A/N: Here it is at last, Chapter 5, full of intrigue-y goodness and trauma that only the drow can manage. Sorry it took so long! Enjoy! Don't forget to let me know what you think.

Disclaimer: I don't own Forgotten Realms, or the drow pantheon. I do, however, own all the characters in this story. Steal them and you will be devoured by my secret squad of attack-goats.You have been warned.

---

Weaving Webs

Every city, whether drow, human or even dwarven, has its nobles. Nobles are, of course, the ruling class, the rich and influential. But the strength of their power is nothing without its foundation. A foundation built on the backs of the common workers. The proletariat. The silent majority. The city of Maeralyn was no different from all the others.

The population of Maeralyn was divided primarily by the mighty underground river Maevyr, for which the city was named. The nobles lived in their fortified castles on one side of the river, and the commoners eked out a living on the other side. Life was quite different for the drow peasants when compared to their rich superiors. Infighting was kept to a minimum to keep business in the Market flowing as smoothly as possible. Merchant families were the best-off, although times were tough even for them due to the overall battered economy of the city. They were also the most prone to the back-stabbing tactics of the clergy, as they were, like all nouveau riche, the ones who most fancied themselves self-made nobles.

For the rest of the dark elves, the best they could hope for was either scraping up enough training to join a House army or, failing that, to learn a trade and spend the rest of their lives in a state of relatively secure tedium. It wasn't that bad, though. The worst of the work was done by the city's slaves, and Lloth's scrutiny was not as focused on the less prominent members of her chosen people. There was always the freedom of the ever-energetic Market to escape to.

The Market was the beating heart of the city. It was a large half-circle of space next to the river filled with stalls, taverns, inns, pavilions and bustling crowds at all times of the day. It was the people's main source of entertainment, as well as other more substantial commodities.

Artists and performers flocked to the Market, always hoping to earn a few coppers for their talents. They could be found on every available corner, and had a strict, hidden hierarchy. The most talented and experienced were granted the privilege of first priority to perform in the Plaza; one of Maeralyn's most prestigious entertainment pavilions. These always generated the greatest revenue, and the most profitable hours were reserved for the professional dancers, singers and theatre troupes. If there was time to spare, the stage could be rented by more minor performers such as jugglers, musicians and conjurors who didn't have quite enough skill to be trained as mages. Everyone else had to settle for what they could earn on the streets, at least until they gained more influence in the Market, which was like a noble house all on its own.

Surrounding the area of the Plaza were legions of artisans, hawking their wares to any drow that would give them a second glance, or even a first.

This is where an unobtrusive male commoner named Phyx sat, stick of charcoal in hand, appealing to the innate narcissistic nature of the drow by drawing portraits for self-important merchants.

His subject, Qia Faeyett, sat across from him on the stool he had provided for her. She was posing with one hip out, her head held high and was pouting prettily, trying to catch more than just Phyx's artistic attention. Amused by his own little game, he pretended to ignore her attempts, knowing that females of her status always appreciated a bit of sport. They liked their males to be coy, and would often pay Phyx a little more than he was owed for playing along.

"My dear Phyx," said Qia, "perhaps sometime you might like to work on this portrait in the comfort of my home."

Phyx's eyes flicked past his canvas briefly. The merchant was still posing, but she had leaned her head forward a fraction and lowered her eyelids seductively.

A smile played over the artist's lips.

"Oh?" he said, "How kind of you to invite me, my lady."

Qia's voice was soft and husky. "I'm sure it would be a far more…appropriate setting."

"Would it now?" Phyx studied the burning look in the female's eyes and began copying it onto the parchment. Qia would no doubt appreciate the personal touch. In more ways than one, apparently.

The merchant was subtly but steadily leaning closer and closer to him. She was about to say something, when she was suddenly interrupted by the sounds of a commotion rippling through the Market. Both she and Phyx turned to find the source of the noise, hands instinctively reaching for hidden weapons.

