“The mercenary leader will not agree,” Malice replied, for she had tried to hire the soldier of fortune for the endeavor years before. “Every member of Bregan D’aerthe abides by the decisions of Jarlaxle, and all the wealth we possess will not tempt him. I suspect that Jarlaxle is under the strict orders of Matron Baenre. Drizzt is our problem, and we are charged by the Spider Queen with correcting that problem.”

“If you command me to go, I shall.” Dinin spoke out. “I fear only that I will disappoint you, Matron Mother. I do not fear Drizzt’s blades, or death itself if it is in service to you.” Dinin had read his mother’s dark mood well enough to know that she had no intention of sending him back out after Drizzt, and he thought himself wise in being so generous when it didn’t cost him anything.

“I thank you, my son.” Malice beamed at him. Dinin had to hold his snicker when he noticed all three of his sisters glaring at him. “Now leave us.” Malice continued condescendingly, stealing Dinin’s moment. “We have business that does not concern a male.”

Dinin bowed low and swept toward the door. His sisters took note of how easily Malice had stolen the proud spring from his step.

“I will remember your words,” Malice said wryly, enjoying the power play and the silent applause. Dinin paused, his hand on the handle of the ornate door. “One day you will prove your loyalty to me, do not doubt.”

All five of the high priestesses laughed at Dinin’s back as he rushed out of the room.

On the floor, Rizzen found himself in quite a dangerous dilemma. Malice had sent Dinin away, saying in essence that males had no right to remain in the room. Yet Malice had not given Rizzen permission to move. He planted his feet and fingers against the stone, ready to spring away in an instant.

“Are you still here?” Malice shrieked at him. Rizzen bolted for the door.

“Hold!” Malice cried at him, her words once again empowered by a magical spell.

Rizzen stopped suddenly, against his better judgment and unable to resist the dweomer of Matron Malice’s spell.

“I did not give you permission to move!” Malice screamed behind him.

“But―” Rizzen started to protest.

“Take him!” Malice commanded her two youngest daughters, and Vierna and Maya rushed over and roughly grabbed Rizzen.

“Put him in a dungeon cell,” Malice instructed them. “Keep him alive. We will need him later.”

Vierna and Maya hauled the trembling male out of the anteroom. Rizzen did not dare offer any resistance.

“You have a plan,” Shi’nayne said to Malice. As SiNafay, the matron mother of House Hun’ett, the newest Do’Urden had learned to see purpose in every action. She knew the duties of a matron mother well and understood that Malice’s outburst against Rizzen, who had in fact done nothing wrong, was more of calculated design than of true outrage.

“I agree with your assessment,” Malice said to Briza. “Drizzt has gone beyond us.”

“But by the words of Matron Baenre herself, we must not fail,” Briza reminded her mother. “Your seat on the ruling council must be strengthened at all cost.”

“We shall not fail,” Shi’nayne said to Briza, eyeing Malice all the while. Another wry look came across Malice’s face as Shi’nayne continued. “In ten years of battle against House Do’Urden,” she said, “I have come to understand the methods of Matron Malice. Your mother will find a way to catch Drizzt.” She paused, noting her “mother’s” widening smile. “Or has she, perhaps, already found a way?”

“We shall see,” Malice purred, her confidence growing in her former rival’s decree of respect. “We shall see.”

More than two hundred commoners of House Do’Urden milled about the great chapel, excitedly exchanging rumors of the coming events. Commoners were rarely allowed in this sacred place, only on the high holidays of Lloth or in communal prayer before a battle. Yet there were no expectations among them of any impending war, and this was no holy day on the drow calendar.

Dinin Do’Urden, also anxious and excited, moved about the crowd, settling dark elves into the rows of seats encircling the raised central dais. Being only a male, Dinin would not partake of the ceremony at the altar and Matron Malice had told him nothing of her plans. From the instructions she had given him, though, Dinin knew that the results of this day’s events would prove critical to the future of his family. He was the chant leader; he would continually move throughout the assembly, leading the commoners in the appropriate verses to the Spider Queen.

Dinin had played this role often before, but this time Matron Malice had warned him that if a single voice called out incorrectly, Dinin’s life would be forfeit. Still another fact disturbed the elderboy of House Do’Urden. He was normally accompanied in his chapel duties by the other male noble of the house, Malice’s present mate. Rizzen had not been seen since that day when the whole family had gathered in the anteroom. Dinin suspected that Rizzen’s reign as patron soon would come to a crashing end. It was no secret that Matron Malice had given previous mates to Lloth.

When all of the commoners were seated, magical red lights began to glow softly all about the room. The illumination increased gradually, allowing the gathered dark elves to comfortably shift their dual-purpose eyes from the infrared spectrum into the realm of light.

Misty vapors rolled out from under the seats, hugged the floor, and rose in curling wisps. Dinin led the crowd in a low hum, the calling of Matron Malice.

Malice appeared at the top of the room’s domed ceiling, her arms outstretched and the folds of her spider-emblazoned black robes whipping about in an enchanted breeze. She descended slowly, turning complete circuits to survey the gathering-and to let them look upon the splendor that was their matron mother.

When Malice alighted on the central dais, Briza and Shi’nayne appeared on the ceiling, floating down in similar fashion. They landed and took their places, Briza at the cloth-covered case off to the side of the spider-shaped sacrificial table and Shi’nayne behind Matron Malice.

Malice clapped her hands and the humming stopped abruptly. Eight braziers lining the central dais roared to life, their flames’ brightness less painful to the sensitive drow eyes in the red, mist-enshrouded glow.

“Enter, my daughters!” Malice cried, and all heads turned to the chapel’s main doors. Vierna and Maya came in, with Rizzen, sluggish and apparently drugged, supported between them and a casket floating in the air behind them.

Dinin, among others, thought this an odd arrangement. He could assume, he supposed, that Rizzen was to be sacrificed, but he had never heard of a coffin being brought in to the ceremony.

The younger Do’Urden daughters moved up to the central dais and quickly strapped Rizzen down to the sacrificial table. Shi’nayne intercepted the floating casket and guided it to a position off to the side opposite Briza.

“Call to the handmaiden!” Malice cried, and Dinin immediately sent the gathering into the desired chant. The braziers roared higher; Malice and the other high priestesses prodded the crowd on with magically enhanced shouts of key words in the summoning. A sudden wind came up from nowhere, it seemed, and whipped the mist into a frenzied dance.

The flames of all eight braziers shot out in high lines over Malice and the others, joining in a furious burst above the center of the circular platform. The braziers puffed once in a unified explosion, throwing the last of their flames into the summoning, then burned low as the lines of fire rolled together in a gathered ball and became a singular pillar of flame.

The commoners gasped but continued their chanting as the pillar rolled through the colors of the spectrum, gradually cooling until the flames were no more. In their place stood a tentacled creature, taller than a drow elf and resembling a half-melted candle with elongated, drooping facial features. All the crowd recognized the being, though few commoners had ever actually seen one before, except perhaps in illustrations in the clerical books. All in attendance knew well enough the importance of this gathering at that moment, for no drow could possibly miss the significance of the presence of a yochlol, a personal handmaiden of Lloth.