Drizzt started to move toward the fallen weapon master, but then came such a roar, such a thunderous retort, such a brilliant white light, then such an overwhelming line of concussion, that Drizzt was thrown from his feet—many were thrown from their feet.
Drizzt managed to catch himself and spin about to see the source, a washing, widening circle of force in the west, in the stalactite maze known as Lolth’s Web, in House Melarn. Like a heavy shovel cracking sidelong across the icicles on a roof overhang, the force shattered and splintered those stalactites.
A host of fireballs exploded in the tumbling stone. A series of multicolored beams flashed every which way, adding to the destruction and the sheer power of the blast.
The entire cavern that housed Menzoberranzan groaned in protest. The earthquakes continued as spire after spire of House Melarn fell from on high, great chunks of the ceiling above Lolth’s Web following their descent.
“Drizzt!” Dab’nay shouted, drawing the ranger from his shock, turning about to see Malagdorl standing once more.
Up came his scimitars, but the hulking warrior dropped his weapons and held up his hands.
“It’s me, Kimmuriel. You sent his mind away and so I found a last grip here. But quickly, run, all of us, to House Baenre. The enemy is come!”
Relieved his friend was—somehow—still here, Drizzt watched as the body of the weapon master sprinted past him over to Dab’nay and Jarlaxle, scooping Braelin from them easily and rushing for House Baenre.
Drizzt paused only long enough to grab the trident and Khazid’hea.
Wield me! the sentient sword rang in his mind. Oh, true warrior, I have returned to you!
“Oh, shut up,” Drizzt replied and slid the silly thing into one of his scabbards, caring not at all for the awkward fit in a sheath meant for a scimitar.
They ran for the house, getting to the gates along with the hundreds fleeing from the battle before House Do’Urden.
Baenre guards lined the walls there and the entry path to the courtyard, weapons ready. Those on the wall sent out missiles, physical and magical, at the pursuing demon horde, while those by the gates closely watched those entering—and a great pause indeed was given them when Malagdorl Del’Armgo arrived.
“He is with me,” Jarlaxle said.
“And with me,” Drizzt added.
“A fine prisoner!” Jarlaxle told them.
A team of Baenres immediately ran to the huge man, magical cords going out to bind him tightly, wrists and ankles. They were not careful with him and they brought him hard to the ground to finish fully incapacitating him.
“Do you feel that pain?” Jarlaxle asked.
“A bit,” Kimmuriel conceded. “But this one does so deserve it.”
“I will tell Yvonnel who you really are and she will free—”
“No,” Kimmuriel interrupted. “He is already waking. He will push me out.”
“Then find another, a weaker one, and—”
“No!” Kimmuriel said flatly. “I can think of little less moral.”
“A body, then,” Jarlaxle offered. “One freshly killed, and physically healed by the priestesses as you enter and take control.”
The big man, hoisted back to his feet, laughed at the absurd notion.
“Then how?” Jarlaxle demanded.
Drizzt came over in support of his friend.
“Where will you go?” Jarlaxle pleaded when Kimmuriel didn’t answer.
“You know,” the hulking possessed man replied audibly.
“No,” Jarlaxle breathed. “I won’t let you!”
Drizzt saw that Jarlaxle was fighting back tears.
“Take another—a weaker one, and hold on,” Jarlaxle ordered.
“My time is ending,” the voice of Malagdorl repeated. “There is nothing to be done.”
“Except to say farewell,” Drizzt said. “I will remember our talks on the road to the monastery, my friend. May you find oneness with the hive mind and peace in eternity.”
“And you, warrior. Survive, I beg.”
“There is an emptiness . . . I will miss you, Kimmuriel,” Jarlaxle said, as quiet as Drizzt had ever heard the rogue.
It was followed by a growl, a roar of defiance, as Malagdorl, helplessly bound, again took control of his mind.
The moment of pain was cut short by Dab’nay’s cry of “Zaknafein!”
Drizzt and Jarlaxle spun about to see Zak and Azzudonna running toward them, the four and Dab’nay falling into a much needed hug.
Catti-brie tried to move off the rug she was lying on. She ached profoundly in every joint. She felt as if she had been thrown into the sun itself.
But she felt.
She was alive.
In sudden panic, she pushed up to her elbows and spun about.
Artemis Entreri sat on the floor beside her bed, leaning heavily against it.
“I fear that I have bled on your bed coverings,” he said and gave a helpless little laugh.
Catti-brie rolled about, calling for help, for she feared that she hadn’t any magical energy left to heal the sorely wounded man.
“I showed her the dagger,” Entreri said, his tone subdued. “Zhindia, I mean. Or I thought it was Zhindia. She became something a bit more than that, I fear.”
“The spirit of Lolth entered her body,” Catti-brie told him.
“Transformed her body.” The man paused and looked up at Catti-brie. “Gromph?”
She shook her head.
The room’s door banged open and Penelope Harpell burst in, and knowing they were in good hands, Catti-brie let her eyes close once again.
Menzoberranzan was full of drow with long memories, but none of them, other than those of Yvonnel the Eternal, which were offered to Quenthel, reached back to a time when the full defensive might of House Baenre was forced out on display.
Soon after the retreating forces flowed into the Baenre compound, the demons assaulted the great house at the eastern end of the Qu’ellarz’orl, and for three straight days, those fiends were turned to smoking husks before the walls, and the only demons who breached those walls were dying chasmes falling from the sky after being shot dead by ballistae or crossbows, lightning bolts or Taulmaril, for indeed Drizzt killed many.
Only a couple of the defenders were lost, with those others who fell grievously wounded quickly revived by waiting priestesses. But among the attackers destroyed, only a handful were demons who could not be easily replaced.
