Maestro (26 page)

She eased her thoughts back to their surroundings. Their blended consciousness had escaped the Room of Divination once more, now moving about the corridors surrounding the room, which were mostly empty, as Yvonnel had demanded.

They witnessed Minolin Fey in a side chamber, lighting the many candles on a crystal candelabra, performing a common ceremony of meditation.

Yvonnel telepathically whispered to K’yorl Odran, setting her mental fingers to the bowstring.

K’yorl hesitated only briefly, only until Yvonnel assured her that her future was not back in the pit of the balor Errtu.

The joined women loosed the psionic arrow.

Minolin Fey’s thoughts scrambled under the invisible barrage. Her words slurred and became nonsensical. Her hands fumbled, the candle falling to the floor at her feet.

The poor woman muttered, stammered, stuttered, garbled gibberish spilling forth.

The flames caught the bottom of her robe.

She didn’t even notice.

Yvonnel gasped with delight.

“Stop!” Yvonnel at last instructed K’yorl, and the two let go their mental clamp.

Minolin Fey nearly pitched over headlong, gasping back to her sensibilities. Still, it took her a few heartbeats to realize that she was on fire, and then she screamed, batting at her robes.

Yvonnel reached into her own magic, casting a simple spell to create water, thinking to douse her mother.

But no, she found. She couldn’t do that. She couldn’t find any avenue to use her magic through the scrying stoup. Perhaps she would need to invite other Baenre priestesses to join her in ritual, as gatherings of priestesses did when waging war on another House, as the Melarni were likely soon doing, or perhaps even then doing, to House Do’Urden.

She focused outward again. Minolin Fey had shed the gown and stumbled away. She leaned heavily against the wall, trembling hands reaching for the burns on one shin. Yvonnel appreciated her mother’s calm as Minolin Fey cast anew, a healing spell to repair the burns.

As soon as that was completed, the priestess glanced around the side chamber, out of embarrassment or confusion, or perhaps fear. There was a wariness in her darting eyes, Yvonnel noted, as if she sensed something.

So, we are not fully invisible,
Yvonnel thought, and she felt K’yorl agree.

Still, what a wonderful weapon!

Yvonnel guided the blended consciousness back to the Room of Divination, then pulled her hands from the stoup and clapped them excitedly.

“Oh, you are wonderful!” she told K’yorl when the woman blinked open her eyes. “The power of your mind is glorious! That you are able to extend it out through the divination, to so fully disembody our thoughts from our bodies . . . Glorious.”

“I . . . I . . .” K’yorl stammered, not seeming to quite have a handle on all of this.

“There are powerful crystal balls that offer telepathy through their scrying,” Yvonnel explained. “They are very rare—many think them rumor and false legend. But we have done that, here, together. We can channel our power through the magic of the scrying waters.”

She was careful to say “our” instead of “your,” and took great pains to concentrate and make sure that K’yorl was no longer in her thoughts. The last thing Yvonnel wanted was for this prisoner to come to the realization that she had some measure of control—what a monster K’yorl Odran might become within this Room of Divination. Could she sit there and attack her enemies from afar, secure in the midst of House Baenre?

That was Yvonnel’s fear, and her hope—as long as she could keep K’yorl under her guidance and her control.

Yvonnel realized then that she could no longer ever allow K’yorl to remain active with the scrying waters without her hands on top of the prisoner’s hands and her thoughts on top of the prisoner’s thoughts.

She sank her fingers back into the stone rim, felt again the soft hands of K’yorl within the magical device.

“Come,” Yvonnel bade K’yorl. “Back out, quickly. Let us find Jarlaxle and his companions and see again through the eyes of the human, Entreri.”

Kiriy giggled as she exited the room, even before the cries of surprise and alarm erupted behind her.

Matron Mother Zhindia and her cabal of priestesses were watching her, she knew, and so she was not surprised when the Melarni gathering reached out magically to slam the Do’Urden audience chamber doors behind her.

“What?” cried out one of the guards in surprise.

“Priestess Kiriy?” asked the other. But the woman was already several steps beyond them.

Kiriy swung about, eyes flashing. “You are Bregan D’aerthe,” she said to one of the men. “And you are Baenre!” she called to the other, in clearly accusatory tones.

