Charon's Claw (Neverwinter #3)(106)

“Eight legs?” she asked Brack’thal, and the blood drained from his face, for that particular reference loomed as the worst curse any drow might hear. Berellip had just informed the mage that his fate lay among Yerrininae’s band!

Brack’thal, clearly caught and overwhelmed by the turn of events, held up his hands unthreateningly and began complying, dismissing his pets to the various forges.

By the time Berellip and Ravel reached him, only the largest remained. Brack’thal looked to it, then back to Berellip, and fell on his knees before her.

“Kill me, I beg,” he said.

“It will not be quick,” she promised wickedly, and he accepted that with an eager nod, for better to be tortured to death than to be transformed into a wretched drider!

“Sister,” Ravel intervened, and Berellip, Brack’thal, and Tiago all turned to regard him curiously. “Spare him, I beg of you.”

It seemed like every creature in the room held its breath.

“He is valuable. His work here has been beyond reproach,” Ravel explained to Berellip’s stunned expression.

“Such weakness,” she whispered back, hardly believing her ears. “You would show mercy?”

“Only if Brack’thal declares allegiance to me,” Ravel stated, and he struck a superior pose, towering over his kneeling brother. “Only if this is ended, by decree, by surrender, and I am named here and now the Elderboy of House Xorlarrin, with Brack’thal afforded all rights as Secondboy.”

“I would rather die,” Brack’thal replied.

“Would you rather sprout six extra legs?” Tiago remarked.

“Would you?” Ravel asked, referring to Brack’thal’s claim and not Tiago’s threat. “Then your claim of your powers returning rings hollow in your own ears.”

He said it loudly, so that all around could hear, so that those spellspinners he knew had recently come to consider siding with Brack’thal would hear.

Berellip silently congratulated Ravel. He had played this perfectly, for either way, Brack’thal was caught. If he didn’t agree and was thus killed, he would be admitting that his claims were false, and so Ravel would secure the spellspinners in his entourage once more. And if he did agree, he would be bound by his words. It was not often that drow males flipped their titles, as Ravel had demanded, but it was not unprecedented, and such a pact was surely binding. If Brack’thal agreed, any future action he took against Ravel would be construed as an affront to House Xorlarrin, invoking the wrath of Matron Zeerith.

“Well?” Berellip prompted.

“So be it,” the defeated mage replied, lowering his gaze.

Ravel was to his side in an eye-blink, grabbing him under the shoulder and hoisting him to his feet. “You are a noble of House Xorlarrin,” the young spellspinner quietly said.

Brack’thal stared at him hatefully.

“Go back to the tunnels with your pet,” Ravel ordered. “Continue your important work.”

The mage was more than happy to comply, and he hustled away, and as Berellip and Ravel swept the room with their stares, drow and goblins and bugbears fell all over each other to get back to their tasks.

“Follow,” Berellip demanded of the two males beside her. She led them into the chambers she had taken as her own, and closed the door behind them as they entered, before grabbing Ravel by the arm and spinning him around.

“I have had enough of your subterfuge,” she said.

“I am drow,” he replied with a grin.

Berellip didn’t blink.

“This is ended,” Ravel told her. “And know that I am as weary of looking over my shoulder for you as you are for me.” He turned for the door and Berellip shifted to block his egress.

Now Ravel didn’t blink, and after a few heartbeats, Berellip let him leave.

“He is always full of surprises, that one,” Tiago remarked.

“And you support him.”

“Matron Zeerith supports him,” Tiago corrected. “And Matron Mother Quenthel does so, out of respect for your mother.” When Berellip didn’t immediately reply, Tiago added, “This is ended, and know that I am the weariest of all.”

He stepped past Berellip for the door.

“Mercy,” Berellip said with a disgusted chortle. “He granted Brack’thal mercy, and mercy undeserved.”

“Do not think him weak,” was all that Tiago bothered to reply as he left the room. He glanced back as he stepped through the door. “All of this intrigue has excited me,” he informed her. “I will return to you in short order.”

“And if I refuse?”

“You’re a priestess of Lolth,” Tiago said with a bow. “If you refuse, I will leave.”

“And if I do not refuse, you will be indebted to me,” Berellip said, and Tiago could see the traps being set behind her glowing red eyes. He thought about it for just a moment, then nodded, and with a knowing smile bowed again and was gone.

For indeed, Tiago understood the task Berellip had in mind. Ravel had shown uncharacteristic mercy. Now that she knew of her younger sister’s treachery, Berellip would not.

The Baenre noble caught up to Ravel just beyond the forge area, the young spellspinner sitting by a small table lifting a glass of Slow Spout, a Duergan brew so named because after it swirled around inside the imbiber for some time, it inevitably put the fool on his hands and knees, “spouting” it back up. The thick and bitter ale was more commonly shared among the goblins and kobolds of Menzoberranzan than among the drow, whose tastes and sensibilities were more usually attuned to the finer liqueurs, like Feywine or brandy.