society together.
In the case of a male child such as Drizzt, Vierna spent hour after endless hour reminding him that he was inferior to the drow females. Since almost all of this portion of Drizzt's life was spent in the family chapel, he encountered no males except during times of communal worship. Even when all in the house gathered for the unholy ceremonies, Drizzt remained silent at Vierna's side, with his gaze obediently on the floor.
When Drizzt was old enough to follow commands, Vierna's workload lessened. Still, she spent many hours teaching her younger brother-presently they were working on the intricate facial, hand, and body movements of the silent code. Often, though, she just set Drizzt about the endless task of cleaning the domed chapel. The room was barely a fifth the size of the great hall in House Baenre, but it could hold all the dark elves of House Do'Urden with a hundred seats to spare.
Being a wean-mother was not so bad now, Vierna thought, but still she wished that she could devote more of her time to her studies. If Matron Malice had appointed Maya to the task of rearing the child, Vierna might already have been ordained as a high priestess. Vierna still had another five years in her duties with Drizzt; Maya might attain high priestesshood before her!
Vierna dismissed that possibility. She could not afford to worry about such problems.She would finish her tenure as wean-mother in just a few short years. On or around his tenth birthday, Drizzt would be appointed page prince of the family and would serve all the household equally. If her work with Drizzt did not disappoint Matron Malice, Vierna knew that she would get her due.
"Go up the wall." Vierna instructed. "Tend to that statue." She pointed to a sculpture of a naked drow female about twenty feet from the floor. Young Drizzt looked up at it, confused. He couldn't possibly climb up to the sculpture and wipe it clean while holding any secure perch. Drizzt knew the high price of disobedience, though-even of hesitation-and he reached up, searching for his first hand-hold.
"Not like that!" Vierna scolded.
"How?" Drizzt dared to ask, for he had no idea of what his sister was hinting at.
"Will yourself up to the gargoyle” Vierna explained. Drizzt's small face crinkled in confusion.
"You are a noble of House Do'Urden!" Vierna shouted at him. "Or at least you will one day earn that distinction. In your neck-purse you possess the emblem of the house, an item of considerable magic” Vierna still wasn't certain if Drizzt was ready for such a task; levitation was a high manifestation of innate drow magic, certainly more difficult that limning objects in faerie fire or summoning globes of darkness. The Do'Urden emblem heightened these innate powers of drow elves, magic that usually emerged as a drow matured. Whereas most drow nobles could summon the magical energy to levitate once every day or so, the nobles of House Do'Urden, with their insignia tool, could do so repeatedly.
Normally, Vierna would never have tried this on a male child younger than ten, but Drizzt had shown her so much potential in the last couple of years that she saw no harm in the attempt. "Just put yourself in line with the statue” she explained, "and will yourself to rise”
Drizzt looked up at the female carving, then lined his feet just out in front of the thing's angled and delicate face. He put a hand to his collar, trying to attune himself to the emblem. He had sensed before that the magic coin possessed some type of power, but it was only a raw sensation, a child's intuition. Now that Drizzt had some focus and confirmation to his suspicions, he clearly felt the vibrations of magical energy.
A series of deep breaths cleared distracting thoughts from the young drow's mind. He blocked out the other sights of the room; all he saw was the statue, the destination. He felt himself grow lighter, his heels went up, and then he was on one toe, though he felt no weight upon it. Drizzt looked over at Vierna, his smile wide in amazement . . . then he tumbled to a heap.
"Foolish male!" Vierna scolded. "Try again! Try a thousand times if you must!" She reached for the snake-headed whip on her belt. "If you fail, . . "
Drizzt looked away from her, cursing himself. His own elation had caused the spell to falter. He knew that he could do it now, though, and he was not afraid of being beaten. He concentrated again on the sculpture and let the magical energy gather within his body.
Vierna, too, knew that Drizzt would eventually succeed. His mind was keen, as sharp as any Vierna had ever known, including those of the other females of House Do'Urden. The child was stubborn, too; Drizzt would not let the magic defeat him. She knew he would stand under the sculpture until he fainted from hunger if need be.
Vierna watched him go through a series of small successes and failures, the last one dropping Drizzt from a height of nearly ten feet. Vierna flinched, wondering if he was seriously hurt. Drizzt, whatever his wounds, did not even cry out but moved back into position and started concentrating all over again.
"He is young for that” came a comment from behind Vierna. She turned in her seat to see Briza standing over her, a customary scowl on the older sister's face.
"Perhaps” Vierna replied, "but I'll not know until I let him try"
"Whip him when he fails” Briza suggested, pulling her cruel six-headed instrument from her belt. She gave the whip a loving look – as if it were some sort of pet – and let a snake's head writhe about her neck and face. "Inspiration”
"Put it away” Vierna retorted. "Drizzt is mine to rear, and I need no help from you!"
"You should watch how you speak to a high priestess," Briza warned, and all of the snake heads, extensions of her thoughts, turned menacingly toward Vierna.
"As Matron Malice will watch how you interfere with my tasks” Vierna was quick to reply. Briza put her whip away at the mention of Matron Malice.
"Your tasks” she echoed scornfully. "You are too yielding for such a chore. Male children must be disciplined; they must ? be taught their place” Realizing that Vierna's threat held dire consequences, the older sister turned and left. Vierna let Briza have the last word. The wean-mother looked back to Drizzt, still trying to get up to the statue. "Enough!" she ordered, recognizing that the child was tiring; he could barely get his feet off the ground.
"I will do it!" Drizzt snapped back at her.
Vierna liked his determination, but not the tone of his reply. Perhaps there was some truth to Briza's words. Vierna snapped the snake-headed whip from her belt. A little inspiration might go a long way.
Vierna sat in the chapel the next day, watching Drizzt hard at work polishing the s1atue of the naked female. He had levitated the full twenty feet in his first attempt this day.
Vierna could not help but be disappointed when Drizzt did not look back to her and smile at the success. She saw him now, hovering up in the air, his hands a blur as they worked the brushes. Most vividly of all, though, Vierna saw the scars on her brother's naked back, the legacy of their "inspirational" discussion. In the infrared spectrum, the whip lines showed clearly, trails of warmth where the insulating layers of skin had been stripped away.
Vierna understood the gain in beating a child, particularly a male child. Few drow males ever raised a weapon against a female, unless under the order of some other female. "How much do we lose?" Vierna wondered aloud. "What more could one such as Drizzt become?"
When she heard the words spoken aloud, Vierna quickly brushed the blasphemous thoughts from her mind. She aspired to become a high priestess of the Spider Queen, Lloth the Merciless. Such thoughts were not in accord with the rules of her station. She cast an angry glare on her little brother, transferring her guilt, and again took out her instrument of punishment.
She would have to whip Drizzt again this day, for the sacrilegious thoughts he had inspired within her.
So the relationship continued for another five years, with Drizzt learning the basic lessons of life in drow society while endlessly cleaning the chapel of House Do'Urden. Beyond the supremacy of female drow (a lesson always accentuated by the wicked snake-headed whip), the most compelling lessons were those concerning the surface elves, the faeries. Evil empires often bound themselves in webs of hate toward fabricated enemies, and none in the history of the world were better at it than the drow. From the first day they were able to understand the spoken word, drow children were taught that whatever was wrong in their lives could be blamed on the surface elves.