Both the artists and patrons of the Market were hurriedly clearing a path, moving as though poisonous snakes were snapping at their heels. It was not a common occurrence for the nobility to visit the artisan's quarter. The Market was seen as a refuge for the commoners of Maeralyn, and as such the clergy scorned it as being crass and vulgar or, in extreme cases, even subversive. Of course, any noble with a fragment of common sense and a survival instinct frequented the Market: It was a hive of information, intrigue and pleasure. It served as both an escape and a mine of resources necessary for those who thrived on chaos. However, the nobility did not normally announce their presence, preferring anonymity to conduct whatever business, usually shady, they wished to engage in. They were rarely so bold as to march in with an honour guard in tow.

There was only one family who would be so bold…

Phyx and Qia were standing now. Their muscles were tensed with suspicion and fear, for they were certain they knew what was coming.

There was no drift-disk.

Above the heads of the marching soldiers the air was clear. Phyx relaxed a fraction, although his merchant patron remained on edge. No matron mother, full of religious fury, was here to make an example of some outspoken artist, but that did not mean that there might not be trouble.

At last, the dancers and musicians in their area gathered up their coins and instruments and fled to a safe distance, clearing the field of view and allowing Phyx to see the noble intruder. When he saw who it was, he almost grinned. Instead, he sheathed his knife (carefully secreted in the folds of his cloak) and sat down, signing to Qia that it would be best if she did the same. She did so but, Phyx noticed, she kept one hand on the handle of her dirk.

Phyx knew the visitor very well. She was tall and beautiful and held an aura of unmistakable power. She didn't walk in the marketplace; she flowed around and through it, like an underground stream. She was sensual, smooth and so fluid in her movements one could pour her down a staircase. With the smallest of gestures she bade her guards to stop, and with a playful deliberateness she perused the wares of the nervous craftsmen in her vicinity, carefully keeping her eyes from meeting those of Phyx until she was actually standing in front of his stall.

She cleared her throat softly. "Master Phyx," she drew out the single syllable of his name; tasting it, savoring it. "What a pleasure to see you again."

Phyx rose to his feet and bowed low. Qia did the same, although with palpable reluctance. Merchants hated the noble class. The feeling was mutual.

"Well met, my lady Satua," he replied. "To what do I owe this honour?"

"Business," his visitor said with a half-smile. "I hope that I'm not interrupting anything."

"Nothing at all, my lady."

Phyx's eyes flicked to Qia. The merchant knew her cue. She hesitated for a heartbeat, then disappeared through the stall's battered curtains. She would come back. Her kind always did.

"How may I be of service?"

Satua Qu'Yond, fifth daughter of First House Qu'Yond and Chief Magistrate over the Halls of Justice, sat down gracefully on the stool. Outside, normality slowly sputtered to life again while four of Qu'Yond's elite guards took up position at the entrance to Phyx's stall.

She did not answer him at first. Instead, she perused the samples of his work that were haphazardly affixed to the makeshift walls of his stall. Her fingers brushed softly over the lines of the sketches, almost lovingly. Looking up at Phyx she smiled at him.

"You have such a wonderful style," she said, looking back to his work. "All these lines around the edges, swirling and tangling…and then in the centre they meet to create a face." She looked up again with a conspiratorial smile. "A form out of chaos."

Phyx bowed his head deferentially. "You are too kind to me, my lady."

Satua rose and moved towards him. Phyx sank smoothly to his knees before her. The priestess laid a cool hand on his cheek, the bangles on her wrist clinking softly as she did so. Meeting Satua's eyes, Phyx placed his own hand over hers. He gently pulled her hand to his lips and reverently kissed the inside of her wrist, right over her pulse. For a moment the drow noblewoman closed her eyes in pleasure at the intimate gesture and breathed in deeply, almost sighing.