As the battle finally ebbed, Jarlaxle found the opportunity to at last confer with the Baenre powers.
“Who are they?” Matron Mother Quenthel demanded of him.
“Allies,” he replied. “Minions of the Dark Maiden.”
“I know that, but from where?”
“There are many such enclaves on the surface,” Jarlaxle replied. He wasn’t about to give up Callidae, of course, and the Callidaeans had remained among their own, along with Dab’nay and Jarlaxle and Drizzt, and in an area they had been assigned to defend in the first wave of demons—and one they defended quite brilliantly
Quenthel stared at him hard. She obviously knew he was hiding something, but to her credit, she didn’t press the issue. They had bigger things to worry about.
“Matron Zeerith has turned against us,” Quenthel remarked. “I reached out to her through my divination and she rejected me, us. She has thrown in with Lolth once more.”
“House Do’Urden was doomed,” Andzrel Baenre put in. “If she had not, her entire family would have been trapped within and murdered. The demons that came upon the field . . .” The weapon master shook his head.
“The whispers say that the avatar of Lolth appeared in the Fane and graced Sos’Umptu with a great magical circle for such summoning,” said Minolin Fey. “One of the priestesses of the Fane was taken in the fighting, in the retreat to House Baenre. She quite willingly boasted that Lolth herself had come to them.”
“What else?” Jarlaxle asked, but Minolin Fey merely shrugged. There really hadn’t been much time for interrogation or magical spellcasting unrelated to the ferocious battle.
“Lolth was here,” Quenthel confirmed. “I sensed her clearly.”
“Was?” Jarlaxle noted.
Quenthel looked at them all carefully, licking her lips, seeming almost afraid to speak her thoughts. “She let us know, the matrons at least. She was here, along with a host of handmaidens. I felt it, keenly. And then I did not.”
“When did you not?”
“The moment House Melarn blew apart.”
That brought gasps all about.
“Dare we hope that Lolth was in there?” Jarlaxle asked. “Or perhaps it was Lolth who created that cataclysm.”
“Against Zhindia Melarn?” Quenthel replied incredulously.
“Perhaps it was Lolth’s way of telling us that we are not damned,” Myrineyl put in eagerly. “Perhaps we have been wrong in rejecting Her, or that the web on the surface was a heresy against Her. Maybe it was Her will all along, and we are—”
“Stop!” Quenthel told her daughter. “Do not be a fool.”
“The Spider Queen came here, so you claim, and House Melarn was obliterated,” Myrineyl pressed.
The others in the room just glared at her, except for Andzrel, who said, “Let us hope that Lolth has rejected Matron Zhindia, then, and will recognize House Baenre as the true leader once more.”
“Hope?” Quenthel asked him. “Would you put all of this as it was?”
“There are thousands dead,” Andzrel replied. “House Fey-Branche is destroyed. House Hunzrin gutted, House Barrison Del’Armgo decapitated! Even if things revert to the days before the events on the surface, it will hardly be the same. Our greatest rivals are no more. Zhindia is no more, so it seems. Bregan D’aerthe, our allies, alone hold the grounds beyond the city now, their rivals in our dungeons. If this war is ended, the position of House Baenre will hold supreme, more so than at any time in . . .”
He stopped in the face of Quenthel’s iron scowl. “You really do not understand any of this, do you?”
“Who will challenge us?” the weapon master replied.
“Challenge us for what? The Lolthians will fight us forever, and for all of your claims of supremacy, all of our power is here within this compound.”
“Almost four thousand drow are in here!” Andzrel replied.
“And twenty thousand out there, with tens of thousands of minor fiends and hundreds of major demons as well,” Jarlaxle reminded.
“And yet, they cannot breach!” Andzrel yelled at him.
“Would you like to lead the charge out of the gates?” Jarlaxle invited him. “Do you think you’d even get off the Qu’ellarz’orl?”
“Have you a better plan?”
Jarlaxle ignored him, other than to offer a disgusted shake of his head as he turned back to Quenthel.
“You have scouts out and about the city?” Quenthel asked him.
“Huddled, mostly, I would expect,” Jarlaxle replied. “But yes. I believe so. The one most intent on destroying them was Matron Zhindia, and if she is truly removed from the field, as it seems likely, then my network should remain.”
“We can prepare the scrying pool—”
“We don’t work like that,” Jarlaxle stopped her.
“Because you had Kimmuriel. Alas, you have him no more.”
But Jarlaxle kept shaking his head. “Braelin Janquay is recovered. He and I will go out and learn what we may.”
“But not Drizzt nor Zaknafein,” Quenthel told him, and he agreed, and not only for the reasons Quenthel was implying. Jarlaxle had spoken at length with Braelin. He knew the story of a certain drow returned with the advent of the Blaspheme, one who had been in House Melarn, but likely was not when it exploded.
In another building in the Baenre compound, Drizzt and Zaknafein considered their course.
“How long would we stay, then?” Zaknafein asked.
“Can we even get out?”
“I have the wizard Allefaero working on that. They must get away, at least, though priest Avernil is a stubborn one. Jarlaxle has covered up well for them, but they risk much by remaining here, and not just to themselves.”
“I am surprised they came here in the first place.”
“They did so without permission, indeed against the edicts, of the Temporal Convocation,” Zak said. “Only Galathae and I were given permission.”
Drizzt didn’t quite know how to take that, didn’t know how to feel about any of this.
“Are you glad that I have come?” Zak asked, and Drizzt knew that he was wearing his emotions plainly on his face.
“I am,” he decided. “Though I will feel better when we are all out of here.”
“You have given up on conquering the city, then?”