Whenever the fangs of Vierna's whip sliced into Drizzt's back, he cried out for the death of a faerie. Conditioned hatred was rarely a rational emotion.
In the case of a male child such as Drizzt, Vierna spent hour after endless hour reminding him that he was inferior to the drow females. Since almost all of this portion of Drizzt's life was spent in the family chapel, he encountered no males except during times of communal worship. Even when all in the house gathered for the unholy ceremonies, Drizzt remained silent at Vierna's side, with his gaze obediently on the floor.
When Drizzt was old enough to follow commands, Vierna's workload lessened. Still, she spent many hours teaching her younger brother-presently they were working on the intricate facial, hand, and body movements of the silent code. Often, though, she just set Drizzt about the endless task of cleaning the domed chapel. The room was barely a fifth the size of the great hall in House Baenre, but it could hold all the dark elves of House Do'Urden with a hundred seats to spare.
Being a wean-mother was not so bad now, Vierna thought, but still she wished that she could devote more of her time to her studies. If Matron Malice had appointed Maya to the task of rearing the child, Vierna might already have been ordained as a high priestess. Vierna still had another five years in her duties with Drizzt; Maya might attain high priestesshood before her!
Vierna dismissed that possibility. She could not afford to worry about such problems.She would finish her tenure as wean-mother in just a few short years. On or around his tenth birthday, Drizzt would be appointed page prince of the family and would serve all the household equally. If her work with Drizzt did not disappoint Matron Malice, Vierna knew that she would get her due.
"Go up the wall." Vierna instructed. "Tend to that statue." She pointed to a sculpture of a naked drow female about twenty feet from the floor. Young Drizzt looked up at it, confused. He couldn't possibly climb up to the sculpture and wipe it clean while holding any secure perch. Drizzt knew the high price of disobedience, though-even of hesitation-and he reached up, searching for his first hand-hold.
"Not like that!" Vierna scolded.
"How?" Drizzt dared to ask, for he had no idea of what his sister was hinting at.
"Will yourself up to the gargoyle” Vierna explained. Drizzt's small face crinkled in confusion.
"You are a noble of House Do'Urden!" Vierna shouted at him. "Or at least you will one day earn that distinction. In your neck-purse you possess the emblem of the house, an item of considerable magic” Vierna still wasn't certain if Drizzt was ready for such a task; levitation was a high manifestation of innate drow magic, certainly more difficult that limning objects in faerie fire or summoning globes of darkness. The Do'Urden emblem heightened these innate powers of drow elves, magic that usually emerged as a drow matured. Whereas most drow nobles could summon the magical energy to levitate once every day or so, the nobles of House Do'Urden, with their insignia tool, could do so repeatedly.
Normally, Vierna would never have tried this on a male child younger than ten, but Drizzt had shown her so much potential in the last couple of years that she saw no harm in the attempt. "Just put yourself in line with the statue” she explained, "and will yourself to rise”
Drizzt looked up at the female carving, then lined his feet just out in front of the thing's angled and delicate face. He put a hand to his collar, trying to attune himself to the emblem. He had sensed before that the magic coin possessed some type of power, but it was only a raw sensation, a child's intuition. Now that Drizzt had some focus and confirmation to his suspicions, he clearly felt the vibrations of magical energy.
A series of deep breaths cleared distracting thoughts from the young drow's mind. He blocked out the other sights of the room; all he saw was the statue, the destination. He felt himself grow lighter, his heels went up, and then he was on one toe, though he felt no weight upon it. Drizzt looked over at Vierna, his smile wide in amazement . . . then he tumbled to a heap.
"Foolish male!" Vierna scolded. "Try again! Try a thousand times if you must!" She reached for the snake-headed whip on her belt. "If you fail, . . "
Drizzt looked away from her, cursing himself. His own elation had caused the spell to falter. He knew that he could do it now, though, and he was not afraid of being beaten. He concentrated again on the sculpture and let the magical energy gather within his body.
Vierna, too, knew that Drizzt would eventually succeed. His mind was keen, as sharp as any Vierna had ever known, including those of the other females of House Do'Urden. The child was stubborn, too; Drizzt would not let the magic defeat him. She knew he would stand under the sculpture until he fainted from hunger if need be.
Vierna watched him go through a series of small successes and failures, the last one dropping Drizzt from a height of nearly ten feet. Vierna flinched, wondering if he was seriously hurt. Drizzt, whatever his wounds, did not even cry out but moved back into position and started concentrating all over again.
"He is young for that” came a comment from behind Vierna. She turned in her seat to see Briza standing over her, a customary scowl on the older sister's face.
"Perhaps” Vierna replied, "but I'll not know until I let him try"
"Whip him when he fails” Briza suggested, pulling her cruel six-headed instrument from her belt. She gave the whip a loving look – as if it were some sort of pet – and let a snake's head writhe about her neck and face. "Inspiration”
"Put it away” Vierna retorted. "Drizzt is mine to rear, and I need no help from you!"
"You should watch how you speak to a high priestess," Briza warned, and all of the snake heads, extensions of her thoughts, turned menacingly toward Vierna.
"As Matron Malice will watch how you interfere with my tasks” Vierna was quick to reply. Briza put her whip away at the mention of Matron Malice.
"Your tasks” she echoed scornfully. "You are too yielding for such a chore. Male children must be disciplined; they must ? be taught their place” Realizing that Vierna's threat held dire consequences, the older sister turned and left. Vierna let Briza have the last word. The wean-mother looked back to Drizzt, still trying to get up to the statue. "Enough!" she ordered, recognizing that the child was tiring; he could barely get his feet off the ground.
"I will do it!" Drizzt snapped back at her.
Vierna liked his determination, but not the tone of his reply. Perhaps there was some truth to Briza's words. Vierna snapped the snake-headed whip from her belt. A little inspiration might go a long way.
Vierna sat in the chapel the next day, watching Drizzt hard at work polishing the s1atue of the naked female. He had levitated the full twenty feet in his first attempt this day.
Vierna could not help but be disappointed when Drizzt did not look back to her and smile at the success. She saw him now, hovering up in the air, his hands a blur as they worked the brushes. Most vividly of all, though, Vierna saw the scars on her brother's naked back, the legacy of their "inspirational" discussion. In the infrared spectrum, the whip lines showed clearly, trails of warmth where the insulating layers of skin had been stripped away.
Vierna understood the gain in beating a child, particularly a male child. Few drow males ever raised a weapon against a female, unless under the order of some other female. "How much do we lose?" Vierna wondered aloud. "What more could one such as Drizzt become?"
When she heard the words spoken aloud, Vierna quickly brushed the blasphemous thoughts from her mind. She aspired to become a high priestess of the Spider Queen, Lloth the Merciless. Such thoughts were not in accord with the rules of her station. She cast an angry glare on her little brother, transferring her guilt, and again took out her instrument of punishment.
She would have to whip Drizzt again this day, for the sacrilegious thoughts he had inspired within her.
So the relationship continued for another five years, with Drizzt learning the basic lessons of life in drow society while endlessly cleaning the chapel of House Do'Urden. Beyond the supremacy of female drow (a lesson always accentuated by the wicked snake-headed whip), the most compelling lessons were those concerning the surface elves, the faeries. Evil empires often bound themselves in webs of hate toward fabricated enemies, and none in the history of the world were better at it than the drow. From the first day they were able to understand the spoken word, drow children were taught that whatever was wrong in their lives could be blamed on the surface elves.
