T’zeklochar cast a brief glance toward the vaulted cavern ceiling of Menzoberranzan. A faint red glow rose from somewhere in the middle of the city, signaling that the great stalagmite clock, Narbondel, had only begun its reckoning.
The Matron Mother had had him woken and dragged from bed, in the middle of the night.
“Is there a room somewhere we can put Ryld?” she inquired after he had been essentially jostled through the whole damned house and dropped in front of her throne.
“Couldn't this wait till morning, Breena?” T’zeklochar asked pointedly. He glared at the guards at his elbows (both of whom were smirking females) and got to his feet.
As if T'zeklochar hadn't spoken out of turn, Matron Dinbreena carried on, “Somewhere out of the patron's way - where he won't notice. I mean, imagine.”
“How very delicate of you.”
Her eyes were dull from thought, her silver hair loose and trailing down her shoulders to her knees like a curtain. She was preoccupied. About Ryld, of course.
“See that he's found a room.”
It was final. Definite, No room left for contention.
“Yes, Matron Mother,” said T’zeklochar, bowing slightly, all thought of sleep banished with the new task at hand.
Presently, the Weapons Master of House Barriurden crossed the back courtyard, passing the stables housing the lizard mounts. He stepped into the kitchen, then further down into the cellar, and headed for the cubby tucked behind the shelves. The door to the hole slammed against the wall as T’zeklochar threw it open.
The single inhabitant of the cramped cubbyhole sprang up from his bed. “What in the hells – ?!”
“Wake up, pantry boy.” T’zeklochar ordered as Ryld blinked dumbly in the dark. “Whatever paltry possessions you have, gather them and follow me.”
Ryld was a commoner, a kitchen servant tasked with keeping track of the House’s food stores. He was also the newest, albeit unwilling, object of Matron Dinbreena's affections. Her appetite for amorous exploits was unabated even as she saw her third century. No drow could refuse her. Whichever male she chose must submit, under pain of death.
A swarm of bats flitted through the stalactites. Ryld stretched as he quietly followed T'zeklochar to the front of the house. Guards stood in attention as the Weapons Master walked past. The kitchen servant, they paid no mind.
It was difficult not to notice him, however, even T’zeklochar would admit. The drow, at the prime age of a hundred or so, was handsome and tall - tall by drow standards. His build was lean and wiry. His eyes appeared blue in the Underdark, with red pin pricks in their centers. An unfortunate defect, caused no doubt by his forebears interbreeding with surface elves or even humans. And yet, it did not take away from his beauty. The overall effect was one that stirred the blood.
“You think this is some sort of blessing?” T’zeklochar asked the younger drow, who was inspecting his new bedchamber.
Ryld peeled his eyes away from the ornate trimming and gossamer curtains overhanging the bed.
“You're in more peril than you ever were.”
Drow hated and yet thrived on competition. As a rival to the Matron’s consort, he would surely be faced with opposition. The patron would not allow Ryld to sire children by the Matron, and put his own children's ranks at risk.
“You think I asked for this?” snapped Ryld, an assertive fire making the red pin pricks of his eyes more pronounced.
T’zeklochar's frown belied his pleasure. “You'll need more tricks than just batting your eyelashes, if you want to survive now.” He shoved a shortsword into Ryld's hands. “Meet me in the training hall in two hours.”
The empty halls rang with the awful, pained screams of Matron Dinbreena as she labored to bring her and Ryld's child into the world. She had been taken into Lolth's unholy chamber, attended by her clerics and priestesses. All unneeded persons were barred entry, including the father.
Ryld sat trembling where he waited in the stairwell. T'zeklochar, who had become an unlikely friend in the last 10 months, stood leaning on the bannister, smoking on a small pipe. He took pity on the expectant father and passed him the pipe, chuckling as he struggled to put it to his lips.
There came Dinbreena's screams again. “RYLD! WHERE IS HE?! I WANT HIM HERE! RYLD!”
Ryld flew to his feet and up the stairs, followed closely by T'zeklochar. Dinbreena held out her arm as she saw them come through the door.
“Damn you and your spawn,” she hissed as tears streamed down her ashen cheeks. Her grip on Ryld's hand was crushing.
“What's happening? The child has been delivered. Why -?”
The pain was not letting up, even as Liriel, one of Dinbreena's daughters and high priestess of Lolth, carried a squealing child to a stone pedestal.
“There's a second child,” snapped Zardra. “You have twins.”
T’zeklochar stood over the kicking baby, wiping it clean with a blood-soaked towel. Ryld's heart sank as he studied the Weapons Master's expression.
His dark heart uttered a desperate prayer and a bargain. “Please, goddess. If you give me this, I will be your uncomplaining servant.”
Ryld gently set the Matron down on the armchair. She had succumbed to the exhaustion just after the second child arrived.
The children's sobbing had subsided and the chamber grew deathly quiet. Ryld held his breath, looking to T’zeklochar for some hope. His red eyes were empty, his face like stone.
The Weapons Master shook his head, and Ryld felt like he had been gutted.
