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Minthara blinks heavily, eyelids fighting off the sunlight that’s invaded her tent. She has a routine each night at camp: she folds in the edges of her tent’s makeshift door around the poles tightly before she lays out her bed roll but after she’s changed and taken some time to read. It’s odd, now that everything’s done, just…moving on. A routine helps.
Trust the wizard to disrupt her fine handiwork. She remembers quite clearly tightening the tarp around the pole as always before he had slithered past her defences and into her bed. Minthara makes a noise of discomfort and slaps him in the face.
The wizard groans, clutching his nose dramatically, but does not roll away. His face is scrunched up like rabbit sniffing out danger – she wonders if he knows how close she is to putting an arrow through his head, how much he and the prey rabbit really have in common.
“What was that for?” He mumbles, pushing himself up on his elbows. His shirt is in a pile on the floor with her own, Minthara recalls throwing it there haphazardly the night before, leaving him as shirtless and she. He must have found his trousers again at some point though, something Minthara is too vexed to currently feel is a shame.
“If I have to tell you about the light one more time I will gouge out your eyes.” She hisses, twisting onto her front to bury her face in a pillow.
He takes a moment to process, still half asleep, and she hates that she can hear the smile in his voice without seeing it. “My apologies, my lady of darkness.” She hates him as he crawls over to the tent flap and secures it (not as tightly as she would have) to the pole and she hates him still as he returns.
Minthara turns up to meet his gaze, eyes bright in the darkness they far prefer. “In Menzoberranzan I would have killed you for incompetence.”
The wizard merely chuckles, laying back down and having the gall to wrap his arm around her waist, holding her against him. The drow grumbles about it under her breath but does not make any effort to move.
“No, you wouldn’t.” He says.
I would, she thinks, I’ve killed more important people for less. But is that even true anymore? She’s not sure. He’s wormed his way into her world, somehow, with a combination of circumstance, convenience and care. The group that destroyed the nether brain has splintered off now: Shadowheart and Lae’zel to the astral realm with their hatchling, Karlach to Avernus with Tav, Astarion and Wyll…well, in truth Minthara’s interest in her companions’ futures petered off there so she hasn’t the slightest clue where they might be but wishes them well all the same.
The wizard has lingered. She is not upset about this. The opposite, in fact – she has grown to care for him deeply, a loyalty exists between them that Lolth and every drow in Menzoberranzan couldn’t comprehend nor shake. She has not said this to him before, not in so many words, but iscertain he knows – she would not make the exceptions for just anyone that she makes for him.
“I would have,” She insists, her eyes fluttering shut again as she relaxes against him. “Not anymore.” She adds, an afterthought.
Minthara, on principle, hates wizards.
It does not matter their race, class or creed – it is as if they wish away any chance of reaching old age the second their clumsy fingers first touch the weave. The worst of them perish before they even have the chance to do anything with it, entranced by the idea of magic without remotely enough brain to channel it to any degree of efficiency. The best…well, Minthara had thought she’d met the best before Dekarios and she still wanted to punch each and every one of them in the face.
That includes her father, who was also wizard – though in his case it was not attraction to the weave that brought about his early death but attraction to her mother. Minthara never respected him, but then again she never respected any man in Menzoberranzan – he just happened to be one that shared her jaw, her eyelashes, the curve of her nose. He had tried to parent Minthara and her sisters a few times when they were children, she recalls a spiel about elbows on the dinner table when she was about nine years old particularly well. She had watched as her older sister sliced off his pinkie finger, laughing and laughing and laughing as he stumbled over the words of a healing spell in his shock.
The debacle had bothered Minthara at the time, not for the gore or the act itself but because her sister has a very jarring laugh and it gave her migraines. The blood that sprayed into her mashed barrelstalk had only improved the taste.
“Well, I don’t intend to kick the bucket anytime soon if I can help it.” Her wizard had said when he asked why she seemed uninterested in getting to know him, oh so long ago, and yet only a blink before now.
Minthara had narrowed her eyes, unwilling to entertain him. “You won’t be able to help it,” She said. “That’s the point.”
“I’ve been doing alright so far.”
“Have you, now?”
“I think so.”
“The orb in your chest would suggest otherwise. I will save my social graces for those who might live to appreciate them.”