Whenever the fangs of Vierna's whip sliced into Drizzt's back, he cried out for the death of a faerie. Conditioned hatred was rarely a rational emotion.
Part 2
The Weapon Master
Empty hours, empty days.
I find that I have few memories of that first period of my – life, those first sixteen years when I labored as a servant. Minutes blended into hours, hours into days, and so on, until the whole of it seemed one long and barren moment. Several times I managed to sneak out onto the balcony of House Do'Urden and look out over the magical lights of Menzoberranzan. On all of those secret journeys, I found myself entranced by the growing, and then dissipating, heat-light of Narbondel, the time-clock pillar Looking back on that now, on those long hours watching the glow of the wizard's fire slowly walk its way up and then down the pillar; I am amazed at the emptiness of my early days.
I clearly remember my excitement, tingling excitement, each time I got out of the house and set myself into position to observe the pillar Such a simple thing it was, yet so fulfill. ing compared to the rest of my existence.
Whenever I hear the crack of a whip, another memory-more a sensation than a memory actually-sends a shiver through my spine. The shocking jolt and the ensuing numbness from those snake-headed weapons is not something that any person would soon forget. They bite under your skin, sending waves of magical energy through your body, waves that make your muscles snap and pull beyond their limits.
Yet I was luckier than most. My sister Vierna was near to becoming a high priestess when she was assigned the task of rearing me and was at a period of her life where she possessed far more energy than such a job required. Perhaps, then, there was more to those first ten years under her care than I now recall. Vierna never showed the intense wickedness of our motheror, more particularly; of our oldest sister Briza. Perhaps there were good times in the solitude of the house chapel, it is possible that Vierna allowed a more gentle side of herself to show through to her baby brother.
Maybe not. Even though I count Vierna as the kindest of my sisters, her words drip in the venom of Lloth as surely as those of any cleric in Menzoberranzan. It seems unlikely that she would risk her aspirations toward high priestes-shood for the sake of a mere child, a mere male child.
Whether there were indeed joys in those years, obscured in the unrelenting assault of Menzoberranzan's wickedness, or whether that earliest period of my life was even more painful than the years that followed-so painful that my mind hides the memories-I cannot be certain. For all my efforts, I cannot remember them.
I have more insight into the next six years, but the most prominent recollection of the days I spent serving the court of Matron Malice-aside from the secret trips outside the house-is the image of my own feet. A page prince is never allowed to raise his gaze.
-Drizzt Do'Urden
Chapter 6
"Two-Hands"
Drizzt promptly answered the call to his matron mother's side, not needing the whip Briza used to hurry him along. How often he had felt the sting of that dreaded weapon! Drizzt held no thoughts of revenge against his vicious oldest sister. With all of the conditioning he had received, he feared the consequences of striking her-or any female-far too much to entertain such notions.
"Do you know what this day marks?" Malice asked him as he arrived at the side of her great throne in the chapel's darkened anteroom.
"No, Matron Mother” Drizzt answered, unconsciously keeping his gaze on his toes. A resigned sigh rose in his throat as he noticed the unending view of his own feet. There had to be more to life than blank stone and ten wig. gling toes, he thought.
He slipped one foot out of his low boot and began doodling on the stone floor. Body heat left discernable tracings in the infrared spectrum, and Drizzt was quick and agile enough to complete simple drawings before the initial lines had cooled.
"Sixteen years” Matron Malice said to him. "You have breathed the air of Menzoberranzan for sixteen years. An important period of your life has passed”
Drizzt did not react, did not see any importance or significance to the declaration. His life was an unending and unchanging routine. One day, sixteen years, what difference did it make? If his mother considered important the things he had been put through since his earliest recollections,
Drizzt shuddered to think of what the next decades might hold.
He had nearly completed his picture of a round-shouldered drow-Briza-being bitten on the behind by an enormous viper.
"Look at me” Matron Malice commanded.
Drizzt felt at a loss. His natural tendency once had been to look upon a person with whom he was talking, but Briza had wasted no time in beating that instinct out of him. The place of a page prince was servitude, and the only eyes a page prince's were worthy of meeting were those of the creatures that scurried across the stone floor-except the eyes of a spider, of course; Drizzt had to avert his gaze whenever one of the eight-legged things crawled into his vision. Spiders were too good for the likes of a page prince.
"Look at me” Malice said again, her tone hinting at volatile impatience. Drizzt had witnessed the explosions before, a wrath so incredibly vile that it swept aside anything and everything in its path. Even Briza, so pompous and cruel, ran for hiding when the matron mother grew angry.
Drizzt forced his gaze up tentatively, scanning his mother's black robes, using the familiar spider pattern along the garment's back and sides to judge the angle of his gaze. He fully expected, as every inch passed, a smack on his head, or a lashing on his back-Briza was behind him, always with her snake-headed whip near her anxious hand.
Then he saw her, the mighty Matron Malice Do'Urden, her heat-sensing eyes flashing red and her face cool, not flushed with angry heat. Drizzt kept tense, still expecting a punishing blow.
"Your tenure as page prince is ended” Malice explained. "You are secondboy of House Do'Urden now and are accorded all the. . “
Drizzt's gaze unconsciously slipped back to the floor.
"Look at me!" his mother screamed in sudden rage.
Terrified, Drizzt snapped his gaze back to her face, which now was glowing a hot red. On the edge of his vision he saw the wavering heat of Malice's swinging hand, though he was not foolish enough to try to dodge the blow. He was on the floor then, the side of his face bruised.
Even in the fall, though, Drizzt was alert and wise enough to keep his gaze locked on to that of Matron Malice.
"No more a servant!" the matron mother roared. "To continue acting like one would bring disgrace to our family” She grabbed Drizzt by the throat and dragged him roughly to his feet.
"If you dishonor House Do'Urden” she promised, her face an inch from his, "I will put needles into your purple eyes."
Drizzt didn't blink. In the six years since Vierna had relinquished care of him, putting him into general servitude to all the family, he had come to know Matron Malice well enough to understand all of the subtle connotations of her threats. She was his mother – for whatever that was worth-but Drizzt did not doubt that she would enjoy stick. ing needles in his eyes.
"This one is different” Vierna said, "in more than the shade of his eyes”
"In what way, then?" Zaknafein asked, trying to keep his curiosity at a professional level. Zak had always liked Vierna better than the others, but she recently had been ordained a high priestess, and had since become too eager for her own good.
Vierna slowed the pace of her gait-the door to the chapel's antechamber was in sight now. "It is hard to say” she admitted. "Drizzt is as intelligent as any male child I have ever known; he could levitate by the age of five. Yet, after he became the page prince, it took weeks of punishment to teach him the duty of keeping his gaze to the floor, as if such a simple act ran unnaturally counter to his constitution”
Zaknafein paused and let Vierna move ahead of him. "Unnatural?" he whispered under his breath, considering the implications of Vierna's observations. Unusual, perhaps, for a drow, but exactly what Zaknafein would expect-and hope for-from a child of his loins.
