~0. Interlude~
Mindra, 7 months after the Calamity
Mindra hissed as yet another commoner dared to get in her way, already sick of this filthy street and the leech-filled district known as Duthcloim. The dusky lights were bad enough, an abomination to the shadows of the Underdark. The crowds of foreigners were worse, a blight on their pure drow society.
Her hand twitched for the snake-headed whip concealed under her cloak, but she didn’t draw it. She was in a hurry, and she was trying to blend in with these flea-ridden bottom feeders. Bearing her presence and glory for the common folk to see would draw attention she had no desire to receive.
So she moved on, hating this miserable market more and more with each step. But her common disguise was necessary. The only thing worse than this humiliation would be word of her excursion making it back to the ears of Matron Xatel.
At last, she found her destination, a dingey little tavern on the edge of the Clawrift. It bore the name, The Dagger’s Edge, and teetered perilously close to collapsing into the darkness below. She raised one perfectly arched brow, taking in the blackened windows and solid door.
The shack was a rathole, but at least her contact wasn’t wrong. They would be afforded all the privacy she had wanted in this out-of-the-way establishment.
Not keen on wasting time, she lowered her cowl and pushed through the door. A haze of dizzying smoke greeted her, reflecting the flickering light of a single oil lamp in nauseating ways. It obscured the forms of patrons seated around the tables and bar, adding to the ambiance of privacy. Other than that, the tavern was painfully mediocre. A dozen or so tables, barrels of drink pressed against the wall. The sour stench of old ale beneath the sweet aroma of pipeweed and other more potent hallucinogens.
The place disgusted her. She should have just agreed to a private meeting, but she hadn’t trusted meeting her contact in his own territory and she was certainly not going to invite him to House Tear.
Mindra swept across the threshold, doing her best to keep her head held high while avoiding being seen directly by anyone too stupid to keep to their own business. Fortunately, aside from a stray glance or two, no one seemed to care that she was there. Gazes slipped over her and back to their drink without the slightest concern.
All save for one, a male seated at the bar. When Mindra’s eye fell on him, his own locked with hers. A flicker of red, lingering longer than the others, before disappearing under the hood of his cloak.
It was not who she was looking for. Though she had never met the drow she sought, she would know him at once. His smoke-hued skin and azure eyes were infamous in Menzoberranzan.
And he was infamously not here. A muscle spasmed in her jaw as she stepped up to the bar. Every second she had to linger in this lolthforsaken dump was an insult she would make him repay in coin.
The barkeeper was there before she even dropped onto the stool, flashing her what she supposed was meant to be a winsome smile. “Well met, my lady,” he said. “What may I serve you?”
Mindra almost waved him off, irritated enough without his boyish features ogling her. The thought of touching her lips to the Dagger’s crude goblets made her mouth thin, but she feigned a flirtatious smile. She was, after all, trying to blend in. “Your finest shimmer wine,” she said, glancing at the man at the end of the bar who had held her eyes too long.
He had five small glasses lined up in front of him, four of them empty. His finger swirled around the rim of the fifth, still filled with an amber liquid. She sensed his eyes still on her, even though she couldn’t see them.
Mindra frowned in disapproval, pointedly turning her face away.
The barkeep bowed low and scurried off to fulfill her request. He babbled about the fine choice she had made and the collection he had to offer, but Mindra wasn’t listening. The boy–she assumed he was a boy by his manners–was beneath her notice.
Then a shadow fell upon her. Or rather, the sense of a shadow. She kept her gaze fixed forward as a man sidled up beside her, placing a hand on the bar and leaning over her. A hand with smoke-colored skin and an obnoxious display of silver rings.
“Well, now, I haven’t seen you here before. What brings a woman of your caliber into this fine establishment?”
They were bold words for a male. Forward, even lascivious. Had Mindra not seen through the ploy, she would have been highly offended. But she had asked for anonymity, and this was how she was going to get it. So she smiled and played along, resting her chin on her hand and giving the male an appraising look.
To her immense surprise, he cut a striking image. She’d heard all the rumors about this drow; that his blood was mixed with water, that he dressed like diatryma strutting for a mate. Every word of it appeared to be true, but what was sneered about in high society turned out to paint a rather alluring picture. He was handsome and exotic, and Mindra knew at once it was part of his play.
