Chapter Text
Waterdeep, Tharsak 6, Year of the Purple Dragons
Time moved painfully slowly aboard the drow frigate. The atmosphere of tense anticipation stirred only when, leaping from her chair, an impatient Baeniss thrust a handheld mirror in front of her mother’s face, the gesture both a demonstration of daughterly duty and a declaration of her victory of a one-sided competition. Z’ilvxyra D’Everhrett has been the head of her house for well over four centuries. Losing the favour of Lolth has marred her uncanny beauty, exposing her true age in spidery wrinkles and a perpetual unease of posture. Baeniss was lounging on the benches running along the curtained windows of the ship’s upper deck, checking for signs of Lolth’s curse catching up to her own looks. She seemed safe for now. She had managed to sneak back to the family ship unharmed, with two bottles of Spiced Whalebone from the wizard tower’s cellar and although slow to admit it, the spirits helped keep her apprehension at bay. Last night was about oblivion. Everything about the surface, from the blazing blue sky, the salty sea air and the entitled and weak blubbering of the sun-walkers offended her senses. She was used to oppressive stone ceilings and prudent treachery. She had lost her home in the escape and her Matron to her new goddess; she barely recognised her. Astarion’s refined meanness on the other hand, was as familiar as carved stalagmites and glowing fungi. Humans or their men were of no interest to Baeniss.
‘Mother I cannot bear to be seen in such rags,’ she sighed, poking her disintegrating drowcraft armour. It was an embarrassment. Though the adamantine providing the shape of the bodice was intact, the surface sunlight had destroyed the Faerzress-based enchantment, leaving the purplish leather dotted with growing holes. Back home, they would have never shown their faces in such a shameful garb. Desperate to improve the situation, she wore her white hair wound around a silver circlet, with her married status expressed through the headpiece’s heavy ornamentation.
Z’ilv finished dressing too. As the maidservant coiled her newly braided hair around her ears, she regarded her eldest with the measured unease of a vacationing spymaster. Baeniss resembled the late Mother Miz’ri, her paternal grandmother; heavy-lidded eyes and a broad mouth dominated her sharp but youthful features. A widow like herself, Baeniss had not yet been married a year.
‘Could you pin the veil in the sides here?’ Z’ilv pointed at the braids curling behind the crown of her head like horns. She wore a sheer blue robe draped over a silk under-layer more closely matching her skin’s deep hue. ‘Thank you, Asra,’ she added, eager to practice her newly found gratitude. ‘Thank you, Baeniss,’ she attempted, taking the ornate mirror from her daughter.
Matron Mothers didn’t thank their children, let alone their servants. They didn’t leave Menzoberranzan and they never, under any circumstances, turn their back on the Spider Queen. Z’ilv studied herself in the mirror. It was only the second time she had ever seen yellow sunlight burnishing her dark, slate blue skin. ‘Drowcraft be damned,’ she thought, but judging it wiser to approach gently she said, ‘You must know the importance of first impressions, child,’ she spoke softly. Her voice was gentle, but imperious. ‘Your tatters prove the Spider Queen’s abandonment of House D’Everhrett,’ she hesitated, ‘and will buy us safety,’ she paused, ‘you have refused the cloak of the Dark Maiden and I am nothing but merciful.’
Baeniss glared at her mother. ‘My powers persist!’ she insisted, flicking her hand to cast a small globe of darkness. A puff of limp smoke issued from her fingertips. ‘My fate is not yet decided. I might yet be restored to Lolth’s service!’ She spoke with her customary bloodthirsty conviction but now she barely believed it herself. Yearning for the surface’s bountiful gifts and out-scheming the goddess of lies was one thing, losing her magic was quite another.
Z’ilv embraced her youngest daughter sleepily wandering into the officer’s quarters and watched her once powerful eldest retreat into despair. Felynue hasn’t emerged from her cabin yet. Sleep deprivation and the dangers of their escape had left a mark on the whole family. Some were more perturbed than others. Ilphuit seemed calm and radiated with a childlike wonder alien to the denizens of the Underdark. The Dark Maiden had warned the Matriarch about the many ways the Lolth-sworn lived through the immediate months surrounding their leaving the service wicked goddess. Z’ilv trusted Baeniss’ promiscuity more than the child’s remarkable peace. It made sense to seek companionship softening the blow of the first surface night. She didn’t spend the night alone either. Four of her loyal soldiers remained in her service.