“It was never about conquest. We’ve seen the truth of it now, and that truth is not what I had hoped. I take no pleasure in this fighting. In destroying demons, of course there is satisfaction, but the forces behind those demons are drow, battling for Lolth, and many more than I had hoped.”
“She has ruled this city for millennia,” Zak reminded. “Surely you didn’t doubt the resolve of her priestesses to hold on to the source of their power.”
“It is hardly just the matrons and their priestesses, though. As this has sorted, there seem many more against our revolution than for it.”
“For many reasons, though,” Zak reminded. “Fear of their matrons and of Lolth, of course. Or simply fear of this unknown future the Baenres have offered. They know the way it’s been, for the entirety of their lives, even for those whose lives have spanned centuries. They know their place within that truth. They know the boundaries, the lines not to cross, the acts that give them gain and those that offer only pain. What do they know of this promised world beyond Lolth, particularly when it, too, from their perspective at least, will be under the designs of House Baenre?”
“But it won’t.”
“But they cannot know that. I’ve been gone for a long time, but I was here for a long time before that. Few who are not Baenre hold any love for this house, and certainly no trust for the Matron Mother and her entourage.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“You came here thinking of this as a war against Lolth and all that she stood for,” Zak offered. “Perhaps we think of it instead as a rescue mission to get those who would abandon Lolth out of this prison she has built within this cavern.”
Drizzt mulled on that for a bit and at last came to nod and smile. That would have to do. And it was something, at least, and something, he came to believe, that was worth the fight.
There came a knock on the door and Jarlaxle entered, followed by a healthier Braelin Janquay.
“Well met again, Braelin,” Drizzt said.
“Braelin has news that you should hear, Drizzt,” Jarlaxle said. “And you as well,” he added to Zaknafein. “I think it will shock you, but given all that we have seen in these last years since the Spellplague, will anything truly do that?”
“We’re not easily shocked,” Zak remarked.
“You know of the Blaspheme, of course, of how they were once living driders in Menzoberranzan, then went in death to serve as drider lackeys to Lolth and her handmaidens. And now, of course, they have been returned to their living drow bodies through the web woven by Yvonnel and Quenthel.”
Drizzt and Zak looked to each other. Of course they knew, as that action was why they were here in the first place.
Jarlaxle turned to Braelin.
“When I escaped House Melarn, I did so with another who was imprisoned there, one that Matron Zhindia had kept aside for special treatment. She had planned to turn him into a drider very publicly, and mostly to discredit you and all that you represent.” He looked at Drizzt as he said that, and Drizzt stared back hard, beginning to see the possibilities of the forthcoming revelation.
“It was—” Braelin started.
“Dinin, my brother,” Drizzt finished for him, and the scout nodded, confused and surprised.
“I was wrong,” said Zak. “I can still be shocked.” He looked to Drizzt. “Dinin?”
“He was cursed into the abomination of a drider by Vierna,” Drizzt said, and Zak’s expression suggested he was more upset to hear that than any of the news about Dinin. “And killed by King Bruenor, almost a hundred and fifty years ago.”
“And now he is back?” Zak asked Jarlaxle.
“He escaped House Melarn, perhaps, and was said to be heading to House Do’Urden, but we know not his fate.”
Drizzt and Zak looked to each other again, and it was clear that neither of them knew how to even feel regarding this information. Their relationships with Dinin had been complicated, and not very familial. There had been a lot between Zak and Dinin as teacher and student, and Drizzt had grown up in the house as secondboy to Dinin’s elderboy (and only because Dinin had murdered their oldest brother), but as with Zak and Dinin, there had never been any real brotherly or family love between the two.
“I thought you should know,” Jarlaxle said.
Drizzt nodded.
“If I can learn more, I will relay it.”
Drizzt wanted to think that he didn’t care.
But, like Zak, he found he could be surprised.
Because he did care.
The siege of House Baenre continued. The demons came at them every day—minor fiends almost exclusively, for their enemies had obviously come to understand that attrition would not favor their demon army, given the sparseness of casualties within House Baenre.
Now it was more a matter of keeping the heretics too busy to form any counterattack, obviously, giving the Lolthians time to shore up their defenses across the city outside the great house.
And likely to murder any who did not fall in line with them.
“We only have one card to play,” Jarlaxle told Quenthel and the other leaders on the fifth day of the battle. “Prisoners, and many of them valuable. Whoever leads the Lolthians—”
“I think we know who now leads the Lolthians,” Quenthel interrupted.
“Not necessarily. Zhindia may still be alive. We don’t know that she was in her house when it fell. Four other matrons of the Ruling Council are out there, perhaps. Only Mez’Barris is known to be dead, and Byrtyn Fey now cursed. One will make a play . . .”
“It is Sos’Umptu,” Quenthel said definitively. “You saw the power of the horde that came forth from the Fane. I suspect that it was always going to be Sos’Umptu—who else could sit in command of the city from this house and restore what once was.”
“Zhindia was just Lolth’s pawn,” Minolin Fey added. “Someone she would have no issue sacrificing if it came to that. Even the manner of this battle at our walls makes me see the truth of that. Sos’Umptu, on the other hand, understands above all others out there the importance of keeping us engaged here, instead of out there, where we might turn some, like Zeerith, back to our cause.”
“Our position is untenable,” Jarlaxle declared. “As I’ve said, we have one play. Let me go and make it.”
“To Sos’Umptu?”
“That would seem to be the course, unless I learn differently from my agents in the Braeryn.”
“She’ll kill you,” said Quenthel.
“She’ll have to be quick,” Jarlaxle replied. “Many have tried, you might recall. And I have ways to get far, far away from her.”
“Like you did in the chapel at House Barrison Del’Armgo?” Drizzt reminded sourly. “If Matron Mez’Barris had her house prepared like that, why would you think the Fane is less so?”