She would not be drawn in. “Just waiting for someone,” she said, and she even fluttered her lashes. “Though he’s running late, and I’m not sure I’m patient enough to wait.”
“Only a fool would keep you waiting,” he said, taking the stool beside her. “Allow me to steal your attention. May I buy you a drink?”
As if on cue, the barkeep returned, setting a goblet of glowing shimmer wine before her. “Our finest vintage,” he declared. It was only as he pushed it towards her that she realized he had a silver hook for a hand.
The child must have had a poor mother. If any son of hers lost a hand, she’d make sure he lost his head as well. She didn’t hide her disdain as she slid the boy a silver, which was more than the wine was worth.
“You’re too late,” she said, turning back to her fake suitor with mocking disappointment. “I’ve bought my own drink.”
“And mine as well, it seems,” he said, eyeing the silver. He glanced at the tender and flashed a signal. Though no words were spoken either verbally or in gesture, the one-handed boy went to work preparing a draft of ale.
Mindra’s smile tightened. It had not been her intention, but she said nothing of it. “A silver tongue to accompany your silver rings, I see. I’ll remember that.”
“I hope you do.” He offered her a hand. “I am Kalos Seabane. A pleasure to make your formal acquaintance.”
“Seabane? That’s an odd surname. I don’t think I’ve heard the likes of it before.”
It was a jab at his heritage, and the houseless mercenary must have known it.
But if he caught on, he didn’t stumble. “It’s more of a title than a surname. From my former life. And you are?”
“Alarene,” Mindra said, giving the name of her second youngest sister. She took his hand and expected a firm grip to test wills. Instead, he lifted her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles. It was such a shocking display of respect and humility that she almost fell right out of the game. It didn’t match the arrogance she’d heard so much about.
“Let’s get to know each other a little better, Lady Alarene,” Kalos said, gesturing to a booth in the corner. It boasted high benches that offered the most privacy a public tavern could supply.
Mindra obliged because she had no choice. If this were a real encounter, she would’ve twisted his heart until he begged for her company. Then, maybe, she’d relent. More likely, she’d leave the fool dizzy and dissatisfied. But she was Alarene today, and if she gave her sister a reputation of being easy to please, well, she wasn’t losing any sleep over it.
Kalos carried her goblet for her and gave her the choice of seat. She opted to sit with her back to the wall, as any sensible elf would. The moment he set her wine before her, she dropped the charade.
“You enjoy this too much,” she said, snatching up the drink. The barkeep called it their finest wine, but it was dry and sour.
Kalos shrugged. “You seemed to be enjoying it yourself, princess.”
Mindra sneered. She couldn’t decide if his use of her title was mocking or calculated. Either way, it was reckless. “Watch yourself, mercenary. I can take my business elsewhere.”
If the threat phased him, he didn’t show it. Instead, he took a sip of his ale. “Can you? It’s my understanding you’re a little short on friends these days. Alarene.” His lips twisted over her chosen alias.
So, he was arrogant after all. The dog. It was all Mindra could do not to bare her teeth. He might be right, but that didn’t mean he should be reveling in it.
Well, two could play at this game. He wasn’t the only one who had been listening to rumors. “And how is Xanantha these days?” she asked, lifting her chin. “Does she know how you flirt with your clients?”
This time, her jab worked. At the mention of his lover’s true name, his charcoal-lined eyes tightened ever so slightly. Yet when he spoke, his words were as disinterested as before. “Who do you think taught me the lines?”
Her victory was brief but satisfying, and Mindra wanted more. She wanted to see him squirm. Menzoberranzan was filled with tales of this band of houseless riff-raff getting the better of the nobility. Neither her name–nor Alarene’s–would find themselves in one of those tales.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” she said. “If I remember correctly from our days at Arach-Tinilith, she had a disgraceful appetite for men with pretty eyes. I believe that’s what got her into all that trouble.”
This time, Kalos did not react how she had hoped. No scowl, no outburst of wrath. Instead, he smiled innocently, cocking his head to the side. “You think my eyes are pretty?”