She had thought he would be dejected, simper off and complain to the others of her rudeness, her apathy—her. He had smiled though, to her chagrin, and taken it as a challenge.
He had cooked deep rothé when he could find it in the underdark, an attempt to bridge a connection between them knowing how popular it was amongst drow (how he knew this she is not sure, likely his extensive reading) before salting the leftovers to sate her craving when they returned to the surface. Gifted her poisons looted from corpses and caverns along their adventures with that cocksure, suicidal grin of his.
“You really do have a death wish, wizard.” She had said when he handed her a potent drow concoction, black as night with single drop strong enough to knock out a bulette.
He had shrugged and smiled. “Well, I wasn’t going to use it. I thought it might be more useful in experienced hands.”
He wouldn’t last a minute, she had thought wryly as she tucked the vial into her pack. “You’re not very bright.”
“You’re not going to poison me, Minthara.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not?”
She poisoned him that night. The whole party, actually – not enough to cause any real damage but everyone was convinced the turnips the wizard used in the stew were rotten. Minthara took great joy in watching him try and defend himself, even greater joy in admitting what she had done months later when he was laid naked underneath her and lovestruck (his word, not hers) to be annoyed about it.
There are five drops of spider toxin in the tea he’s drinking right now. They’re taking a break she didn’t think was necessary by the Misty Forest as they head north, the wizard requested she make tea while he forages some berries from a nearby bush and she obliged. He sips it quite happily with a smile. “Amazing as always, Minthara. I wish you would tell me your secret.”
He knows the secret’s poison. He knows why she does it and is stupid or kind enough to let her without (much) comment.
She grins, canines piercing her bottom lip, and sips her own. “I’d have to kill you.”
“We can’t have that,” He replies. “Berry?”
She takes one, a little round red thing, and she breaks the skin with her teeth before instantly recognising it as a poisonous Lantana berry. She purses her lips, about to warn him of his mistake, before seeing his shit-eating grin.
“Funny.” She drawls, though does chew and swallow. She’ll be fine.
“Haven’t the slightest clue what you’re talking about, dear.”
And oh, she hates him, but she smiles and moves closer anyway.
Minthara agreed to go to Waterdeep. They had a conversation, points were made, and if they’re heading north anyway it seems only fair that they spend a few weeks at his home so he can assure his mother he’s alive and enjoy the comforts of home before setting back off on adventure again. Her wizard may not have been the wealthiest of his home city – in truth, no wealth could ever really compare to what she experienced growing up a Baenre – but the Dekarios family has a tower and a hearth and – most importantly, in Minthara’s opinion – a very comfortable bed.
He had purposely not told his mother of their arrival in advance. Blabbered on about how neurotic she can get, (cleaning everything over and over to make sure everything’s perfect when it doesn’t need to be perfect, he couldn’t care less if there’s a little dust on the windowsills, so he’d rather save her the anxiety) and Minthara had listened dutifully but mostly let his words drift through one ear and out the other. His mother, this Morena Dekarios, is important to her wizard so she is important to Minthara but her presence does not inspire much confidence that this rest will be calming in any way.
Mothers are frightening creatures, protecting you with one hand so they can strike you with the other. Minthara is grateful for hers in some ways – she would not be who she is now without her mother, without those honeyed words, sharp knives, quashing of individuality and demand of greatness. Minthara’s mother had liked her daughters to match, each with two braids from the crowns of their head pulled back into an intricate style that splintered out to mimic the eight legs of Lolth. Minthara had hated doing it, especially after she had to kill her maids for eating her leftovers when they thought she wasn’t looking – her hair was long and it would take hours, arms tired behind her back and desperate to smash every mirror in the city when one hair would fall out of place.
She spends as little time on her hair now as possible, refuses to admit it’s an act of rebellion. Her baby hairs fall out of the loose bun she ties it in and she lets them, pulls at them – barely even cuts her hair anymore, lets it grow long and wild and uneven. The wizard likes it, he runs his fingers through it softly like it’s spider’s silk and she is just glad he can derive pleasure from something that used to cause her such grief.
So even though she agreed to go to Waterdeep, as they city comes to view in the distance, she wonders if she should have.
But the wizard looks excited, there’s a skip in his step that once would have made her want to trip him up and he’s waxing lyrical about all the places he wants to show her, the things he wants to do that he never thought he’d be able to do again.
