Post by Zola Rhomdaen on Aug 16, 2024 8:31:43 GMT
PART I
The long-awaited letter was dropped off by an anonymous courier at her door. The Elvish cursive on the rough lizardskin parchment is imperious in its precision, exactly like one might imagine a matron mother’s handwriting to look like.
Zola’s hands tremble, her thumbs pressing hard into the paper and making creases that crack across its surface, as she reads and re-reads the letter over and over.
sincerely hope
in good spirits
finally discuss recent events
The bile that rises to her throat could burn a hole through her neck.
From the blackest recesses of her heart, a thin, pale spider comes crawling out into the light. It whispers hungrily through its fangs of matricide, of ambition, of vengeance fulfilled. It makes her breaths shudder with anger and desire.
A tenday filled busily with recruiting, discussing, and planning has passed. The day is here at last. A slight, hooded drow man comes walking into the Gilded Mirror when Zola and her friends are enjoying a heroes’ feast. The man scans the tavern and does a double take when his gaze lands on her, but nonetheless approaches their table.
The paladin stands up with her back straight and smiles at him. “I tend to get that reaction from Aeschirans. I am Lady Zola. And you must be the representative?”
“Terbil Dilass, one of the house staff of the Matron Mother,” the drow says as he lowers his hood. I’ve been sent to advise you of tonight’s agenda and bring you to…” He pauses, quizzically glancing at Velania, Dwirhian, Digs, and Pipper seated around the table. “Apologies, am I interrupting a private event?”
“Not at all. Please, join us.”
“That is alright, thank you. I’m afraid we are on a deadline. If your ladyship would like to take your leave, we can set off immediately.”
“Well, these people will be joining me, if you don’t mind.” Zola makes a sweeping gesture at her friends. “And also my steed outside.”
Terbil hesitates. “Well… I was under the impression that I’d be bringing only yourself. It may seem a little rude…”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m sure rudeness shall be the last thing on my mother’s mind.”
“Um… Very well. I-It is not for me to question these things. However, there are some things I need to tell your ladyship before we depart.”
Zola beckons for the servant to take a seat, and he obliges. “Matron Rhomdaen has assembled several house representatives to share information,” he begins. “She is hoping to have a discussion with you, but also to formally introduce you to the other houses, so that matters can be controlled rather than have scandalous rumours run rampant. There will, of course, be high security. Only trusted individuals are invited. The event will take place in the main foyer of the mansion instead of the Matron’s great hall, so as to put every house at even footing. Magical wards will prevent intrusion and divination, and all guests have been told to remain silent until the seals are in place, at which point I shall announce it.”
That was not what she was expecting to hear. But Zola hides the surprise from her face, recalling the lessons imparted on her by Lord Jaezred: You are a highborn lady. Act like it. Never display the weakness of emotion in front of others.
“I see,” she says, maintaining a stolid, neutral tone. “But why must we be silent?”
“Some of the representatives are people of influence and knowledge. It’s a precaution to ensure nothing is spoken that someone might overhear. The matron is very particular about security.”
“Is she.”
“She is,” replies Terbil. Zola resists the smirk tickling at her lips. “The Matron may be slightly late. Other guests will be Larynda Rhomdaen, your…”
“Twin sister. Younger.”
Terbil nods and swallows. “Yes, along with her personal guard Sandor and her…your…cousins Kekoph Rhomdaen, Vorn Rhomdaen, and Molgar Yazbros. Also present are representatives from the other great houses: Gorr, Ithyr, Kilani, Menat, and T’sylan; their personal names are withheld for security reasons.”
“That is six houses in total,” Zola observes. “I take it there is still no replacement for House Shanmet in Heart’s Head? And what of…the remaining house?”
“Yes, invitations were sent out to House Do’Viir and to the surviving members of House Shanmet, but no reply was received from either of them.”
House Shanmet, a former member of the sovereign council of 8 noble houses that governs the Schira Sprawl. A few years ago, its last matron mother struck a deal with Zuggtmoy in some thoughtless bid for power. A demonic fungal infestation wormed through Aeschira, and in response, the other seven houses banded together to destroy House Shanmet, extinguishing the female line. This is what happens to houses that dare to rise up against Heart’s Head.