The veins on the back of her hand popped as Mindra attempted to crush the stem of her goblet. A misfired shot, but no matter. The game was still being played. “Perhaps. But I’m not here for pretty eyes. I’m here for what you can do for me. Let’s talk business.”
“Well you’re not off to a great start,” Kalos said, as casually as though he remarked on the slave trade. He set his tankard on the table and laced his fingers behind his head. “But I’m all ears.”
Mindra glowered. How dare this half-blood rat dismiss her so casually. She was tempted to throw her shimmer wine in his face and storm out, but unfortunately, he hadn’t been wrong. House Tear was short on allies at the moment.
She took a breath to swallow her pride, reminding herself the means were worth the ends. Finally, with as much dignity as she could muster, she said, “I am looking for something. And if you help me find it, I am prepared to reward you handsomely.”
“Oh?” Kalos looked bored. “How handsome are we talking?”
Mindra had never been good at hiding her temper. She did her best to count her breaths as she reached into her cloak and produced a slip of paper, which she placed face down on the table and slid towards him. “The first figure is what you will receive as payment in advance. The second is what you will receive when you deliver.”
Kalos swept up the note with deft hands, glancing at it surreptitiously. To Mindra’s immense delight, he was unable to hide his shock at what he saw.
“That,” he admitted, “is quite handsome indeed. Alright, Lady Alarene. You have regained my undivided attention.”
“Good,” she said, though she wanted to snap his neck in two. “I’m glad you’re ready to do business.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’m almost afraid to ask you what is worth all this gold.”
“It’s not so much of a what,” she said. “As it is a where. I am looking for a certain city.”
He lifted his brows. “I’m going to take a stab in the dark and assume this city isn’t on a map.”
Mindra plastered an endearing smile on her face as she said simply, “Launa ve Eilistraee.”
For a moment, Kalos said nothing. He just stared at her, as the High Elvish words hung between them. He was silent for so long she almost asked if the fool spoke Elvish, considering his unorthodox heritage.
Then he doubled over, shaking with mirth.
“That’s a good one,” he said, slapping the table. “Seriously, what do you want us to find? I’m guessing the corpse of that run-away brother of yours.”
Mindra had had enough. “You. Insolent. Cur!” She was on her feet, her hand thrust out as though she would snatch him by the throat. A bend in the smoke was the only sign of the magic that shot from her fingertips, grabbing hold of his person. Kalos went stiff and rigid. His laughter ceased, but his smirk remained.
In the split second after her spell snared him, Mindra understood why. She was not the only one on her feet. In fact, every drow in the room was on their feet, a series of crossbows and sword tips pointed at her. Everyone, that is, except for the man at the end of the bar.
In the stillness of the moment, he was the only one to move. He lifted his glass and swallowed his fifth shot.
Mindra glared at everyone, but especially at him, for he was supposed to be doing something by now. He should have been leaping to her aid, cutting down the foes that threatened her. Instead, he returned the glass to the line and raised a hand to grab the barkeeper’s attention, who also had a crossbow trained on her.
Mindra’s own attention shifted back to the mercenary. “I thought you said we were to come alone.”
Kalos still couldn’t move his body, but he could move his lips. “I did arrive alone. Now, if a dozen or so of my closest friends happened to frequent this establishment, well…” he trailed off, and if he could shrug, she knew he would.
Mindra stared at him a moment longer, her eyes ablaze with baleful intent. If she squeezed just a bit harder, her magic could crush his ability to breathe.
And then she would become a pin cushion, and her House would fall to ruin. No one else was going to save it, certainly not her mother, who let things get this out of hand to begin with.
Releasing the spell felt like prying her fingers off of cold iron, but somehow she managed it. She lowered herself back down to her seat, folding her hands carefully in front of her.
Kalos straightened, smoothing his shirt as though she hadn’t held his fragile life in her will. The other patrons–planted members of Bregan D’Aerthe–still remained on their feet, until Kalos finally gave a signal. Then it was as though nothing had happened. They returned to their drinks and murmured conversation, and the barkeeper served her worthless brother another shot.
Toloruel was going to suffer for this when all was said and done.
Kalos took another draft of his drink. “Does your brother want to join us? He’d be more than welcome.”