The two young warriors looked at each other, then back at her, confused. “Do’Urden,” one replied, but too late. Balls of fire appeared in the air above each of the two, and lines of searing flames shot down over them, immolating them where they stood.

Kiriy laughed again. Matron Mother Zhindia was with her! It had been so many years since she had been involved in an inter-House war. So many boring years! These wars showcased the epitome of drow battle prowess and glory, where priestesses hurled their magic across the city, through scrying portals enacted by infiltrating agents like Kiriy.

These were the fights, priestess against priestess, where Lady Lolth could fully determine the outcome. And now, with the guards writhing and dying on the floor, Kiriy knew with all her heart that Lady Lolth was with her cause.

Priestess Kiriy would depose Dahlia and Matron Mother Zeerith at long last. Lolth was with her, and would see a new House Xorlarrin arise from the ashes of House Do’Urden and from the corpses of those Xorlarrins who chose to side with Zeerith.

She looked again to the audience chamber guards, writhing on the floor pathetically, melting under the wrath of Lolth. She heard the fighting in the audience chamber now—even if her siblings and their allies won out in there, they would be too late to stop the coup.

She pictured the spider-shaped table in House Melarn, brilliantly ornate and as fabulous as the one in the Ruling Council, by all accounts—though Kiriy had never actually seen the one in the chambers of the Ruling Council. Why didn’t the other great Houses of Menzoberranzan have tables, gathering places for priestesses, as beautiful as the one in House Melarn? Why wasn’t a tribute like that commonplace? Surely House Xorlarrin never had such a beautiful tribute to Lady Lolth in all their vast compound.

But House Do’Urden, soon enough to be the new House Xorlarrin, would, Kiriy vowed. She pictured the Melarni war room, the magnificent spider table set between the prized bronze doors, Matron Mother Zhindia in her black gown, her war gown, seated at its head.

And they were with her now. Lolth was with her now.

“Quickly!” Kiriy heard in the air around her, and she smiled. It was Matron Mother Zhindia reminding her, magically whispering to her: “Darthiir is the key! You must be rid of her.”

Kiriy was already moving in that direction, though she didn’t agree with that estimation, and certainly not with the urgency in Zhindia’s voice. “She is a babbling idiot,” Kiriy whispered, knowing the Melarni priestesses could hear her. “She is no threat.”

“She is Baenre’s puppet,” Matron Mother Zhindia’s voice sounded in the empty air beside her. “Kill her quickly. Sever the tie.”

Kiriy moved more deliberately. She dismissed her curiosity about her siblings and the others in the audience chamber. She would sort out the remains of that battle later.

She heard other fighting then, echoing along the corridors. A young priestess rushed toward her from the side.

“High Priestess!” the younger woman cried. “They have made the balcony!”

“They?”

“Hunzrin!” the young woman explained. “Those guards who arrived have turned on us and have helped reinforcements to our balconies! Our enemies are in the House!”

The frantic young woman turned to sprint away, but Kiriy called to her, “Who are you, young priestess?”

The woman turned and looked at her curiously, clearly perplexed by such a question at that critical time.

“It is all right,” Kiriy assured her. “We will defeat the stone heads. Who are you?”

“Ba’sula,” she replied.

Kiriy studied her more closely, trying to remember this one. “Who is your mentor?” she asked. “Who sent you to House Do’Urden?”

“I serve High Priestess Sos’Umptu in the Fane of the Goddess,” Ba’sula replied.

“Ah, you are Baenre,” Kiriy said, nodding in recognition, and smiling— and if Ba’sula had been more perceptive, she would have known it to be the grin of a hunter.

“What are we to do? Where would you have me go?”

“Go?” Kiriy asked incredulously.

“We are under assau—”

Her voice stopped as she froze in place, caught by a spell of holding cast by the Melarni priestesses. Kiriy felt that magic flowing through her, and felt privileged indeed to be used as a conduit for the glory of the Spider Queen.

She walked by the magically frozen Ba’sula, lifting a hand to gently stroke the young priestess’s smooth neck. She could see the terror in Ba’sula’s eyes, could feel the woman trembling slightly, but only slightly. The spell would allow nothing more. Kiriy thought for a moment that she should keep this one, a plaything for after victory was won.

But no, she was Baenre, Kiriy reminded herself. Keeping her alive, if she was discovered, would give the matron mother all the excuse she needed to throw all her considerable weight at House Do’Urden.

