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Hours later, Jarl'ell ventured down one of Menzoberranzan's most prominent streets towards the Baenre compound. Towering above the city up ahead was Narbondel, an enormous stalagmite that served as Menzoberranzan's timepiece. Each night at midnight the city's archmage casts a spell that slowly causes the rock column to glow, peeking at midday. By now Narbondel's glow was steadily waning, the equivalent of sundown for the surface world. The street was lightly populated by the merchant class retiring from the day's business, as well as the beginnings of the drow nightlife. Normally if he were out at this time of day he'd be in disguise. Tonight he was dressed a lavish black piwafwi, decorated with gems and proudly emblazoned with the Symryvvin family insignia. It was rare to see a Symryvvin noble make such a prominent appearance. The commoners on the street all nodded to him and gave him a wide berth as he passed by. He normally would enjoy such adulation. But, tonight it gave him little comfort. For, he knew that as soon as he reached the Baenre compound he would be regarded with all the respect that a typical slave receives. Such self pity in no way improves the situation, he reminded himself. He had been in dozens of fights, battled hook horrors, driders, even a dragon on one rather disastrous occasion. He will get through this, he tried to tell himself.
His thoughts were interrupted by a patrol coming towards him. As they neared each other Jarl'ell recognized the patrol leader. It was Tsabrak Faen-Tabblar, the only classmate of his at the academy whom he had any sort of friendship with. Actually, it was more like a mutual respect for each other's abilities. A respect that would have probably been one-sided if it weren't for the fact that he usually ranked second, behind Tsabrak. When they were within twenty feet of each other he could see Tsabrak speaking to the patrol's priestess. When the priestess nodded he raised his left hand, halting the patrol. He then walked over to Jarl'ell, carrying an angry scowl on his face. Jarl'ell, knowing full well of how fleeting mutual understandings often are in their world, braced himself for a confrontation. Tsabrak halted about three feet in front of him, paused, then began speaking using the intricate drow hand sign language. You should have killed him.
Recognizing Tsabrak's desire to hide this conversation from the patrol, with his hands kept low he signed back. His matron has punished him quite severely. He won't be a threat.
You misunderstand. You should have killed that Mizzrym scum when you had a good excuse. Tsabrak didn't even try to mask the obvious hatred he held for the seventh house. Jarl'ell had no love for the Mizzryms either. In truth he wasn't quite sure why he spared the mages life. The best answer he could tell himself is that he was bothered by the pervasive cruelty of their culture and didn't want to become one of the casual murderers he had spent his youth among.
I misjudged the reaction of my Matron. I should have killed him. Jarl'ell responded. It wasn't a complete lie; he was actually beginning to regret his decision.
No matter then. How was Ched Nasad? Tsabrak's face relaxed a bit.
Wild, dangerous, treacherous, Jarl'ell replied.
Sounds like home.
There are differences. The priestesses are more understanding. Offenses that earn a slow death here might earn fifty lashes, sometimes less, Jarl'ell mused, smiling for the first time that evening. Tsabrak chuckled at the remark.
The patrol is returning. We should revel later, Tsabrak signed.
The smile disappeared from Jarl'ell's face. Not this night. I have a meeting with the second daughter of the first house.
Tsabrak's grin suddenly turned into a look of revulsion. Apparently he had met her before. Did you bring any poisons with you, he asked, knowing the answer.
"I considered it" Jarl'ell grimly spoke. Tsabrak took it as a cue that Jarl'ell was anxious to proceed.
"Another night, perhaps," he said. He then bowed slightly and turned to rejoin the patrol. As the patrol passed by him, Jarl'ell thought about how much he would have liked to revel. He had been away for many days in a foreign city among people he neither knew or liked. He barely escaped being sacrificed to the most repugnant god imaginable, was nearly burned to death as he returned home, and now was about to engage in an evening of pain and humiliation where the slightest resistance would likely get him killed.
