For now, she decided, she should visit with the one she believed to be her only other surviving sibling, the Archmage of Menzoberranzan, her brother Gromph, to learn what he might know.
The Elderboy of House Baenre, the first child of the great Yvonnel, Gromph Baenre now stood as the oldest living drow in Menzoberranzan, and had long before earned the distinction as the longest-serving archmage of the city. His tenure predated not only the Spellplague but the Time of Troubles, and by centuries! It was said that he got along by getting along, and by knowing his place, for though his station afforded him great latitude within Menzoberranzan, inarguably as the most powerful male drow in the city, he remained, after all, merely a male drow.
In theory, therefore, every matron mother and every high priestess outranked him. They were closer to Lolth, and the Spider Queen ruled all.
Many lesser priestesses had tested that theory against Gromph over the centuries.
They were all dead.
Even Quenthel, Matron Mother Quenthel herself, knocked lightly and politely on the door of the archmage’s private chamber in House Baenre. She might have been more showy and forceful had Gromph been in his residence in the Academy of Sorcere, but here in House Baenre, the pretense couldn’t stand. Quenthel and Gromph, siblings, understood each other, didn’t much like each other, but surely needed each other.
The old wizard stood up quickly and offered a respectful bow when Quenthel pressed into the room.
“Unexpected,” he said, for indeed, these two spent little time in each other’s company, and usually only when Quenthel had summoned Gromph to her formal chair of station.
Quenthel closed the door and motioned for her brother to be seated. He noted her nervous movements and looked at her slyly. “There is news?”
Quenthel took the seat opposite the archmage, across the great desk, which was covered in parchment, both rolled and spread, with a hundred bottles of various inks set about them.
“Tell me of the Spellplague,” Quenthel bade him.
“It is ended, mercifully,” he replied with a shrug. “Magic is as magic was, the Weave reborn, and gloriously so.”
Quenthel stared at him curiously. “Gloriously?” she asked, considering his strange choice of words, and one that surely seemed stranger still, given the typical demeanor of Gromph.
Gromph shrugged as if it did not matter, to deflect his nosy sister. For once, regarding the movements of Lady Lolth, this situation did not yet concern her. For once, the male wizards of Menzoberranzan had been entreated by the Spider Queen before and above the domineering disciples of Arach-Tinilith. Gromph knew that his time standing above Quenthel in Lolth’s eyes would be brief, but he intended to hold fast to it for as long as possible.
Quenthel narrowed her eyes, and Gromph suppressed his smile, knowing that his apparent indifference to such godly games surely irked her. “The Spider Queen is angry,” Quenthel said.
“She is always angry,” Gromph replied, “else she could hardly be considered a demon queen!”
“Your jests are noted, and will be relayed,” Quenthel warned.
Gromph shrugged. He could hardly suppress his laughter. One of them would soon be exposing quite a bit of truth regarding the Spider Queen, he knew, but to Quenthel’s surprise, it wouldn’t be her.
“You think her current anger is regarding the Weave? The end of the Spellplague?” he asked, because he could not resist. He pictured the expression Quenthel would wear when the truth was revealed to her, and it took all that he could muster to not break out in open, mocking laughter. “Five years, it has been—not so long a time in the eyes of a goddess, true, but still …”
“Do not mock her,” Quenthel warned.
“Of course not. I merely seek to discern—”
“She is angry,” Quenthel interrupted. “It seemed unfocused, a discordant shriek, a scream of frustration.”
“She lost,” Gromph said matter-of-factly, and he laughed at Quenthel’s threatening glare.
“It’s not about that,” the matron mother said with confidence.
“Dear sister …”
“Matron Mother,” Quenthel sharply corrected.
“Do you fear that the Spider Queen is angry with you?” Gromph went on.
Quenthel rested back in her chair and stared off into nothingness, contemplating the question far longer than Gromph had anticipated—so long, in fact, that the archmage went back to his work, penning a new scroll.
“At us,” Quenthel decided some time later, and Gromph looked up at her curiously.
