Charon's Claw (Neverwinter #3) by R. A. Salvatore
PROLOGUE
THE YEAR OF THE REBORN HERO(1463 DR)
Ravel Xorlarrin strode confidently into his mother’s audience hall, his purple robes dancing around his loudly and rudely clacking high boots. Everyone in the room of course knew that he could walk in perfect silence; his boots, like those of most drow nobles, were imbued with that rather common magical trait. He had thrown back the black cowl of his garment so his long white hair flowed behind him, further drawing attention to himself. This was his shining moment, after all.
To the left side of the room, Ravel’s older brother and sire, Elderboy Brack’thal, flashed him a simmering stare—not unexpectedly since the much younger Ravel had taken the mantle as the most powerful of the Xorlarrin children. Brack’thal had once been the object of such high honor, a mighty wizard greatly favored by Matron Mother Zeerith. But that had been before the Spellplague, during which Brack’thal had suffered terribly and his powers had greatly diminished.
In that same time, the patron of the House, the unfortunately-named Horoodissomoth, had been driven completely insane and had consumed himself in a delayed blast fireball, one he had inadvertently placed into his own vest pocket.
And so Zeerith had turned to the semi-comatose Brack’thal for seed and had produced of his loins Ravel, his brother and his son.
Every time Ravel greeted Brack’thal with “my brother, my father,” the older wizard winced in anger, and the younger wizard grinned. For Brack’thal could not move against him. In personal combat, Ravel would annihilate Brack’thal, they both knew, and though he was barely out of Sorcere, the drow academy for wizards, Ravel had already built a stronger spy network and support team than Brack’thal had ever known. Like the younger magic-users of House Xorlarrin, Ravel did not even call himself a wizard, nor did Matron Mother Zeerith and the others. Powerful weavers of arcane powers like Ravel were now considered “spellspinners” in House Xorlarrin, and indeed they had tailored the material and semantic components of their spells to make their casting seem more akin to the dance of a spider than the typical finger-waggling of pre-Spellplague wizards.
When he glanced to the right side of the room, Ravel took note of the House weapons master, Jearth, a poignant reminder of his vast and growing network of influence. Jearth was Ravel’s closest ally, and though House Xorlarrin was widely and uniquely known for its many male magic-users, Jearth Xorlarrin was rightfully considered one of the most powerful of the current weapons masters of Menzoberranzan.
From the day of his birth, it seemed, everything had broken Ravel’s way.
And so it was now. It was Ravel who had discovered Gromph Baenre’s work on the magical skull gem. Ravel had dared to sneak behind the back of the mighty Archmage of Menzoberranzan—no small risk, considering that Gromph’s family reigned supreme in the drow city—and also explore the inner magic of that gem. In it, Ravel had encountered the disembodied spirit, a lich, and from that creature the spellspinner had discerned some startling information indeed.
Apparently, Matron Mother Zeerith had thought the tales interesting, as well.
“Well met, Matron Mother,” Ravel greeted, barely diverting his eyes from hers. Had Zeerith been angry with him, such a bold break with etiquette would have surely gotten him snake-whipped. “You requested my presence?”
“I demanded it,” Matron Mother Zeerith curtly corrected. “We have determined that the cataclysm that struck the surface was the work of a primordial. The vomit of a fire beast perpetrated the catastrophe.”
His head down, Ravel grinned from ear to ear. He had told her as much, for the lich in the skull gem had told him the same.
“We have determined that this primordial resides within the ancient Delzoun homeland of Gauntlgrym,” Zeerith went on.
“Have you found it?” Ravel asked before he could stop the words from bursting out of his mouth. He sucked in his breath immediately and lowered his head, but not before noting the gasps from his many vile sisters, or noticing that one put her hand to her snake-headed whip. His ally Jearth, too, had winced and sucked in his breath, clearly expecting a swift and brutal punishment to rain down on Ravel.
But stunningly, Matron Mother Zeerith let the breach go unpunished, unmentioned even.
“Look at me,” she commanded, and Ravel complied.
“Your pardon, Matron Moth—”
She waved him to silence.
“We do not know the way to this place, Gauntlgrym,” she admitted. “But we know its region. We are grateful to you for your resourcefulness and cunning. It is no small thing to extract such information out from under the nose of that miserable Gromph and his wretched family, who deign themselves so superior to all others in Menzoberranzan.”
Ravel, despite his bravado, could hardly believe the sweet words and could hardly breathe.
“We must find it,” Zeerith said. “We must determine if this place, with this source of power, is suited to our designs. Too long has House Xorlarrin toiled under the smothering cloak of House Baenre and the others. Too long have we been held from our rightful position of leadership, the ultimate favor of Lady Lolth. We were the first to emerge from the Spellplague, the first to learn the new ways to weave magical energies for the glory of the Spider Queen.”
Ravel nodded with every word, for Matron Zeerith’s bold declarations were no secret among the nobles of House Xorlarrin. Long had they searched for a way out of Menzoberranzan. Long had they pondered the thought of founding an independent drow city. How daunting it seemed, however, for they all knew that such an act would bring the vengeance of mighty House Baenre and other allied Houses, like Barrison Del’Armgo.