“No.”
He pouts. “The cities called Waterdeep, Minthara – surely you must give the beach a go.”
Minthara’s nose scrunches displeasure. “I’m not getting wet.”
He’s quiet moment, the pulsing of his thoughts almost audible beside her. “I won’t let you drown.” He says and she lets out a shocked bark of a laugh.
“I don’t need you for that, wizard.”
He frowns. “Is that not what you’re worried about?”
“I can swim, I’m not a child.” Barely, she adds internally, but he doesn’t need to know that. The underdark has lakes and channels but none are advisable to swim in so most of its residents have never tried. House Baenre had a pool of sorts on the third floor of the palace, her aunt often used it for sacrifices to keep things interesting (there’s only so many times you can cut someone’s throat before Lolth loses interest).
“Swimming is not an adult-exclusive ability, you know.” He muses. “My mother taught me near the mouth of the Dessarin. I hated getting saltwater in my eyes so created a spell to keep my hair and face dry, it was all more fun after that.”
“You are welcome to have your fun alone.” Minthara replies.
He pouts. “It won’t be fun without you. How else am I supposed to swim down and fetch you a rare shell? Or show you the shoals of fish and little water sprites?”
The wizard is being more persistent than usual. “Once, when I was a child, after I outperformed my older sister in our lessons she stole into my bedroom, blindfolded me, tied my hands and legs together and threw me into the pool. It was a good exercise in resilience and I always kept my nails long and sharp afterwards – that was what allowed me to cut through the ribbon she used, a childish error, I never would have been able to get through rope – but I developed a…distaste for water.”
Her wizard stares at her for a second and for a horrid moment she thinks he’s going to pity her. Instead, though, he crosses his arms and furrows his brow. “Your sister is a monster. If I ever see her I’ll…I don’t know what I’ll do, but it won’t be pretty.”
Minthara chuckles, a low thing. “I hope you cross paths soon, then.”
“I had always been jealous of my peers with siblings as a child. You are certainly a great advertisement against them.” He says.
“They have their benefits. And some are better than others.” Minthara replies. “But in my house we were always in competition. I would not be as strong as I am today without them, that is certain – my older sister tried to rule our house like a tyrant and I took great joy in tripping her up.” She pauses, cocking her head to the side as the thinks. “I imagine she’s been dreadfully bored with me gone. None of the others ever held a candle to us, not really.”
“Maybe a bit of boredom will be good for her.”
“She might go after mother, that would be entertaining. A spectacle for the ages.” Minthara muses.
The wizard smiles. “Drow families never cease to confuse me.”
“I assure you I feel quite the same about humans.” And it’s true. She finds all other races confusing, really. Watching the tiefling girl Arabella with her family…seeing that red-haired human girl mourn her mother, no spark of joy at usurping her place – though Minthara supposes taking nothing from a nobody isn’t much of a reward.
“It’s quite simple, really,” He tells her. “I love my mother, and she loves me – though for all the grief I give her it’s probably a condition that’s caused her more pain that joy. She is…I am always welcome at her hearth, and she always at mine. She raised me and that is something I can never repay.”
Minthara frowns. “Why cause grief to someone you love?”
“Because I’m an idiot who flies too close to the sun.”
Minthara snorts. “That we can agree on.”
His tower is nice, she finds herself thinking, if a little cluttered and dusty from disuse but the tressym has done a good enough job of keeping things orderly in his absence. Minthara drops her things in his room and takes her time looking through his bookshelves, wonders how many of these tomes were in her own libraries at home that she never bothered to look at. She had spent many hours pouring over military histories, tales of ascension, coups and prayers for the spider queen but the magic had been for the men.
At the end of the shelf, she spies a smaller book of thick watercolour paper that’s been bound together with twine in an amateurish way. She pulls it from the shelf to find a children’s story, a drawing of a little brown-haired boy sat in his mother’s lap titled ‘How Much Do I Love You?’ on the cover.
The wizard returns then, chewing on golden pastry she doesn’t recognise, and laughs a sweet, deep laugh when he sees what she’s holding. “I had forgotten about that. I can’t imagine you’ll find it to be particularly engaging literature, but I loved it as a boy.”