“Us? House Baenre?”
“Menzoberranzan, perhaps.” Quenthel waved her hand dismissively, obviously flustered. “I have set Sos’Umptu and my daughter to the task of summoning a handmaiden, that we might get more definitive answers.”
“Then pray tell me, dear sister”—Gromph folded his hands on the desk before him, staring hard at Quenthel, pointedly referring to her in that less-than-formal manner—“why did you decide to disturb my work?”
“The Spellplague, the Weave,” the matron mother flailed, again waving her hand.
“Nay, that is not the reason,” said the old archmage. “Why, Quenthel, I believe that you are afraid.”
“You dare to speak to me in that manner?”
“Why would I not, dear sister?”
Quenthel leaped from the chair, sending it skidding out behind her. Her eyes flashed with outrage as she corrected him once more, spitting every syllable, “Matron Mother.”
“Yes,” said Gromph. “Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan.” He rose to face her directly, and matched her unblinking stare with his own. “Never forget that.”
“You seem to be the one—”
Gromph rolled right over the thought. “And act the part of it,” he said evenly.
Quenthel’s eyes flashed again, her hands clenched and opened as if readying for a spell, but she quickly composed herself.
Gromph nodded and gave a little laugh. “If the Spider Queen is angry with you and you show any weakness, your doom will fall,” he warned. “The World Above, and below, is in flux, Lady Lolth’s own designs have only begun to spin, and she will brook no weakness now.”
“Menzoberranzan thrives under my leadership!”
“Does it?”
“House Xorlarrin has settled Gauntlgrym. The ancient Forge is fired anew, and to the benefit of Menzoberranzan!”
“And House Barrison Del’Armgo?” Gromph asked slyly. “Do they view the move of Xorlarrin as one that strengthens the hand of Matron Mother Quenthel or as one that opens an opportunity for them here in the City of Spiders? You have removed a threat to them, have you not?”
“Their enemies the Xorlarrins are not far—Matron Zeerith is still within the city,” Quenthel protested.
“But when she goes and the compound here is abandoned, as is soon to occur?”
“They will not be far.”
“And if Matron Mez’Barris Armgo offers Zeerith a better deal than you have offered?”
Quenthel slid back into her chair, mulling over that dangerous notion. A long while passed before she looked up across the desk at Gromph, who stood towering above her now.
“Take heart, dear sister,” Gromph said lightly. “We do not even know the source of Lady Lolth’s … shriek. Perhaps it is naught but a residual scream of frustration over some event in the realm of the gods that has no bearing upon us whatsoever. Perhaps it was not, is not, directed at you or at House Baenre or at Menzoberranzan at all. Who can tell with these gods?”
Quenthel nodded hopefully at that.
“They will likely have engaged the yochlol by now,” she explained, rising once more and turning for the door. “Let us go and get our answers.”
“You go,” Gromph bade her. He already had his answers, after all. “I have my work here—I will remain in House Baenre this day and throughout tomorrow in case I am needed.”
That seemed to satisfy the matron mother and she took her leave, and Gromph
remained standing until she had closed the door behind her. Then he sat, with a profound sigh.
He did not need a handmaiden to enlighten him. Another source, more ancient than he, had already told him of the stirrings of the Spider Queen and Lolth’s mounting frustration with Menzoberranzan.
Quenthel would return to him shortly, he knew, and she would not much enjoy the journey he had planned for her.
The handmaiden’s muddy voice, bubbly and scratchy all at once, fit its physical appearance, that of a half-melted blob of dirty wax, and with several tentacles waving around just to complete the nightmare.
“You extend, but you are not strong,” the yochlol said, clearly irritated.
Sos’Umptu and Myrineyl exchanged nervous glances.
“We seek only to please the Spider Queen,” Sos’Umptu replied, her voice thick with proper deference and supplication.
“She is pleased by strength,” said the yochlol.
It was a surprising answer to both the priestesses, in that it did not include any variation or synonym to the word “chaos,” which was the very edict and domain of Lady Lolth.
