What, then, had she heard? As if in response to her unspoken question, a drop of falling water plopped somewhere in the passages ahead. It was one of the most common sounds of the Underdark, and scarcely a harbinger of peril. Waerva wiped sweat from her brow and scowled at her own jumpiness. She had good reason to be edgy, though. Everyone said it was suicide to travel the subterranean wilderness alone. Sadly, thanks to the cursed goblin rebellion, she had little choice. Because of the desperate fighting all across the city, the clergy's incapacity was no great secret anymore. Certainly Gromph had discerned it, which meant Triel no longer had anything to hide from him. Surely, then, she would seek his counsel once more. Waerva had been confident she could manipulate the frazzled matron mother, but she very much doubted she could fool the canny archmage. Accordingly, she'd cleared out of the Great Mound and Menzoberranzan itself before her kinsman could start asking questions, and there she was, a solitary wayfarer hiking through a perilous wilderness. But she was strong and cunning, and she'd survive. She'd make her way to her secret allies, and everything would be all right.
She took four more strides, then heard another little sound, and this one wasn't falling water. It sounded more like a stealthy footstep brushing stone, and it came from behind her. She whirled and saw no one, then something stung her arm. She pivoted. At her feet lay the pebble someone had thrown. Soft, sibilant laughter rippled through the air. From the sound of it, the merrymakers were all around her. Why, then, couldn't she see them? Adamantine mace at the ready, one wing of her piwafwi tossed back to facilitate the action of her weapon arm, Waerva advanced in the direction from which the rock had come. Weaving her way through the stalagmites, she reached the cavern wall without so much as glimpsing her attacker. She caught a whiff of a familiar reptilian musk, though, and she knew. Kobolds. The horned, scaly undercreatures were small enough that it was relatively easy for them to hide amid the calcite bumps and spikes. She turned once more, and despite herself, gave a start. Evidently the kobolds lacked the patience to play their skulking game for very long, because they were done hiding. While her back was turned, they'd crept out into the open and there formed a ragged C-shaped line to pen her against the wall. The brutes were Menzoberranyr thralls. House brands and whip scars gave that fact away. Indeed, a couple still wore broken shackles. Waerva plainly wasn't the only one who'd fled the city. She glared at the kobolds and said, «I'm a Baenre. You know what that means. Make way, or I'll strike you dead.»
The undercreatures stared back at her for a moment, then lowered their eyes. The line broke in the middle, making an exit. Sneering, head held high, Waerva srarted for the opening. For a moment, all was silent, then the reptiles laughed, screeched, and rushed her. Bellowing a battle cry, she swung her mace, and every stroke smashed the life from a thrall. But for every one she killed, there were dozens more hacking and beating at her legs. Her knee screamed with pain, and she fell. The kobolds swarmed over her and pounded her until she just couldn't struggle any more. With some difficulty, they divested her of her armor and clothing, and went to work on her. Amazingly for such a bestial race, they seemed to understand anatomy as thoroughly as her dear Tluth, but their ministrations were nothing like massage.
Faeryl had learned to court unconsciousness. It brought surcease from the lingering pains of past tortures. Unfortunately, it couldn't avert new ones. When Jeggred found her so, he simply waved a bottle of pungent smelling salts beneath her nose until it jolted her awake.
She could hear him coming. So could the jailers, who scurried to the back of the dungeon to give him privacy. Shivering, she struggled to compose herself. Perhaps she could deny him the satisfaction of a scream—at least for a while—or even provoke him into killing her. That would be wonderful. The draegloth appeared in the doorway, stooping to pass through. Despite herself, Faeryl flinched, then saw he was not alone. Dainty little Triel accompanied him. So did her harsh-featured brother, clad as usual in the Robes of the Archmage. «My. . salutations, Matron,» the Zauvirr croaked. «Hush,» said Gromph, «and all will be well.» He looked up at the glowering half-demon. «Free her, and be gentle about it.» Jeggred strode to Faeryl. This time, she managed not to cringe. The draegloth supported her weight with his smaller hands while cutting her bonds with the claws of the larger ones, then scooped her up in his arms. She passed out.