He moved behind Vierna into the lightless anteroom. Malice, as always, sat in her throne at the head of the spider idol, but all the other chairs in the room had been moved to the walls, even though the entire family was present. This was to be a formal meeting, Zak realized, for only the matronmother was accorded the comfort of a seat.
"Matron Malice” Vierna began in her most reverent voice, "I present to you Zaknafein, as you requested”
Zak moved up beside Vierna and exchanged nods with Malice, but he was more intent on the youngest Do'Urden, standing naked to the waist at the matron mother's side.
Malice held up one hand to silence the others, then motioned for Briza, holding a house piwafwi, to continue.
An expression of elation brightened Drizzt's childish face as Briza, chanting through the appropriate incantations, placed the magical cloak, black and shot with streaks of purple and red, over his shoulders.
"Greetings, Zaknafein Do'Urden” Drizzt said heartily, drawing stunned looks from all in the room. Matron Malice had not granted him privilege to speak; he hadn't even asked her permission!
"I am Drizzt, secondboy of House Do'Urden, no more the page prince. I can look at you now-I mean at your eyes and not your boots. Mother told me so” Drizzt's smile disappeared when he looked up at the burning scowl of Matron Malice.
Vierna stood as if turned to stone, her jaw hanging open and her eyes wide in disbelief.
Zak, too, was amazed, but in a different manner. He brought a hand up to pinch his lips together, to prevent them from spreading into a smile that would have inevitably erupted into belly-shaking laughter. Zak couldn't remember the last time he had seen the matron mother's face so very bright!
Briza, in her customary position behind Malice, fumbled with her whip, too confounded by her young brother's actions to even know what in the Nine Hells she should do.
That was a first, Zak knew, for Malice's eldest daughter rarely hesitated when punishment was in order.
At the matron's side, but now prudently a step farther away, Drizzt quieted and stood perfectly still, biting down on his bottom lip. Zak could see, though, that the smile remained in the young drow's eyes. Drizzt's informality and disrespect of station had been more than an unconscious slip of the tongue and more than the innocence of inexperience.
The weapon master took a long step forward to deflect the matron mother's attention from Drizzt. "Secondboy?" he asked, sounding impressed, both for the sake of Drizzt's swelling pride and to placate and distract Malice. "Then it is time for you to train”
Malice let her anger slip away, a rare event. "Only the basics at your hand, Zaknafein. If Drizzt is to replace Nalfein, his place at the Academy will be in Sorcere. Thus the bulk of his preparation will fall upon Rizzen and his knowledge, limited though it may be, of the magical arts”
"Are you so certain that wizardry is his lot, Matron?" Zak was quick to ask.
"He appears intelligent” Malice replied. She shot an angry glare at Drizzt. "At least, some of the time. Vierna reported great progress with his command of the innate powers. Our house needs a new wizard” Malice snarled reflexively, reminded of Matron Baenre's pride in her wizard son, the Archmage of the city. It had been sixteen years since Malice's meeting with the First Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan, but she had never forgotten even the tiniest detail of that encounter. "Sorcere seems the natural course”
Zak took a flat coin from his neckpurse, flipped it into a spin, and snatched it out of the air. "Might we see?" he asked.
"As you will” Malice agreed, not surprised at Zak's desire to prove her wrong. Zak placed little value in wizardry, preferring the hilt of a blade to the crystal rod component of a lightning bolt.
Zak moved to stand before Drizzt and handed him the coin. "Flip it”
Drizzt shrugged, wondering what this vague conversation between his mother and the weapon master was all about. Until now, he had heard nothing of any future profession being planned for him, or of this place called Sorcere. With a consenting shrug of his shoulders, he slid the coin onto his curled index finger and snapped it into the air with his thumb, easily catching it. He then held it back out to Zak and gave the weapon master a confused look, as if to ask what was so important about such an easy task.
Instead of taking the coin, the weapon master pulled another from his neck-purse. "Try both hands” he said to Drizzt, handing it to him.
Drizzt shrugged again, and in one easy motion, put the coins up and caught them.
Zak turned an eye on Matron Malice. Any drow could have performed that feat, but the ease with which this one executed the catch was a pleasure to observe. Keeping a sly eye on the matron, Zak produced two more coins. "Stack two on each hand and send all four up together” he instructed Drizzt.
Four coins went up. Four coins were caught. The only parts of Drizzt's body that had even flinched were his arms.
"Two-hands” Zak said to Malice. "This one is a fighter. He belongs in Melee-Magthere”
"I have seen wizards perform such feats” Malice retorted, not pleased by the look of satisfaction on the troublesome weapon master's face. Zak once had been Malice's proclaimed husband, and quite often since that distant time she took him as her lover. His skills and agility were not confined to the use of weapons. But along with the pleasures that Zaknafein gave to Malice, sensual skills that had prompted Malice to spare Zak's life on more than a dozen occasions, came a multitude of headaches. He was the finest weapon master in Menzoberranzan, another fact that Malice could not ignore, but his disdain, even contempt, for the Spider Queen had often landed House Do'Urden into trouble.
Zak handed two more coins to Drizzt. Now enjoying the game, Drizzt put them into motion. Six went up. Six came down, the correct three landing in each hand. "Two-hands” Zak said more emphatically. Matron Malice motioned for him to continue, unable to deny the grace of her youngest son's display.
"Could you do it again?" Zak asked Drizzt.
With each hand working independently, Drizzt soon had the coins stacked atop his index fingers, ready to flip. Zak stopped him there and pulled out four more coins, building each of the piles five high. Zak paused a moment to study the concentration of the young drow (and also to keep his hands over the coins and ensure that they were brightened enough by the warmth of his body heat for Drizzt to properly see them in their flight).
"Catch them all, Secondboy” he said in all seriousness. "Catch them all, or you will land in Sorcere, the school of magic. That is not where you belong!"
Drizzt still had only a vague idea of what Zak was talking about, but he could tell from the weapon master's intensity that it must be important. He took a deep breath to steady himself, then snapped the coins up. He sorted their glow quickly, discerning each individual item. The first two fell easily into his hands, but Drizzt saw that the scattering pattern of the rest would not drop them so readily in line.
Drizzt exploded into action, spinning a complete circle, his hands an undecipherable blur of motion. Then he straightened suddenly and stood before Zak. His hands were in fists at his sides and a grim look lay on his face.
Zak and Matron Malice exchanged glances, neither quite sure of what had happened.
Drizzt held his fists out to Zak and slowly opened them, a confident smile widening across his childish face. Five coins in each hand.
Zak blew a silent whistle. It had taken him, the weapon master of the house, a dozen tries to complete that maneuver with ten coins. He walked over to Matron Malice.
"Two-hands” he said a third time. "He is a fighter, and I am out of coins”
"How many could he do?" Malice breathed, obviously impressed in spite of herself.
"How many could we stack?" Zaknafein shot back with a triumphant smile.
Matron Malice chuckled out loud and shook her head. She had wanted Drizzt to replace Nalfein as the house wizard, but her stubborn weapon master had, as always, deflected her course. "Very well, Zaknafein” she said, admitting her defeat. "The secondboy is a fighter”
Zak nodded and started back to Drizzt.
"Perhaps one day soon to be the weapon master of House Do'Urden” Matron Malice added to Zak's back. Her sarcasm stopped Zak short, and he eyed her over his shoulder.