The street ended in the most affluent section of Menzoberranzan. Every house and structure was the size of mansion and magical, multi-colored faerie fires decorated every square inch of each building. Near the end of the street was a mansion known as Silverweb. When it wasn't rented out for private parties it served as one of the most extravagant (and highest priced) taverns in the city. When Jarl'ell reached it the temptation to stop and have a drink before proceeding to the Baenre compound was overwhelming. It will help to deaden the pain, he thought as he entered the establishment. He sat down at a table by a wall and within seconds a young male servant was dutifully waiting on him. Jarl'ell handed him three gold pieces and said "Whatever your finest mead will be fine." The servant quickly turned and hurried away. As he waited he began listening to a rather ruckus conversation between three mages at another table. Apparently they had been on a drider hunt. Driders, half drow- half arachnid victims of Lloth's disfavor, live horrible existences as outcasts outside the city. The transformataion from drow to drider robs them of most of their magical resistance. Consequently, young and adventurous wizards often hunt them for sport. However, unbeknownst to most wizards the transformation also instills in them a complete disregard for their own lives and an intense hatred of all drow, particularly wizards and priestesses whom they blame for their condition. Jarl'ell had recently led a patrol that was attacked by three of them at once. Of the four drow that were killed, two of them were a mage and a priestess. Jarl'ell thought of the mutilated wizard's corpse as he listened to the overconfident mages.
Soon the servant returned with an ornate glass of clear, glowing liquid. "From Sshamath," the servant said. Jarl'ell thought of Sshamath as he tasted the drink. Sshamath was a drow city far to the south where a coalition of male wizards rule and the clergies are only minor powers. Naturally, trade with the far off city is strictly monitored and travel to it is virtually banned. He had hoped that someday his matron would have some reason to send him there. He doubted it though. Priestesses of Lloth typically have no use for drow or drow communities that don't worship Lloth.
The relaxed atmosphere of the tavern shifted when a six-foot tall illithid loomed into the room. Illithids, often called mind flayers, are feared greatly for their mysterious telekinetic powers, as well as for their unmatched evil and their disgusting appearance. Its slimy gray skin, its white, pupil-less eyes, and the tentacles that surround its mouth are enough to intimidate the most fearless of drow. Normally illithids keep to their own communities. However this one, known as 'Methil', was employed by Matron Baenre. Usually hidden behind a curtain, Methil reads the minds of those nearby the Matron and feeds relevant but undisclosed information to her telepathically, giving her a significant advantage. A servant met him on the way in with a drink, probably after having been contacted by the telepath while it approached the tavern. It then turned to Jarl'ell's direction and began walking towards him. Jarl'ell suspected he had no reason to be concerned, but the hideous thing still made him uncomfortable. Moreover, he knew that it knew that. It didn't appear to be headed to Jarl'ell's table. However, when it got to within a few feet it suddenly stopped in its tracks and let out the illithid equivalent of a sneeze. Mucus sprayed from its tentacles and its milky white eyes became bloodshot and narrow. The sight was rather repulsive to Jarl'ell, as well as every other patrons who witnessed it. It began walking again, only to be stopped in its tracks by another watery sneeze. This time it appeared to loose its balance a bit. It then turned to face Jarl'ell, whose discomfort quickly turned into alarm.
"What!" he snapped at the illithid. It just stood there expressionless. Jarl'ell all of the sudden felt a peculiar dizziness, a telltale sign of being mind probed. He felt helpless, and the helplessness became anger as the seconds slowly passed. The illithid's narrow eyes suddenly became very wide. At that moment the dizziness stopped and the illithid turned and walked in the opposite direction. After a few moments Jarl'ell relaxed, convinced that he wasn't in any immediate danger. He was still very concerned though. If Methil had learned something in Jarl'ell, something that would interest Matron Baenre, she would know about it in a matter of seconds. Jarl'ell didn't keep secrets from his family, at least nothing that would be politically sensitive. Was it Ched Nasad? Surely she already knew about the events there. Matron Baenre and Matron Nasadra communicate quite frequently.
You would be surprised with how little you know, spoke a voice from within his head. It was a message from the illithid. Now he wasn't just nervous, he was scared. Do as you are told and you will live, came a second message. By now the illithid was on the furthest side of the tavern from where he was. The cryptic message did little to calm him. Furthermore, he started to care a lot more about keeping Bladen'Kerst waiting. He drained the rest of his drink, stood up, and headed for the door. He was a little light-headed. Some of it was from being probed, he thought. But most of it was probably from gulping an exotic drink that he would normally savor for much longer.