“I see no choice in the matter,” Jarlaxle answered, and seemed perturbed. “I’m going out to the Braeryn to learn what I can, as only I can. We have bargaining chips—we have Malagdorl, and that is no small thing!—and I must learn what they are worth to whoever it is that leads these demons against us. We cannot just stay here and let them plot their assaults while their demons keep us engaged.”
“But to the Fane?” Quenthel asked doubtfully.
“If the information I gain can prevent the visit, then so be it,” Jarlaxle promised. “But we both doubt that to be the case. Braelin Janquay will come with me through our secret ways, and he will return to you with all that we have learned from our agents, perhaps with me by his side, perhaps not—that’s not what really matters.”
“It matters to me,” Drizzt said.
“I appreciate it, but we are speaking of Jarlaxle, remember?” he said with a smile. “I will be okay. Now, let us discuss our demands. We have the Hunzrins, and that is no small thing to any of our enemies. Cut off from Bregan D’aerthe, the Hunzrins are their only real ties to anything beyond Menzoberranzan. And as I said, we have Malagdorl, Lolth’s Warrior. Lady Lolth herself named him as such, and what a prize that will be to the next determined Matron Mother, or if not to her, then to those who will take control of House Barrison Del’Armgo. Taayrul, I expect. And we have the scepter of Barrison Del’Armgo, whose statues are still in the courtyard blocking their gate, from all that we can see.”
“We have over four hundred Lolthians in our jails,” Minolin Fey added.
“So we have to decide what all of that is worth to them and to us,” Jarlaxle said. “What do we want?”
Jarlaxle could see the pain on Quenthel’s face as she struggled to come to terms with their reality—one that was far less than the vision she had created after denying Lolth and freeing the Blaspheme.
“We cannot win the city,” he said flatly to her.
“And thus, we cannot stay in the city,” said Minolin Fey, to which both Andzrel and Myrineyl chortled, Quenthel’s daughter storming away.
“Go, Jarlaxle,” Quenthel agreed, and that was all the confirmation he needed. “Be quick, I beg.”
Jarlaxle and Braelin were out of House Baenre within the hour, traveling the tunnels and secret ways back to the Braeryn and the Oozing Myconid.
Braelin hesitated as they approached. The last time he had seen Azleah, he had seen four versions of her, three of them succubi.
“I was betrayed the last time I came here,” he said to Jarlaxle’s stare at his hesitation.
“I know all about it. Poor Azleah was trapped under the sorcery of the succubus.”
Braelin nodded.
“It is difficult,” Jarlaxle told him. “But now is not the time to work through the conflicts within you. Too much isn’t at stake—all is at stake.”
He led the way into the tavern, and once over the threshold, Braelin paused again, this time fully stopping, his eyes going wide as he stared at the woman he loved, one eye grayed over and badly scarred.
“Azleah betrayed more than Braelin Janquay,” Jarlaxle explained.
“You said it was not her fault,” Braelin stammered.
“Not against you.”
Braelin shook his head.
“She is forgiven,” Jarlaxle assured him.
“He finds me hideous,” Azleah said from behind the bar, the weakness in her voice assaulting Braelin’s very heart.
He hesitated no more, sprinting across the room toward her, rolling over the bar to land beside her where he swept her up into his arms for a passionate kiss.
“You might be wrong,” a grinning Jarlaxle said to the woman.
“Never could I,” Braelin told Azleah when they broke the clench. “Never, never, could I. I had feared you dead.”
“As I, you,” Azleah said, and Braelin kissed her again, pressing against her.
“I hope the succubi were within House Melarn when it was obliterated,” Braelin whispered to her. “I hope they felt all the pain of that blast to their very soulless core. I hope they are no more, simply forever gone, the fiends.”
“For what they did to you,” Azleah added, but Braelin shook his head.
“I was caught, but you were stolen,” he said, and he kissed her again, simply because he couldn’t help himself.
“Let us hope there will be a time soon for this lovely reunion to properly take its course,” Jarlaxle said, pulling Braelin back from the woman. “But for now . . .”
Braelin nodded nervously, overwhelmed by his emotions, but his face grew serious as he collected himself.
“If we survive this, we will find a priestess who can properly restore your eye,” Jarlaxle promised them both. “Catti-brie will oblige, I am sure.”
“It doesn’t matter to me,” Braelin said. “She is no less beautiful.”
“Shut your mouth,” Azleah told him, and slapped him across the shoulder. “It matters to me, and don’t you doubt that!”
Jarlaxle laughed at that, but only for a brief moment before repeating, “But for now . . .”
With a nod, Azleah took them to her room behind the bar and to a closet that held a secret, extra-dimensional room where she could relay the whispers she had heard from the streets.
House Do’Urden had not been breached in the battle, she told them, the goristro and other powerful fiends stopping short of their gates on the orders of Sos’Umptu Baenre, and on the word that Matron Zeerith, as they had suspected, had indeed reversed and rejoined with the Lolthians.
“Matron Zeerith Xorlarrin,” Azleah emphasized. “She will no longer use the name Do’Urden, and has cursed it from her balconies for all to hear.”
“Drizzt and Zaknefein will be so disappointed to hear that,” Jarlaxle drolled.
She went on to relay that no one had seen or heard from Zhindia since the explosion in her house, and all the whispers said that she had been consumed, something which was then confirmed by another drow Azleah let into the room.
“I left the house only a short while before the explosion,” Kyrnill Kenafin told Jarlaxle and Braelin, and to Braelin, she added, “I am glad that you found your way out.”
“And Zhindia was in there, and remained in there?” Jarlaxle asked.
“She was in there with a Lolthian coven of yochlols.”