She can tell, from the scuffed pages and a child’s unsteady hand that has scrawled property of Gale Dekarios on the inside cover that it’s true. She flicks through it before feeling slow for not immediately recognising her wizard as the boy in each of the illustrations.
“My mother is quite a talented artist. She gave that to me for my third birthday, I think – it was always my favourite bedtime story. Maybe it’s because I’m a hoarder but I couldn’t bare to part with it even as I grew up.” He explains.
“The hoarding is not so bad.” Minthara replies, sliding the book back in its place.
“You should have seen this place before the orb. I had to consume most of my magical items so things are pretty empty right now, but it was terrible before. Got to give the orb credit for one thing at least, certainly helped me clean the place up.”
She puts the storybook back on the shelf, brushing some loose strands of hair behind her ear. “Did you want to go to market?”
“Indeed, my mother should be there. It’ll be a surprise of a lifetime.” He chuckles, holding his hand out for her to take.
Minthara presses her lips together. “Perhaps you should go alone, just for the…reunion. I would not want to intrude.”
He frowns. “You couldn’t intrude on family when you are family.”
Something inside her just softens as he says that – his sincerity seeps from every pore. “And you are mine,” She starts, hesitant. “But your mother…she does not know me; she would see only—only a…” She almost says drow, because that is what she means, but that would probably set him off on one of his self-righteous speeches about how judging people based on their background is wrong and prejudiced, etcetera etcetera, so elects not to. “A stranger.” She settles on.
“The quickest way to resolve that is to acquaint yourselves,” He says. “She’s going to be thrilled to meet you, Minthara. She’s been wanting to see me happy with someone for as long as I can remember, nothing in this world could make her happier.”
“Fine,” Minthara says, yanking on the bottom of her top to straighten it. Her ruby eyes meet his, confidence covering for concern, and she’s certain he sees it. The wizard steps closer to her, a hand coming to rest against her jaw as he kisses her softly.
“She’s going to love you.” He says.
Minthara frowns, doubting. “Who wouldn’t?”
He laughs. “Exactly.”
Part of her wonders if she should have changed, tried to fit in more with this city before she scoffs at herself – when did she start hiding, doubting, cowering in fear of judgement? A spider does not concern itself with the opinions of flies. She has forgone the armour since their supposed to be ‘relaxing’, opted instead for a black top with sleeves that drape lazily off the edge of her shoulders and tight but comfortable black trousers. Her wizard had bought the top for her in Baldur’s Gate, a soft fabric she can’t recall even existing in the underdark, and it pleased her.
He always smiles when she wears it like he’s won some prize – her approval, she supposes, is a prize of sorts in its scarcity. This also pleases her.
The wizard loops his arm around hers as they wade into the market, she feels eyes on them both like needles poking her skin from all angles. It is good—reminds her to keep her posture straight, chin up, eyes narrowed for threat. He squeezes her forearm gently, something he intends as a comforting gesture. She does not require comforting but squeezes back all the same.
He stops when they spot an older woman stood bartering at a baker’s stand. Minthara is taken aback by quite how much this woman resembles her wizard – they have the same cocoa eyes and oaken hair, pale skin and creases by their eyes when they smile. If told that Morena Dekarios had produced her son asexually Minthara would not have a hard time believing it.
The baker stops in their friendly debate as they spot her wizard, jaw dropping slightly with widened eyes. Minthara looks up to her companion for a reaction and is surprised to see his eyes are watering happily.
“What is it?” His mother asks the baker as she follows their eyeline to the grinning wizard stood only a few feet away. Minthara lets him go as the woman dashes forward, almost knocking her son over with the impact of her embrace. He merely laughs, returning the gesture, unsurprised.
Minthara tries to remember if her mother ever held her like that. As an adult, certainly not – and if she had attempted to the drow doubts she would have made it out alive. Her father had when she had allowed it, too young to see shame in the action – she had night terrors as a child and would sheepishly shuffle to his chambers, eyes red and raw and desperate for comfort. He had provided it the best he could, which was not very well – probably thought cultivating a special bond with a daughter might benefit him in future.
She could not have gone to him more than twice, maybe three times. It did not take her long to realise he could not protect her from anything.
But Morena Dekarios holds her grown son with a tearful delight, pressing kiss after kiss to his cheek, forehead, nose as if worried his apparition might fade away (a fair concern, Minthara grants, for her wizard has been known to send duplicates in his place).
