“Spellspinners!” more than one drow craftsman yelled. These artisans were all more than capable of defending themselves, and whenever a fire-kin ventured too near, it was swatted away with a finely crafted, heavily enchanted weapon.
But the artisans didn’t prefer such tactics, for those elemental-kin were a part of the magic and pure energy of the primordial beast, and to strike at them was to assault the essence of creation itself.
“Spellspinners!” The call echoed throughout the large hall and down the myriad nearby tunnels and the main drow camps.
In one such camp, farther into the Underdark the way the expedition had come, Ravel Xorlarrin took note.
“Not again,” he muttered.
“Again,” Jearth remarked, coming up beside him.
“Where is Tiago?”
“In the upper halls, pressing to the top level.”
Ravel didn’t hide his disappointment in that news, giving a harsh snort and slapping a fist against the side of his leg. When he composed himself and regarded Jearth, and the weapons master’s amused grin, he realized that he was showing a bit too much petulance.
“I will need the two of you beside me to resolve this,” he explained.
“They are elementals, and stinging fiery little wretches,” Jearth replied. “More a play for the spellspinners than warriors.”
“For mages, you mean,” Ravel replied with obvious, unhidden frustration, and he let his sour expression remain for some time, that the other spellspinners, too, could view it.
They all understood the truth of it anyway: The breakdown of the forges and the multitude of dangerous elementals running free had come as a blessing for Elderboy Brack’thal, whose pre-Spellplague techniques were proving far more effective in dealing with the fire creatures than anything Ravel and his spellspinners could offer.
Berellip was taking note, they all knew, and Ravel, particularly, knew.
“I have put my trust in you and in Tiago,” Ravel remarked.
Jearth shrugged noncommittally.
Ravel’s expression became more sly as he continued to look at this drow he considered a friend, as he reminded himself that while Jearth might be exactly that, he was also drow, and also a weapons master. Jearth’s primary concern was Jearth, of course, else he would have long ago felt the bite of a drow blade as some younger warrior tried to steal his position in the House hierarchy.
Among the Xorlarrin, spellspinners were held in higher regard than warriors, many higher even than the weapons master, but they were all merely males. The priestesses, the sisters of Xorlarrin, still were held in the highest regard. So if Brack’thal climbed above Ravel in Berellip’s eyes, would it not follow that Jearth would make a new friend in Brack’thal at the earliest opportunity?
The thought unsettled Ravel for just a moment, then reminded him of who he was and to what he aspired.
Brack’thal’s outdated magical repertoire had served Ravel’s rise in status quite well, but Brack’thal was the Elderboy of House Xorlarrin, the first-born son of Matron Zeerith, and it was said that in the days before the Spellplague, he was held in highest regard throughout Menzoberranzan, even in the eyes of Archmage Gromph.
If Brack’thal could prove valuable, even heroic, along this most important mission, what might that mean for Ravel?
Nothing good.
“You cannot do it,” Jearth said, and Ravel looked at him with confusion.
“Goad your brother into an open battle,” Jearth clarified. “You cannot do it. Berellip would not tolerate it.”
“Berellip walks with great care around me,” the spellspinner countered. “She knows that I have the allegiance of Tiago Baenre. She understands the power of House Baenre.”
Jearth’s annoying chuckle scraped at Ravel’s sensibilities.
“You doubt…?” Ravel started to ask.
“Sometimes I doubt that you understand the play,” Jearth interrupted. “Tiago is your ally because he sees you as in the favor of Matron Zeerith, even though you are not in the favor of Berellip or Saribel.”
Ravel puffed up a bit at that spoken truth.
“Do not believe for a heartbeat that it follows, therefore, that Matron Zeerith favors you over either of the females, or above your other sisters. I have seen that folly many times within Menzoberranzan.”
“You just said-”
“In favoring you, Matron Zeerith irks her daughters,” Jearth explained. “They are older, and remember well the glory of Brack’thal, and the glory he and his minions brought to House Xorlarrin. Most of those minions died in the Spellplague, that is true, but if you’re not careful, and thus give Berellip-particularly that one! — the kindling she needs to brighten Brack’thal’s fire in the eyes of Matron Zeerith, you will find the fleeting truth regarding the loyalty of your people.”
“This is my expedition, and so far it has been successful beyond all expectations,” Ravel argued. “We have restarted the forges. We have harnessed the power of the primordial, as has not been done since the days of Gauntlgrym!”
“For the glory of Matron Zeerith and the hopes of House Xorlarrin,” Jearth reminded. “Not for the glory and hopes of Ravel Xorlarrin. If Brack’thal proves the better play going forward, your sister, with your mother’s blessing, will use that play and quickly discard Ravel, do not doubt.”
“Because of me, Gol’fanin brings forth and executes the ancient recipes, long regarded as artifacts of a lost age.”
“Because of Brack’thal, he can continue his work,” Jearth quickly countered. “Which do you suppose is more important to those who would cast you aside at this time, your initial contributions or those current actions that move the dreams of House Xorlarrin forward?”
Ravel licked his lips and nervously stepped from foot to foot. “Tiago Baenre has made of me his ally, and works House Baenre’s desires here through me.”
“You are more important to Tiago Baenre than those weapons Gol’fanin now crafts for him?” Jearth asked, his knowing grin revealing the sarcasm masked within the rhetorical question.
“He has already bought the simmering anger of Berellip,” Ravel replied.
“While he twines with her, and she, willingly and often, with him,” came the response. “Imagine were she to become thick with Tiago’s child.”
The thought hit Ravel so powerfully that the wind from a small bellows would have knocked him from his unsteady feet! He wanted to lash out at Jearth then, to scream at the warrior and even strike at him.
But he calmed, wisely telling himself that Jearth had done him a great service by starkly reminding him of the true nature of kin and kind.
“ Abbil, ” he said, the drow word for friend, though in drow culture, that concept of friendship typically meant little more than an affirmation of a temporary alliance, as Jearth had just reminded him regarding Tiago.
“We need to make a plan,” Jearth said quietly.
“Brack’thal grows more powerful with every breach of the forges, with the appearance of every fiery elemental,” Ravel agreed. “I cannot deny his proficiency in dealing with the creatures.”
“It is a lost art rediscovered, like Gol’fanin’s recipes.”
“What else might be rediscovered along with it?” Ravel remarked, referring to his brother’s former status among the Xorlarrin clan.
By the time they, leading Ravel’s loyal spellspinners, reached the forge room, a huge and hulking beast of living fire stood back from the main forge. It appeared quite agitated, armlike appendages out wide as if wanting to engulf someone or something, anyone or anything, and with clawing fingers of fire clenching repeatedly, little bursts of flame puffing out of either side.
Several drow near the beast, however, revealed the truth of the moment. They milled around, ducking low and peering behind this forge or that in search of more of the smaller fiery creatures. This large elemental was fully
