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Authors: R. A. Salvatore
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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.
“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 tendays.
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, every one a high priestess! Ten 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. To 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 Lolth.
“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
“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 tendays.
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, every one a high priestess! Ten 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. To 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 Lolth.
“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
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