“No, he does not,” she spat. There was no point in denying who he was. And if Kalos knew it, then everyone knew. Which meant everyone probably knew she was Mindra, not Alarene, and the whole game was for naught. Designed to make her look like an absolute fool. She could have murdered every individual in this room, her brother included. But instead she said, “This contract doesn’t concern him. He’s lucky I let him come at all, after his failure.”
“Ah, so this is about Rismyn.”
“This is about protecting my inheritance.”
“More like spending it,” Kalos remarked, tapping the sheet of paper. “I’m curious, what do a fairytale, a corpse, and a disgraced elderboy have to do with your inheritance?”
But he already knew. Mindra could tell by the glint in his eyes. “I suspect you’re smart enough to have figured it out.”
“Maybe. But I’d like to hear you spell it out for me. You know, like the insolent cur that I am.”
It was lucky the goblet was made of stone. She would have shattered it by now if not. “Rismyn is not dead,” she said, finally. The admission felt like a gut punch. It was the very source of her family’s shame.
“Now that’s an interesting theory. Matron Xatel says he was slain by your brother. That’s what I’ve heard, at least.”
He was stringing her along, like a fish on a line.
“Toloruel never found the body,” she said, rather proud of how even her words sounded. “Mother only believes he drowned because she cannot find him when divining. And because she wants to believe.”
“And you don’t believe it?”
No, Mindra did not. Neither did Toloruel, which was why they were here. But their mother had insisted upon it, and had pleaded with Lolth over and over to return her favor since they had made right their wrongs. She’d ceased all hunts for him, allowing the brat to drift further and further away. She was going to be the death of them all.
“If Rismyn was really dead,” Mindra said, “Then Lolth would’ve returned her favor.”
The words were barely spoken above a whisper. Even still, Mindra glanced around, more afraid of anyone hearing her than she was of knowing she was surrounded by assassins. It was only a matter of time until some lower house decided to take their chances against House Tear. Without Lolth’s blessing, they were vulnerable and defenseless. They would all be slaughtered in shame.
“Mm. You’re probably not wrong, though our goddess is a fickle lady,” Kalos said, and Mindra hissed at his irreverence.
Kalos held up his hands in a disarming gesture. “So now I get the corpse and the disgraced brother. How does your fabled city fit into this?”
The steel returned to Mindra’s spine. Her eyes narrowed with contempt. “The Sanctuary is not a fable.” Once more she reached into her pocket, producing a golden house medallion. “I have proof.”
She flung the metal disc at the mercenary, who caught it easily. He glanced at the engraving on the front, looking skeptical. “House Xarrin?”
“Flip it over.”
Kalos did, revealing the blasphemous carving of a dove crushing a spider between its beak. He studied it carefully, before offering the medallion back to her.
“You’re going to have to elaborate. I’m a simple man, remember?”
“This,” she snarled in frustration, “is proof of their existence!”
“This is a drawing.”
“It’s the symbol of their debauchery.” Mindra leaned back, fuming. “I found that hanging from a column in Tier Breche. Don’t you understand?”
He merely stared at her blankly.
Mindra refrained from ripping out her hair. “That medallion belonged to a member of House Xarrin. My dear baby brother studied under the tutelage of a warrior of House Xarrin. That instructor’s testimony of the escape is that he took a sleep-dart to the side and was knocked unconscious. So.” She paused to make sure she had his full attention.
Kalos stared indolently back.
“It all makes sense now,” she concluded. “Rismyn only escaped because he had help, and that helper was his own teacher, Torafein Xarrin. He was probably polluting Rismyn’s mind with deviant nonsense from the very beginning, conspiring to ruin House Tear. Regardless, this slipped from his neck when he dangled unconscious, and it proves that he was one of them.”
Kalos’ expression remained unmoved. “You think Torafein Xarrin, a decorated veteran, is secretly part of what, some cult to Eilistraee?”
“I have proof!” she growled, holding up the medallion.
Kalos’ eyes suddenly shifted focus from her, darting to the boy who tended the bar. Mindra didn’t look, but she could see him nearby out of the corner of her eye.
Eavesdropping.
Kalos’ frown sent the boy back to his duties, and Mindra suddenly remembered another rumor she had heard about the day of Rismyn’s escape. One student dead, one student lost, another disfigured.
