Charon's Claw (Neverwinter #3)

Charon's Claw (Neverwinter #3) Page 51

No more than the danger below, Saribel hastily flashed back. Her fingers continued, but she clamped her fist shut, shutting down the communication. “Do you think I fear battle?” she asked aloud, her voice seeming absurdly loud in the dull silence of the dusty chambers, the volume drawing looks of alarm from Jearth and others nearby.

It is not wise to . . . the weapons master started to reply with fingers emphatically waggling.

“Enough, Jearth,” Saribel demanded. “If there are enemies to be found, then let us find them and be done with them.”

Jearth motioned for the others to move past and he motioned Saribel aside into a small and broken chamber, one that might have served as an antechamber for a chapel, for through a second, low archway, one nearly crumbled, it connected to a large room that had what appeared to be the remains of an altar at its far end. Glancing through it, Jearth watched a patrol of goblins scurrying along.

He turned to the priestess.

“If you’re so afraid . . .” she started to say, but he cut her short with an upraised hand.

“Of course I’m not,” he replied quietly. “I wish nothing more than to find some enemy blood to wet my blades. But I wish our conversation private.”

“Plotting?” she asked slyly.

“You see the coming battle as clearly as I.”

“I hope to, indeed.”

“Ravel will win out.”

Saribel scoffed at that.

“You don’t believe it, or you do not wish it?”

“The latter,” Saribel replied with a grin, “and so, doubtlessly, the former will follow.”

Jearth understood her clearly enough. Berellip preferred Brack’thal.

The weapons master shook his head, slowly and deliberately.

“You doubt the priestesses of Lolth?” Saribel asked incredulously.

I do not doubt at all that Berellip could find victory for whichever side she chose. Jearth went back to the silent hand signals, for he sensed someone just beyond the archway and wanted this critical exchange to be truly private. But why would Saribel follow?

Saribel’s superior expression turned to one of confusion, and Jearth knew that he was on very dangerous ground. His fingers moved slowly. If Berellip chooses Brack’thal, Berellip chooses wrongly.

Saribel’s eyes widened and Jearth added, Tiago Baenre stands with Ravel.

Then Tiago Baenre . . . she started to reply, but Jearth emphatically interrupted her.

If Tiago does not return to Matron Mother Quenthel, House Baenre will wage war on House Xorlarrin, he explained. There is no exception to be found. If Tiago is killed by a corbie or a cave-in, or smitten dead by Berellip, it matters not at all. Matron Mother Quenthel Baenre has assured me of this. It was her way of ensuring that Tiago’s choice would, by necessity, be our choice.

Saribel’s shoulders slumped visibly, dropping under the undeniable weight of House Baenre.

Tiago has made his choice and will not be dissuaded. He stands with Ravel.

Berellip does not, Saribel’s fingers replied. I must go to her. She started to turn, but Jearth caught her by the arm, and when she turned back, outraged that he had dared touch her, he smiled to calm her.

“Why?” he asked aloud.

Saribel looked at him without any sign of comprehension. How had this dolt ever climbed so high among the priestesses of the House? Could it be more clearly spoken? He was offering Saribel ascension. If Berellip sided with Brack’thal, but he and Saribel turned against her, the battle would be short-lived indeed. For all of Berellip’s power, and all of Brack’thal’s newfound prowess, Ravel commanded the spellspinners and had Tiago at his side.

Surely you can justify your decision to Matron Zeerith, knowing that Berellip’s course would have set House Baenre upon us, he dared signal.

So there it was, out in the open. As his hands stopped communicating, Jearth brought them near to his weapons. He could defeat this priestess, he believed, but only if he was quick and his aim true.

For a long while, Saribel’s expression remained impassive.

“If our mission here is successful, it might well create a new hierarchy in House Xorlarrin,” Jearth stated.

“Certainly Ravel would be elevated above the stature of Brack’thal,” Saribel replied, her words sounding as sweet music in Jearth’s ears. “Formally, I mean, for already it is clear that the Secondboy has the favor of Matron Zeerith above the Elderboy.”

“Lolth blesses this expedition, and will heap rewards and stature upon her priestesses who facilitated it, either by the Spider Queen’s side in a place of honor in death, or within House Xorlarrin for those who return,” Jearth said with a wry grin, one that was soon reflected on Saribel’s face.

A cry from somewhere ahead of them told them that battle had been joined.

“For the glory of House Xorlarrin,” Saribel said, and she started away.

“For the glory of the city of Xorlarrin,” Jearth offered, and Saribel glanced back and nodded.

Jearth remained behind just long enough to take a deep breath, and once again he found himself quietly admiring Ravel. For this division of the sisters had been Ravel’s scheme, of course, all planned beforehand with both Tiago and Jearth.

It wasn’t always possible to plot steps ahead of drow females, but it was never very hard to get them to stab each other in the back.