“Mother,” Her wizard smiles. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
And she looks to Minthara with than half a century younger but so much older, and the drow feels herself smile back before she can even think about it.
“You must tell me – and be honest, now – if you don’t like anything, I’m unfamiliar with the drow palate but I won’t have anyone going hungry in my house,” Morena says, putting dish upon dish on the table. There are jars of pickled vegetables, baked fish with herbs and citrus fruits, salads of many coloured legumes and fried crab, raw octopus and sea snails steamed and dripping in butter. The wizard tries to help his mother with the cooking but she bats him with a tea towel every time he gets close, banishing him to the table like a child.
Minthara nods. “Your son has inherited your culinary skills.”
Her wizard smiles. “Cooking was a tradition. Magic, that she couldn’t help me with, but cooking we did together.”
Morena raises an eyebrow as she puts a pot of soup with various kinds of shellfish at the end of the table. “Who’s she? The cat’s mother?”
The wizard rolls his eyes, pouring three bowls of the soup and handing them out. Minthara sniffs it experimentally – seafood is an expensive and rare import in Menzoberranzan, often soured by the time it reaches their tables.
“I got the clams fresh this morning, there’s nothing quite like them – but you must tell me if they’re not to your taste,” Morena says.
She seems intent on making Minthara feel at home. If Minthara brought her wizard to Menzoberranzan without an army they’d probably be shot on sight, her mother more likely to serve him as the dinner than welcome him to the table.
“Thank you,” She says, spooning up some soup and taking a sip. She’s surprised, in truth, at quite how flavoursome the broth is – it is no lie when she assures her hostess the cooking is more than satisfactory.
“So,” Morena grins, eyes glancing between Minthara and her wizard with unbridled joy. “When’s the big day?”
The wizard chokes on his soup, banging on his chest with a fist, while Minthara fails to understand the woman’s meaning.
“Big day?” She inquires.
“Surely if my Gale brought you home to me – the first time he’s ever done so with anyone, might I add – it means you’re to be married.” Morena says, hands clasped together in a display of maternal pride. “I’ve been waiting for this day for so long. I already have so many ideas!”
“You’re about sixty steps too far ahead,” The wizard says simultaneous to Mintharas’s: “We’re already married.”
He stares at her wide eyed. “What?”
Minthara frowns. “Why are you flopping your mouth open like a fish?”
He runs a hand over his beard, eyes wide and trained on her. “What do you mean we’re already married? Have I hit my head recently because I don’t remember that in the slightest.”
“I told you my name was my mother’s, that we would raise a new house – one with your name.” She replies. “I took your name.”
“Yes but—that’s not, not…” He sputters. “I hadn’t thought…”
She raises a slim eyebrow. “Did you think I took it for cosmetic purposes?”
“No but that’s not…that’s not how I wanted to do it! There should have been a ring, you know, and a party where we could invite our friends and—”
“Bah!” Minthara waves him off. “Parties are for dullards; I have never enjoyed them.” She softens as she sees his disappointment, the edge of her lips curling up slightly. “But if it is important to you, I would be willing to revisit some of those ideas.” She flexes her left hands, cracking the ring finger. “I have always looked good in gold.”
He grins his stupid grin and she wants to slap or maybe kiss off his face. Whatever’s faster.
Morena cleans her throat, clasping her hands together. “Well, if the marriage is already sorted,” she says. “Let’s talk grandchildren.”
Ritual is important in Menzoberranzan. The rituals of worship, of births and deaths and betrayals and deaths and ascension and deaths. Beyond the major events though, Lolth is chaotic mistress and Minthara’s time was mostly her own. She was a favoured by the goddess, a paladin, and spent much of her time sharpening each edge of her body. For good reason – her older sister’s assassination attempts were borderline regular by the time she left and dying by her hand would be the greatest humiliation Minthara could imagine. So there were Lolth’s rituals and the rituals of day to day, all of which were essential for survival.
In Waterdeep Minthara finds ritual has an entirely different meaning. There are no stakes, no threats, no shadow of eight pincers waiting to snatch you up on a whim. She finds it unsettling, this peace – when the wizard had described his home to her before she had imagined the utopian dreaming to be fiction, exaggeration to distract from the pulsing orb in his chest. And yet it’s been two weeks and she’s still not found flaw.