‘I had the impression you enjoyed your first surface night,’ she said gently while stowing a pair of gleaming rapiers in delicately crafted leather frogs attached to her silver belt. The blades were slender and long, attached to their elaborate hilts crafted to resemble the gently curving wings of a Luna Moth. She wanted some time to steal away for her Evensong prayers, but first had to make sure her daughters were ready. Elistraee would bless their blades tonight.
‘I didn’t give up the Underdark for a few male Fairies,’ Baeniss hissed. ‘But yes,’ she turned to her youngest sister, ‘I do have some heroes for you! A Fairy and his human,’ Baeniss began, ‘felled Minthara Baenre and some Elderbrain.’
Ilphuit settled on her sister’s knees, eagerly listening to her retelling of Astarion’s boastful story from last night. Claiming the life of a Baenre princess inspired immediate and unquestioning awe in the little drow. Z’ilv followed her with a hairbrush, content to listen to her daughters’ chatter.
‘...and they got the nasty tadpole from her brain and slurped it all up, until—’
‘—Ouch!’ cried Ilphuit, reaching for the tender spot of her scalp, not quite understanding that she was pulling her own hair by twisting to catch a glimpse at the figures standing outside the cabin’s deck-facing windows. One was broad-shouldered, imposing Hiew Cassalanter, grandson of the late Mirt, esteemed moneylender and respected Lord of Waterdeep. Hiew had graciously offered to accommodate the D’Everhretts until a suitable mansion could be secured for Z’ilv and her household. ‘Not from the goodness of his heart,’ the Matron mused. She had deemed it wise to err on the side of caution, despite having witnessed the child’s play surface dwellers call ‘intrigue’. Clad entirely in expensive, but simple linens Hiew was in sharp contrast to the bejewelled man emerging from the doorway.
‘Uncle Raphael!’ Ilphuit cried, restlessly tapping her small feet on the floor.
‘Stay put, little one,’ her mother scolded, with a melting harshness. She had silently prayed that the moment be stretched to eternity. The fresh sea air blew the city’s lively smells to their ship’s windows, leading to unaccustomed noses poking out from below deck. Faintly rotting flower petals, thawing wood, freshly cut grass: all foreign and exciting. House D’Everhrett’s four remaining soldiers – battle-hardened male graduates of Melee-Maghtere – and servants practically competed in guessing the sources of unfamiliar smells and sights. Each platter of food, every weed and flower and all the various new and mysterious gift of the Land of Great Light was inspected and debated. Some were fearful, some curious, some derisive. Every living soul aboard the ceremonial frigate was delirious with a sense of the new.
Those not living, or without a soul were less enthusiastic.
‘Why are you hurting my favourite,’ the cambion crooned, entering the cabin with Hiew in tow. ‘Haven’t you done enough?’ Raphael produced a dainty silver bracelet and clasped it around Ilphuit’s slender wrist. A row of black pearls, each carved to resemble the various stages of the moon.
Z’ilvxyra’s middle daughter, teenage Felynue has emerged from her room scrubbed and dressed and now waited silently, sipping a mug of warm tea. Noticing Raphael, she practically disappeared between the cushions of her armchair. She too was away last night, but unlike her older sister, didn’t willingly share the details.
‘He’s not your uncle,’ she said coldly to her sister, eyes darting from the little drow girl to the cambion, whose shared glance with Baeniss couldn’t be missed. ‘Uncles don’t f—’
‘Greetings Raphael,’ Z’ilv proclaimed then, slipping back to the role of Matron Mother. Or at least an old, empty husk of one. Shoulders high, voice slithering. She had played this role expertly for decades. The friendly sea air was gone by now, replaced by the two men’s combined aroma of sulphur and musk. Much of the sun-walking world smelled of men. ‘What brings you to the surface?’ She wasn’t sure Hiew knew about the infernal persuasion of their guest and so addressed him cautiously. ‘Good to see you again, Hiew.’