Next came a blur of hours or days, during which she would wake for a few muddled seconds, then lapse into unconsciousness again. She lay on a soft divan, where servants salved and bandaged her wounds and sometimes spooned broth into her mouth. Priestesses read scrolls of healing, and Gromph appeared periodically to cast his own spells over her. She noticed Mother's Kiss lying on a little table beside her, and when she felt strong enough, stretched out her trembling arm and touched it. Finally she opened her eyes to find her thoughts clear and vitality tingling in her limbs. The servants helped her don new raiment. They said it was for a meeting with Triel. Faeryl considered taking her warhammer along, then thought better of it. If her rehabilitation was an elaborate prank, if the Baenre was summoning her to further torment, the weapon wouldn't save her. Her legs still the least bit unsteady, she followed a male through the endless corridors of the Great Mound. Eventually he opened the door to a small but lavishly decorated room. Triel sat at the table in the center of the space, with two bodyguards standing against the wall behind her. Faeryl inferred that this was a chamber the matron used when she wished to palaver away from the formal trappings of her court. The Baenre rose and took her prisoner's hands. «My child,» Triel said, «I rejoice to see you. Some folk said you wouldn't recover, but I never doubted it. I knew you were strong, a true drow princess favored of Lolth.» «Thank you, Matron,» said Faeryl, thoroughly perplexed. Triel conducted her a chair. «You'll be glad to know we caught them,» the matron said. «Them?»
«The brigands who waylaid you and murdered your followers, who left you for dead in that place where my servant Valas found you. I supervised the executions myself.» Faeryl was beginning to comprehend her situation. For some reason, Triel had forgiven her her disobedience. The Zauvirr could go free, her honor and rank restored, but there was a catch. Henceforth, she would have to endorse the fiction that Triel was in no way responsible for any of her misfortunes. For after all, the sovereign of Menzoberranzan was a perfect being, whom the Spider Queen herself had exalted above all others. How, then, could she possibly make a mistake? It rankled a little, but Faeryl was more than willing to embrace the lie to avoid a return to the dungeon. «Thank you, Matron,» she said. «Thank you with all my heart.» Triel waved her hand, and a servant brought wine. «Do you still want to go home?» the Baenre asked.
Pharaun had been summoned to a good many audiences in the course of his checkered career, and it had been his experience that no matter how urgent the occasion, one generally wound up parked in an antechamber for a while. Matron Baenre's waiting area was considerably more lavish than most, and in ordinary circumstances, he would have amused himself by passing esthetic judgment on the decor. Instead he had to address another matter, for when he arrived, Ryld was sitting on a chair in the corner, half hidden behind a marble statue. The carving depicted a beautiful female doing something unpleasant to a deep gnome, for the greater glory of the Dread Queen of Spiders, one assumed.
The Mizzrym hadn't spoken to his friend since the slaughter of the renegades. He supposed the time had come. But first he paid his respects to Quenthel, who, much to her annoyance, was being kept waiting as well. The mage then bowed to a stern-faced drow male, looking ill at ease and out of place in rough outdoorsman's clothes and ugly trinkets. Pharaun didn't know him. «Valas Hune,» the warrior said, «of Bregan D'aerthe.» Pharaun introduced himself, then strolled toward the Master of Melee-Magthere. «Ryld!» the wizard said. «Good afternoon! Have you any idea why the Council summoned us?» The burly swordsman rose and said, «No.» «To shower us with honors, one assumes. How are you?» «Alive.»
«I rejoice to hear it. I was concerned because I could tell that warriors trance strained even your constitution.» For a moment, the two masters regarded one another in silence. «My friend,» Pharaun said, having lowered his voice. «I truly regret what happened.» «What you did was tactically sound,» said Ryld. «It was what any sensible drow would have done. I hold no grudge.» The wizard looked into weapons master's eyes and realized that for the first time, he couldn't read him. Perhaps Ryld meant what he was saying, but it was just as likely he was lying, lulling his betrayer's suspicions to facilitate some eventual revenge. Thus, while Pharaun might continue to observe the forms of their long friendship, he could never trust his fellow master again. For a moment he felt a pang of loss, but he quashed the sensation. Friendship and trust were for lesser races. They weakened a dark elf, and he was better off without them. Pharaun gave Ryld an affectionate clap on the shoulder, just as he had a thousand times before.