R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation by Richard Lee & Reid Byers Page B
Authors: Richard Lee & Reid Byers
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hoisted her up against the calcite wall. His two smaller, drowlike hands flexed as if they too wished to get in on the violence.
Perhaps they did.
Triel had conceived a child in a ritual coupling with the glabrezu demon Belshazu. The result was Jeggred, a half-fiend known as a draegloth, a precious gift of the Spider Queen. His mother was quite prepared to believe that cruelty and bloodlust burned in every mote and particle of his being. Only his reflexive subservience, tendered not because Triel had borne him but because she was first among the priestesses of Lolth, kept him from immediately slaughtering his prisoners, or, indeed, pretty much anyone else with whom he came in contact.
Occasionally Triel’s lack of height was an advantage. It didn’t feel awkward or claustrophobic to step inside the circle of Jeggred’s two longer arms and stand before the cousins. Up close, she could smell the sweat of their fear just as easily as she could hear the little choking sounds they were making or the thuds as their heels bumped against the carved surface behind them.
“I forbade you to speak of the situation in public,” she snarled.
The cousin on the left started making more noise, a tortured gargling. Perhaps she was trying to say that she and the other one had been alone.
“This is a public part of the castle,” Triel said. “Anyone, any male might have come along and overheard you.”
She swung her whip of fangs, aiming low to ensure she didn’t accidentally lash Jeggred’s hands or arms. The five writhing adders gashed their targets but not enough to satisfy their mistress. She struck again and again. Her anger rose and rose until it became a kind of rapture, a sweet simplicity in which nothing existed but the cousins’ thrashing, the smell and feel of their blood spattering her face, and the pleasant exertion of her snapping arm.
She never knew what brought her out of that joyous condition. Perhaps it was simply that she was winded, but when she came to her senses, the two babblers were dangling limp and silent in Jeggred’s grip.
Both the draegloth and the scribe were smiling. They’d thoroughly enjoyed the cousins’ excruciating torture, but there were things still to be done, and she’d wasted time losing her temper.
Which was bad. Matron Mother Baenre, de facto ruler of the entire city of Menzoberranzan, should be able to govern herself as well.
Triel’s emotional volatility was of comparatively recent origin. She’d been calm and competent all the while she served as Mistress of Arach-Tinilith. That role, arguably second only to her mother’s in prestige, had suited her well, and she’d never aspired to anything more.
Nor had she truly believed that more was even possible. Her mother seemed immortal. Indestructible. But then, suddenly, she was gone, and the ambition that at one time or another goaded every dark elf awoke in Triel’s breast. How could she not strive to ascend to her mother’s throne? How could she let Quenthel or one of her other kin climb over her head to order her about forever after?
She managed to claim the title of Matron Mother, and though she soon came to feel somewhat overwhelmed by the scope and intricacies of the position, at first it wasn’t so bad. Things were relatively normal and didn’t require some dramatic intervention from on high to set them right.
Moreover, she had Quenthel and Gromph to advise her. True, her sister and brother invariably disagreed, but Triel could review their competing proposals and pick the one that suited her. It was considerably easier than having to come up with the ideas herself.
But she had a crisis to manage, perhaps the greatest crisis in the long history of the dark elves, and apparently she would have to do it alone. She obviously couldn’t confide in Gromph, and insolent Quenthel claimed she had to attend to the security of Tier Breche before she could focus on anything else.
Triel gave her head a shake, trying to
Perhaps they did.
Triel had conceived a child in a ritual coupling with the glabrezu demon Belshazu. The result was Jeggred, a half-fiend known as a draegloth, a precious gift of the Spider Queen. His mother was quite prepared to believe that cruelty and bloodlust burned in every mote and particle of his being. Only his reflexive subservience, tendered not because Triel had borne him but because she was first among the priestesses of Lolth, kept him from immediately slaughtering his prisoners, or, indeed, pretty much anyone else with whom he came in contact.
Occasionally Triel’s lack of height was an advantage. It didn’t feel awkward or claustrophobic to step inside the circle of Jeggred’s two longer arms and stand before the cousins. Up close, she could smell the sweat of their fear just as easily as she could hear the little choking sounds they were making or the thuds as their heels bumped against the carved surface behind them.
“I forbade you to speak of the situation in public,” she snarled.
The cousin on the left started making more noise, a tortured gargling. Perhaps she was trying to say that she and the other one had been alone.
“This is a public part of the castle,” Triel said. “Anyone, any male might have come along and overheard you.”
She swung her whip of fangs, aiming low to ensure she didn’t accidentally lash Jeggred’s hands or arms. The five writhing adders gashed their targets but not enough to satisfy their mistress. She struck again and again. Her anger rose and rose until it became a kind of rapture, a sweet simplicity in which nothing existed but the cousins’ thrashing, the smell and feel of their blood spattering her face, and the pleasant exertion of her snapping arm.
She never knew what brought her out of that joyous condition. Perhaps it was simply that she was winded, but when she came to her senses, the two babblers were dangling limp and silent in Jeggred’s grip.
Both the draegloth and the scribe were smiling. They’d thoroughly enjoyed the cousins’ excruciating torture, but there were things still to be done, and she’d wasted time losing her temper.
Which was bad. Matron Mother Baenre, de facto ruler of the entire city of Menzoberranzan, should be able to govern herself as well.
Triel’s emotional volatility was of comparatively recent origin. She’d been calm and competent all the while she served as Mistress of Arach-Tinilith. That role, arguably second only to her mother’s in prestige, had suited her well, and she’d never aspired to anything more.
Nor had she truly believed that more was even possible. Her mother seemed immortal. Indestructible. But then, suddenly, she was gone, and the ambition that at one time or another goaded every dark elf awoke in Triel’s breast. How could she not strive to ascend to her mother’s throne? How could she let Quenthel or one of her other kin climb over her head to order her about forever after?
She managed to claim the title of Matron Mother, and though she soon came to feel somewhat overwhelmed by the scope and intricacies of the position, at first it wasn’t so bad. Things were relatively normal and didn’t require some dramatic intervention from on high to set them right.
Moreover, she had Quenthel and Gromph to advise her. True, her sister and brother invariably disagreed, but Triel could review their competing proposals and pick the one that suited her. It was considerably easier than having to come up with the ideas herself.
But she had a crisis to manage, perhaps the greatest crisis in the long history of the dark elves, and apparently she would have to do it alone. She obviously couldn’t confide in Gromph, and insolent Quenthel claimed she had to attend to the security of Tier Breche before she could focus on anything else.
Triel gave her head a shake, trying to
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