Terbil continues listing off the guests. “Members of staff at the event will be two waitstaff, a chef, and two musicians — all of whom will be temporarily deafened for the duration, as will I. And there will be you…and your guests… And finally, a Tebrin Zoland will also be in attendance.”
Under the table, Zola’s fists clench hard, digging pink crescents into her palm.
Calm. Calm. Don’t let him hear your heart leaping.
She manages to politely smile her thanks to Terbil. “How long have you served House Rhomdaen?”
“Many years. I’ve served through many changes, many ups and downs in the house, though I don’t know its full history. I joined the staff shortly after it became one of the great houses.”
“What can you tell me of my sister?”
Again, he hesitates. “I’ve known her since she was a girl. I do not wish to speak out of turn, but if I were to describe Lady Larynda…I would say that she is driven.”
Driven. The word tells a whole life’s story to Zola: the story of a girl bearing great expectations on her shoulders due to being the only child of a great matron; a girl who was looked down upon by her peers because of the humble origins of her young house; a girl who’s determined to not disappoint when her time finally comes.
Despite her best efforts, Zola’s smile takes on a mournful quality. “Well, it’s a shame I never knew her.”
The five of them stand in the vestibule of the Rhomdaen mansion, facing a set of double doors, watching Terbil as he explains again the rule of silence. Seated on Cor’Vandor’s new saddle, Zola fidgets with the reins, squeezing and tugging at the leather. Are they going to get attacked as soon as they step inside? But then, why bother bringing all these dignitaries here?
All the while, the tolling of the Heart Bell reverberates through the thick stone walls that surround them. She can barely hear her own thoughts above the damned thing.
At the end of his spiel, Terbil turns around and pushes the doors open. Zola holds her breath and marches Cor’Vandor forward.
Every single pair of eyes in the foyer are on them the moment they enter. She’d expected that, but she was not prepared for the way it suffocates her almost instantly. The silent guests of this mystery soirée are scattered around the edges of the large room, and as the adventurers make their way across, three faces stands out to her:
Tebrin, leaning against a pillar behind a statue to the right, looking cocky as always.
A drow man with braided hair, dressed in purple robes, staring at Velania with a look of dumbfounded anger.
And Zola’s own face, sans battle scars and with both amber eyes burning bright, its features warped by sheer hatred. Her twin sister Larynda is staring right at her from where she sits.
Zola wrenches her gaze forward as they keep moving, not stopping until they’ve secured a corner of the room away from everyone else. Her fingers twitch with an itching in her palms, impatiently yearning to grip the Twins. She knows all the hidden knives in this room are pointed at her. But in this type of setting, where words and appearances reign supreme, the first one to draw her blade is the first to lose.
“Thank you for your patience,” Terbil Dilass, standing in front of the doors with his hands folded behind his back, announces to the room. “The seals are now in place. Please allow me to make formal introductions.”
He gestures to the three men nearest to Zola’s group, one of whom is the braided-haired drow glaring daggers at Velania. “Master Molgar Yazbros and the representatives of House Gorr and House Menat.”
Next, he turns to the group directly to their south. “The Priestess Larynda Rhomdaen, her ladyship’s personal guard Sandor, and the Honourable Gentleman Kekoph Rhomdaen.”
Three guests in the southeastern corner: “The Honourable Gentleman Vorn Rhomdaen and the representatives of Houses Kilani, Ithyr, and T’sylan.”
Finally, Terbil motions simultaneously with both hands at the Dawnlanders and the lone, dark figure in the shadow of the eastern pillar. “Last but not least — Tebrin Zoland, leader of the Swift Shadows, and Lady Zola and her companions from the surface world.”
Zola looks back at her friends — she’d sent Digs off to sneak around the rest of the mansion and find out what’s causing Phaeva to be late, and none seems to have noticed his absence. Yet still, the white winged stag, the silver-haired aasimar, the blue-skinned surface elf, and the six-foot-five hunk of whirring and hissing mechanical armour are drawing a lot of naked staring.