The gooey mass shifted then, turning slowly and thinning as it went. The tentacles shrank and became arms, drow arms, and drow legs, as the creature transformed into the guise of a female drow, naked and glorious. With a wry grin, the handmaiden walked over to Myrineyl and gently lifted her hand to stroke the drow’s cheek and chin.
“Are you afraid, daughter of Matron Mother Quenthel?” the yochlol-turned-drow asked.
Myrineyl, now visibly trembling, swallowed hard.
“We sense that the goddess is in pain, or in distress,” Sos’Umptu interjected, but the yochlol held up a hand to silence the older drow, and never turned her penetrating gaze from Myrineyl. The handmaiden’s hand drifted lower, around Myrineyl’s delicate jaw and gently, lightly, down her neck.
The young Baenre seemed to Sos’Umptu on the verge of panic. Despite her misgivings regarding Myrineyl, Sos’Umptu lifted her hand into Myrineyl’s view and her fingers flashed the word Strength!
Myrineyl firmed up immediately and shook her head. “We are House Baenre,” she said solidly. “If Lady Lolth is in need, we are here to serve. That is all.”
“But you tremble at the touch of a handmaiden,” the yochlol replied. “Are you afraid? Or do I so disgust you?”
Sos’Umptu held her breath, knowing that if Myrineyl answered incorrectly, the yochlol would likely drag her back to the Demonweb Pits for an eternity of torment.
But Myrineyl smiled, then suddenly embraced the handmaiden in a passionate kiss.
Sos’Umptu nodded in admiration, silently congratulating the play of the young priestess.
A long while later, Sos’Umptu and Myrineyl walked side-by-side through the halls of the Baenre main house, on their way to report to the matron mother. They had learned little from the handmaiden directly, which was typical of such encounters.
“Why?” Myrineyl asked quietly.
She didn’t have to elaborate. Sos’Umptu could have allowed her to fail the handmaiden’s test and been rid of her once and for all—and every drow in Menzoberranzan knew that Sos’Umptu Baenre would like nothing more than to be rid of Quenthel’s troublesome and ambitious daughter.
“You thought it a test?” Sos’Umptu replied.
Myrineyl stopped walking and considered the older priestess.
“You think the handmaiden’s call for strength is aimed at you?” Sos’Umptu asked, and scoffed. “Is it inexperience, then, or stupidity that propels you? Or arrogance, perhaps. Yes, that would be a proper failing for a child of Quenthel.”
For many heartbeats, Myrineyl didn’t respond, didn’t even blink, and Sos’Umptu could see her rolling the insult over and over in her thoughts, looking for an angle of counterattack.
“You dare speak of the matron mother with such disrespect?” came the predictable retort.
“The test was for me,” Sos’Umptu declared, and she started walking again, briskly, forcing Myrineyl to move swiftly to catch up. “And as such, for House Baenre wholly.”
Myrineyl, who had, after all, just made love to a half-melted lump of dirty wax, wore a most delicious and perplexed expression.
“When a handmaiden takes the illusion of a drow, does she see through the eyes of the drow?” Sos’Umptu asked.
“What do you mean?”
“The yochlol physically watched me while she faced you, young fool,” Sos’Umptu explained. “She saw my sign to you to show strength as clearly as you did, and that was the whole point of the exercise. Something is wrong. The Spider Queen is greatly upset, and demands strength.”
“Unity,” Myrineyl quietly breathed.
“Unity among the two nobles of House Baenre least likely to provide it.” Myrineyl’s eyes went wide.
“Do you think that the rivalry between the high priestess of House Baenre and the daughter of Matron Mother Quenthel would go unnoticed?” Sos’Umptu replied.
“I remain at Arach-Tinilith, serving Mistress Minolin Fey,” Myrineyl said innocently.
“But you will never replace Minolin,” Sos’Umptu said slyly, “or Ardulrae of House Melarn as Matron of Scriptures. With those appointments, the matron mother, your mother, satisfies two rival Houses, potential enemies House Baenre prefers not to deal with in this dangerous time of House Xorlarrin’s departure. But then, you know this.”
