Hero by R. A. Salvatore
“And so that will leave Matron Mother Zeerith’s as the Sixth House,” Yvonnel went on. “Let that remain for ten tendays, and during that time, inform Matron Mother Byrtyn Fey that Matron Mother Zeerith will soon ascend above her. Byrtyn Fey’s options are nil. She cannot argue, for she knows that the only reason she retains her seat on the Ruling Council is because of her allegiance to House Baenre. Without you, House Fey-Branche would be crushed by one or another, even with House Melarn so clearly weakened and chastised.”
“Would you have me tell Houses Mizzrym and Faen Tlabbar that they, too, will be demoted to make room for the rising return of House Xorlarrin?” Quenthel asked, and though she seemed properly respectful, there was no missing the nervousness in her voice.
“Matron Mother Zeerith will be comfortable, for now, in place as the Fifth House,” Yvonnel replied. “She cannot expect more from us after her failures with her fledgling city.”
Matron Mother Quenthel considered the situation for a moment, then nodded. “As you will.”
“You and your sister asked me for counsel on the matter of Matron Mother Zhindia Melarn, and so you have it,” said Yvonnel.
Quenthel nodded respectfully and repeated, “As you will.”
“This is my advice, not my command,” Yvonnel explained, and after a moment, that remark apparently sank into Quenthel’s mind and had her staring at Yvonnel, wide-eyed.
“The choice is yours, in the end,” Yvonnel said, “for you are the matron mother of Menzoberranzan, not I.”
Quenthel’s look turned suspicious, and she even shook her head a little bit as if denying any thought of heeding that unexpected ordering of things. She had battled Yvonnel that one time, of course, and so it was obvious to both—and to anyone else who had noted the struggle—that Quenthel had no desire to ever do so again.
Indeed, standing beside Yvonnel, her mother, Minolin Fey, seemed no less baffled.
“If the matron mother decides to promote House Xorlarrin above your former House, then you will help to persuade Matron Mother Byrtyn that this is a good thing,” Yvonnel instructed her mother.
“This is a test,” Quenthel stated bluntly.
“A test?” Yvonnel asked.
“You wish to determine if I will hold fast to your desires without you commanding me to do so,” Quenthel explained, and she truly seemed to have nothing left to lose, like a rat caught in a corner.
“No.”
“Do not play with me in such a manner, I beg,” said Quenthel.
“You are the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan!” Yvonnel scolded. “You do not beg anyone, other than Lady Lolth herself.”
But Quenthel shook her head, clearly overwhelmed and more than a little afraid.
“This is no trick, and no test,” Yvonnel said, her voice calm and even. “With Minolin Fey Baenre as my witness. I have rethought our arrangement, and recognized my place here in Menzoberranzan. I will not submit to you, Aunt Quenthel.”
She said that last bit with a wry grin then added, “Indeed, if I do not show the proper reverence to you, in private, then you will simply have to suffer my insolence.”
Quenthel’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.
“But I am not to be matron mother,” Yvonnel finished. “Not now, likely not ever. You need not fear that I will attempt to usurp your throne, and indeed, should any usurpers come against you, you can count me as one of your staunchest allies—and I will ensure that Sos’Umptu is likewise dependable.”
“Why?” The suspicion remained clear in Quenthel’s voice.
“Because it bores me,” Yvonnel said. “And you bore me. I have no desire to play the little games of worthless intrigue that dominate your waking hours, and those in Reverie as well, no doubt. So call it a curse I place upon you and not a favor, and thus I curse you to suffer your fate.”
Quenthel was shaking her head through it all, but now seemed to be growing bolder and more confident, with even her posture firming. “Lady Lolth foretold your arrival in the Festival of the Founding in House Fey-Branche. She said that you, Yvonnel, daughter of Gromph, would become the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan. She said that to me directly, which is why I have not thought to, and could not begin to, conspire against your designs of ascension. You are sanctioned by Lolth, and so your claim on House Baenre, and thus of all Menzoberranzan, is guaranteed.”