She allows herself one quick, furtive glance at Tebrin. He has been cautious to not acknowledge her in any way, not even so much as breathed in her general direction. She wonders what he thinks of this display from her, riding in atop an armoured stag with a rainbow of oddballs for an entourage. He would probably make some irritating, snide remark about it, taking free jabs at her penchant for dramatics, and she would go pink in the face and threaten to smite him back to the Nine Hells. And they would bicker and fight and she would feel the heat growing under her collar…
By the gods, Zola, this is not the time. Stop being so fucking pathetic.
Having finished speaking, Terbil turns and walks towards where Vorn Rhomdaen is standing. He flinches when Vorn casts the deafness spell on him, and then returns to his post by the doors.
The policy of silence has been lifted, but the air is still simmering with tension. Soothing tones from the piano and harp in the corner do nothing to ease the atmosphere. The only voices heard in the foyer are whispers, barely concealed behind raised hands. They follow Zola across the room as she strides towards where Larynda is sitting, the certainty of her movements disguising the jittering nerves beneath.
“Begging your pardon. I’ve been wanting to introduce myself for a while. I’m Zola.”
“I know exactly who you are,” Larynda answers in a gelid tone.
“Well, I would assume so, since we’ve got the same face.” Zola coughs out a single, timid laugh. “It’s so odd, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps, but not the oddest thing about this.”
“Pray, sister, what is the oddest thing then?”
Larynda’s face twists even further at that word, that term of kinship she evidently hates with every fibre of her being.
“I understand that you were kept a secret,” she spits out, “but I also understand that you played a part in the disappearance of Father, and it is quite…testing to have you show up in our home after that and making such a scene. So yes, I know exactly who you are.”
Zola gulps. What sort of lies has Phaeva been feeding her? “Look…we can discuss what happened with Father in a more private setting. I think you would prefer that.”
“There are quite a few things I would like to ‘discuss’, but you are a guest for now. Excuse me, does your friend have to perpetually make that clanking noise?”
Zola follows Larynda’s gaze, looking behind her at Pipper, who seemed to have followed her here, dancing haphazardly to the tune of the ambient music in full armour. Clink-clank, clink-clank, CLANK.
“Yes,” Zola replies without missing a beat. “Anyway, as I was saying: I did not know about any of you until very recently. The incident with our father was the first time I met him. I bore no ill will toward him.”
“But you killed him.”
She shouldn’t be surprised at the accusation, but she is and she can’t hide it. “N…No! He’s alive!”
“Where is he, then?” Larynda shoots back immediately.
“I…I don’t know. I can’t say.”
“Sounds like something you’d say if he were dead.”
Shit. Zola can’t deny how this looks for her. She resists shrinking under the pressure of Larynda’s resentful gaze — that would all but prove her guilt in her sister’s eyes — and shakes her head instead. “Believe what you want, sister, but I did not kill our father.”
The silence she is met with somehow feels longer and more crushing than the one that had swallowed the whole room earlier.
“Is there anything else?” says Larynda. “I have to respect Mother’s reasons for having you here, but I don’t have to like it.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Zola sighs out. She turns her gaze to the man sitting to Larynda’s right. He has long, straight hair swept over his shoulders and is dressed in purple robes embroidered with the Rhomdaen house glyph. “You are my cousin Kekoph? Pleased to meet you.”
“I cannot say the same,” he says, just as acidic.
“I was told about you, how you came to be adopted into the main family. I’m sorry about your parents.”
A chill look of fury spreads across Kekoph’s face. “That is none of your concern. You are clearly rubbing us all the wrong way, so perhaps you and your friend would care to bother someone else?”
She sighs again. “Yes, why don’t I bother Sandor here. You are my sister’s bodyguard?”
The other man in this grouping lifts his chin. He has four beady red eyes under his hood, possibly more. And he smiles a too-wide, too-toothy grin.
“Er, well…” She feels her mouth go dry instantly and just looks at the other two again. “Well. It was not my intention, but I am sorry to have spoiled your evening.”
“It’s more than an evening you’ve spoiled,” Larynda says, her voice dangerously low. “You met Father just once, and on that day, I lost a parent. Go, and enjoy yourself.”