“Gale used to love this when he was little,” Morena says, kneading dough roughly on the counter beside Minthara. Preparing food is something for the lower classes, peasants and paupers, in Minthara’s opinion but is so fundamental to the way of life in Waterdeep that she has been unable to avoid picking up on some things. “Come on, girl, give it some welly.”
Minthara does not appreciate being called girl, especially since she is the senior of the pair, but does not think her wizard would appreciate her picking fights with his mother so holds her tongue. Her hands are calloused, strong things – sharpened and quick from years of sword handling. Kneading bread dough should not be a challenge, and physically it isn’t, but she cannot understand what enjoyment her wizard and his mother derive from the activity.
“If you’re done,” Morena says. “Fetch some herbs from the garden, please. The ones in the bed by the pond if you don’t mind.”
It is strange to take orders from this woman but Minthara does so anyway, brushing her braid over her shoulder and letting it sway like a metronome as she twirls the kitchen knife in her hand. Once in the garden she dabs her finger in the pond, the fish hurriedly swim over to the ripples which is their usual indication of feeding and Minthara chuckles to herself as they dumbly circle each other with not a crumb in sight. She then cuts some herbs from the bed, not from the root this time – a mistake she had made before, the wizard had smiled and gently corrected her, and she had felt mortified until she realised that in Waterdeep there are no stakes. No need to be embarrassed. He will forget about her mistake and move on, not cling to it like a precious gem and pelt it at the back of her neck until the spot becomes perpetually bruised.
Something rustles behind her; the wind picks up by the water. Minthara makes to pluck another leaf when she stills, eyes narrowed. Morena has wind chimes that sing in the wind, too many for the noise to be anything close to pleasant as they all try and drown each other out. There’s one, a particularly loud set with a red gem fused into the metal, that is abnormally silent.
Minthara spins around lightning fast, knife flying from her hand and taking root in the neck of a drow assassin that had been perched on the roof. The drow could not scream for their vocal cords were pierced, only stare dumbly clutching their throat as they tumbled off onto the ground before her. She has never doubted her aim, but Minthara holds their eyes open until she sees the light leave.
After scoping out the area Minthara concludes this assassin was a lone one – she assumed so since drow assassins normally have no need for backup. Once sure, she yanks the dead mercenary’s hood back to reveal a man she does not recognise sporting a Baenre amulet. She takes the knife back, a spurt of blood springing up to protest the removal before the stream runs to a halt. Baenre red twinkles in the sun it’s so unused to.
She huffs, rolling her eyes. It’s insulting of her mother to send a lone male assassin at this point.
“Did you have trouble finding the herbs?” Morena calls from inside the house and Minthara freezes. Her wizard may have been on adventures, but his mother has always had a simple life in Waterdeep – a dead assassin in her garden will do nothing to endear her to her son’s partner.
“Just a minute!” Minthara calls back, hoisting the dead body up from under his armpits and dragging him away through the flowerbeds. If she can hide him in the compost bin for now she can return tonight to take him to the river, sent out to sea to be fish food forever.
She’s trying to stuff his last gangly limb into the bin when a voice behind her makes her jump.
“Everything alright?” Morena raises an eyebrow, arms crossed over her apron.
Minthara shuffles to her left to try and cover the loose leg. “Fine…just distracted by how beautiful your garden is.”
The human woman snorts, shaking her head as she points a wooden spoon towards the compost bin. “Are you going to explain why you’ve spent the better part of five minutes squashing the body of one of your kin into my compost bin, love?”
Minthara deflates and her stomach coils uncomfortably. It had been good for a while, but everything is conditional – your mother loves you if you’re strong enough to earn it, your God loves to you if you’ll lose yourself in submission. Your wizard loves you if his mother approves. She should have known she could never make it work.
“He was going to kill me, I acted pre-emptively.” She says, it comes out more defensive that she intended. “I…I will take him to the river when the sun sets. It won’t be a burden on your compost bin for long.”
Morena clicks her tongue. “Bodies that wash out to sea are often caught by the fishermen. Besides, seems like a waste.”
Minthara blinks. “Waste?”