She leaned towards Phyx and her long white hair fell around him in curtains, shutting out the rest of the world. There were tiny gems plaited into her tresses, he noticed, enough to pay for almost a year's lodging in his neighbourhood. Satua smiled at him, her red eyes like glowing embers, and he wondered if she was going to kiss him. Her face was so very close to his, and no one could see them here…

With a sly look in her ruby red eyes, Satua stepped back gracefully. She moved past Phyx with the slightest swish of her robes, her fingertips lightly brushing his cheek. Involuntarily, Phyx leaned towards her touch for a fraction of a second. He knew the subtle touch for what it was; a teasing promise. There would be kisses later, but under her terms. Inwardly, Phyx allowed himself a wry smile. Satua reveled in these sorts of games.

"I have need of your talents, Master Phyx," she said casually.

Immediately the artisan became serious, though he kept his face carefully neutral. This was business, and if he was not mistaken, he knew exactly what kind.

"How may I serve you?"

"I wish to commission a portrait for a very dear friend of mine," said the priestess with an icy smile. "As a congratulatory gift, you see."

"Ah," replied Phyx, understanding immediately, "And who is this honoured friend?"

"Mistress Mindiira."

It was a well-known fact among commoners that having a working knowledge of all political players in the city, major and minor, proved to be a very strong advantage in business. Phyx's knowledge was far superior to most. He had an entire mental catalogue of Maeralyn's nobles, the bourgeoisie and the few commoners that had managed to rise to a position of social standing in his head. As such he knew very well who Mistress Mindiira Isryn was.

Isryn was a house of middle standing, and it was slowly but steadily rising through the ranks of the nobility. Matron Isryn had many daughters and all of them, especially Mindiira, were extremely ambitious. After she had completed her clerical studies, Mindiira had started working in the Halls of Justice, under Satua's tutelage, and she had recently been made a novice magistrate in property court. It was no secret that she had her sights aimed much higher.

This was all common knowledge, but Phyx knew that it paid to know that little bit extra. He knew that House Isryn had begun to slip from Lloth's favour and that Mindiira had been overheard critiquing Matron Qu'Yond's laws with certain individuals under suspicion of heresy…

"Where shall I have her portrait delivered?"

"She has an office to herself in the Hall's library. She spends much of her time in there, poring over old laws. Deliver it there, before the opening of Court. I shall ensure that nothing bars your way."

"Thank you, my lady," said Phyx with a small bow. "Do you wish to remain anonymous?"

Satua paused. A slow smile pulled at her lips, adding a dark cast to her red eyes, shading them the colour of blood.

"No," she said thoughtfully, "give her my fondest regards."

"Do you think she will expect this gift?"

"Regrettably, I do not think so," said Satua, sweet poison lacing her words, "But she should."

From somewhere in the folds of her silken robes, the priestess deftly pulled out a small leather pouch and a thin silver ring, bearing the seal of the High Court. She pressed the pouch into Phyx's hand.

"You will receive the rest of your payment when the deed is done. And this," she held up the ring, "will grant you access to the Halls. Show it to whoever would presume to stop you and they will trouble you no further."

Phyx slipped the ring onto his left hand. "I shall not disappoint, my lady."

"I know," said Satua, brushing a lock of hair from his eyes. "You never do."

And, with the faintest rustle of silk, she was gone. Phyx took the ring from his finger and perused it absently, his mind elsewhere. After a moment, he slipped the ring into a hidden pocket and strode to the curtain flap of his stall.

"Y'entan!" he called.

Almost immediately, a small and somewhat bedraggled drow boy scurried into view. He bowed awkwardly, in what could have been called a very poor attempt to emulate the pleasantries of the nobility.

"Yes, Master Phyx?"

"Fetch Master Shath," replied Phyx, his hand resting over the ring's hiding place. "We have business to discuss."

---

"Nadezdha, come here."

Engaged in target practice, the half-drow girl nonetheless jumped obediently to attention at the sound of her brother's voice. She laid her crossbow down carefully and scampered over to Dantal, stopping just a few paces from where he sat.