***
The Baenre compound lay adjacent to the southeastern wall of the cavern, on top of a massive plateau that overlooked the entire city. The origin of this plateau, known as Qu'ellarz'orl, is said to be the result of a cave-in caused by a titanic explosion during the civil war that erupted shortly after the city's founding. Rather than a reminder of that dark period of history, it is now the most coveted piece of real estate in Menzoberranzan. The only remaining forest of giant mushrooms in the city is located on the northern edge of the plateau, obscuring the view from below. Towards the western wall slowly being overtaken by the forest are the ruins of House DeVir, which was recently obliterated by an ambitious minor house. By Lloth's decree, the remnants of destroyed noble houses are to be left untouched until they rot completely to serve as a reminder of what Lloth's disfavor entails. In addition to Baenre, four other noble houses are located on Qu'ellarz'orl. Their combined armies make this plateau the most heavily and vigorously patrolled area in the city. It is not uncommon for nobles of lower houses to be turned away by arrogant guards who don't like the way they look. Sure enough, as Jarl'ell passed each of the houses he was quickly approached by sets of guards with weapons drawn. And, as each recognized the house insignia he wore they withdrew just as quickly. That is, all except for the guards of House Mizzrym. Jarl'ell had been bracing for some trouble as he neared the Mizzrym compound. He was astonished by what happened instead. Two guards approached him with obvious hatred in their eyes. Why didn't you kill him? the one on the left signed to him. Jarl'ell didn't know whether to be relieved, offended, or cautious. He stopped in his tracks to answer.
Does anybody like that mage, Jarl'ell signed back, with a look of confusion.
There isn't a guard in the barracks that wouldn't cut him to pieces if given the chance, the other guard responded.
My apologies. I overestimated his importance, Jarl'ell signed, trying not to smirk. The guards both growled angrily as they turned around to return to their posts. The rest of the trek was uneventful.
The massive Baenre compound is a clear testimony of the tight grip that the first house holds over Menzoberranzen. The combined forces of any four houses in the city would be hard pressed to match the size or might of the House Baenre. Approximately fifty interconnected towering stalagmites and low hanging stalactites encircle the two thousand foot long compound. At any given time fully a thousand troops guard both inside and outside the compound. Connecting the stalagmites at ground level is a twenty foot high spider web-like fence, said to be directly endowed by the magic of Lloth. It radiates a magic dispelling field to prevent flying or levitating over it. Moreover, anything coming into direct contact with the fence is immediately stuck to it and can only be released by the will of the first Matron. Jarl'ell had suspected for years that he could jump over it with a modified levitation spell. However, he recognized that his curiosity would have to be quelled. Nobody is known to have conquered the fence before and he was quite sure that Matron Baenre wouldn't be obliged to let such a person live to boast about it.
Unlike the other houses on Qu'ellarz'orl, no soldiers met him as he approached the stalagmite housing the front gate. No advanced guard was necessary for one unknown visitor. By the time he could be recognized no fewer than twenty armed crossbows were aimed at him from all directions. He walked up a large set of stone carved stairs and was met by four guards.
"I am Jarl'ell Symryvvin, here at the request of Lady Bladen'Kerst Baenre," Jarl'ell announced, feigning pride.
"This way," an old, surly guard responded. Jarl'ell followed him and another through the stalagmite gate and into the huge courtyard. Ceiling bridges connect the stalagmite/stalactite pillars surrounding the compound, and troops could be seen stationed at each point. Moreover, literally hundreds of troops were on the ground. Some performing practice maneuvers, some mounted on giant lizards, some even performing manual labor that lower houses typically breed goblinoid slaves for. All were ready at a moment's notice for an attack that would likely never come.
A massive carved out stalagmite served as the palace for the Baenre nobles. As the three drow headed towards it one of the guards turned to Jarl'ell. "She has been expecting you all day. She will not be pleased," the guard stated. Jarl'ell had a response but decided to keep it to himself. Any word he spoke would eventually be heard by all interested parties. When they reached the foot of the noble palace they were met by two heavily armed and armored, elite guards. "Jarl'ell Symryvvin," the gate guard spoke. The elite guards obviously were expecting him as well. Both flashed a stern look to him that said finally!
"Follow," one of the elites curtly stated as he spun around and headed inside. A levitation tube in the center of the stalagmite served as the only access to the rest of the palace. Jarl'ell followed the guard, levitating up to the third level of the palace. Before they reached it the tube suddenly echoed with the crack of a whip followed by the screams of child.