The banker bowed, eyes closed, but mind pulsing with the intrusive curiosity of a stalking panther. He was taking count of the room; ages, relationships and faces, a Matron Mother, a devil, and the gambler who had – he was convinced – beat in him out of a carriage and four horses at a Goldenight table.
‘My greatest honour,’ he said, straightening up from the deep bow. Infuriatingly, he couldn’t even hold Baeniss’ brazen, impish gaze.
Raphael made himself comfortable and accepted a glass of Spiced Whalebone from Asra, balancing the drink while letting Ilphuit climb to his shoulders. He had been a frequent guest both at the D’Everhrett compound and its Matron’s bed. But that was before the Dark Maiden, may her steps resound with joy, lit up her path. Z’ilv looked at him now with nauseating pity.
‘Baeniss and I,’ Raphael began, ‘have something in common.’
Felynue slurped her tea obnoxiously loudly, forcing the cambion to repeat his words. ‘Oh yes you do,’ she thought, ‘you stink.’
Raphael leaned forward. Resting his elbows on his thighs, he shook Ilphuit off of his arm. ‘Have you, esteemed Lord Cassalanter,’ he asked, drawing out each syllable as if talking to a creature stuck just before attaining sentience,’ heard about the heroes of Baldur’s Gate?’
Hiew supressed a smirk and answered, ‘Our very own Gale of Waterdeep.’
Responding to her mother’s faintest twitch, Baeniss’s chuckle died quickly. She kept silent, content with scoring another one-sided victory against her. She had seen the pitiful drunk wizard. Human men seemed weaker to her with every passing day. She noted that the banker was – at least – aware of the shortcomings of his kind.
‘Aha,’ Raphael giggled, accepting a second glass from Asra, ‘that one. His... vampiric friend at least had some taste and fulfilled his end of our deal.’
Turning away with used crystalware, Asra paused for a fracture of a moment. She lowered the empty tray and took her place meekly behind Z’ilvxyra. The devil always complicated things. Baeniss jumped up then, racing towards the fiend like a low-hanging summer storm. Looming over Raphael’s seated figure, she poked a finger into his chest, demanding he repeat himself, all the while conscious that Felynue had achieved the same without confrontation.
‘The elf is a vampire,’ Raphael said coolly. With a mock gentleness, he slapped Baeniss’ hand away and added: ‘A rogue spawn at that. And his misanthropic friend owes me.’
‘The son of a bitch,’ Hiew muttered before coming to his senses, ‘Forgive me, Matron.’ Astarion too, had been at the card table last night. ‘I remembered meeting the spawn last night.’
Ilphuit began jumping again, shaking her mother’s arm and breathlessly mouthing: ‘Vampire! Vampire! Mother! The heroes! Mother let me see the vampire!’
Trying to calculate whom to address first, Z’ilv could feel the first bouts of nausea gnawing at her stomach, a pounding headache with the weight of miles of rock pressing her deeper and deeper underground. Images of more stone: a cave-in, pitch black darkness, breaking stalagmites tumbling down in a sea of killing. All looked at her for answers. Plans, revenge, orders and condemnation.
Be at peace, Chosen. You have risen. No cavern can swallow you now. Take your children and breathe the ground-air, walk under the stars. The time is near.
‘You have travelled Raphael; your costs must be high. How much does,’ Z’ilv turned quizzically to her eldest. She was perfectly aware that the fiend was not after coin. She also suspected he wouldn’t voice a demand for anything else in the banker’s presence. Filling her lungs, the sea air felt cleaner again and her heartbeat steady as she welcomed her goddess’ presence.
‘Astarion,’ Baeniss growled in a state of total humiliation. Men had never dared lie to her before. She sent Asra for more wine with a mean click of her tongue, hoping she can build up enough of a buzz to endure the upcoming procession. To her dismay, Asra walked past her with a much larger silver tray a single drink would call for.
With a quietly hummed prayer, Z’ilv willed Ilphuit to settle on her left arm and slowly rose from her seat ‘Well, how much does this Astarion owe you? I’ll pay your costs.’