“And the explosion itself?”
Kyrnill shrugged. “I was out of the house, going to House Do’Urden to confirm the change of Matron Zeerith’s heart. At least, that is what I had been instructed to do. I was wandering, and wondering, trying to figure my course. When Lolth’s Web was shattered, I came here instead.”
“You deny Lolth?” Jarlaxle asked bluntly.
“She knows that Lolth’s priestesses will not forgive her if they learn the truth of her dealings,” Braelin vouched for her. “She saved me, or tried to before the succubi dragged me back. I will be forever grateful.”
Jarlaxle nodded. “As will I. And we will get you to House Baenre, if you wish, and hopefully beyond. Another escaped with Braelin.”
“Dinin Do’Urden,” Kyrnill replied. “That was part of the reason I was sent to speak with Matron Zeerith, as word was that he had gone into House Do’Urden.”
“And?”
“I did not go to Matron Zeerith. I know nothing of it.”
Jarlaxle looked to Azleah, who shook her head and shrugged.
“What of Yvonnel Baenre?” Jarlaxle asked them both, but again, neither had any word of the missing woman.
Kyrnill was dismissed then, and Azleah went on to explain that there was some not insignificant support for the heretics on the streets of the city, particularly in the Braeryn, but when Jarlaxle asked if she thought that enough to turn the fight, she shook her head without hesitation.
Thus, barely an hour later, Jarlaxle stood hat in hand, literally and figuratively, in the nave of the Fane of the Goddess before the altar and throne of Sos’Umptu Baenre.
“We can hold out forever,” he blithely answered the priestess’s opening salvo when she demanded a surrender and the gates of her house thrown open wide. “How long until your greater demons are found out and destroyed? Your fodder ranks will be diminished then, of course.”
He expected Sos’Umptu to lash out at him with that, but she did not. He studied her carefully, and had done so since he had been allowed in to parlay with her. He thought she would be more confident, more forceful and demanding.
But she was stung, and badly.
The fall of Lolth’s Web had wounded many beyond House Melarn, it seemed.
“Your mother . . . my mother, Matron Mother Yvonnel the Eternal, put up with me, embraced me and my ways, though they were not in accord with Lolth’s designs—her demanded rituals, at least,” Jarlaxle said.
“You were ever a heretic.”
“But a useful one. Matron Mother Baenre valued me because she knew I acted out of the notion of mutual benefit. She was stronger with me and Bregan D’aerthe in her court. I come here in that belief of practicality. The streets of Menzoberranzan run with drow blood and stink of smoking demon husks. It makes me wonder who rules here: drow or demon.”
“Lolth rules here!”
“In that chaos rules, yes, I suppose that is undeniable, but we know that her actual presence here is fleeting, as the destruction of House Melarn has shown us. So let’s not focus on the abstract and rather on what we can do for each other. That is the question we should both be exploring.”
“Your words offend me and your game bores me, Jarlaxle. I will have the throne of House Baenre and will rule this city under the blessing of Lolth!”
“Granted, and in return . . .”
“In return? I will make driders of you and all the rest. Does that bargain sound fair enough to you?”
Jarlaxle couldn’t suppress his smile. “Dear sister—”
“Do not ever call me that.”
Jarlaxle put his hat upon his bald pate and tipped it to her. “Dear First Priestess of the Fane,” he said formally. “You are hurt, and you are weakened. She was in there, wasn’t she? Her handmaidens were, and so their material bodies were surely destroyed in the cataclysm and are now banished for a hundred years.”
“You cannot banish a goddess for long!” Sos’Umptu snapped back.
There it was, and Sos’Umptu slumped back a bit an instant later, knowing that she had given Jarlaxle all the confirmation that he needed.
“But she is gone—for now. And without her, without her handmaidens, you are vulnerable,” Jarlaxle said.
“I could destroy you here and now.”
“Possibly—I’d give you maybe two-to-one odds on that. But where does that leave you? House Barrison Del’Armgo is greatly weakened, their weapon master in our custody, I have control of the magical constructs that defend their keep, and Mez’Barris is dead—but all that should give you little comfort in this moment. To win this fight, you need to destroy those within House Baenre, and where is Sos’Umptu left in that event, especially with Matron Vadalma Faen Tlabbar, her powerful house fully intact, seeing a clear ascent, particularly with her hated enemy, Zhindia, out of the way? And what of Matron Zeerith? Zeerith Xorlarrin once more, I am told. A powerful matron with powerful allies, and a ruling matron, like Vadalma Faen Tlabbar, Miz’ri Mizzrym, and Asha Vandree, who resented your ninth seat at that table meant for eight. Those will be the only ruling matrons left if you defeat Quenthel, and where does that leave you?”
“I have the blessing of Lolth. They witnessed the power of the force that came forth from the Fane.”
“And they witnessed her being banished,” Jarlaxle corrected. “Even for a short while to us drow, one hundred years is still a good bit of time for the politics of this city. Can you stand against them long enough?”
“House Barrison Del’Armgo remains formidable,” Sos’Umptu stated. “Kaitain survived the attack at the wall, and a capable priestess, Taayrul, will take their throne.”
“They will if they ever get the scepter back. That’s not really what’s important, though, because you are Baenre, and the Armgos hate the Baenres more than any other!”
“Not if I promise her the Second House and a seat at my side.”
“You cannot promise her anything the four remaining ruling matrons will offer.” He put on a sly look. “Or perhaps you can.”
“You are boring me.”
“You already said that. And no, I’m not. I am worrying you, and you should be worried. Believe me when I tell you, for my own selfish reasons, that I would have Sos’Umptu become the ruling Matron Mother above all other possibilities—if you even win this war, I mean, against the current Matron Mother.