"Quiet!" a female shout then sounded, followed by the sound of another whip. "You will not cry out, worthless male! Clean that blood or yours will add to it." When they reached the third level, an extravagantly decorated state room, the scene before them explained itself. The tall, muscular Bladen'Kerst Baenre, with a seven headed snake whip in hand and a bloody dagger in the other, was standing above the mutilated corpse of a goblin and a young drow prince feverishly scrubbing away at a large pool of blood. Bladen'Kerst shot an angry glare at the two newcomers the moment they appeared.
"Lady Bladen'Kerst, Jarl'ell Symryvvin as you requested," the guard announced.
"I know who it is! You, pick up that mess!" she shouted, pointing at the corpse. The elite guard effectively dropped several ranks during the next few moments. He scooped up the dead goblin and hurried out of the room, making a bloody mess of his uniform. Bladen'Kerst then focussed her angry scowl at Jarl'ell, who bowed as graciously as he could. She stomped over to the young noble and struck him viciously across the face, knocking him to the floor. "I have been waiting six days to speak to you. Why were you not here this very morning!" she shouted.
And so it begins, Jarl'ell thought to himself. He stood up as dignified as he could and replied calmly. "I was detailing to my matron the details of my stay in Ched Nasad. It was... it was complicated." Bladen'Kerst was flustered, but didn't immediately respond. She apparently believed his cryptic, but truthful answer. Lloth's priestesses are very effective lie detectors. Questions they ask are best answered with at least partial truth. He only hoped that she wouldn't specifically ask about stopping on the way to the compound.
"Come with me," she ordered, then haughtily brushed passed him towards the levitation tube. She spun around at the last second and addressed the young drow. "I will tear off a finger for every spot of blood that remains when I return," she yelled. The young drow continued scrubbing away, shaking. Bladen'Kerst stepped into the tube and floated upwards. Jarl'ell regarded the child before stepping into the tube to follow. He recognized him as Berg'inyon, Bladen'Kersts youngest brother. Matron mothers routinely assign child rearing to their priestess daughters. Jarl'ell sincerely hoped that a different sister of this young prince had been given that duty. Partly out for the sake of the child, but partly for the sake of the subordinates the child would eventually take out his childhood bitterness on.
The two floated up two levels and Jarl'ell was surprised to find themselves heading for her personal quarters. No good could possibly come of this, he thought. The top level of the stalagmite palace was only wide enough to accommodate a ring of personal quarters surrounding a thin ledge that encircled the top of the levitation tube, though some of the rooms had permanent extra-planar extensions.
Not surprisingly, her quarters were decorated with a macabre theme of perfumes, religious artifacts, and various preserved body parts of drow and other races. "Tell me, Symryvvin, what do you know of our surface cousins?" she asked, with the least angry tone he'd heard from her yet.
The question caused a cascade of negative emotions to well inside him, which he quickly tempered. He hated the faeries. Like all of Menzoberranzan's citizens he had been programmed to hate them his whole life. On several occasions he had been given the rare opportunity to scry a community of surface elves and was truly disgusted with what he saw. "I hate them. Everything about them," he bitterly responded.
"Of course you do, we all do," she snapped. "The academy only teaches us so much. I suspect you know may know more."
This line of questioning only fueled the anger growing within Jarl'ell. There was little that he hated more than Bladen'Kerst, the academy, or the faerie elves. "Yes, I do know more. I know enough to disbelieve that dribble we get fed at the academy," he spat, immediately wishing he could retract his words.
"Sacrilege!" Bladen'Kerst screamed. She immediately grabbed her snake whip and struck Jarl'ell across the face and chest. To her surprise, rather than each sinking their teeth into his flesh, the heads slapped against him harmlessly (yet still painfully).
Jarl'ell stood his ground firmly and tried to mask the stinging as best he could. "I have earned the favor of Lloth," he proudly exclaimed. "And I wasn't aware that Melee Magthere was considered holy ground." To his enjoyment, the enraged priestess threw her whip against the wall in frustration.
"Fine! If the Spider Queen favors you than all glories to her. But remember where and what you are, male! If you wish to hold onto her favor you shall think twice before talking back to a high priestess of House Baenre."