"With this one” Matron Malice continued wryly, wrenching back the upper hand with her usual lack of shame, "could we expect anything less?"
Rizzen, the present patron of the family shifted uncomfortably. He knew, and so did everyone-even the slaves of House Do'Urden-that Drizzt was not his child.
"Three rooms?" Drizzt asked when he and Zak entered the large training hall at the southernmost end of the Do'Urden complex. Balls of multicolored magical light had been spaced along the length of the high-ceilinged stone room, basking the entirety in a comfortably dim glow. The hall had only three doors: one to the east, which led to an outer chamber that opened onto the balcony of the house; one directly across from Drizzt, on the south wall, leading into the last room in the house; and the one from the main hallway that they had just passed through. Drizzt knew from the many locks Zak was now fastening behind them that he wouldn't often be going back that way.
"One room” Zak corrected.
"But two more doors” Drizzt reasoned, looking out across the room. "With no locks”
"Ah” Zak corrected, "their locks are made of common sense” Drizzt was beginning to get the picture. "That door” Zak continued, pointing to the south, "opens into my private chambers. You do not ever want me to find you in there. The other one leads to the tactics room, reserved for times of war. When-if-you ever prove yourself to my satisfaction, I might invite you to join me there. That day is years away, so consider this single magnificent hall-" he swept his arm out in a wide arc-"your home”
Drizzt looked around, not overly thrilled. He had dared to hope that he had left this kind of treatment behind him with his page prince days. This setup, though, brought him back even to before his six years of servitude in the house, back to that decade when he had been locked away in the family chapel with Vierna. This room wasn't even as large as the chapel, and was too tight for the likings of the spirited young drow. His next question came out as a growl.
"Where do I sleep?"
"Your home” Zak answered matter-of-factly.
"Where do I take meals?"
"Your home”
Drizzt's eyes narrowed to slits and his face flushed in glowing heat. "Where do I . . “ he began stubbornly, determined to foil the weapon master's logic.
"Your home” Zak replied in the same measured and weighted timbre before Drizzt could finish the thought. Drizzt planted his feet firmly and crossed his arms over his chest. "It sounds messy” he growled.
"It had better not be” Zak growled back.
"Then what is the purpose?" Drizzt began. "You pull me away from my mother-"
"You will address her as Matron Malice” Zak warned. "You
will always address her as Matron Malice”
"From my mother-"
Zak's next interruption came not with words but with the
swing of a curled fist.
Drizzt awoke about twenty minutes later.
"First lesson” Zak explained, casually leaning against the wall a few feet away. "For your own good. You will always address her as Matron Malice”
Drizzt rolled to his side and tried to prop himself up on his elbow but found his head reeling as soon as it left the black-rugged floor. Zak grabbed him and hoisted him up.
"Not as easy as catching coins” the weapon master remarked.
"What?"
"Parrying a blow”
"What blow?"
"Just agree, you stubborn child”
"Secondboy!" Drizzt corrected, his voice again a growl, and his arms defiantly back over his chest.
Zak's fist curled at his side, a not-tao-subtle point that Drizzt did not miss. "Do you need another nap?" the weapon master asked calmly.
"Secondboys can be children” Drizzt wisely conceded.
Zak shook his head in disbelief. This was going to be interesting. "You may find your time here enjoyable” he said, leading Drizzt over to a long, thick, and colorfully (though
most of the colors were somber) decorated curtain. "But only if you can learn some control over that wagging tongue of yours” A sharp tug sent the curtain floating down, revealing the most magnificent weapons rack the young drow (and many older drow as well) had ever seen. Polearms of many sorts, swords, axes, hammers, and every other kind of weapon Drizzt could imagine-and a whole bunch he'd never imagine-sat in an elaborate array.
"Examine them” Zak told him. "lake your time and your pleasure. Learn which ones sit best in your hands, follow most obediently the commands of your will. By the time we have finished, you will know every one of them as a trusted companion”
Wide-eyed, Drizzt wandered along the rack, viewing the whole place and the potential of the whole experience in a completely different light. For his entire young life, sixteen years, his greatest enemy had been boredom. Now, it appeared, Drizzt had found weapons to fight that enemy.
Zak headed for the door to his private chamber, thinking it better that Drizzt be alone in those first awkward moments of handling new weapons.
The weapon master stopped, though, when he reached his door and looked back to the young Do'Urden. Drizzt swung a long and heavy halberd, a polearm more than twice his height, in a slow arc. For all of Drizzt's attempts to keep the weapon under control, its momentum spun his tiny frame right to the ground.
Zak heard himself chuckle, but his laughter only reminded him of the grim reality of his duty. He would train Drizzt, as he had trained a thousand young dark elves before him, to be a warrior, preparing him for the trials of the Academy and life in dangerous Menzoberranzan. He would train Drizzt to be a killer.
How against this one's nature that mantle seemed! thought Zak. Smiles came too easily to Drizzt; the thought of him running a sword through the heart of another living being revolted Zaknafein. That was the way of the drow, though, a way that Zak had been unable to resist for all of his four centuries of life. Pulling his stare from the spectacle of Drizzt at play, Zak moved into his chamber and shut the door.
"Are they all like that?" he asked into his nearly empty room. "Do all drow children possess such innocence, such simple, untainted smiles that cannot survive the ugliness of our world?" Zak started for the small desk to the side of the room, meaning to lift the darkening shade off the continually glowing ceramic globe that served as the chamber's light source. He changed his mind as that image of Drizzt's delight with the weapons refused to diminish, and he headed instead for the large bed across from the door.
"Or are you unique, Drizzt Do'Urden?" he continued ashe fell onto the cushioned bed. "And if you are so different, what, then, is the cause? The blood, my blood, that courses through your veins? Or the years you spent with your wean-mother?"
Zak threw an arm across his eyes and considered the many questions. Drizzt was different from the norm, he decided at length, but he didn't know whether he should thank Vierna-or himself.
After a while, sleep took him. But it brought the weapon master little comfort. A familiar dream visited him, a vivid memory that would never fade.
Zaknafein heard again the screams of the children of House DeVir as the Do'Urden soldiers-soldiers he himself had trained-slashed at them.
"This one is different!" Zak cried, leaping up from his bed. He wiped the cold sweat from his face.
"This one is different” He had to believe that.
"Do you know what this day marks?" Malice asked him as he arrived at the side of her great throne in the chapel's darkened anteroom.
"No, Matron Mother” Drizzt answered, unconsciously keeping his gaze on his toes. A resigned sigh rose in his throat as he noticed the unending view of his own feet. There had to be more to life than blank stone and ten wig. gling toes, he thought.
He slipped one foot out of his low boot and began doodling on the stone floor. Body heat left discernable tracings in the infrared spectrum, and Drizzt was quick and agile enough to complete simple drawings before the initial lines had cooled.
"Sixteen years” Matron Malice said to him. "You have breathed the air of Menzoberranzan for sixteen years. An important period of your life has passed”
Drizzt did not react, did not see any importance or significance to the declaration. His life was an unending and unchanging routine. One day, sixteen years, what difference did it make? If his mother considered important the things he had been put through since his earliest recollections,
Drizzt shuddered to think of what the next decades might hold.
He had nearly completed his picture of a round-shouldered drow-Briza-being bitten on the behind by an enormous viper.