‘How gracious!’ Hiew’s eyes glinted. He had made a great, albeit risky investment in the Matron Mother.
The child was serene now. She lay on her mother’s arm with a warm smile on her face. Growing from around her fingertips a luminous silver radiance enveloped her slowly, a girl-shaped glow that shifted out of her small body here and there, and left her entirely at other times to dance and hunt freely. From the corners of the cabin, the guards moved in around them then, surrounding Baeniss and Felynue as they took their places beside their mother. Their piwafwis swept over deteriorated drowcraft armour, and they both pinned a sheer veil in their heir.
Careful to emphasise the periods at the end of her sentences Matron D’Everhrett spoke: ‘The Dark Maiden be praised, I am to walk unharmed under the surface’s light,’ she paused to let Astra place a heavy silver tray in her mistress’ right hand. ‘Great as my appreciation is, time permits not my conversation here.’ Emboldened by the closeness of her divine mistress, she joked, ‘My mother in-law demands my presence,’ pointing at Matron Mizzrym’s lifeless head oozing coagulated blood onto the glimmering silver tray.
‘Are we to share your presence later at the banquet? Hiew asked hurriedly, rushing to get the words out before disgust had fully overtaken him. He was the only one in the room at all perturbed by the severed head Z’ilv was balancing. It had belonged to an older drow woman, whose heavy eyelids and striking nose made her look nearly identical to Baeniss.
Although Hiew only faintly hoped to get an answer, Z’ilv was out of the cabin’s door in an instant, making her way across the vessel to disembark and begin a new life in the City of Splendours.
⟡ ⟡ ⟡
Outside, it was as if Goldenight had never ended. The wide, unpaved street hugging the base of Mount Waterdeep was overflowing with throngs of jostling spectators, while the terraces, balconies and even rooftops of local dwellings, warehouses and taverns had long been rented out to the highest bidders. Small fires were lit to guard against the late-night chill. The gently swaying oaks and alder trees lining the way were hung with lanterns and a small army of volunteers buzzed around parcelling out food from heavy handcarts to neatly arranged rows of baskets lining the route of the planned procession.
Children from the nearby Starry Candles orphanage hung from every lamp post, pelting the pursuant City Watch with pebbles, while the silk-clad offspring of the city’s nobility watched the hubbub jealous from their high perches. Morena Dekarios regretted sitting among the latter, but all the more desirable seats have been sold out for months. She shifted uncomfortably on the wobbly chair poised at the corner of a Gem-street balcony overlooking Hillock Court and the Castle. The building belonged to her old employer, the elderly master of the Surveyors', Map-makers', and Chart-makers' Guild Halaviir Touzon and cost only a couple of hundred gold pieces. As she waited, the sun dipped behind Mount Waterdeep and the procession was set to begin. The crowd’s excited chatter was loud, but never fully eclipsed the lutes and harps of bards and dancers. A small army of them seemed to have appeared overnight. Then, a faraway call of a hunting horn was heard, spurring the clerics of Lathander lining the square to float gently gleaming orbs above the crowds. Morena stirred, craning her neck to look for her son. Taking a sip out of her flask – the impromptu pageant seats did not offer such services – she began leafing through her copy of Halivar’s Whaterdhavian to find the feature about the event.
Indeed, nobles, citizens and priests of the Spires of the Morning, alongside clerics of Mystra, Selune and Oghma were all expected to participate is what was to be an inauguration of a new Chosen and high priestess of Elistraee. Devotees of the drow goddess of freedom, swordwork, song and dance had established a small temple – the broadsheet explained – two years ago in the abandoned Phul villa in North Ward. This would explain the veiled child. Glancing at the still-empty seat of her son, Morena felt increasingly helpless. She hadn’t seen her son since his hero’s welcome after returning from Baldur’s Gate a month ago and a whole year before the Nauotioloid. Now he was there. But he rarely left his tower. Astarion said he was redecorating. He hired a plumber. Gale promptly answered every letter and seemed to be getting respectable work. All of these were improvements, she reasoned, but both Tara and the vampire spoke of occasional fast-paced self-destruction previously unseen in the wizard. And he was late.