“And what of Yvonnel?” Jarlaxle teased. “She could have taken the throne before, and now who could stand before her?”
“Yvonnel is gone,” Sos’Umptu stated.
“Gone?” He did all he could to keep the shock out of his voice and face.
“Gone. She made the mistake of challenging me here in this place. She lost. She is gone, hurled through the planes to an eternal prison from which she cannot escape, and one where you will never find her. She is gone.”
Jarlaxle looked at her suspiciously.
“Why would I lie about that? She is gone.”
Jarlaxle licked his lips.
“You thought it Yvonnel who destroyed Lolth’s Web,” Sos’Umptu reasoned, and indeed he had thought exactly that.
“Who else could . . .”
“It was my brother. Your brother.”
“Gromph?”
“Gromph. His final act. I watched it from here, in a scrying pool, as I was witnessing again the beauty of Lolth’s avatar, this time hosted by Matron Zhindia. Gromph did it. He blew it up, all of it, and himself as well.”
Jarlaxle wasn’t sure how to digest that. Kimmuriel gone, Gromph gone.
So many gone.
“And, Jarlaxle,” she said slyly, “should I allow you back to House Baenre, do tell Drizzt Do’Urden that Catti-brie was in there with Gromph. And Artemis Entreri, as well. So tell me again how badly I am hurt, would you please?”
Jarlaxle swallowed it all and tucked it far away. For the sake of those left alive, he had to do that, had to resolve this here and now. This was a war, after all, and losses—even ones as devastating as what she was suggesting—were a part of war.
But still . . .
“Let us end this for both our sakes,” he told Sos’Umptu. “I have what you need and you have what I need. Together, we both survive and thrive, while apart, we are both diminished.”
“I must be confused: What do you have that I need?”
“I have House Hunzrin.”
“And?”
“And you’re not so naïve to not know what that means. You bringing them from the dungeons of House Baenre gives you stature in the eyes of your rivals, and Matron Shakti will surely sit on the new Ruling Council and will know that it was you who saved her and her family.”
“Do go on.”
“I also have Bregan D’aerthe. You know me and my value. Your eyes will be turned inward to the city for now, no doubt. But that will not be enough as time passes, and you know what I can bring to your table.”
She said nothing to that.
“I have Malagdorl Armgo, Lolth’s Warrior,” Jarlaxle announced.
“You have Lolth’s Warrior, all right, but it is not Malagdorl, I daresay. She does love that heretic who bested him—quite embarrassingly, I am told—and who has caused so much chaos in this city for nearly two centuries.”
That put Jarlaxle off-balance, but he recovered quickly. “And so, you do not wish to destroy him,” he said flippantly, and Sos’Umptu didn’t argue the point, other than to say, “Catti-brie was in House Melarn. He is already destroyed.”
“We have over four hundred Lolthian prisoners,” Jarlaxle replied, ignoring that jibe. “Many valuable. And we have House Baenre itself, which you now covet.”
“I will win House Baenre,” she said. “Four hundred are not so great a loss. More than three thousand drow have already been killed in this war our sister began.”
“What good is House Baenre if there’s nothing of value in it?”
“How do you mean?”
“We will destroy everything you desire in House Baenre, I promise, should it come to that. But it should not! You will have Matron Shakti Hunzrin at your side. And with Malagdorl freed by you, House Barrison Del’Armgo will not oppose you. Make of him your patron and your weapon master in House Baenre! The play is so obvious, and with Houses Baenre and Barrison Del’Armgo joined, who will argue? You will have the peace you need to rebuild.”
“And what do you get in return?” Sos’Umptu asked.
“We leave.”
“Leave?”
He hid the smile he felt at her bemusement.
“We leave. All who will go. We leave Menzoberranzan, the City of Spiders, the City of Lolth. We leave never to return, and with your word that you will not pursue us.”
“I cannot give you that word. I serve Lolth.”
“Then just let us leave, and we will do what we must if it comes to that.”
“The Blaspheme remains.”
“You would not want that and I cannot offer that.”
Sos’Umptu sat back for a bit and considered her reply, seeming to agree with the former part, at least.
“Quenthel is doomed. She stays and pays for her great heresy.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. As I said: all who want to must be allowed to go. Besides, I cannot make decisions for her. Do you not understand that? Do you not understand what this is all about, what it has been about since the beginning? It is about individual choice and freedom. Personal agency to determine life and faith—yes, faith! Mostly faith! How can you demand fealty to a goddess from those who do not worship her? Why would she even want them? Why would you want them causing only unrest in your city? That’s what we fought for, Sos’Umptu. Lolth was a symbol of the oppression, nothing more.”
Sos’Umptu laughed at him. “You were always an idiot, Jarlaxle, believing that others carried such pride as you have within your heart. You never saw Lolth as your great mother and so you are arrogant enough to believe that all others feel as you do.”
“Not all. Not you, clearly.”
“Not hardly all,” Sos’Umptu said.
“Then prove it. I call your dare!”
“What does that even mean?”
“As I’ve said: let those who wish to leave go. Obviously, those will be of heart similar to my own and not yours. If you have such confidence that so many others see the beauty of the Spider Queen, then let them prove it.
“Or are you afraid?”
She stared at him hatefully.
“The more who go, the stronger you will be,” Jarlaxle slyly answered that look. “Think about it. The Armgos will certainly remain, as they will move so near to that which they have always desired, particularly when you join the families with Malagdorl as your patron. And I will be honest with you here: Under this agreement, it is likely that many will remain in House Baenre. The temptation of ascending the ladder of power will be too great for many of the Baenre nobles.”
“Because what is out there for you who will leave,” she said, seeming to finally accept his premise.