There is nothing more for Zola to say. Her shoulders slump in defeat, and she spins on her heel to walk away as her cheeks burn hot. But a wisp of white in the corner of her eye gives her sudden pause and, acting on instinct, she looks over her shoulder.
The pale, misty aura that envelops Larynda and Kekoph, and trails towards Molgar and Vorn, fades away the moment Zola looks at it. She blinks, once, twice. “Pipper, what is that? That white aura around them?”
Pipper’s helmeted head whirls around. “Um, I don’t see any aura.”
Zola looks at her in confusion before glancing back once more. There it is again, that moonlit mist, dissipating just as she turns her head, like a note petering out at the end of a song. A song, hummed sweetly by a woman’s voice, that she can almost hear under the hush of air. It soothes the pain of loss and frustration pricking inside her, easing her embarrassment away.
Eilistraee’s presence is here, in this very room. But what is the goddess trying to tell her?
Zola holds her breath and follows a tendril of that wisping aura, curling around Molgar’s feet. He is as oblivious to it as everyone else, judging by the way he fixes his glare on her when she comes near. His face is sharp and angular, somewhat reminiscent of Kelolg; and where Kekoph and Vorn have an air of lazy confidence about them, Molgar seems always alert and on edge. Behind him, the representatives of House Gorr and House Menat watch on.
“Cousin Molgar…”
“Zola. I think I’ve already met your friend.”
All four of them turn to see Velania walking up to Molgar. “Sister Velania of the Temple of Selûne, the ghost of your future,” she says breezily.
“I didn’t realise priestesses were in the habit of breaking and entering.”
“Well, I must congratulate you on your quick response.”
“Evidently not quick enough, since you’re back.”
Velania’s faux-friendly smile turns a touch awkward. “Look, Molgar, I’m not here to cause offence—”
“I’m finding it quite offensive. Were you here to cause offence last time? Sorry—” Molgar turns to the representatives. “I caught Sister Velania here sneaking around our house.”
Zola speaks up. “That is a bold accusation, Cousin Molgar. I think it rather uncouth to air this in front of our honoured guests.”
“Our honoured guests should know what kind of snakes are among us,” he growls.
“Now, now, Molgar,” Gorr interjects. “Whatever troubles are between us, we should leave them for another time.”
Menat leans in closer, studying her curiously. “Zola, yes? I believe I’ve heard about you. I was wondering how true some of it was. Eldest daughter of House Rhomdaen? It’s a bold claim to make when Larynda is known to us, and sitting right there.”
“Bold, but true.” Zola does not acknowledge Molgar fuming next to her. He storms off from this little group, making his way toward Larynda, Kekoph, and Sandor. He seems to consider body-checking Pipper on the way, but seeing the hulking mass of armour she is covered in, thinks better of it.
In the periphery of the sword dancer’s vision, the aura intensifies into a brilliant shine once Molgar joins his cousins. Eilistraee is trying to guide her actions today. She realises now where Larynda’s dreams, the ones she had consulted Lillian about, were coming from.
Her kin are not making it easy. But I’ve got to try, don’t I? It’s the only thing I can do.
When she walks up behind Vorn, she catches Tebrin’s eye over her cousin’s shoulder. She hates how that is enough to stop the breath in her throat, set her heart drumming against her chest, and make her veins thrum with heat.
But she steadies herself by taking a deep breath, and clears her throat politely.
“Cousin Vorn.”
Vorn turns around, regarding her with a disdainfully arched brow. He looks remarkably similar to Kekoph, even sporting the same hairstyle, only he is shorter and slimmer in his frame. They must be fraternal twins. She briefly wonders whether Rhomdaen women are somehow predisposed to birthing twins.
“‘Cousin’? How very familial for a first meeting,” Vorn snarks at her.
“We are related in that way, are we not?”
“Until recently, I didn’t even know you existed.”
“Nor did I you. But that aside — may I have a word with all of you?”
His gaze flits past Zola to the Rhomdaens sitting across the room. “All of us? What about?”
“Trust me, you’re going to want to hear this. It’s… It’s a family matter.”