“Unless I do not want it,” Yvonnel replied. “And I do not.”
Quenthel’s eyes widened and she even fell back a step in shock, shaking her head.
“I leave you to your curse, Matron Mother,” Yvonnel said respectfully and with a bow. “And I leave you with Minolin Fey, my mother. I find that I do not much want her, either.”
With that, she gave a curt laugh, spun, and strode from the room, leaving the other two women staring at her with helpless confusion.
YVONNEL WASN’T REALLY surprised, but was still shaken a bit when Quenthel showed up at the door of her private quarters with a handmaiden of Lolth, in drow form, right beside her.
“Leave us, Quenthel Baenre,” Yiccardaria said as soon as Yvonnel greeted them.
Yvonnel didn’t miss the fact that the handmaiden hadn’t used the title of matron mother when addressing Quenthel, and that was no minor thing.
“It is true, then?” Yiccardaria asked when they were alone.
“It?”
“Do you believe that you have garnered the favor of Lady Lolth?”
Yvonnel shrugged. “I can only do that which I think the best course, and hope that such a course pleases her. Unless you would have me summoning you or one of your sisters to my side for every decision I make.”
The handmaiden scowled at the impertinence. “Do you think this a game, daughter of Gromph? Would you like to be taught that it is not?”
“The Spider Queen wished Demogorgon stopped,” Yvonnel replied, somewhat hesitantly—as much for effect as because she was momentarily unsure in the face of the threat. “I arranged for Demogorgon to be stopped. Cleverly, I thought.”
“By using the rogue apostate.”
“A fitting touch,” Yvonnel protested. “For now the aura of stench around House Do’Urden is lifted enough for Matron Mother Zeerith to occupy the physical house and the seat at the Ruling Council, which again strengthens the hand of the matron mother and firms the alliance of House Baenre.”
“A matron mother who is not Yvonnel,” Yiccardaria reminded her. “Even though the word of Lady Lolth was that Yvonnel would become matron mother. Would you make of Lolth a liar?”
Yvonnel’s impulse was to argue that Lolth, the Queen of Chaos, should enjoy such a title, but she wisely held her thoughts private. “In the moment of crisis, I was viewed as matron mother, and all in the city understand the truth of that,” she replied instead. “I led the response to Demogorgon and took no orders from Quenthel nor any other matron mother.”
“Not formally.”
“And perhaps I will again assume the title of matron mother, but in the future,” Yvonnel quickly added. “There is much I must learn.”
“You act as if it is your choice. It is not.”
Yvonnel held up her hands, for what might she say?
“And you have failed the Spider Queen,” the handmaiden added, and Yvonnel’s expression changed abruptly, her eyes going wide both with confusion and a moment of fear. Failing the Spider Queen was not to be taken lightly.
“You were to destroy the apostate after exploiting him,” Yiccardaria explained. “You could have turned him into a drider, as Matron Mother Quenthel advised. You could simply have tortured him until the pain became meaningless, and then dragged him to his death through the streets of Menzoberranzan, allowing every House, every drow, to spit upon him or kick him. But you did not. Nay, you chose to be clever, always clever.”
“You cannot deny that my plan to have him murder the one he most loves would have broken the rogue more than anything physical might have ever—”
“I deny that your plan worke
Yvonnel stared hard at Yiccardaria. They knew! She couldn’t believe how closely she and Drizzt had been watched. Didn’t Lolth and her minions have enough to contend with in the swirling gray smoke of the Abyss, particularly when her grander plan of freeing the demon lords into the Prime Material Plane gave the Spider Queen such an opening for Abyssal dominance?
But they knew the details here, and Yvonnel licked her lips, waiting for judgment to fall.
“So you choose not to become matron mother at this time?” Yiccardaria asked.
“I will assume the mantle if that is the desire of Lady Lolth,” Yvonnel replied, and she hated herself for her cowardice.
But there it was.