With his point made, Jarl'ell stepped back and assumed a more respectful posture. "I meant no disrespect, Lady Baden'Kerst. I will do my best to fulfill whatever you require of me. But in truth I know little about the faeries. I have never been to the surface, I have never met or even seen one. But with all due respect to the academy, what I've learned about the surface elves through scrying bares no resemblance to what the lore masters of Melee Magthere preached."
Bladen'Kerst settled into a forced calmness. She was well aware of the exaggerations that the lore masters tend to use, but was not at all happy with the manner (and messenger) in which it was brought up. "An argument for another time," she capitulated. Surprised, Jarl'ell politely nodded, hoping that the 'argument' would be abandoned altogether. "What do you know of their magic?" she asked.
"I know that it pales in comparison to ours. The faeries are more interested in frolicking around campfires and talking to plants and furry animals than the magical or fighting arts," he answered, noting that her demeanor had changed from anger to what appeared to be genuine curiosity.
"Have you ever studied any of their spells or artifacts?" she queried.
"I was once shown some spell runes said to be of surface elven origin. The nomenclature seemed to be similar to drow, but they were either too foreign or too far beyond my capabilities to interpret," he confessed. "I... I am not a wizard. I study and practice what little I can and leave the true challenges for my uncles."
"Your magical talent is not what interests me," the priestess sternly retorted. "It is your resourcefulness that I care about." Jarl'ell began to feel very nervous. The reasons for him being there were becoming clearer. "Do you think it possible to replicate surface elvin magical artifacts?" she asked.
Jarl'ell made his answer as pessimistic as he could. "Probably not. Certainly not by me. The knowledge of surface elven magic, and the surface itself, that would be required for such a task is not widely known among our people. And the ingredients for such an artifact would hardly be available."
A furrowed brow was Bladen'Kerst's only reaction. She then walked over to a chest and brought out an intricately decorated glass jar. "This was captured during our last surface raid," she said, handing the jar to Jarl'ell. The alphabet used in its markings was definitely elven, but not drowish. Inside it was the remnants of some kind of salve. "The faeries make it. They call it d'Erevan salve. It has certain, how shall we say, favorable properties when rubbed into the forehead," she explained, flashing a sly smile. It was a drug, no doubt, Jar'ell thought. "I want you to obtain more. You will be generously compensated."
The request offended Jarl'ell to the core. His mouth dropped open and he shuttered in sheer disgust. "You're asking me to find you your faerie cream?" he gasped. Bladen'Kerst's calm demeanor instantly gave way to violent anger. She lunged forward and viciously punched him in the face.
"No!" she shouted. "I'm commanding you to find my d'Erevan salve. And if you tell anybody who it is for I'll have you skinned alive."
"And will you provide me maps to the surface, an interpreter, and an army just in case the faeries don't feel like bargaining?" he snapped, unfazed from the strike.
"I said you would be compensated. If I were you I would start at Mantil Teerith," she replied, referring to a trading post far to the east where drow, humans, duergar, and svirfnebli do business in relative harmony.
"Why me? Surely Jarlaxle of Bregan D'aerthe or at least a dozen merchants in the city would be better at finding--"
His plea was interrupted by another painful blow to the mouth, this time drawing blood. "Then go to Jarlaxle or one of your merchants," she screamed. "I don't care how or where you get it. Just get it!"
The pain he felt only aggravated his anger. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and choke the life out of the enraged priestess. "I will not!" he heard himself yell. "I will not risk the honor of my house to satisfy your perverse addictions. Have me skinned alive. I'll shout to the world why as long as I have a tongue."
"Impudent male! You dare refuse the order of a Baenre!" She screeched, rabid with anger. She threw another punch at Jarl'ell, who caught it in one hand and struck her in the face as hard as he could with the other, knocking her back to the wall. Trembling with anger, she stood there staring at him in total disbelief. Jarl'ell's anger instantly flushed away and was replaced by terror. In an unthinking moment, he had just guaranteed himself the most painful execution imaginable. He stepped back and nearly fell over as he began to grovel for his life.
"Lady Bladen--...I...I beg forgiveness. I don't know what came over me...I...I" She only continued to stare at him. Slowly, her visage of anger that bordered on insanity transformed into a smile. Then, an excited smile. She then lunged forward and threw herself on the terrified fighter/mage. But, instead of slicing him to pieces she grabbed the back of his head and nearly suffocated him with a passionate kiss. His eyes shot wide open and he squirmed to get away. However, the priestess was physically stronger and more determined than he. After several seconds he pulled away, shaking. "d'Erevan salve... I'll find some... I promise--".