"Look at me” Matron Malice commanded.
Drizzt felt at a loss. His natural tendency once had been to look upon a person with whom he was talking, but Briza had wasted no time in beating that instinct out of him. The place of a page prince was servitude, and the only eyes a page prince's were worthy of meeting were those of the creatures that scurried across the stone floor-except the eyes of a spider, of course; Drizzt had to avert his gaze whenever one of the eight-legged things crawled into his vision. Spiders were too good for the likes of a page prince.
"Look at me” Malice said again, her tone hinting at volatile impatience. Drizzt had witnessed the explosions before, a wrath so incredibly vile that it swept aside anything and everything in its path. Even Briza, so pompous and cruel, ran for hiding when the matron mother grew angry.
Drizzt forced his gaze up tentatively, scanning his mother's black robes, using the familiar spider pattern along the garment's back and sides to judge the angle of his gaze. He fully expected, as every inch passed, a smack on his head, or a lashing on his back-Briza was behind him, always with her snake-headed whip near her anxious hand.
Then he saw her, the mighty Matron Malice Do'Urden, her heat-sensing eyes flashing red and her face cool, not flushed with angry heat. Drizzt kept tense, still expecting a punishing blow.
"Your tenure as page prince is ended” Malice explained. "You are secondboy of House Do'Urden now and are accorded all the. . “
Drizzt's gaze unconsciously slipped back to the floor.
"Look at me!" his mother screamed in sudden rage.
Terrified, Drizzt snapped his gaze back to her face, which now was glowing a hot red. On the edge of his vision he saw the wavering heat of Malice's swinging hand, though he was not foolish enough to try to dodge the blow. He was on the floor then, the side of his face bruised.
Even in the fall, though, Drizzt was alert and wise enough to keep his gaze locked on to that of Matron Malice.
"No more a servant!" the matron mother roared. "To continue acting like one would bring disgrace to our family” She grabbed Drizzt by the throat and dragged him roughly to his feet.
"If you dishonor House Do'Urden” she promised, her face an inch from his, "I will put needles into your purple eyes."
Drizzt didn't blink. In the six years since Vierna had relinquished care of him, putting him into general servitude to all the family, he had come to know Matron Malice well enough to understand all of the subtle connotations of her threats. She was his mother – for whatever that was worth-but Drizzt did not doubt that she would enjoy stick. ing needles in his eyes.
"This one is different” Vierna said, "in more than the shade of his eyes”
"In what way, then?" Zaknafein asked, trying to keep his curiosity at a professional level. Zak had always liked Vierna better than the others, but she recently had been ordained a high priestess, and had since become too eager for her own good.
Vierna slowed the pace of her gait-the door to the chapel's antechamber was in sight now. "It is hard to say” she admitted. "Drizzt is as intelligent as any male child I have ever known; he could levitate by the age of five. Yet, after he became the page prince, it took weeks of punishment to teach him the duty of keeping his gaze to the floor, as if such a simple act ran unnaturally counter to his constitution”
Zaknafein paused and let Vierna move ahead of him. "Unnatural?" he whispered under his breath, considering the implications of Vierna's observations. Unusual, perhaps, for a drow, but exactly what Zaknafein would expect-and hope for-from a child of his loins.
He moved behind Vierna into the lightless anteroom. Malice, as always, sat in her throne at the head of the spider idol, but all the other chairs in the room had been moved to the walls, even though the entire family was present. This was to be a formal meeting, Zak realized, for only the matronmother was accorded the comfort of a seat.
"Matron Malice” Vierna began in her most reverent voice, "I present to you Zaknafein, as you requested”
Zak moved up beside Vierna and exchanged nods with Malice, but he was more intent on the youngest Do'Urden, standing naked to the waist at the matron mother's side.
Malice held up one hand to silence the others, then motioned for Briza, holding a house piwafwi, to continue.
An expression of elation brightened Drizzt's childish face as Briza, chanting through the appropriate incantations, placed the magical cloak, black and shot with streaks of purple and red, over his shoulders.
"Greetings, Zaknafein Do'Urden” Drizzt said heartily, drawing stunned looks from all in the room. Matron Malice had not granted him privilege to speak; he hadn't even asked her permission!
"I am Drizzt, secondboy of House Do'Urden, no more the page prince. I can look at you now-I mean at your eyes and not your boots. Mother told me so” Drizzt's smile disappeared when he looked up at the burning scowl of Matron Malice.
Vierna stood as if turned to stone, her jaw hanging open and her eyes wide in disbelief.
Zak, too, was amazed, but in a different manner. He brought a hand up to pinch his lips together, to prevent them from spreading into a smile that would have inevitably erupted into belly-shaking laughter. Zak couldn't remember the last time he had seen the matron mother's face so very bright!
Briza, in her customary position behind Malice, fumbled with her whip, too confounded by her young brother's actions to even know what in the Nine Hells she should do.
That was a first, Zak knew, for Malice's eldest daughter rarely hesitated when punishment was in order.
At the matron's side, but now prudently a step farther away, Drizzt quieted and stood perfectly still, biting down on his bottom lip. Zak could see, though, that the smile remained in the young drow's eyes. Drizzt's informality and disrespect of station had been more than an unconscious slip of the tongue and more than the innocence of inexperience.
The weapon master took a long step forward to deflect the matron mother's attention from Drizzt. "Secondboy?" he asked, sounding impressed, both for the sake of Drizzt's swelling pride and to placate and distract Malice. "Then it is time for you to train”
Malice let her anger slip away, a rare event. "Only the basics at your hand, Zaknafein. If Drizzt is to replace Nalfein, his place at the Academy will be in Sorcere. Thus the bulk of his preparation will fall upon Rizzen and his knowledge, limited though it may be, of the magical arts”
"Are you so certain that wizardry is his lot, Matron?" Zak was quick to ask.
"He appears intelligent” Malice replied. She shot an angry glare at Drizzt. "At least, some of the time. Vierna reported great progress with his command of the innate powers. Our house needs a new wizard” Malice snarled reflexively, reminded of Matron Baenre's pride in her wizard son, the Archmage of the city. It had been sixteen years since Malice's meeting with the First Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan, but she had never forgotten even the tiniest detail of that encounter. "Sorcere seems the natural course”
Zak took a flat coin from his neckpurse, flipped it into a spin, and snatched it out of the air. "Might we see?" he asked.
"As you will” Malice agreed, not surprised at Zak's desire to prove her wrong. Zak placed little value in wizardry, preferring the hilt of a blade to the crystal rod component of a lightning bolt.
Zak moved to stand before Drizzt and handed him the coin. "Flip it”
Drizzt shrugged, wondering what this vague conversation between his mother and the weapon master was all about. Until now, he had heard nothing of any future profession being planned for him, or of this place called Sorcere. With a consenting shrug of his shoulders, he slid the coin onto his curled index finger and snapped it into the air with his thumb, easily catching it. He then held it back out to Zak and gave the weapon master a confused look, as if to ask what was so important about such an easy task.
Instead of taking the coin, the weapon master pulled another from his neck-purse. "Try both hands” he said to Drizzt, handing it to him.
Drizzt shrugged again, and in one easy motion, put the coins up and caught them.