The frown on his face deepens and he seems to be considering which pithy put-down he is going to use on her. But his eyes wander over to Dwirhian, dancing with Velania around the centre of the room, and something shifts ever so slightly. Whatever words they had exchanged earlier, Zola is thankful for them as he, apparently surprising even himself, relents with a sigh. “Fine.”
She flashes him a grateful smile and turns to lead him to the others. Tebrin makes no comment as they depart, quietly swilling the goblet of wine in his hand.
“Against my better judgement,” Vorn says when the others stare at him questioningly, “our newest cousin has requested a conversation with us.”
Zola nods. “This is going to sound odd, and as much as you don’t want to, please bear with me: have any of you been having strange dreams?”
A palpable beat of silence. The twin brothers exchange baffled looks with each other before turning their shared incredulity back at her. Molgar sighs and takes a gulp from his cup. “Really now? This is what you came to talk to us about? Dreams?” he says.
But Larynda is completely still, frozen and quiet as the shadow of uncertainty falls on her face.
Zola’s stare cuts directly at her sister. “Larynda, you know what I’m talking about.”
She snaps out of it, scoffing and sputtering. “You presume to know such things about me?”
“I don’t presume. I speak of what I know. You have been seeing strange dreams, haven’t you? And we drow, we do not dream.”
“Exactly, we don’t. So why do you think that I am?”
“You think they’re from Lolth, but you can feel that they’re not. A nude drow woman, silver light, music?”
“You…” Larynda juts forward to the edge of her seat, snarling at Zola again. “You’ve come into our house, ruined the evening with your rude companions, caused untold amounts of chaos, and now you’re telling me I’m having fairy-tale dreams?”
“I’m only speaking frankly about what’s happening. Please, Larynda, I have nothing against you. You may think I killed our father, but I didn’t.”
“What else am I supposed to think? You show up, and our father— My father is dead.”
“I…I never wanted to hurt you. I wish we could’ve known each other. I wish we could’ve grown up together.” Sorrow weighs down and thickens Zola’s voice, unable to keep her feelings bottled up any longer. She shakes her head sadly. “But alas, there’s no use in bemoaning a fate that could’ve been.”
Larynda falls quiet again. She still looks uncertain, inhibited by doubt, but the wall of ice she’d put up between her and Zola is beginning to flake away. Her hands quiver and she clenches them into fists to hide it. Beside her, Kekoph and Vorn and Molgar watch on in uncomfortable silence.
“Our parents did wrong to me. I did— I do feel hatred for them for what they did,” Zola continues. “But you have to believe me: I did not kill our father. He’s…he’s being held by someone.”
“Who?” Larynda demands.
“I can’t say it here.”
“No, you can’t just come in here and say he’s still alive and not tell me where he is!”
“He’s being held by the same person who’s holding my adoptive mothers, the people who raised me, hostage—”
“I don’t know who those people are!”
“Just listen, please!” Zola hisses through gritted teeth. “For the sake of our house, I cannot say that name here. I’m trying to save you from a terrible fate—”
The Heart Bell tolls at the same time as the doors on the northern wall unlock and swing open.
A tall, statuesque, older drow woman with voluminous hair and outfitted in an elegant, white deep-cut dress with high slits glides into the room. Her amber eyes, gleaming like polished gold coins, scans every face before her with regal indifference. The servants stand at attention in stock-still silence — they need not introduce her to anyone.
“Welcome, everyone, and thank you for attending at such short notice,” says Matron Mother Phaeva Rhomdaen. “I understand you’re all very busy, so allow me to address the most pressing question you must have. One of our guests here bears a strong resemblance to my daughter Larynda. I have kept this hidden from you for a long time for fear of blackmail or attack, but the truth is: I have two daughters, twins, who have had very different lives.”
Zola hears Larynda taking in a long, trembling breath.
“I invited you here to introduce her to the houses before any wild schemes could play out. However, I have other news that I must now reveal. Another guest here, Tebrin Zoland, is known to you and has begun to worm his way into some of your houses.” Phaeva looks at the Gorr representative in particular. “He is not one of us. He is a devil, seeking to establish himself in our city.”
Gasps. The shrink of hidden daggers being drawn. Tebrin’s eyes widen and dart wildly across the foyer, his jaw clenching tight; no longer the cool-headed, ever-prepared strategist. Then he laughs. “Is this really how you’d have things play out?” he cries out.