"How old are you now, Nadezdha?" he asked.

She paused. "Almost eighteen now, Master Dantal."

So young, thought the weapons master, almost against his own volition. So young, so fragile. He could practically see every bone, every blood vessel beneath her grey skin. There was something about the child that gave her a transparent quality. Perhaps that was part of how she protected herself from her sisters. Perhaps she had wished so hard to be invisible that it had almost come true.

He was reminded of a time when he'd been younger and still required to study basic magic under his older brother. Yuezaz had begrudgingly allowed Dantal to observe him in some of his work. For one of the spells, Yuezaz had required the sacrifice of a rare surface bird. Dantal could remember that bird vividly. How its plumage shone in the candlelight, the sharpness of its claws, the angry, mournful sounds that it made, how furiously it had beaten its wings against its captors when they removed it from its cage. He remembered how those wings had strained upwards, towards a sky buried under stone and shadows. He remembered how easily those wings had been broken, the bones snapping as though they were no more substantial than a breath, or a wish.

As Dantal stared at his little sister, he could see that bird reflected in her. Her yellow eyes were the same colour, her small frame just as delicate, and she had claws, though she kept hers hidden. Seeing all this, a strange realization came to Dantal: If I asked this girl to beat her arms and try to fly, she would do it. If I ask her to kill, she will do it. If I ask her to believe me, she will. And with that thought came another, quite unbidden and most unsettling.

What will it take to break you, little bird?

He shook the thought away. It put him on edge and he wasn't sure why. Best to ignore it. He did not want to know the answer.

"Hold out your hands."

Without a word or a second thought she did.

With the movement the bells on her wrists jangled softly, a very loud sound in a land of silence and darkness. Holding her wrists gently but firmly, Dantal examined their make for a moment. They were finely crafted. Silver, and enchanted to prevent the wearer from removing the bands themselves. A cruel and ingenious prison for a child of the drow; shackles made of sound.

A knife appeared in Dantal's hand, seemingly from the air itself. Something flickered in Nadezdha's eyes, quicker than a heartbeat, so quickly the weapons master couldn't catch it. Was it fear? Confusion? Trust? It was hidden in an instant. Whatever the nature of his methods, Yuezaz had taught the art of reticence well. The expression on Nadezdha's young face was remarkably cool, almost detached. Dantal paused a few beats longer than necessary just to see how well she could maintain it. He was impressed with what he saw, she did not waver.

He took her forearm, looked her in the eye and, in a move too quick for her to follow, sliced through the leather band encircling her wrist.

The band and its cursed silver bells fell to the ground with one last discordant clink and were silent at last.

Before the girl could even react the other cuffs, one on her other wrist and one on each ankle, were gone. As the last one hit the floor, Dantal was once again reclined in his seat, as though he had never moved. He watched and waited to see what his sister would do.

For what seemed an eternity she was perfectly still, a statue made flesh and blood. Only the near imperceptible rise and fall of her breath was any indication that she was real. Then, ever so slowly, she raised her arm and stared at her wrist, bare for the first time since her birth. She stared and stared, turning her wrist this way and that, as though she had never seen anything so beautiful in her life.

And then suddenly she was all light and movement. She spun, jumped and somersaulted, all in complete and utter silence. Her feet, callused and padded, made no sound on the stone floor. She made not a rustle, not a whisper as she moved. Seventeen years of having to be silent with bells on had trained her to be quieter than any of her drow counterparts. Dantal was amazed.

She danced about the room, not with much skill but with great grace and dignity, and all with a shining smile spread across her face. All the reticence training in the Underdark wouldn't be enough to contain her joy.

She came to a stop before Dantal and she fell to her knees and hugged his booted feet because, happy as she was, she was not bold enough to embrace any other part of him. She did take his hand, though, and she kissed his fingers. Then she turned the full force of her smile on him.