“Freedom,” he pushed, not wanting her to lose the thread. “Just that, Sos’Umptu.”
“Power is freedom.”
Jarlaxle shrugged.
Sos’Umptu sat staring at him for a long while, and every passing second gave him hope. She was hurt so very badly. With Lolth gone, it was likely that the priestesses who had seen such an amplification of their power were now greatly diminished. Even though she knew that House Baenre could not defeat the combined power of Menzoberranzan, she feared this fight and its implications for her, and yes, for that physical house itself, one she only now had come to realize how much she coveted.
“Get out of my city, all of you,” she said at length. “I will march into House Baenre at Narbondel’s first light. Those among the heretics who wish to recant and beg for mercy will be saved—and Jarlaxle, on your word, you will tell the Blaspheme that they will be spared any punishment if they beg the mercy of Lolth.”
“On your word?”
“On my word. They will serve House Baenre, and House Baenre will serve Lady Lolth,” Sos’Umptu told him convincingly. “And when you are gone, yes, you will forever look over your shoulders, because your crimes will not be forgotten or forgiven. None may return. Ever.”
Jarlaxle bowed.
“Except, perhaps, unless Bregan D’aerthe and I come to an agreement in the future that is of mutual benefit, brother.”
Jarlaxle’s returning smile fit the moment perfectly, but behind it wasn’t Sos’Umptu’s offer, but rather his proof that even with her, even with this most loyal servant of Lolth, it was all about selfish gain.
It was always all about selfish gain, he thought, but then corrected himself, and reminded himself why he loved Drizzt and Drizzt’s friends, and why, in a most profound way, knowing them had given him so much more than any promises Sos’Umptu or any other Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan could ever offer.
A triumphant Sos’Umptu did walk through the gates of House Baenre the next morning, to find, as Jarlaxle had predicted, many of the Baenre nobles and foot soldiers and nearly half the Blaspheme waiting to greet and serve her. Among those ranks were Andzrel, who had little idea that he would soon be replaced by Malagdorl Armgo. And to her surprise—and to the utter shock of Quenthel and Minolin Fey—beside Andzrel stood Quenthel’s daughter, Myrineyl.
From the Stenchstreets, they came. From many of the lower houses, they came, accepting the invitation to make their own path from the soon-to-be Matron Mother Sos’Umptu of Menzoberranzan. Along with the refugees of House Baenre, the contingent of outsiders of the Dark Maiden, and the soldiers of Bregan D’aerthe, nearly three thousand udadrow had left Menzoberranzan, past Donigarten and through the little-used Wanderways.
It wasn’t until they were long out of the city, moving fast along the trails that would bring them to the lower gates of Gauntlgrym, that Jarlaxle assembled his closest friends and told them of the loss of Yvonnel.
And told them of Gromph’s great sacrifice.
And looked Drizzt right in the eye as he revealed, “Catti-brie and Artemis Entreri were in House Melarn when Gromph destroyed it. They were with him.”
Malagdorl Armgo had not been able to knock the legs out from under Drizzt.
Grandmaster Kane had not been able to knock the legs out from under Drizzt.
A pair of dragon sisters had not been able to knock the legs out from under Drizzt.
Ygorl, the slaadi god, had not been able to knock the legs out from under Drizzt.
But now his legs would not hold him, and he fell to the ground, gasping, then sobbing. He tried to tell himself that it had all been worth it, that this battle, which had become a rescue mission of sorts, had saved so many from the damnation of Lolth.
But he couldn’t hold that thought. Not then. Not with his heart torn asunder in his chest.
Zak was there with him, crying. Jarlaxle was there, crying for Drizzt’s pain and for his own. The three huddled closely, two whispering comfort when they could get words out past their own pain, the third lost in pure emotional agony.
It was only when Zak mentioned Brie that Drizzt found some measure of calm.
He felt empty in that moment, but he was not empty. He had their legacy. He had his responsibility.
The pain didn’t ease. The questions—why had she been there?—didn’t go silent. The sense of loss, of helplessness, didn’t abate.
He stood up and went on, silently, playing the role he had to play in their march.
The next day, Allefaero and Nvisi came to him and Zak and Jarlaxle. Allefaero told them that Nvisi had discovered a small group of drow moving parallel to them.
“Saribel?” Allefaero asked. “Ravel? Do these names mean anything to you? They flee the city, and Nvisi says they left before we did.”
“Xorlarrins,” Jarlaxle said to the others. “Perhaps not all of them agreed with Zeerith’s choice. We should go find them.”
“Be quick,” Allefaero told him. “Nvisi has seen others, too, coming fast from Menzoberranzan and they are not our allies.”
“You should get back to Callidae,” Jarlaxle told him. “Prepare your spells and fly off as soon as you can.”
“In time,” Allefaero said. “Do you think we could pry Zaknafein away from you now? We came to see this through, and so we shall.” Jarlaxle nodded. He wasn’t surprised by the latter information. Sos’Umptu would try to hurt them badly, of course, to chase those who survived on their way. He organized a group to find the Xorlarrins and bring them in, and remained unsurprised to find a certain member of that renegade group who was not Xorlarrin.
“So it is true,” Zaknafein said to him when he approached.
“You are no more stunned than I,” Dinin replied.
Drizzt, sitting beside Zaknafein, said nothing.
“I . . . we,” Dinin said, looking around and spotting some of his fellow Blaspheme warriors taking their meal. “We served as driders in the Abyss, every day in torment. We were freed of the curse outside of the dwarven kingdom, and now we fight Lolth with everything we can muster.”
“Not all,” Zak answered. “Nearly half remained to serve Matron Mother Sos’Umptu Baenre.”
“Because they fear Lolth profoundly. You cannot understand the pain, eternal and unrelenting. If they were given pardons for remaining, I understand.”