Zak turned an eye on Matron Malice. Any drow could have performed that feat, but the ease with which this one executed the catch was a pleasure to observe. Keeping a sly eye on the matron, Zak produced two more coins. "Stack two on each hand and send all four up together” he instructed Drizzt.
Four coins went up. Four coins were caught. The only parts of Drizzt's body that had even flinched were his arms.
"Two-hands” Zak said to Malice. "This one is a fighter. He belongs in Melee-Magthere”
"I have seen wizards perform such feats” Malice retorted, not pleased by the look of satisfaction on the troublesome weapon master's face. Zak once had been Malice's proclaimed husband, and quite often since that distant time she took him as her lover. His skills and agility were not confined to the use of weapons. But along with the pleasures that Zaknafein gave to Malice, sensual skills that had prompted Malice to spare Zak's life on more than a dozen occasions, came a multitude of headaches. He was the finest weapon master in Menzoberranzan, another fact that Malice could not ignore, but his disdain, even contempt, for the Spider Queen had often landed House Do'Urden into trouble.
Zak handed two more coins to Drizzt. Now enjoying the game, Drizzt put them into motion. Six went up. Six came down, the correct three landing in each hand. "Two-hands” Zak said more emphatically. Matron Malice motioned for him to continue, unable to deny the grace of her youngest son's display.
"Could you do it again?" Zak asked Drizzt.
With each hand working independently, Drizzt soon had the coins stacked atop his index fingers, ready to flip. Zak stopped him there and pulled out four more coins, building each of the piles five high. Zak paused a moment to study the concentration of the young drow (and also to keep his hands over the coins and ensure that they were brightened enough by the warmth of his body heat for Drizzt to properly see them in their flight).
"Catch them all, Secondboy” he said in all seriousness. "Catch them all, or you will land in Sorcere, the school of magic. That is not where you belong!"
Drizzt still had only a vague idea of what Zak was talking about, but he could tell from the weapon master's intensity that it must be important. He took a deep breath to steady himself, then snapped the coins up. He sorted their glow quickly, discerning each individual item. The first two fell easily into his hands, but Drizzt saw that the scattering pattern of the rest would not drop them so readily in line.
Drizzt exploded into action, spinning a complete circle, his hands an undecipherable blur of motion. Then he straightened suddenly and stood before Zak. His hands were in fists at his sides and a grim look lay on his face.
Zak and Matron Malice exchanged glances, neither quite sure of what had happened.
Drizzt held his fists out to Zak and slowly opened them, a confident smile widening across his childish face. Five coins in each hand.
Zak blew a silent whistle. It had taken him, the weapon master of the house, a dozen tries to complete that maneuver with ten coins. He walked over to Matron Malice.
"Two-hands” he said a third time. "He is a fighter, and I am out of coins”
"How many could he do?" Malice breathed, obviously impressed in spite of herself.
"How many could we stack?" Zaknafein shot back with a triumphant smile.
Matron Malice chuckled out loud and shook her head. She had wanted Drizzt to replace Nalfein as the house wizard, but her stubborn weapon master had, as always, deflected her course. "Very well, Zaknafein” she said, admitting her defeat. "The secondboy is a fighter”
Zak nodded and started back to Drizzt.
"Perhaps one day soon to be the weapon master of House Do'Urden” Matron Malice added to Zak's back. Her sarcasm stopped Zak short, and he eyed her over his shoulder.
"With this one” Matron Malice continued wryly, wrenching back the upper hand with her usual lack of shame, "could we expect anything less?"
Rizzen, the present patron of the family shifted uncomfortably. He knew, and so did everyone-even the slaves of House Do'Urden-that Drizzt was not his child.
"Three rooms?" Drizzt asked when he and Zak entered the large training hall at the southernmost end of the Do'Urden complex. Balls of multicolored magical light had been spaced along the length of the high-ceilinged stone room, basking the entirety in a comfortably dim glow. The hall had only three doors: one to the east, which led to an outer chamber that opened onto the balcony of the house; one directly across from Drizzt, on the south wall, leading into the last room in the house; and the one from the main hallway that they had just passed through. Drizzt knew from the many locks Zak was now fastening behind them that he wouldn't often be going back that way.
"One room” Zak corrected.
"But two more doors” Drizzt reasoned, looking out across the room. "With no locks”
"Ah” Zak corrected, "their locks are made of common sense” Drizzt was beginning to get the picture. "That door” Zak continued, pointing to the south, "opens into my private chambers. You do not ever want me to find you in there. The other one leads to the tactics room, reserved for times of war. When-if-you ever prove yourself to my satisfaction, I might invite you to join me there. That day is years away, so consider this single magnificent hall-" he swept his arm out in a wide arc-"your home”
Drizzt looked around, not overly thrilled. He had dared to hope that he had left this kind of treatment behind him with his page prince days. This setup, though, brought him back even to before his six years of servitude in the house, back to that decade when he had been locked away in the family chapel with Vierna. This room wasn't even as large as the chapel, and was too tight for the likings of the spirited young drow. His next question came out as a growl.
"Where do I sleep?"
"Your home” Zak answered matter-of-factly.
"Where do I take meals?"
"Your home”
Drizzt's eyes narrowed to slits and his face flushed in glowing heat. "Where do I . . “ he began stubbornly, determined to foil the weapon master's logic.
"Your home” Zak replied in the same measured and weighted timbre before Drizzt could finish the thought. Drizzt planted his feet firmly and crossed his arms over his chest. "It sounds messy” he growled.
"It had better not be” Zak growled back.
"Then what is the purpose?" Drizzt began. "You pull me away from my mother-"
"You will address her as Matron Malice” Zak warned. "You
will always address her as Matron Malice”
"From my mother-"
Zak's next interruption came not with words but with the
swing of a curled fist.
Drizzt awoke about twenty minutes later.
"First lesson” Zak explained, casually leaning against the wall a few feet away. "For your own good. You will always address her as Matron Malice”
Drizzt rolled to his side and tried to prop himself up on his elbow but found his head reeling as soon as it left the black-rugged floor. Zak grabbed him and hoisted him up.
"Not as easy as catching coins” the weapon master remarked.
"What?"
"Parrying a blow”
"What blow?"
"Just agree, you stubborn child”
"Secondboy!" Drizzt corrected, his voice again a growl, and his arms defiantly back over his chest.
Zak's fist curled at his side, a not-tao-subtle point that Drizzt did not miss. "Do you need another nap?" the weapon master asked calmly.
"Secondboys can be children” Drizzt wisely conceded.
Zak shook his head in disbelief. This was going to be interesting. "You may find your time here enjoyable” he said, leading Drizzt over to a long, thick, and colorfully (though
most of the colors were somber) decorated curtain. "But only if you can learn some control over that wagging tongue of yours” A sharp tug sent the curtain floating down, revealing the most magnificent weapons rack the young drow (and many older drow as well) had ever seen. Polearms of many sorts, swords, axes, hammers, and every other kind of weapon Drizzt could imagine-and a whole bunch he'd never imagine-sat in an elaborate array.
"Examine them” Zak told him. "lake your time and your pleasure. Learn which ones sit best in your hands, follow most obediently the commands of your will. By the time we have finished, you will know every one of them as a trusted companion”
Wide-eyed, Drizzt wandered along the rack, viewing the whole place and the potential of the whole experience in a completely different light. For his entire young life, sixteen years, his greatest enemy had been boredom. Now, it appeared, Drizzt had found weapons to fight that enemy.