“Speak not in this house, devil,” Phaeva snaps. “Think yourself lucky you’re an invited guest, or you’d have been flayed and fed to the ankhegs already.”
He flexes his shoulders and large raven wings spread from his back. The commotion from the other guests grow even more agitated. “Then, as your guest, I suggest you get better wine,” he says, tossing his goblet aside. “This one tastes of rust.”
He turns and takes off the ground, barging through a tall, tinted window. Shards of painted glass fly across the floor, causing the drow who’d begun running at him to skid to a halt. Zola can do nothing but watch as her betrothed abandons her in this nest of spiders.
Phaeva claps her hands once, the sound reverberating through the air in the foyer like the ringing of the Bell, and all the guests obediently quiet themselves. “The devil knows that if we had killed him here, he’d have only returned later. We must deal with him another day.”
“And how did you come to know of this?” asks Gorr.
“A series of careful background checks that he almost evaded. What I have also discovered, I am sad to say, is that his consort is none other than my wayward daughter. Why else would she come here under such heavy guard but to assist him in his schemes?”
Phaeva raises an accusing finger at Zola across the room. As the looks of shock and anger are redirected towards her, the whole world seems to spin around her.
No. No. This can’t be happening.
“But I will not allow her and her paramour to threaten the stability of our house,” the Matron proclaims. “Larynda, do not let them leave alive.”
(To be continued.)
The long-awaited letter was dropped off by an anonymous courier at her door. The Elvish cursive on the rough lizardskin parchment is imperious in its precision, exactly like one might imagine a matron mother’s handwriting to look like.
For the attention of Zola,
I sincerely hope this letter finds you in good spirits. I understand you have come to know a great many things of late and I suspect the time to begin conversations about them has long since passed. However, I should like to return us to that time.
Take this letter as a personal invitation to visit me at the Rhomdaen Manor in Aeschira, 22nd Flamerule, where we can finally discuss recent events.
A representative of the Rhomdaen family will arrive at sundown on the 22nd, wherever this letter finds you, to arrange swift transport. Please be ready.
Phaeva Rhomdaen, Matron of House Rhomdaen
I sincerely hope this letter finds you in good spirits. I understand you have come to know a great many things of late and I suspect the time to begin conversations about them has long since passed. However, I should like to return us to that time.
Take this letter as a personal invitation to visit me at the Rhomdaen Manor in Aeschira, 22nd Flamerule, where we can finally discuss recent events.
A representative of the Rhomdaen family will arrive at sundown on the 22nd, wherever this letter finds you, to arrange swift transport. Please be ready.
Phaeva Rhomdaen, Matron of House Rhomdaen
Zola’s hands tremble, her thumbs pressing hard into the paper and making creases that crack across its surface, as she reads and re-reads the letter over and over.
sincerely hope
in good spirits
finally discuss recent events
The bile that rises to her throat could burn a hole through her neck.
From the blackest recesses of her heart, a thin, pale spider comes crawling out into the light. It whispers hungrily through its fangs of matricide, of ambition, of vengeance fulfilled. It makes her breaths shudder with anger and desire.
Take me back
Oh, drunken gods of slaughter
You know I’ve always been your
Favourite daughter.
A tenday filled busily with recruiting, discussing, and planning has passed. The day is here at last. A slight, hooded drow man comes walking into the Gilded Mirror when Zola and her friends are enjoying a heroes’ feast. The man scans the tavern and does a double take when his gaze lands on her, but nonetheless approaches their table.
The paladin stands up with her back straight and smiles at him. “I tend to get that reaction from Aeschirans. I am Lady Zola. And you must be the representative?”
“Terbil Dilass, one of the house staff of the Matron Mother,” the drow says as he lowers his hood. I’ve been sent to advise you of tonight’s agenda and bring you to…” He pauses, quizzically glancing at Velania, Dwirhian, Digs, and Pipper seated around the table. “Apologies, am I interrupting a private event?”
“Not at all. Please, join us.”
“That is alright, thank you. I’m afraid we are on a deadline. If your ladyship would like to take your leave, we can set off immediately.”