The web was beginning to unravel. “You already know all this,” she said, slowly. “You know all about what happened to Rismyn, and Torafein’s involvement. Everything.” It was, without understating, enraging. She’d had to skulk around shadows just to find threads to pull on. Bregan D’Aerthe had known all along.
“I’ve already told Matron Xatel everything I was able to learn about Rismyn,” Kalos replied. “As for your request”–he slid the page of numbers back to her–“it’s a fairytale. A fable. Do you think Lolth would suffer an entire community devoted to her traitorous daughter? If there ever was such a place, she’ll have brought the cavern down by now.”
“Traitors have a nasty way of sneaking into places they don’t belong,” Mindra said, with a significant look.
Kalos didn’t take the bait. “Hire us to find your brother’s corpse. It’ll actually be a fruitful cause.”
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong.” She paused, letting herself smile. It was easy to look down on him, as he slouched back and she sat straight and tall. “I am not Toloruel. I don’t care about Rismyn or his whore. He could be dead, for all I know. Or lost on the surface. He’s not what I am after. I’m after a city of traitors. And when I destroy them, Lolth’s favor will never depart from me.”
And, finally, understanding blossomed on Kalos’ face. “So that’s what this is about,” he muttered, more to himself than her. “Your mother mismanaged the situation, so you’re going to steal her throne.” His eyes trailed to the page of her offer again. “A handsome sum indeed.”
“Then do we have a contract?” She leaned forward, eager and hungry.
Kalos’ reverie snapped, and his mask of bland disinterest returned. “I’ll consider it.”
Mindra slammed her palms on the table, sloshing her shimmer wine onto the varnish. “You’ll consider it? I’ve offered you a fortune and more glory than you could fathom. What more do you want, sellsword?”
Kalos leaned back, his hands wrapping behind his head again. “I want to not send my men on foolish errands. We have other jobs we could be doing, jobs with more guarantee of success. So, Alarene, I’ll consider your request and get back to you.”
Mindra leaped to her feet, a roar building in her throat. In an outburst of fury, she swept the goblet and tankard to the floor. The swords and crossbows returned, but she didn’t care.
“You listen here, Kalos Seabane,” she said, leaning over the table. “I will find the Sanctuary. And when I do, you’ll regret having turned down my offer.”
At this distance, Mindra could see through the mercenary’s careless act. His eyes glittered with hate, which surprised her. He ought to be cowering in fear, begging her forgiveness.
“I regret many things,” he said, instead. “Nothing to lose sleep over.”
Mindra glared at him for a moment longer, before turning on her heel and striding back out to the street. Once there, she marched to the alley between the tavern and a massage parlor, trembling with barely controlled rage. She slumped against the wall, shut her eyes, and waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
And then, finally, she heard the clatter of the door as another patron left the bar. A few beats later, footsteps approached her.
“That went well,” her brother remarked.
Mindra snapped her eyes open and glared at him. “You were just going to let them murder me.”
Toloruel stood before her, his expression dead. He said nothing, and Mindra lost all the control she had regained. She lunged forward and shoved him into the wall of the massage parlor.
“You just sat there and drank while I was humiliated by those low-born worms. Did you know they were all his men? Did you?”
Again, he said nothing, though the shadow of a smile that graced his features told her all she needed to know.
“How dare you!” She raised her hand to strike and suddenly found her world spinning.
Faster than she believed possible, he turned the tables on her. Her wrist was caught in his iron grip, her arm twisted behind her back. And just like that, he traded places with her, slamming her face-first into the wall and pinning her there.
“Careful, sister,” he breathed in her ear. She felt the tip of his dagger nestle between her ribs. “I would hate for you to go the way of our eldest sibling.”
The reminder of Cathella’s demise doused all of Mindra’s rage. She stilled, forcing her muscles to relax in his grip even as cold sweat beaded on her forehead. Of all her siblings, Toloruel was the only one she actually feared. It was unthinkable to be afraid of a male, but she feared him nonetheless.
He had a sickness in his head. A volatile bend towards violence that even she found excessive. She’d healed his pet enough times to know. It was a sickness she had thought to use, so she’d endeavored to earn his devoted loyalty.