Zak headed for the door to his private chamber, thinking it better that Drizzt be alone in those first awkward moments of handling new weapons.
The weapon master stopped, though, when he reached his door and looked back to the young Do'Urden. Drizzt swung a long and heavy halberd, a polearm more than twice his height, in a slow arc. For all of Drizzt's attempts to keep the weapon under control, its momentum spun his tiny frame right to the ground.
Zak heard himself chuckle, but his laughter only reminded him of the grim reality of his duty. He would train Drizzt, as he had trained a thousand young dark elves before him, to be a warrior, preparing him for the trials of the Academy and life in dangerous Menzoberranzan. He would train Drizzt to be a killer.
How against this one's nature that mantle seemed! thought Zak. Smiles came too easily to Drizzt; the thought of him running a sword through the heart of another living being revolted Zaknafein. That was the way of the drow, though, a way that Zak had been unable to resist for all of his four centuries of life. Pulling his stare from the spectacle of Drizzt at play, Zak moved into his chamber and shut the door.
"Are they all like that?" he asked into his nearly empty room. "Do all drow children possess such innocence, such simple, untainted smiles that cannot survive the ugliness of our world?" Zak started for the small desk to the side of the room, meaning to lift the darkening shade off the continually glowing ceramic globe that served as the chamber's light source. He changed his mind as that image of Drizzt's delight with the weapons refused to diminish, and he headed instead for the large bed across from the door.
"Or are you unique, Drizzt Do'Urden?" he continued ashe fell onto the cushioned bed. "And if you are so different, what, then, is the cause? The blood, my blood, that courses through your veins? Or the years you spent with your wean-mother?"
Zak threw an arm across his eyes and considered the many questions. Drizzt was different from the norm, he decided at length, but he didn't know whether he should thank Vierna-or himself.
After a while, sleep took him. But it brought the weapon master little comfort. A familiar dream visited him, a vivid memory that would never fade.
Zaknafein heard again the screams of the children of House DeVir as the Do'Urden soldiers-soldiers he himself had trained-slashed at them.
"This one is different!" Zak cried, leaping up from his bed. He wiped the cold sweat from his face.
"This one is different” He had to believe that.
Chapter 7
Dark Secrets
"Do you truly mean to try?" Masoj asked, his voice condescending and filled with disbelief.
Alton turned his hideous glare on the student.
"Direct your anger elsewhere, Faceless One” Masoj said, averting his gaze from his mentor's scarred visage. "I am not the cause of your frustration. The question was valid”
"For more than a decade, you have been a student of the magical arts” Alton replied. "Still you fear to explore the nether world at the side of a master of Sorcere”
"I would have no fear beside a true master” Masoj dared to whisper.
Alton ignored the comment, as he had with so many others he had accepted from the apprenticing Hun'ett over the last sixteen years. Masoj was Alton's only tie to the outside world, and while Masoj had a powerful family, Alton had only Masoj.
They moved through the door into the uppermost chamber of Alton's four-room complex. A single candle burned there, its light diminished by an abundance of dark-colored tapestries and the black hue of the room's stone and rugs. Alton slid onto his stool at the back of the small, circular table, and placed a heavy book down before him.
"It is a spell better left for clerics” Masoj protested, sitting down across from the faceless master. "Wizards command the lower planes; the dead are for the clerics alone”
Alton looked around curiously, then turned a frown up at Masoj, the master's grotesque features enhanced by the dancing candlelight. "It seems that I have no cleric at my call” the Faceless One explained sarcastically. "Would you rather I try for another denizen of the Nine Hells?"
Masoj rocked back in his chair and shook his head helplessly and emphatically. Alton had a point. A year before, the Faceless One had sought answers to his questions by enlisting the aid of an ice devil. The volatile thing froze the room until it shone black in the infrared spectrum and smashed a matron mother's treasure horde worth of alchemical equipment. If Masoj hadn't summoned his magical cat to distract the ice devil, neither he nor Alton would have gotten out of the room alive.
"Very well, then” Masoj said unconvincingly, crossing his arms in front of him on the table. "Conjure your spirit and find your answers”
Alton did not miss the involuntary shudder belied by the ripple in Masoj's robes. He glared at the student for a moment, then went back to his preparations.
As Alton neared the time of casting/ Masoj's hand instinctively went into his pocket, to the onyx figurine of the hunting cat he had acquired on the day Alton had assumed the Faceless One's identity. The little statue was enchanted with a powerful dweomer that enabled its possessor to summon a mighty panther to his side. Masoj had used the cat sparingly, not yet fully understanding the dweomer's limitations and potential dangers. "Only in times of need” Masoj reminded himself quietly when he felt the item in his hand. Why was it that those times kept occurring when he was with Alton? the apprentice wondered.
Alton turned his hideous glare on the student.
"Direct your anger elsewhere, Faceless One” Masoj said, averting his gaze from his mentor's scarred visage. "I am not the cause of your frustration. The question was valid”
"For more than a decade, you have been a student of the magical arts” Alton replied. "Still you fear to explore the nether world at the side of a master of Sorcere”
"I would have no fear beside a true master” Masoj dared to whisper.
Alton ignored the comment, as he had with so many others he had accepted from the apprenticing Hun'ett over the last sixteen years. Masoj was Alton's only tie to the outside world, and while Masoj had a powerful family, Alton had only Masoj.
They moved through the door into the uppermost chamber of Alton's four-room complex. A single candle burned there, its light diminished by an abundance of dark-colored tapestries and the black hue of the room's stone and rugs. Alton slid onto his stool at the back of the small, circular table, and placed a heavy book down before him.
"It is a spell better left for clerics” Masoj protested, sitting down across from the faceless master. "Wizards command the lower planes; the dead are for the clerics alone”
Alton looked around curiously, then turned a frown up at Masoj, the master's grotesque features enhanced by the dancing candlelight. "It seems that I have no cleric at my call” the Faceless One explained sarcastically. "Would you rather I try for another denizen of the Nine Hells?"
Masoj rocked back in his chair and shook his head helplessly and emphatically. Alton had a point. A year before, the Faceless One had sought answers to his questions by enlisting the aid of an ice devil. The volatile thing froze the room until it shone black in the infrared spectrum and smashed a matron mother's treasure horde worth of alchemical equipment. If Masoj hadn't summoned his magical cat to distract the ice devil, neither he nor Alton would have gotten out of the room alive.
"Very well, then” Masoj said unconvincingly, crossing his arms in front of him on the table. "Conjure your spirit and find your answers”
Alton did not miss the involuntary shudder belied by the ripple in Masoj's robes. He glared at the student for a moment, then went back to his preparations.
As Alton neared the time of casting/ Masoj's hand instinctively went into his pocket, to the onyx figurine of the hunting cat he had acquired on the day Alton had assumed the Faceless One's identity. The little statue was enchanted with a powerful dweomer that enabled its possessor to summon a mighty panther to his side. Masoj had used the cat sparingly, not yet fully understanding the dweomer's limitations and potential dangers. "Only in times of need” Masoj reminded himself quietly when he felt the item in his hand. Why was it that those times kept occurring when he was with Alton? the apprentice wondered.