He was interrupted by yet another punch in the mouth. "Do it again," she yelled, shoving her neck out at him. He looked at her completely baffled, then looked down at his hand, which was still clenched in a fist. "Yes!" she screamed again, sporting a look of lust in her eyes. Unsure of whether he was digging a deeper grave for himself or satisfying her wishes, he struck her again, this time not as hard. She returned it with a punch to the chest, knocking the wind from him. "Harder!" she screamed.
He doubled forward, unable to breathe. His confusion over the evolving situation gave way to returning anger as he gasped for air. The moment he was able to he stood up straight and planted his fist in the side of her face as hard as he could, knocking her to the floor. Whatever pleases you, he thought. For a moment he wondered whether he had put a little too much sincerity into the punch. The wild look of lust on her face as she stood up answered his question. She grabbed onto the collar of his piwafwi and tore it off him. "Forget about the faerie cream," she excitedly panted. He tried to keep his balance as she ripped the rest of his clothes off and threw him onto the bed. She then whisked her own robes off and jumped on him with the ferocity of werewolf in heat.
***
Two female guards approached the door of Bladen'Kerst Baenre's private quarters. All of those that occupied the upper palace were familiar with the sound of her screams. However, they were seldom accompanied by the sounds of glass breaking and furniture hitting the walls. While she hadn't cried for help, the sounds of a battle could clearly be heard and felt from the throne room below. The two guards had been sent to investigate. One of them attempted to open the door and found it to be locked. She began pounding on it and was about to hack it open when it suddenly flew open, revealing a naked, bruised, and highly agitated Bladen'Kerst Baenre. "What is it?" she snapped, sweat dripping from her face and disheveled hair. The guards were speechless. By all accounts the high priestess hated all males and hadn't taken a consort in centuries, if ever. The flabbergasted guard began to stutter.
"We thought that...there was much...are you in need of assistance--"
"Do I look like I need any assistance," she shouted. Before either could muster a response, a naked and similarly bruised male appeared behind her and began shamelessly caressing her. With a voice that reeked of sheer cockiness, he spoke.
"We'll let you know if and when we--"
"And how," the priestess interrupted.
"And how we need you," he corrected himself. The guard closest to them licentiously raised an eyebrow. Without warning the male's caresses stopped and he violently shoved the high priestess over to the bed. She bounced off it and nearly hit the floor. The guard grabbed a sword and began to protest.
"Be gone!" Bladen'Kerst shouted to the guard. The male just shrugged and winked as he closed the door on the two mystified guards. Standing alone near the edge of the levitation tube, the guards carefully examined how they would proceed.
"Nothing important was occurring, correct?" one reasoned to the other. The second thought for a moment and responded.
"No, I suppose not."
"Then that's all that need be reported."
***
If it were possible for two individuals to concurrently rape each other than that is what occurred in Bladen'Kerst's quarters that evening. For seldom, if ever, in all the realms had the act of love been committed with such brutality and between two individuals with a greater mutual loathing for each other. This violent encounter continued for several hours, often times turning into an impromptu game of "how close can I miss the other with this piece of furniture." By the end of the evening her room looked as if it had been ransacked by a pack of marauding goblins. They would sometimes stop to indulge in glasses of wine, and occasionally healing potion. However, each period of rest would abruptly end with an unprovoked attack by one upon the other.
As the night wore on the two began to grow tired and a more conventional gentleness emerged between the two of them. "You are truly Lloth blessed," Bladen'Kerst quietly said as she lay in bed with her head on Jarl'ell's chest. "I should not have treated you so shamefully." By this time Jarl'ell had ceased to be fazed by such surprising comments. However, he tried to remain as cautious as the situation permitted.
"To be sharing a bed with you, I would have to have been blessed," he replied while gently stroking her hair. She laughed loudly at the comment.
"Don't forget that I'm a priestess, Jarl'ell. I can smell the insincerity on your breath," she coyly stated. She could feel the tension mount in Jarl'ell upon being caught in the lie. "Relax, Jarl'ell," she cooed. "I understand what my reputation must be, but do you think me incapable of tenderness?" He paused to answer, but realized that he would be best served with complete honesty. "Until tonight, yes. I am happy to be incorrect." She quietly laughed again and her head to kiss him on the cheek.