“If you wish to go back . . .” Drizzt said.
“Brother?” Dinin replied.
“Don’t,” Drizzt warned.
Dinin really didn’t know what to make of Drizzt in that moment. He hadn’t expected warmth, certainly, from either. He didn’t know what to make of Zak being back from the dead, even, and he remained well aware that he had been sent to the Abyss in a fight with one of Drizzt’s friends.
But even with all that, he couldn’t quite parse Drizzt’s statement. Finally, he simply said, “Fear of Lolth makes us all do things we regret.”
“Is that what you told our brother Nalfein?”
Drizzt’s words even drew a gasp from Zak.
“You think I have forgotten all that was before?” Drizzt went on.
“I do not, nor would I expect you to, nor can I,” Dinin replied. He paused and lowered his gaze, wanting them to see that he was struggling with how to finish his response. “I ask nothing of you, brother.”
“You get nothing from me.”
“Of course not. I understand. Perhaps with time, I can show you that which I have learned, about myself, about Lolth. There is no greater torment—”
“Where will you go if you survive this journey?” Drizzt asked.
The mere fact he had asked that gave Dinin a bit of hope his brother did indeed care, a bit, at least.
“They are coming after us, even now,” Zak added.
“Perhaps Jarlaxle will have me back in Bregan D’aerthe,” Dinin said after a while.
“I think he will,” said Zaknafein. He winked at the former drider, then stood, walked over, and patted Dinin on the shoulder. “We have all been through much, so much, in a life journey that winds unpredictably.”
“Thank you.”
“Welcome back,” Zak told him.
Drizzt took a deep breath and nodded, just a bit, but said no more.
Dinin didn’t really know what to think when he left them. Whispers said that Zhindia was dead, but his pact hadn’t been forged with her, after all, but only through her.
His pact was with Lolth.
Lolth was eternal.
Lolth was merciless.
He had time, that much had been made clear, and so he would bide that time, through the months and years.
But he wouldn’t waver on the course and the culmination until he had some tangible evidence that Lolth had forgotten him.
No matter the circumstance, the one truth that guided Dinin Do’Urden at that time was that he would not again become a drider, whatever the cost to anyone else, including Zaknafein and Drizzt.
Including Drizzt’s daughter.
The force pursuing them was considerable, Nvisi and other diviners discerned over the next two days, and they would be in for a terrific fight before they ever got to Gauntlgrym, it seemed, unless they could somehow manage to keep ahead of the pursuit.
They feared that battle upon them—though Drizzt, still full of helpless rage, was almost glad that he would put his blades back to work—when the lead scouts informed Jarlaxle and the others that there was another force before them, blocking their way. They started making plans to either veer down a side passage or fight their way through, but in the middle of the debate, Avernil and Allefaero begged an audience with their friends of Bregan D’aerthe.
“Weal,” Avernil told them when he caught up to Jarlaxle
“Weal?”
“Weal to go forward,” Avernil explained.
“Nvisi has seen them,” Allefaero added. “These are not enemies in the tunnels between us and your destination. It is a large army come to meet us, led by a dwarven king.”
“Send word to Quenthel and all the others,” Jarlaxle told Braelin. “Be quick and be glad. If King Bruenor is there, then our pursuers will fast retreat!”
Braelin called for other couriers to spread the word, then ran off.
“You said to our destination and not your own,” Jarlaxle said then, catching the subtle distinction the wizard had made.
“We will go and meet this dwarf king,” Avernil said. “Perhaps a bit further. But it is time for us to bring our dead home.”
“I know that Zaknafein can return,” Jarlaxle replied. “And I know they will welcome the body of Holy Galathae. But didn’t you come here against the wishes of the Temporal Convocation?”
Avernil shrugged. “They will not be pleased with us. There may even be a penance to pay. But no matter. We are loyal to Callidae, second only to the Dark Maiden, and we will return to our home and properly bury the fallen heroes we are able to retrieve from the battlefield.”
“I suppose you will be able to convince Valrissa and the others,” Jarlaxle offered.
“How many udadrow escaped Lolth’s tyranny?” Avernil asked. “Two thousand? Twenty-five hundred?”
Jarlaxle nodded. They hadn’t done an exact count, but the number seemed close.
“For the lives of thirty Callidaeans, more than two thousand prisoners of Lolth are now free,” Avernil stated flatly. “The price is no minor thing, but the cost was worth the gain, both in the eyes of Eilistraee, surely, and in the hearts of Mona Valrissa and the rest of Callidae. We will be welcomed back.”
Jarlaxle let it go at that, dropping a friendly hand on Avernil’s shoulder and offering a sincere nod of appreciation for all that they had lost. Then he looked to the two men standing beside him, both Drizzt and Zak shifting eagerly.
“Bruenor,” Jarlaxle said. “He covers his heart with gruff, but will be there when—”
“I have to tell him,” Drizzt said solemnly, and he started on his way.
Jarlaxle looked at Zak, but both understood Drizzt’s reference. Bruenor had lost a daughter, so they believed.
Moving ahead of the main force, Drizzt, Jarlaxle, and Zaknafein trotted quickly through the tunnels and finally into a large chamber that had been prepared for battle, with war machines and grim-faced dwarves in metal armor and carrying mayhem.
They were recognized, of course, and so by the time they got past the outer sentries, they found King Bruenor flanked by Regis and Wulfgar on one side, Thibbledorf Pwent and Athrogate on the other, rushing to meet them.
And two others, as well, and quite unexpectedly, one of whom, an auburn-haired woman with deep blue eyes that had so long ago stolen his heart, had Drizzt once more crumbling to the floor in tears, but this time of joy.