And she’d had it, for a while. Until Rismyn stole his faerie and he lost his outlet. Now there was only one thing he cared about, and it wasn’t serving her as Matron.
Toloruel knew her secrets. If his blade didn’t destroy her, his tongue would.
“You won’t find him without me,” Mindra said, her skin scraping against the rough stone wall. “Matron Xatel’s given up. You heard those mercenaries, they won’t help. Ginrya and Alarene are too silly to pull it off and Ashlyrra is too young. I’m your only hope of getting your revenge.”
The blade pressed in a little deeper as Toloruel leaned closer. “You should know I saved your life,” he murmured. “If I had reacted, those mercenaries would have slaughtered us both. Doing nothing is doing something. I know how to wait.”
He let her go, and she heard the sound of steel returning to leather.
Mindra pushed herself off the wall, trying to recover her dignity. She crossed her arms and resisted the urge to smooth her hair. “Well,” she said, as though she’d never lost control of the situation. “We can’t wait on those leeches to decide whether or not they want to help.”
Toloruel deferred now as a proper male should. “What do you suggest, dear sister?”
Mindra opened her mouth, but no words came. She didn’t know. This had been her only plan. She’d found a few leads, but all of them were dead now. Torafein’s family swore he’d gone to the surface to redeem his honor in raids and Rismyn had vanished without a trace. Without the extended resources of Bregan D’Aerthe, she wasn’t sure where to go next.
She was just about to say, “We keep looking,” when movement at the end of the alley caught her eye.
She and Toloruel spun at the same moment, magic dancing between her fingers as Toloruel’s blade danced in his.
From the shadows emerged a lone figure, a male striding towards them. He was clad in strange garments, a flowing shirt that folded in half diagonally over his chest, secured from falling open by leather belts strapped across his waist. Loose trousers tucked into soft boots. His hands were gloved and his forearms wrapped in leather, but it was his face that sent a shiver down Mindra’s spine.
Because there was no face. His features, whatever they may be, were entirely obscured behind a sinister mask, carved in the likeness of a glabrezu’s snarling visage. A hood hid his hair from view so that not a piece of the stranger was visible at all beneath his costume.
The man approached until he reached a reasonable distance, then halted. “Well met, son and daughter of Tear,” he said, in a deep, honeyed voice. He bowed low, his fist in his palm. “I am called Ivory. If you are looking for Launa ve Eilistraee, I believe I can be of some assistance.”
Mindra glanced at her brother, but he remained still and impassive, poised to strike.
The stranger carried two curved blades crossed over his back, but he hadn’t drawn them. Instead, he waited, still bent over his fist.
Mindra studied his features carefully, but there was nothing more to be learned in this second scrutiny. “Who are you?” she said, coating her words with disdain.
“As I said”–the stranger straightened, fixing the hollow eyes of the mask upon her–“I am called Ivory. I am of no House in Menzoberranzan. I am merely an emissary of Selvetarm.”
Mindra scowled. “Who?”
But Toloruel seemed to understand. He looked startled, then amused, relaxing his stance. “Selvetarm? How very interesting.”
Mindra looked between the men and glowered. She stepped forward, determined to maintain control over the situation. “You said you could help us find the Sanctuary. How?”
Ivory nodded in respect to Toloruel before answering her question. “Selvetarm has taken an interest in your cause. He also desires the destruction of those who worship the aunt who abandoned him. Your mission and mine are the same. I propose an alliance. Let us work together.”
His explanation told Mindra just enough to know she was dealing with things of the gods. More than that, however, she couldn’t say, which was nothing short of irritating. She was a priestess of Lolth, well studied in matters concerning the only deity that mattered. Who was this Selvetarm, and why had she never heard of him?
But she was also desperate. If she didn’t regain the favor of Lolth, her entire life would be in shambles. So, she put a hand on her hip and looked down at the stranger.
“Go on. I’m listening.”
Disclaimer: Forsaken by Shadows is unofficial Fan Content permitted under the Fan Content Policy. Not approved/endorsed by Wizards. Portions of the materials used are property of Wizards of the Coast. ©Wizards of the Coast LLC.
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