When Morena finally spotted Gale’s wide-brimmed hat in the crowds flowing towards the square from Niles Way, the procession had begun, and the sounds of cheering and song was getting closer by the minute. Serving as a waypoint in the chaos, the city’s ancient bell tower was draped in silver moonlight and blue fairie fire. Gale, Tara and Astarion cut through the hectic Waterdeep Way traffic by slipping directly into Gem Street through a narrow alley made nearly unpassable by food carts and drink vendors. The first standard bearers were now arriving to the Southern walls of Castle Waterdeep.
‘Good evening Mother,’ Gale heaved reaching the top of the stairs, ’I apologise for our lateness.’ He quickly removed his hat and slid down to his chair in the corner of the small balcony, embracing Morena on the way. The unsaid words were almost as numerous as crowds below them.
‘Good to see you both,’ Morena replied, her eyes fixed on the wizard’s easy smile. He still hadn’t lost the hair and beard, but his limbs were all intact and the past years had taught her to be if not grateful for but appreciative of that.
Unpacking a paper bag of moonworms Astarion interrupted: ‘We had some winnings to collect from last night, and the Golden Horn was just around the corner.’ He sat down, crimson eyes darting up and down Hillock Court. ‘Please do have some. Fresh from the Underdark just as our dear guests,’ he prattled.
Tara jumped from Gale's shoulders and settled on Morena’s lap, curiously peering through the balcony’s carved, wooden railing. Stroking her to the swaying rhythm of the approaching drums, Morena accepted the sweets. ‘Thank you, I myself have purchased some Spellbones recently at Blackwell’s. Aldous did say to me later that a sort of reformed Matron Mother sold them to him in exchange for some children’s books of all things.’
‘Spellbones?’ asked Astarion, taking a small porcelain baton from Morena’s outstretched hand.
‘Or Daara,’ began Gale, ‘they are infused with spells, making magic into a weekend faire game,’ he scoffed. ‘The Imberlar make them somewhere south in the Upper Dark. Is this one of their priestesses, Mother? Buying children’s books?’ the wizard rose, glass in hand, his hostility giving way to subtle, yet unwelcome waves of hazy serenity.
‘So I have heard,’ Morena ignored the edge of her son’s words and studied him quietly. Gale stood at the edge of the balcony, wearily gazing at the Southern end of the square, where the first City Watch guards appeared, escorting the attendants of the House of Wonder. ‘The Ballads of the People and The Very Hungry Chimera. Strange folks...You look good,’ she added. He was well-dressed, but dishevelled; his shirt was untied and an otherwise ornate blue woollen coat was lazily thrown over his shoulders. His hair unspeakably long, beard several days younger than the moustache Morena – to her horror - could now clearly differentiate.
Gale’s tired, deep-set eyes relaxed as they picked up Morena’s gently probing smile. She was a novice in the art of white lies. ‘Thank you,’ he mouthed over the increasing drone of pipes and drums. Standard-bearing clerics, guards and municipal dignitaries had streamed into the square by then, organising themselves into a half circle around the castle gates. Thousands of Whaterdhavian eyes followed their every movement. Behind them, on the towering castle walls banners were hung: the crescent moon of the city and the similarly coloured, blueish, star-strewn flags of The Church of Elistraee. A tiring breeze played lazily with the banners’ silver tassels, throwing glints of moonlight across the night air. Mystra’s presence was palpable, but subdued, as if the weaver’s focus had narrowed in on the fabric, showing only the warp threads of life; streaming moonlight, the collective heat of a hundred dancing bodies and the rhythmic tapping of bare feet. Astarion rose too, creeping closer to the railing, he watched as the dancing mirage readied to convene below.
This was Elistraee’s magic; foreign and inscrutable for surface-walking and most Underdark arcanists alike. Pulling at the senses of all around, the sword-dancers deftly established control over the crowds. An agile wind-like melody was being sung by a cascade of voices, conjuring a curtain of iridescent moonlight out of which devotees of the Lady Silverhair began appearing. Clad in light, purple-blue shawls, dozens of drow; women, men and the small children they carried, some humans and elves stepped out of the moonlight. Among resounding cheers, they all bowed, placed gift-laden baskets by the side of the road, then joined the procession behind an imposing, older drow woman armed with a single scimitar.