The innocent look was gone from Myrineyl’s face now, Sos’Umptu noted, the young priestess assumed a rather brash posture.
“Unity now,” Sos’Umptu said against that threatening pose. “The Spider Queen demands it.” The words sounded quite curious to her as she spoke them, and to Myrineyl, as well, she realized when the younger priestess responded simply, “Why?”
Sos’Umptu could only sigh and shrug against that all-important question. The handmaiden had revealed little, her largest hint being an obscure reference that “The Eternal would understand.”
They had arrived at Quenthel’s door by then. Myrineyl lifted her hand to knock, but a look from Sos’Umptu warned her away. “Unity requires adherence to station, young one,” Sos’Umptu explained, and it was she who knocked, she who answered the matron mother’s call, and she who entered Quenthel’s private chambers first.
Gromph smiled as his door swung open and, predictably, Matron Mother Quenthel swept into the room.
“She taunts me!” Quenthel whined. She moved up to the chair she had previously used and started to sit down, but instead just kicked it aside. “The Eternal would know, the handmaiden whispered to Sos’Umptu and Myrineyl. The Eternal! Our mother would know, but alas, mere Quenthel cannot!”
Gromph realized that his chuckle might not be appreciated at that moment, but he couldn’t hold it back. The reference, the Eternal, was clear enough, speaking of their mother, Yvonnel, who was known as Yvonnel the Eternal, the greatest matron mother Menzoberranzan had ever known, and one who had ruled the city for millennia.
“And now you dare taunt me?” Quenthel fumed. “Would you ever have so responded to Yvonnel?”
“Of course not,” the old archmage replied. “Yvonnel would have killed me.”
“But mere Quenthel cannot, so you suppose?” The matron mother’s features tightened into a dangerous scowl.
Gromph casually rose. “You won’t,” he replied, “whether you can or not.”
“Are you so sure of that?”
“Only because I know my sister to be wise,” he replied, moving to the left-hand wall of the chamber. There, he opened a large cabinet, revealing several shelves covered with various items: scrolls—so many scrolls!—coffers, sacks, and one large iron box. With a wave of his hand and a quick chant, Gromph cast a minor spell. A glistening, floating disc appeared beside him. He scooped out the iron box and placed it atop his enchantment.
“Of course I only dare to tease you because I have the answer to your riddle,” he explained, turning back to Quenthel. “In there?” she asked, indicating the bo
x. Gromph smiled all the wider.
“I have been waiting for this day for a long time, dear sister,” the archmage explained.
“Matron Mother,” she corrected.
“Exactly. It is past time that you are no longer referred to in any other manner.”
Quenthel rocked back a step, then sat in the chair, staring at the archmage. “What do you know? Why is the Spider Queen angry?”
“That, I do not know,” he replied. “Not exactly. But the handmaiden’s reference to our dear dead mother tells me that I—that we can likely find out.”
He gave another little laugh. “Or at least, I know how you can find out. Indeed, I know how you might learn many things. Good fortune lurks in the corridors of the Underdark just outside of Menzoberranzan. Good fortune and an intellect older than Yvonnel.”
Quenthel stared at him hard for a long while. “Do you intend to forevermore speak in riddles?”
Gromph crossed the room behind her, to another cabinet near a display case. He opened the door to reveal a large, floor-to-ceiling mirror. The archmage closed his eyes and cast another spell, this one much longer to complete and much more intricate. The image of Gromph and the room in the mirror darkened, then disappeared altogether.
“Come,” Gromph instructed, looking over his shoulder and reaching out for his sister’s hand. The disc with the iron box atop it floated up beside Gromph.
“In there?”
“Of course.”
“Where?” Quenthel demanded, but she reached out and took Gromph’s hand.
“I just told you,” he explained, stepping through and pulling Quenthel behind him. The floating disc came in as well, and with a word from Gromph, the magical construct began to glow, illuminating the area and revealing an Underdark tunnel.