That smile could have melted his heart, had he possessed one. Perhaps, had Dantal been someone else, someone with more than ice water and bitterness in his veins, he would have tried to protect that smile, when the time came. It might have saved them. But, by the same token, it could just as easily have damned them both. Besides, the Underdark is the Underdark and 'what ifs' have no power against the will of a matron mother.

He would not regret that day, that wasted moment, because he did not know how. But he would remember. Just as he remembered the sound of breaking wings, he would remember that child's smile and how it was erased and how they turned her heart to stone. He would remember, the day he saw his own fate in a pair of yellow eyes.

---

Poisoned fangs snapped shut a hair's breadth above Y'entan's head. Panting, the boy pulled up after having dodged what would have been a crippling blow from Zavdra Ssarashi's snake whip. The priestess was livid. She advanced on the cowering child, whip held high.

"Zavdra, hold!"

Surprised as she was, Zavdra lowered her weapon and turned around at the sound of Matron Irryra's command. The matron mother, heavy with child, sat as regally as she could manage among the plush cushions of her throne. Her face was carefully painted, to hide the fatigue and stress that haunted her features.

"Killing the brat will hardly convince him to offer up what he knows," she rebuked. "He is worth more alive."

"We could always summon his spirit later and interrogate that," argued her daughter.

Irryra's tone was scathing. "That would be an unnecessary waste of precious time, spells and energy. Perhaps if you could learn to contain your impulses you would not be so far behind in the Seminary."

Shamefaced, Zavdra looked away and said nothing further. Irryra returned her attention to the child, Y'entan. Upon hearing that he wouldn't be killed, he had relaxed somewhat and was no longer cowering. Irryra decided to fix that.

She crooked a finger and beckoned him closer. Hesitating with nearly every step, the boy obeyed. As soon as he was within arms' reach, the matron grabbed him by the throat and jerked him forward. He struggled instinctively at first, then froze in fear at the deadly look in Irryra's eyes.

"Remember this, brat: We won't kill you, but there are many interesting ways to hurt you that won't cause your death-though no doubt you would wish it when we were through with you-and we won't hesitate to employ all of them if you do not tell us everything we want to know."

"I'm just a messenger!" said Y'entan, his panic rising as his air was choked off.

Irryra smiled. "That you are," she replied. "And as such no one will miss you if you disappear. Your life is worthless, but your information isn't. If you care to, you can buy your freedom with it. Make your choice."

Based on his options, it did not take long for Y'entan to reach a decision. He was a child of the Market after all. One didn't survive that environment without being shrewd to some degree.

"At your service, Matron," he said, bowing deeply.

"What house do you serve?" asked G'abre, standing a few paces behind her mother's chair, her arms folded.

"I serve no house, your ladyship."

"Then who do you deliver messages for?"

"Whoever pays me to, your ladyship."

G'abre's patience was wearing thin. "What message, then, were you delivering this time?"

Something in Y'entan's eyes glimmered darkly. "Mindiira Isryn is dead."

If he had been hoping to shock the host of priestesses gathered in that room, he was well rewarded. Fythriel, being young and foolish, was the first to speak.

"Matron! Why is this the first that we have heard of this?"

"Fythriel, hold your tongue!" snapped Irryra. She turned her attention back to the boy. "Where did she die?"

It was a curious question, under the circumstances, but Y'entan did not seem surprised.

"In her private office, in the Halls of Justice."

"Of course," said the matron. "That's why it's being kept secret…The magistrates wouldn't want anyone to see a hole in their fortress."

Matron Irryra didn't need to be told that Mindiira had been killed. Seeing as it was the leading cause of death in Maeralyn, murder was taken somewhat for granted.

"Yet how is it that a little commoner would know of this business?" she purred.

Y'entan lifted his head a little, setting his jaw proudly. "I was there."

Irryra raised an eyebrow. "You're a witness?"