“Well, these people will be joining me, if you don’t mind.” Zola makes a sweeping gesture at her friends. “And also my steed outside.”
Terbil hesitates. “Well… I was under the impression that I’d be bringing only yourself. It may seem a little rude…”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m sure rudeness shall be the last thing on my mother’s mind.”
“Um… Very well. I-It is not for me to question these things. However, there are some things I need to tell your ladyship before we depart.”
Zola beckons for the servant to take a seat, and he obliges. “Matron Rhomdaen has assembled several house representatives to share information,” he begins. “She is hoping to have a discussion with you, but also to formally introduce you to the other houses, so that matters can be controlled rather than have scandalous rumours run rampant. There will, of course, be high security. Only trusted individuals are invited. The event will take place in the main foyer of the mansion instead of the Matron’s great hall, so as to put every house at even footing. Magical wards will prevent intrusion and divination, and all guests have been told to remain silent until the seals are in place, at which point I shall announce it.”
That was not what she was expecting to hear. But Zola hides the surprise from her face, recalling the lessons imparted on her by Lord Jaezred: You are a highborn lady. Act like it. Never display the weakness of emotion in front of others.
“I see,” she says, maintaining a stolid, neutral tone. “But why must we be silent?”
“Some of the representatives are people of influence and knowledge. It’s a precaution to ensure nothing is spoken that someone might overhear. The matron is very particular about security.”
“Is she.”
“She is,” replies Terbil. Zola resists the smirk tickling at her lips. “The Matron may be slightly late. Other guests will be Larynda Rhomdaen, your…”
“Twin sister. Younger.”
Terbil nods and swallows. “Yes, along with her personal guard Sandor and her…your…cousins Kekoph Rhomdaen, Vorn Rhomdaen, and Molgar Yazbros. Also present are representatives from the other great houses: Gorr, Ithyr, Kilani, Menat, and T’sylan; their personal names are withheld for security reasons.”
“That is six houses in total,” Zola observes. “I take it there is still no replacement for House Shanmet in Heart’s Head? And what of…the remaining house?”
“Yes, invitations were sent out to House Do’Viir and to the surviving members of House Shanmet, but no reply was received from either of them.”
House Shanmet, a former member of the sovereign council of 8 noble houses that governs the Schira Sprawl. A few years ago, its last matron mother struck a deal with Zuggtmoy in some thoughtless bid for power. A demonic fungal infestation wormed through Aeschira, and in response, the other seven houses banded together to destroy House Shanmet, extinguishing the female line. This is what happens to houses that dare to rise up against Heart’s Head.
Terbil continues listing off the guests. “Members of staff at the event will be two waitstaff, a chef, and two musicians — all of whom will be temporarily deafened for the duration, as will I. And there will be you…and your guests… And finally, a Tebrin Zoland will also be in attendance.”
Under the table, Zola’s fists clench hard, digging pink crescents into her palm.
Calm. Calm. Don’t let him hear your heart leaping.
She manages to politely smile her thanks to Terbil. “How long have you served House Rhomdaen?”
“Many years. I’ve served through many changes, many ups and downs in the house, though I don’t know its full history. I joined the staff shortly after it became one of the great houses.”
“What can you tell me of my sister?”
Again, he hesitates. “I’ve known her since she was a girl. I do not wish to speak out of turn, but if I were to describe Lady Larynda…I would say that she is driven.”
Driven. The word tells a whole life’s story to Zola: the story of a girl bearing great expectations on her shoulders due to being the only child of a great matron; a girl who was looked down upon by her peers because of the humble origins of her young house; a girl who’s determined to not disappoint when her time finally comes.
Despite her best efforts, Zola’s smile takes on a mournful quality. “Well, it’s a shame I never knew her.”
The five of them stand in the vestibule of the Rhomdaen mansion, facing a set of double doors, watching Terbil as he explains again the rule of silence. Seated on Cor’Vandor’s new saddle, Zola fidgets with the reins, squeezing and tugging at the leather. Are they going to get attacked as soon as they step inside? But then, why bother bringing all these dignitaries here?
All the while, the tolling of the Heart Bell reverberates through the thick stone walls that surround them. She can barely hear her own thoughts above the damned thing.