“My hyacinths haven’t been doing so well this year and that bed seems to be just the right size for this gentleman. Maybe he’ll help give them new life.” Morena says, slipping her spoon onto her pocket. She moves to the bin, throwing the lid open and grabbing the corpse’s ankles. “Come on, girl – we’ve not got all day.”
They make quick work of digging up the wilting hyacinths and laying the assassin in his new, flowery grave. Within the hour you’d never know anything had changed, Minthara has to concede surprise at how efficient Morena is at cleaning up a mess. It makes her wonder if she had been too quick to assume that her life had been one of peace – there must be things her wizard does not know about his mother.
Morena wipes the dirt from her hands on a rag when they finish, pushing herself to her feet with a grunt of effort.
“Who was he?” She asks after a beat.
Minthara hesitates. “I do not know. An assassin.”
“But sent by who?”
“My Mother, that is certain.”
Morena’s eyes widen at that, she must really not know much about drow. “I am so sorry.” She says.
Minthara frowns. “Sorry? I have never – it is not your fault. It is just the way of things.”
The human woman circles round to Minthara and gently puts a hand on her shoulder. The drow flinches, resisting the urge to wrench herself away as she forces herself to stay put. She does not like the pity in Morena’s eyes – she can handle herself, clearly, it’s not like she’s a little girl being kicked down by her mother anymore. She is long grown, a woman. She is strong.
But then Morena pulls her close like she had the wizard upon their reunion, the force of the embrace almost knocking the wind out of her. Minthara yelps and steadies herself, arms awkwardly hovering over her back as she absorbs the sensation of being held, held in a way a mother holds her child.
“I’m so sorry, Minthara.” Morena murmurs.
And her body softens, and she holds her back, tight, her head buried in the crook of Morena’s neck like it never had been in Quenthel Baenre’s.
“Thank you.” She whispers back, inaudible, but she’s sure Morena hears her all the same.
Minthara remembers the births of each of her younger siblings vividly. Her mother hated pregnancy, it was nine months of rage as she took her pain and discomfort out on those around her – this instilled a vigilance for keeping up birth control in Minthara from a very young age.
She was five when Nymayne was born and resented her immediately – this was not a feeling that ever went away, not for a second - even as Minthara took her life decades later.
She was ten when little Fay was born, though – and when she held her baby sister for the first time it had been love at first sight. Filafay Baenre was a twin but Minthara did not care to look at her new brother, she was enraptured by the little greyish creature with her ruby red eyes and purple pout. Nym had pouted and cried that day, she never did well out of the spotlight, but Minthara did not care that everyone was looking at Fay because how could they not? She was perfect.
Filafay looked most like their mother of all her siblings and to this day Minthara believes that to be her mother’s best trait. Minthara had taken pains to be as involved with Fay’s upbringing as possible – it was her taught Fay the sword, the bow, the lyre. Taught her poisons and resistance, gifted her a spider hatchling from her own spider’s brood when she killed her first man.
When Fay died – body shattered, broken, bent so unnaturally at the bottom of that chasm – Minthara had screamed and screamed and cried and screamed until her voice was hoarse and her nails were filled with chunks of flesh she had clawed from her own shoulders. Her mother had scolded her for the display, the embarrassment of it all, and she had not cared because Fay had never been hers in the way she had been Minthara’s.
She had resolved never to let anyone have the capacity to leave her in that state again and had been successful. Her lovers were all passing fancy, she disposed of them herself before they could hurt her, and the rest of her living siblings knew better than to poke the hornet’s nest. When her mother had her last child, a final daughter only fourteen years ago, Minthara did not care enough to visit.
In the dark she imagines her wizard’s body as Fay’s had been, broken and bruised. She imagines her older sister laughing over the scene, sees the blood seep from his mouth into Lolth’s blackened earth to feed her insatiable, unending hunger.
He turns in his sleep, an arm slumping over her stomach as his face nestles into her shoulder. She does not mind.
“They will not touch you, wizard,” She promises. “I will not let them.”
She will burn the nest of poison vipers that calls itself House Baenre to the ground and their monstrous goddess with them. She will take control, reshape their world in her image, and she will smile as her mother rots in a sunlit flowery grave.
And then, once their conquest is complete, she will return to Waterdeep with her wizard and lay in this bed with him (annoyed, because he didn’t close the curtains properly and the sun is creeping in through the crack). It will be so, it will be good.