"No!" Y'entan back-tracked quickly. Being a witness to anything in the city was nothing short of a death sentence. "I was…nearby"

"Why?"

"I had a package to deliver."

"Ah," said the matron. "What was in the package?"

Y'entan's eyes flickered. "It was sealed."

"Yes, but do you know what was in it? Careful how you answer, boy. We are powerful priestesses. We will know if you are lying."

The boy paled slightly as he imagined what punishments might be in store for him. He gulped.

"I know what it was," he mumbled.

"Yes?"

"A portrait."

Confusion settled like dust over the assembled priestesses. The only unperturbed person in the room was Irryra. Her face was a nearly blank slate, except for a single raised eyebrow, the only indication that she was still at all involved in the conversation. One of Matron Irryra's greatest talents was the ability to appear overwhelmingly bored in any and all demanding situations, especially when her mind was racing.

"Who sent the portrait?" she asked softly.

Y'entan's eyes shifted nervously. "They s-sent it anonymously," he stammered. "I…I p-picked it up at a warehouse, along with written instructions. I don't know who it was!"

"Ah," said Irryra. She leaned forward conspiratorially. "A word of advice, boy: Always know the names of the people you're doing business with…because chances are, they already know yours."

Dumbfounded, Y'entan nodded mutely. Irryra patted his cheek. It took all of his will not to flinch at her touch.

"There's a good boy," said the matron approvingly. "Now, who received your package?"

Looking down, he replied, "Mindiira Isryn."

"I thought as much. Now think carefully. When you delivered the package to Mindiira, was there anyone else there?"

Y'entan's head shot up. "What?"

"I don't repeat myself," said the matron coldly. "Answer the question."

He was too far in. There was no way out. Wincing inwardly, Y'entan forced himself to answer.

"Yes."

"Who?"

A long pause.

"Master Shath."

"Shath," whispered G'abre incredulously, without meaning to. Luckily, the word was lost in the ripples of conversation running through the room.

"Shath?" cried Zavdra. "He's nothing more than a cabinet maker!"

"He works in the Market," snapped Irryra. "Nobody is ever 'just' a cabinet maker in the Market."

She got to her feet, hiding well the difficulty her pregnancy gave her. She felt exhausted, and for a moment the room swam in front of her eyes, but she held herself proudly and imperiously nonetheless. As far as Irryra was concerned, a strong ruler never stayed stationary for too long. Her own mother had always kept herself locked away in her chambers, always still, ruling blindly. She had been weak, and she had fallen because of it. Irryra refused to make the same mistakes.

She glanced back at her throne, the same throne where her mother had died, choking for air as Irryra, the most ambitious of her daughters, stood smiling over her, holding a poisoned cup in her hands. The memory flashed through the matron's mind and faded in an instant, leaving Irryra to realize that Y'entan was still cowering behind her. She snapped her fingers and gestured at the boy.

"I'll be in touch," she said with a smile, and then turned her back on him.

As Y'entan was dragged from the room by a minor priestess, Irryra cast a sideways look at her eldest daughter.

"You've had dealings with Shath, haven't you G'abre?"

G'abre's hands twitched at her sides. "I have, Matron."

Irryra smiled. "Bring him in. I think it's time I met him, having heard so much about him, hmm?"

"Yes, Matron," replied G'abre through gritted teeth, her eyes burning with cold fury.

"That's settled then," said Irryra quietly. She turned away from her daughter to address the rest of her priestesses. "As for the rest of-"

She got no further. Suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of pain and nausea, Matron Irryra's knees buckled. Only by grabbing hold of the edge of Lloth's altar did she manage to keep herself from collapsing. Her insides clenched, and a cry of agony wrenched itself from her throat.

"Matron Mother!" shouted Zavdra, hurrying to her mother's side, followed closely by the others. All but G'abre, who hung back for a moment, hesitating. Then, with an almost feral snarl, she pushed her way to the front.