The same hand that so gently stroked Ba’sula’s throat now waved in the air, fingers casting a spell as Kiriy passed.

It was a simple poisoning dweomer, one that would normally kill a victim with little outward sign. But Kiriy had cleverly altered this one, as much for the viewing pleasure of the Melarni priestesses as because she wanted this priestess, this Baenre, to know the full horror of approaching death.

Images of large spiders, a large as Kiriy’s open palm, appeared in the air all around the trapped priestess, floating on strands of glistening webs. They scrambled hungrily, the strands swaying. They leaped to the priestess’s face and shoulders. She saw them—and they bit her. It didn’t matter that they were magical illusions designed to simply add terror to the pain of the poisoning spell. They bit her and she saw them biting, and she felt them biting. They bit her eyes. They crawled into her mouth and they bit her tongue. One skittered down her throat and bit her all the way to her belly.

Kiriy walked away, confident that her display would please Matron Mother Zhindia. She got confirmation of exactly that a dozen steps later, when the Melarni priestesses dispelled their holding spell, freeing Ba’sula Baenre.

And the dying woman screamed, and gurgled, and choked on the sensation of spiders crawling down her throat.

Sweet music to Kiriy Xorlarrin’s ears.

Entreri turned a doubtful look to Drizzt, who could only shrug, equally at a loss. “Matron Mother Shakti?” he asked doubtfully. “A woman?”

Jarlaxle motioned to the mirror, which now showed the image of Shakti Hunzrin superimposed over his own reflection.

“You are insane.”

“Let your thoughts align the images,” Jarlaxle explained. Entreri looked to Drizzt.

“Dawdle and we will be caught, and your dear Dahlia will be quite dead, I assure you!” Jarlaxle cried.

Entreri looked more deeply into the looking glass and offered a profound and resigned sigh. Agatha’s Mask turned back to a simple white stage mask for just a moment. Then it began to shift, and so, too, did Entreri’s face and body, the illusion of Shakti Hunzrin coming to life before Drizzt’s astonished eyes.

“Now what?” Entreri asked when the transformation was complete— and even his voice had changed.

Jarlaxle pulled forth a wand, held its tip up to his temple, spoke a command word, and he, too, became a woman, a priestess of Lolth. He looked at Drizzt and reminded him, “You are a mere male and these are fanatical Melarni. Two steps back and head bowed.” Then he led the way to the webbed front of the Melarn compound.

As they neared, Jarlaxle stepped behind Entreri—let all the detection magic focus on the Matron Mother of House Hunzrin, and so fail against the powerful magic of Agatha’s Mask.

“Just glare at them,” he whispered to Entreri as the trio neared the House guards.

Entreri did—and few in the world could freeze a target with a look as fully as Artemis Entreri.

In any form.

“Oh, brilliant!” Yvonnel exclaimed as she and K’yorl watched Jarlaxle’s group outside of House Melarn. “He sorted through the webbing and strikes from behind.”

“It pleases you when one House attacks another?” K’yorl said, the interruption shocking Yvonnel so profoundly she nearly pulled her hands from the stoup. K’yorl rarely spoke, other than to answer direct questions, and never before had she found the courage to interrupt Yvonnel, particularly not when they were in this melded state, their joined consciousness far from the room that held their corporeal forms.

“Jarlaxle is of no House. Nor are his companions.”

“But there is a war. You approve.”

Yvonnel opened her eyes, and looked again back in the Room of Divination, staring across the water that showed Jarlaxle and his friends in their disguises nearing House Melarn.

She stared at K’yorl for a moment, then glanced into the stoup to regard the scene. On a sudden impulse and a sudden fear, she closed her eyes, and then breathed a sigh of relief to find herself looking through the eyes of Artemis Entreri. So she was in two places at once, she thought, but then corrected herself. She could be in either of the places, here in her corporeal form, or out there with the disembodied consciousness, but not in both. She opened her eyes again to regard K’yorl, who grinned.

That grin came as a warning to Yvonnel, for while she could be in one place or the other, she only then realized that her prisoner was truly in both, simultaneously.

I approve that the aggressor House Melarn will not ruin my plans,
she telepathically told K’yorl, and Yvonnel went back to the distant place, inside the eyes of Artemis Entreri.