“Someday, perhaps,” the handmaiden replied. “At this time, and even with the knowledge and memories of your namesake given to you as a great gift by the Spider Queen, you clearly are not prepared for such a task. So go. Leave this city. It is what you want.”
Yvonnel stared at the handmaiden, and her expression was blank with shock.
“Go and right the error you made with the apostate,” Yiccardaria added.
“You would have me kill Drizzt? Or drag him back to the city? Or to the Abyss, to present him before Lady—”
“I would have you go and do as you believe the correct path,” Yiccardaria explained. “If you are to become matron mother, then Lady Lolth must come to see that you have the judgment for such a role.”
“I …”
“Are you afraid?” Yiccardaria purred.
After a moment’s hesitation, Yvonnel nodded.
And Yiccardaria laughed and left her alone.
CHAPTER 16
Fire and Water
YOU SHOWED HIM THIS?” SAVAHN ASKED AFAFRENFERE.
The two stood on the balcony overlooking the circular fighting pit of the Monastery of the Yellow Rose, where the monks performed the bulk of their martial training and sparring. A multitude of doors led into that lower level, each flanked on both sides by elaborate weapons racks, with every weapon imaginable—and more than a few exotic instruments that few outside the order knew about—available at one or another. The central training area of the floor was raised a step, that step being orange in color, and the floor itself was ringed with symbols of fire. A mosaic of a springing tiger centered the floor, the newest addition to the room.
“Drizzt has been practicing in such a manner for longer than I have been alive,” Afafrenfere replied. “Longer than my mother’s mother’s mother has been alive. It is his way, and so, Drizzt has told me, fairly common among the drow.”
“No wonder, then, that they are feared warriors,” Savahn said. She leaned on the railing and studied the movements of the drow ranger. If he noticed the onlookers at all, he made no outward sign of it. He turned and dipped so very slowly, precisely mimicking the movements he would make in an actual fight. His blades flowed like two streams of clear water, crossing, joining, separating once more, so fluid and perfect in their movements that it was hard to tell where the cut of one scimitar ended and where the swing of the other began.
“Hypnotic,” Savahn said. She turned back to Afafrenfere and remarked without sarcasm, “Perhaps I should spend my energies training him instead of you.”
Afafrenfere straightened at the unexpected remark. “Do you doubt my abilities?” he asked without a sneer, without any judgment at all. Savahn would never say such a thing as an insult, of course, and it would be remiss of Afafrenfere to take her words as such.
“Hardly.”
“Then why?”
“Perhaps I fear that you will learn from Drizzt instead of the other way around,” the woman said with a wry grin.
Only then did Afafrenfere catch on. Savahn and Afafrenfere would do battle soon, as Afafrenfere tried to ascend to become a Master of the East Wind, the rank currently held by Savahn. Within the order, there could only be one such master. If Afafrenfere came to meet all of the other qualifications, which, given his continued remarkable progress, he seemed destined to achieve shortly, he would rightly challenge Savahn to single combat in this very room below them. The winner would assume the title currently held by Savahn, the loser reverting to the rank now held by Afafrenfere.
“In training Drizzt, I slow my own personal studies,” Afafrenfere replied. “Perhaps you would do well to accelerate your own training since Master of Winter, the rank above your present, is currently unoccupied in the order.”
She nodded at his remark. It was true enough. The only members of the order higher in rank than Savahn were Perrywinkle Shin and Grandmaster Kane himself.
“Do you believe that I am afraid to fight you?” Savahn asked, again with a smile. Their fights would be vicious, of course, and without reserve, and often both combatants would spend many days or even tendays recuperating. But the outcomes were always accepted with grace and deference. Whomever lost such a fight did so because the other combatant was proven to be the better. The answer to such a defeat could never be anger or vengeance but an honest look inside of oneself and a renewal of training and discipline.
“Which of us, do you suppose, will one day challenge Grandmaster Kane?” Savahn asked, and Afafrenfere looked at her incredulously, shrugged, and shook his head.