As G'abre knelt at Irryra's side, the matron grabbed her wrist, hard enough to bruise. Irryra's eyes were wild and she was shaking.

"It's time," she whispered.

Then she threw her head back and screamed.

---

Yuezaz pulled off the hood of his cloak and glanced about the hall suspiciously. It appeared to be empty, but that meant nothing. If anything it was disconcerting. The upper levels were almost never this deserted. Something was wrong.

The mage reached for one of the fire wands he kept on his person at all times. He kept his fingers wrapped around it, hidden under his cloak, as he walked. Despite his vigilance, he was still suddenly caught off-guard as he passed a tapestry depicting the founding of the city. He was grabbed by both arms and dragged into a nearby alcove. He struggled to pull out his wand, his mouth forming the trigger-word as he tried to aim.

Before he could utter the spell, his assailant spun him around and silenced him with a fierce kiss. Recognition flooded his senses and he responded, releasing the handle of his wand in favour of embracing his lover. She, in turn, wrapped her own arms around his neck, pulling him further into the kiss. She pushed him against the wall, pressing herself against him.

Yuezaz broke away and began trailing kisses along her neck, her jaw line, up to her ear.

"What are you doing here, Avnae?" he whispered hoarsely.

She entangled her fingers in his hair. "I have a message for you."

Avnae was one of those few lucky commoners in the city that had managed to gain a place in a noble house. Being a more than capable midwife, she ran the nursery, and normally kept her head down when it came to House politics, except where Yuezaz was concerned. She had an especial fondness for him, and none for the clergy, so she was willing to take a few risks for greater gain. He was always suitably grateful for the information she could offer him.

"What is it?"

Avnae gave his ear a playful bite. "Matron Irryra has given birth."

Yuezaz pulled back slightly. "So?" he asked derisively. "All that means is that in a few years we'll have another bratty priestess to bark useless orders at us. Why bother telling-"

Avnae silenced him again with another quick kiss. Smiling, she stroked his cheek and pulled him towards her.

"She has given birth," she whispered, her lips lightly brushing his ear. "To a son."

---

"Where are we going?"

Nadezdha couldn't resist the urge to ask questions, despite her brothers' orders. It was the first time since she had been taken in that she had stepped foot out of her brothers' rooms. As such she was bursting with curiousity.

She had been dressed in the livery of a page-boy, so as not to be noticed by any of her relatives. Pages are invisible, Yuezaz had said, and he was right. As the two of them walked through the halls of House Ssarash'i, no drow even looked in her direction. It was as though she no longer existed. Nadezdha couldn't help but wonder if this was what life had been like for her brothers, when they were children. It was strange to think of her brothers as children, thought Nadezdha, glancing up at the back of Yuezaz's head, but even they must have been once.

"Brother?" she tried again, "Where are we-"

"The Chapel," he answered shortly.

Nadezdha faltered for a moment, a cold stab of fear making her stumble. The memory of her mother's face flashed before her eyes. The scars on her feet throbbed. She tried to swallow, but her mouth had suddenly gone very dry.

"Why?" she asked, trying to keep her terror out of her voice. Yuezaz would not tolerate her weakness.

"You'll see," was all he said in reply.

When they arrived in the Chapel (far too quickly for Nadezdha's liking), a small crowd had already gathered, and some sort of ceremony was in full swing. The assembled drow were kneeling on the floor in a semi-circle around a raised dais where a host of priestesses, including G'abre and Zavdra, stood chanting an ancient prayer to Lloth.

Nadezdha and Yuezaz took their places, Yuezaz radiating displeasure at being forced to kneel. Stealing quick glances about the room, Nadezdha could see many of her cousins and other relatives in the crowd. Fythriel was there, being too young to take part in religious ceremonies. Commander A'einhin was a few rows down from them. He looked incredibly bored. Dantal was already there, kneeling as far away as he could from the dais while still within the boundaries of his station. Nadezdha was surprised to see that Dantal's head was bowed forward slightly. He looked…tired, but there was something more to his expression than that. Something almost troubled. Feeling her eyes on him, Dantal looked over at his little sister. She smiled shyly at him. He didn't smile back, but gave her a slight nod and turned his attention back to the ceremony, leaving Nadezdha to follow his example.