Jearth drew his weapons and started away, now paying attention to these most interesting chambers and corridors around him. This had been the residence region of ancient Gauntlgrym, so who knew what treasures they might find?

It wasn’t often that Berellip Xorlarrin was left speechless, and Tiago Baenre was quite proud of himself for accomplishing that feat.

“There is more to Saribel than you assumed,” he said lightheartedly, to convey that this Xorlarrin intrigue was quite amusing to him. He had just assured her that her sister would not stand beside her against Ravel in the probable duel with Brack’thal, executing the second part of Ravel’s clever plan. Jearth divided the sisters and Tiago happily relayed that truth to the one separated.

“You presume that I will let Ravel and his spellspinners kill my brother?” she said. “You believe I have no choice or say in the matter?”

“I think the consequences give you pause. I think you’re quite intelligent.”

Berellip swept past him, out of the room and down the corridor to the forge area, which was glowing brightly in the distance. When they entered, they found that the anticipated fight might be farther along than they had expected, for Brack’thal stood in the center of the room, a gigantic fire elemental at his side, and several other smaller ones dancing in a circle around him.

Across the way, leaning easily on the cooling pool of an unfired forge, Ravel stood with his arms crossed over his thin chest, an amused expression clear on his face.

“Don’t you feel it, Secondboy?” Brack’thal called with obvious delight. “Of course you do, but you don’t want to admit it. You feel it and you fear it!”

None of the craftsmen, not goblin, bugbear, nor drow, were working, all eyes focused on these two principals in a conflict long-expected.

Berellip glanced around the room, and noted that more than a few of the blacksmiths weren’t craftsmen at all, but were Ravel’s spellspinners, strategically placed. Her young brother had planned well. He had seen this coming—likely had incited it—in a time and place of his own choosing.

But perhaps he had erred, it occurred to her as she noted another elemental burning a line out of a forge and rushing to Brack’thal’s side, for there was no denying that the older Xorlarrin son was finding impressive amounts of power and control. Just then, as if sensing her attention, Brack’thal turned to regard her and Tiago. “He feels it!” Brack’thal explained. “And he knows what it is. Don’t you, spellspinner?” he shouted, turning sharply back on Ravel.

“I feel that you have left your better judgment behind,” Ravel answered flippantly.

“My powers grow ascendant once more!” Brack’thal said. “Where will you be then, spellspinner?” He waved his arms and looked all around, focusing on Ravel’s spies. “Where will all of you be in that event?”

“Alive, at least,” Ravel replied, a clear threat.

Which was more than Brack’thal would be able to say, Berellip knew, for despite his fiery servants, she expected that Ravel and the others would make short work of him. She wondered how to proceed, for it didn’t seem like Brack’thal would listen to any reasoning, and she hated the thought of his demise at that time, both because of the implications to Ravel’s standing and because, on a practical level, Brack’thal’s work with the elementals, however the fool was managing it, was proving quite valuable here at the all-important forge.

Tiago Baenre stepped past her.

“Would that not be a wondrous thing?” he said loudly, commanding attention.

“Ah, Ravel’s rothé makes his appearance,” Brack’thal shouted back.

Tiago laughed it off, resisting the urge to fling his sword into the mage’s forehead—and it would not have been a difficult throw. He walked steadily toward Brack’thal. As he neared, so that only Brack’thal could hear, he whispered, “You cannot win.”

Brack’thal puffed his chest out defiantly.

“Berellip stands with Ravel,” Tiago said, and the mage deflated almost instantly. He looked past Tiago to Berellip, who, understanding what Tiago had just related, nodded solemnly to confirm it.

Brack’thal’s eye twitched, and he licked his lips as he turned his gaze from Berellip to Tiago and then to Ravel, who was slowly approaching, a smile slowly widening. Ravel nodded left and nodded right, and from the shadows came the spellspinners, staves and wands in hand, fingers rolling eagerly around them.

“Not one of those you thought your ally will stand with you against Berellip,” Tiago quietly informed Brack’thal.

The mage spun on Berellip. “Sister!” he implored her.

“Dismiss your pets back to the forges,” she ordered. “We have much work to do.”

“Sister!”

“It is ended!” Berellip roared at him, and she came forward forcefully, even throwing a spell before her, one that smote a minor elemental with a burst of water, and the creature dissipated into a blast of fog with an angry hiss.

“Eight legs?” she asked Brack’thal, and the blood drained from his face, for that particular reference loomed as the worst curse any drow might hear. Berellip had just informed the mage that his fate lay among Yerrininae’s band!

Brack’thal, clearly caught and overwhelmed by the turn of events, held up his hands unthreateningly and began complying, dismissing his pets to the various forges.

By the time Berellip and Ravel reached him, only the largest remained. Brack’thal looked to it, then back to Berellip, and fell on his knees before her.

“Kill me, I beg,” he said.

“It will not be quick,” she promised wickedly, and he accepted that with an eager nod, for better to be tortured to death than to be transformed into a wretched drider!