Charon's Claw (Neverwinter #3)(2)

But if House Xorlarrin found such a fortress as this Gauntlgrym, and a source of power as great as a primordial, perhaps they would realize their dreams.

“You will lead the expedition,” Zeerith said. “You will find all the resources of House Xorlarrin at your disposal.”

At the side of the room, Brack’thal’s audible sigh had many heads turning his way.

“Is there a problem, Elderboy?” Zeerith asked him.

“Elderboy. . . .” he dared echo, as if the fact that he and not Ravel held that title should be an obvious enough problem for all to see.

Zeerith glanced at her daughters and nodded, and as one, the five Xorlarrin sisters took up their magical whips, multi-headed, devious magical implements whose strands writhed with living, biting serpents.

Elderboy Brack’thal growled in response. “Matron, do not! If you would allow Ravel his miscues, then so you must—”

He fell silent and took a step back, or tried to, but those drow around him grabbed him and held him fast, and as the sisters approached, their commoner male servants marching defensively before them, Brack’thal was thrown to their grasp.

The commoners dragged him out of the chamber, into a side room that many males of the House knew all too well.

“All the resources,” Zeerith said again to Ravel, and she didn’t lift her voice, flinch, or avert her eyes at all as the beating in the anteroom commenced and Brack’thal began to shriek in agony.

“Even the weapons master?” Ravel dared to ask, and he, too, feigned that his brother’s screaming was nothing unusual or disruptive.

“Of course. Wasn’t Jearth complicit in your deception of Gromph Baenre?”

It was the answer he wanted to hear, of course, but Ravel hardly smiled. He glanced over at the weapons master, who seemed to shrink back just a bit and flashed him a cold stare in response. Jearth had indeed helped him, but covertly . . . only covertly! Jearth had warned him from the beginning that he would not have his name associated with any deception involving Gromph Baenre, and now Matron Mother Zeerith had expressed it openly in the House Noble Court.

House Xorlarrin was the most magical, from an arcane and not divine standpoint, of any House in Menzoberranzan. Xorlarrin put more students into Sorcere than any other House, even Baenre, and many times the number of any House other than Baenre. And the Master of Sorcere was the Archmage of Menzoberranzan, Gromph Baenre.

No one, not Ravel, not Jearth, not even Matron Mother Zeerith, doubted that Gromph Baenre had spies within House Xorlarrin. To Ravel, this was no great issue. He had been a favored student of Gromph and the archmage would not likely move against him for such a transgression as a bit of spying.

But Jearth was a warrior and no wizard, and merciless Gromph would likely show no such deference to any swordsman.

“You will take Brack’thal, as well,” Zeerith instructed.

“Subservient to me?” Ravel asked, and Zeerith grinned wickedly.

“And of your sisters, only Saribel and Berellip are available for the journey,” Zeerith explained.

Ravel tightened at that, but quickly hid it, for Saribel was the youngest, the weakest, and, as far as he could tell, by far the stupidest, of the House priestesses, and Berellip, though older and more powerful, often looked upon him with open scorn and had made no secret of her dismay that House Xorlarrin allowed males so prestigious a status among the nobles. Fanatical in her devotion to Lolth, Berellip showed indifference, at best, to the arcane spellspinners, and had, on occasion, issued open threats to the upstart Ravel.

“You will argue?” Zeerith asked, and coincidentally, at that moment, Brack’thal let loose the most agonized scream of all.

Ravel swallowed hard. “Harnessing a primordial . . .” he said, shaking his head and letting his voice trail off ominously. “Has it ever been accomplished?”

“Redirect its powers, perhaps?” Zeerith asked. “You understand what we need.”

Ravel bit back his next argument and considered the words carefully. What did House Xorlarrin truly need?

Room to breathe, most of all, he understood. If they could establish a fledgling city in this ancient dwarven land and have time to get their considerable magical wards in place, would the other Houses of Menzoberranzan think it worth the cost to assault them?

If this new drow city could open avenues to expanded trade, or serve as a warning post against any potential Underdark excursions by the wretched surface dwellers, would that not be a boon to Menzoberranzan?

“Ched Nasad has never been replaced,” Ravel dared to remark, referring to Menzoberranzan’s former sister city, a beauty of web bridges and sweeping arches, which had been destroyed in the War of the Spider Queen a century before.

“Berellip will inform you of your budget for mercenaries,” Zeerith said with a dismissive wave. “Assemble your team and be away.”

Ravel bowed quickly and spun around, just in time to see Brack’thal staggering back into the audience chamber, his shirt tattered and bloody, his jaw clenched and eyes bulging from the painful poison of snake-headed whips. Despite that obvious inner struggle, the Elderboy managed to control his facial muscles just long enough to toss Ravel a hateful glare.

For an instant, Ravel thought of appealing Zeerith’s decision that he take his brother along, but he let it go. Brack’thal could not defeat him in single combat, after all, and they both knew it. Brack’thal wouldn’t make a move against him personally. And since Ravel had been given the power to determine the composition of the expeditionary force, he’d make sure that none of Brack’thal’s associates would go along.