It was then that Nadezdha noticed something very strange. Matron Irryra was nowhere to be seen. Her throne was empty. Nadezdha was just beginning to consider the implications of this when the chanting ended and the other priestesses stepped back, leaving G'abre in the centre, holding a bundle in her arms.

There was a strange and frightening light in G'abre's eyes. They were unnaturally bright, almost feverish. She unwrapped the bundle, revealing tiny black hands, feet, a small sleeping face, a shock of white hair. A newborn drow. She held the infant aloft for all to see. The sudden movement woke the child, and when it opened its eyes, Nadezdha's breath caught in her throat. Yellow, the child's eyes were yellow, just like hers.

"I present Filian Ssarash'i," pronounced G'abre. "Third son of Matron Irryra!"

Elation surged through Nadezdha. A brother! She had a younger brother! In that moment, Nadezdha felt an outpouring of love for the tiny infant in her sister's hands. She wanted to hold him, to take care of him and teach him as her brother's had done for her. She wondered what great things Filian could accomplish. She imagined teaching him the drow handcode, magic and swordplay and how to avoid the ire of his sisters. He would be happy. He would laugh and call her 'big sister' and when they were older they would fight priestesses side by side, and drink deepwine and play sava together in the evenings just as Yuezaz and Dantal did. She would take care of him, and he would love her and they would both be happy.

G'abre placed Filian down on the altar. The stone was cold, and the child began to whimper softly. Nadezdha felt a pang of concern. Why didn't G'abre wrap him back up?

The high priestess moved to the edge of the dais and turned to the giant carving of Lloth in spider form at the head of the Chapel. She began praying in archaic drow, the other priestesses chanting with her.

Nadezdha shivered, though not from cold. The room had taken on a smoky, claustrophobic feel to it. Nadezdha had the distinct impression that all of a sudden the statues could see her and were watching her. She turned to Yuezaz for reassurance but found none. Her brother had gone very tense, his eyes fixed on the dais. She looked over at Dantal and saw that he, too, was rigid, his hands clenched at his sides.

How easily it could have been me, thought Yuezaz, his brother's thoughts much the same. How easily I could have been born the third son. How easily the world could have been stolen from me. Silently, practically in unison, the two brothers prayed to Vhaeraun, giving him their thanks.

Looking back at the host of priestesses, Nadezdha started. Emerging from the smoke, like some sort of wounded demoness, was her mother, supported by two younger priestesses. The matron moved to the altar, gazing down at Filian with an expression of utmost hatred and revulsion. Slowly, she drew a dagger from her belt and held with both hands high above her infant son.

In the crowd, Nadezdha was frozen with horror. It was as though the rest of the world had fallen away, leaving only her mother, the child on the altar and that dagger, framed by the spider in the background; a picture forged from nightmares. Nadezdha wanted to run forward, to wrest that dagger from Irryra's grip, to snatch away her brother, but she couldn't move. She was rooted to the spot.

"We offer you this sacrifice to you, O Lloth," cried G'abre, in the throes of religious ecstasy. "May his blood please you and bring us everlasting glory!"

The chanting of the priestesses reached its climax and Irryra brought the dagger down.

For Nadezdha, the world stopped.

Then Filian screamed, high and piercing, a sound that would haunt Nadezdha for the rest of her life. The babe screamed, the priestesses continued chanting and the statues watched in silence.

Tears coursed down Nadezdha's cheeks. "Brother," she cried, turning to Yuezaz. "What is the meaning of this?"

"This," replied Yuezaz, his words like shards of ice, "is what it means to be drow."