“It will never be me,” Savahn admitted. “I am already past my peak physical years, and passing the Trials of the Four Seasons is a greater task than all the ranks before combined.”
Afafrenfere nodded then, understanding. There were seventeen ranks of achievement among the Order of the Yellow Rose. Afafrenfere had attained eleven, Savahn twelve, and Master Perrywinkle Shin was Master of Summer, the fifteenth level.
Shin was an old man now, and barely trained anymore, and had openly admitted that he had found the limit of his potential, and so would never achieve the subsequent rank of Master of Spring, let alone pass through those trials to challenge the great Grandmaster of Flowers.
Savahn’s statement regarding her own ascent was also true, Afafrenfere believed. She might become the Mistress of Winter, the thirteenth rank, though the level of skill and inner power between those two ranks, East Wind and Winter, was perhaps the second most profound climb within the order, only behind the ascension to Grandmaster of Flowers.
But Afafrenfere was young—young enough to conquer those barriers if he could remain fully dedicated.
The monk shook those prideful thoughts out of his mind and silently chastised himself for even harboring them. The goal was—the goal had to be—self-improvement, not titles.
He knew the truth now from his time occupying the same body with Grandmaster Kane. The greatest barrier facing Master Afafrenfere in his ascent were these very lapses in focus and purpose, the distraction of a shiny object or a perceived ring of gold waiting to be plucked, only in Afafrenfere’s specific and most-damaging case, the love of a man who was proven to be unworthy of his love.
Yes, that was Afafrenfere’s great internal barrier. And it was not a blockage in terms of ascension through the ranks of the Order of the Yellow Rose—though it would certainly play out on that stage, as well. Indeed, to no small extent, those ranks were arbitrary, a measurement, but hardly a precise one, of the harmony a brother or sister had attained, either physically or in inner emotional peace.
Afafrenfere’s lack of inner harmony would harm Afafrenfere alone, and in the most profound way, by never allowing him to achieve his highest order of contentment and understanding of the world around him, of his place in that world, of life itself. Before leaving the monastery and fleeing to the place called Shade with Parbid, his lover, Brother Afafrenfere had been nearing the rank of Master in the Order of the Yellow Rose. Since his return, and through the possession of Grandmaster Kane, Afafrenfere had soared through the next ranks in line, becoming a Master, a Superior Master, a Master of Dragons, and progressing through each of the Trials of the Four Winds to the point where he was nearing his challenge to Savahn. The most profou
Now he was back on that path, fully focused, but every now and again, he had to remind himself.
He moved beside Savahn, looked down upon Drizzt, and nodded. In this drow, Afafrenfere recognized a level of discipline he could only ever dream of attaining.
“What a pity that this magnificent warrior is so lost,” Savahn said, as if reading Afafrenfere’s thoughts.
“Then let us find him,” Afafrenfere replied.
“THERE IS NO difficulty and there is complete difficulty,” Afafrenfere said to Drizzt. “Your pain and growth is entirely up to you as you instruct your body into the pose.”
“To bring yourself to the very limit of the bend,” Drizzt replied, and Afafrenfere smiled.
With a shrug, the drow went into the movement his monk friend had described. First standing perfectly straight, then falling into a crouch, Drizzt smoothly stood and lifted his arms over his head. Then he leaned so far back he could see the majority of the wall behind him. With a sudden and powerful swoop, Drizzt went forward, bending at the waist and putting his head right against his knees. He held there for some time, feeling a slight pull at the back of his legs, but nothing he couldn’t maintain for a long, long while.
And so he did, as Afafrenfere had bade him, holding perfectly still as the candles burned and the sun moved low in the western sky.
“Find peace,” the monk quietly whispered now and again.
Drizzt didn’t. He remained still in body but not in his heart.
And so went their journey together over the next hours, with Master Afafrenfere showing Drizzt each of the movements the Order of the Yellow Rose called “Childish Grace,” movements designed to free the mind and ease the heart as much as release the tensions and limitations of reach and stretch.