‘Trelasarra Zuind,’ Morena poked Gale in the side. ‘Priestess of the Dancing Haven,’ she read from her broadsheet. ‘Incredible,’ she muttered. ‘Not vampires after all. They say it is the first time in Faerûnian history that a Matron mother and her children successfully betrayed their wretched demon of a goddess.’
‘And there goes the Quirkless,’ Gale pointed at the silk-clad banker walking just behind Trelassarra. ‘What does he have to with the drow? Never even left the city.’ He wanted to turn to Astarion, to drink up the shared scorn from his friend’s narrowed eyes and to share in the petty bliss of garden variety antipathy, but found himself pressed to the railing, increasingly, and uncomfortably aware of his body. The cheering got louder but soon morphed into a unified chant and reached a fever-pitch when a pair of drow guards stepped out of the dust beaten up by the preceding bards. Despite their deteriorated armour, they stood tall and imposing. They carried longswords and wore torn spidersilk. In their footsteps, rivers of coins sprung up, covering the side of the road with piles of silver and the tangle of arms of those reaching for it.
Poised tall on the balcony flanking the jubilant square, Gale felt stunned and exposed, yet lighter than ever. His eyes wide open, he breathed in the melody stuck to the underside of the city air and he was then present. The breeze reached out to him, guiding his gaze across the glittering lights of silver coins, lanterns and flowing white hair. Alert to the whims of his world, he felt the strands of the Weave cut through his skin and into every cell of his body. The broken crown pulsing in his pocket overshadowed for once by a profound heaviness of limb tingling with the promise of closeness and clarity. Humbled by the tyranny of his senses, he lurched forward, desperate to leap from his seat and join the revellers, he was just conscious enough to reconsider.
‘Gale!’ Morena gasped. Onlookers were now gathering near their balcony. Not that the wizard was the only one affected by the unusual magic of the Dark Dancer.
Z’ilvxyra D’Everhrett flew slowly into view. Four hundred years of fearsome service of Lolth, her unalienable authority re-conjured and amplified by her short stature, Z’ilvxyra stood shrouded in a divine glow of self-assuredness offensive to Gale’s every sinew.
‘What in the hells is that?’ Astarion rubbed his eyes.
‘That’s the child! Good heavens!’
The young girl sat smiling on the arm of her Matron, while the other held up what was – according to Halivar’s Whaterdhavian – the head of the late Miz’ri, Matron of House Mizz’rym, fourth house of Menzoberranzan. Standing behind Z’ilvxyra were her two daughters, recently widowed Baeniss and Arach-Tinilith student Felynue.
‘The Hells take us all!’ Astarion swore.
‘Three hundred soldiers, four hundred slaves, fourteen nobles, how are they alive?’ Morena read, feverishly calculating the odds. ‘Look! They even have an etching of the place.’
‘Ask Astarion,’ teased Gale. ‘How does Halivar’s even know any of this anyway? Who’s their source?’ Forever suspicious of her mother’s brightcoin magazines, the wizard preferred the Blackstaff’s press reading room to Halivar’s Lords and Ladies. ‘Could I kindly borrow your paper?’ As the wizard turned back to his mother, he noticed a uniformed City Watch courier hurrying in their direction and a knot formed in his stomach.
The page curtly bowed and extended a letter towards Astarion’s quickly appearing hands. ‘Mr Ancunin and G—?’
‘The very same’ the vampire breathed. He ripped the scroll’s seal in half and flicked the broken wax off the balcony. ‘Bla bla bla banquet, esteemed, bla bla please join us, with affection: Baeniss D’Everhrett.’ Astarion nodded to the courier and offered a hand escorting Morena after him. ‘It is my pleasure,’ he beamed. Baeniss didn’t resent him after all. He had made a powerful ally.
‘Do come along son,’ Morena turned back to address her son, but Gale had already disappeared into a dimension door spell.