“Two male children. Cursed day,” muttered Zardra.
Liriel turned to Ryld. “You ought to be executed for your uselessness!” She cast a venomous glance at her newborn brothers, her knuckles white over the handle of her dagger. “Along with these wretched whelps.”
“Look at their eyes!” gasped Evandra. The twins had inherited Ryld’s ice blue eyes, with the red pin pricks glowing bright in the worship chamber.
“Beastly little wretches!” chimed Zardra.
T’zeklochar, who had not left the babies’ side, appeared unbothered, but was slowly easing his hand toward the shortsword at his belt. If any of the priestesses attacked, he was going to defend the little ones.
“Liriel is right,” said Zardra. “This is an omen. We all know what happened to House Do’Urden. We must kill them lest these blue-eyed freaks follow in Drizzt's footsteps.”
Ryld grew cold. Beside him, Matron Dinbreena stirred, and, her voice husky from screaming, addressed her daughters with severity. “If you lay a finger on our children,” she said, “On my honor as Matron Mother, on my honor as the Spider Queen’s servant - I will cut your head off myself.”
A smirk pulled the corner of T’zeklochar’s mouth. Our children. Dinbreena was done for. She had fallen in love with Ryld.
“These children are Noble Drow of House Barriurden. You shall show them the respect they are due.”
Matron Dinbreena retired after nursing her twin boys. She left them in the company of their father, sleeping side by side in a cradle that had held five older sons. The daughters’ cradles were naturally more resplendent, but this one did the job and Ryld was satisfied.
He was still lost in thought when T’zeklochar entered, his hands clasped over something. Ryld admired the sight of the Weapons Master looking into the cradle, how gentle he became in the presence of his children. The way the tension from his broad, muscular back eased as he hummed and cooed at the little ones.
In the purple faerie fire, Ryld saw that T’zeklochar had brought a tarantula for the twins. The fuzzy creature crawled over T’zeklochar's knuckles and settled on Baeron's little chest. The little one stirred, smiled in his sleep, and cuddled the spider closer.
T’zeklochar opened his mouth, and a second tarantula crawled out of hiding. This one he gave to Darron. “Sleep sound in the dark, child,” he purred.
He addressed the father without looking at him. “Do not agree to have Dinbreena's daughters raise your children.”
Ryld scoffed. “I have no intention to. She's allowed me to raise them myself. Being her consort has granted me that favor, I guess.” He watched his boys with his arms crossed. He was steeling himself for what he was about to tell T’zeklochar. “I… I want you to train them, when they come of age.”
The Weapons Master still did not look him in the eye. “You're a madman and a fool,” he simply said.
Indignant, Ryld straightened up. He always had too much cheek for a commoner. It was one of the things that T’zeklochar admired about him. “A fool? My sons will live, if they know how to defend themselves. How am I a fool to know that?”
“Yes.” T'zeklochar nodded, his voice growing louder. “They will live, but not long enough to see 30. The Patron already hates you as it is. Put a sword in either boy's hand, and they will be a greater threat than ever. If they aren't murdered by their siblings, they will be murdered in the Academy.” He gestured wildly to the window. Somewhere out in the city stood Melee Magthere, where fighters were forged. It was a cruel and merciless place whose halls were washed with blood and colonnades polished with screams.
“I cannot protect them there,” T’zeklochar declared. I cannot protect all of you, he thought to himself.
“That's not what I'm asking,” Ryld replied coolly. “I only require that you teach them what they need to know.”
T’zeklochar was adamant. He shook his head. “Give them up for consortship and they may yet survive.”
“So they can be treated like… mere courtesans?” Ryld could not - would not see his sons suffer the same fate.
Ryld. What mother he had was so heartless as to name him “slave” in the drow tongue.
“They will marry into security,” T’zeklochar explained, “They'll be valuable in continuing the bloodline. Is that not enough to placate you?”
“And if your boy was alive, would you do the same?” Ryld snapped.
The words were out before Ryld could stop himself. When he saw the look of hurt on the Weapons Master's face, he knew he had gone too far.
T’zeklochar was Matron Dinbreena's consort once. He'd sired a child. A third son.
He didn't even get a chance to hold the boy before Liriel plunged her dagger into his tiny heart. A sacrifice to appease the goddess, Lolth.
Recovering, T'zeklochar replied, “If he had been allowed to live? Yes.”
He held Darron's foot and placed a tender kiss on his heel. He passed Ryld on his way to the door, and without so much as a warning, he grabbed him by the throat and shoved him against the wall.
The impact knocked the wind out of Ryld. His breath did not return now that he and T’zeklochar were a lip's distance from each other.
“If you ever mention my boy again,” T’zeklochar whispered, his voice soft as silk. “I'll kill you.”
He dropped Ryld to his feet and headed out the door.
“I need you.”
T’zeklochar froze.
“I cannot do this alone,” Ryld begged. “These boys need to be strong. You must teach them.”
“Have it your way. It won't be easy. It will break them.”
“I know.”
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A/N: not me posting this because it got too long 🤡