"Tell me, Jarl'ell, how do you perceive your destiny in house Symryvvin?" she inquired.
"Matron Hesken'Paj will not live another century. My mother has been preordained as her successor. I am to be her weapon master, or so I'm told"
"Preordained?" she scoffed. "Do you really expect her sisters to stand by and let her assume the matroncy?"
"We are an unusual house," he replied, then went on. "And Hesken'Paj is a remarkable Matron. House Symryvvin has a very bloody history, bloodier than most realize. If it weren't for her, the name Symryvvin would certainly be extinct. We are all grateful for what she has built for us and my aunts all know that to go against her wishes, even in death, would jeopardize our very existence. I truly believe that Lloth's favor for her is unmatched in the city with the exception of your mother."
Bladen'Kerst raised an eyebrow to the claim. "That's a rather bold claim for the Matron of the eighteenth house."
"Fifteen hundred years ago, when she assumed the matroncy, we were the fifth ranked house. Her predecessor brought us there in a reckless attack that completely decimated our forces. It was widely suspected that the eighteenth house, then our bitterest rival, would take us in a matter of weeks. My grandmother was determined to see House Symryvvin survive and prosper and did not care about rank. She assumed the matroncy in the traditional manner after a coup that eliminated her mother and several of her sisters. Immediately afterward she requested that her house and house... and that now extinct house exchange rank," he explained, referring indirectly to their extinct enemy since speaking the name of an obliterated house is considered blasphemous. "Lady Lloth found favor in her pragmatism and has blessed her and her descendents with the promise of prosperity for the price of immutable rank. In the last fifteen hundred years no person in our house, noble or otherwise, has openly spoken or acted against this promise and lived to see Narbondel go cold."
"A noble, if misguided, policy," she commented.
"If I may be so bold as to offer my humble explanation of Lady Lloth's reasoning," he cautioned. He was treading very dangerous ground. She recognized this as well and was impressed with his courage to speak up, and his wisdom to keep his opinions in check.
"Please tell me."
"The Queen of Spiders delights in chaos, so it is no small wonder that she would select us as her chosen people. Yet the boundaries that surround any form of chaos are inevitably overcome lest that chaos be held in check in some way. Matron Baenre's leadership has proven invaluable in maintaining relative order over our tumultuous city. But in doing so she and her house also contribute to it. I believe that Lady Lloth wanted to place one small bastion of unassailable order within the nobility, one that would observe, record, but never get swept up into our city's politics," he explained.
"An intriguing argument," she commented. It was a huge understatement. His casual explanation was as sound as any lecture or sermon she had heard or given during her fifty years of training at Arach Tinilith, the clerical school of the Academy. His wisdom only strengthened the inexplicable attraction she had for him. "Have any males ever left the house voluntarily? To consort with a priestess of another house?"
"I'm not sure," he cautiously answered. "It's possible, but it wouldn't be openly talked about." The direction of the conversation began to concern him.
"I wish to start my own house. My mother has so far forbidden it, but minds are often changed," she noted. "You would make an excellent Patron. You'd be the envy of all of my sisters. At least all except Triel," she mused. A lot was said in that short statement. The implications of her offer were quite heavy, but her offhand reference to her older sister was quite daring. Triel Baenre, Matron Baenre's oldest daughter, was the head mistress of the academy and held more power than most matrons in the city. She was also quite ruthless, dictatorial, and had no use for males, no use of any kind.
Jarl'ell strained for some truthful way of answering this. "It would be very difficult to explain to my mother."
"It would be a request, not a command," she replied. "And it would not be for some time. Just consider it." She closed her eyes and began purring as she gently rubbed his chest.
"It would be a tempting offer," he responded. And at the time it truly was. Jarl'ell lay awake long after Bladen'Kerst fell asleep, pondering the radical twists his life had taken in the past two days. To be a consort with a high priestess of Baenre (and live to tell of it) was one of the highest honors that a male of Menzoberranzan could ever hope to achieve. Nevertheless, his life these past three weeks has been a series of alternating glory, degradation, adulation, and life threatening danger. Somehow, he felt that these twists of fate would continue and would grow in magnitude.
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