At the end of his spiel, Terbil turns around and pushes the doors open. Zola holds her breath and marches Cor’Vandor forward.
Every single pair of eyes in the foyer are on them the moment they enter. She’d expected that, but she was not prepared for the way it suffocates her almost instantly. The silent guests of this mystery soirée are scattered around the edges of the large room, and as the adventurers make their way across, three faces stands out to her:
Tebrin, leaning against a pillar behind a statue to the right, looking cocky as always.
A drow man with braided hair, dressed in purple robes, staring at Velania with a look of dumbfounded anger.
And Zola’s own face, sans battle scars and with both amber eyes burning bright, its features warped by sheer hatred. Her twin sister Larynda is staring right at her from where she sits.
Zola wrenches her gaze forward as they keep moving, not stopping until they’ve secured a corner of the room away from everyone else. Her fingers twitch with an itching in her palms, impatiently yearning to grip the Twins. She knows all the hidden knives in this room are pointed at her. But in this type of setting, where words and appearances reign supreme, the first one to draw her blade is the first to lose.
“Thank you for your patience,” Terbil Dilass, standing in front of the doors with his hands folded behind his back, announces to the room. “The seals are now in place. Please allow me to make formal introductions.”
He gestures to the three men nearest to Zola’s group, one of whom is the braided-haired drow glaring daggers at Velania. “Master Molgar Yazbros and the representatives of House Gorr and House Menat.”
Next, he turns to the group directly to their south. “The Priestess Larynda Rhomdaen, her ladyship’s personal guard Sandor, and the Honourable Gentleman Kekoph Rhomdaen.”
Three guests in the southeastern corner: “The Honourable Gentleman Vorn Rhomdaen and the representatives of Houses Kilani, Ithyr, and T’sylan.”
Finally, Terbil motions simultaneously with both hands at the Dawnlanders and the lone, dark figure in the shadow of the eastern pillar. “Last but not least — Tebrin Zoland, leader of the Swift Shadows, and Lady Zola and her companions from the surface world.”
Zola looks back at her friends — she’d sent Digs off to sneak around the rest of the mansion and find out what’s causing Phaeva to be late, and none seems to have noticed his absence. Yet still, the white winged stag, the silver-haired aasimar, the blue-skinned surface elf, and the six-foot-five hunk of whirring and hissing mechanical armour are drawing a lot of naked staring.
She allows herself one quick, furtive glance at Tebrin. He has been cautious to not acknowledge her in any way, not even so much as breathed in her general direction. She wonders what he thinks of this display from her, riding in atop an armoured stag with a rainbow of oddballs for an entourage. He would probably make some irritating, snide remark about it, taking free jabs at her penchant for dramatics, and she would go pink in the face and threaten to smite him back to the Nine Hells. And they would bicker and fight and she would feel the heat growing under her collar…
By the gods, Zola, this is not the time. Stop being so fucking pathetic.
Having finished speaking, Terbil turns and walks towards where Vorn Rhomdaen is standing. He flinches when Vorn casts the deafness spell on him, and then returns to his post by the doors.
The policy of silence has been lifted, but the air is still simmering with tension. Soothing tones from the piano and harp in the corner do nothing to ease the atmosphere. The only voices heard in the foyer are whispers, barely concealed behind raised hands. They follow Zola across the room as she strides towards where Larynda is sitting, the certainty of her movements disguising the jittering nerves beneath.
“Begging your pardon. I’ve been wanting to introduce myself for a while. I’m Zola.”
“I know exactly who you are,” Larynda answers in a gelid tone.
“Well, I would assume so, since we’ve got the same face.” Zola coughs out a single, timid laugh. “It’s so odd, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps, but not the oddest thing about this.”
“Pray, sister, what is the oddest thing then?”
Larynda’s face twists even further at that word, that term of kinship she evidently hates with every fibre of her being.
“I understand that you were kept a secret,” she spits out, “but I also understand that you played a part in the disappearance of Father, and it is quite…testing to have you show up in our home after that and making such a scene. So yes, I know exactly who you are.”
Zola gulps. What sort of lies has Phaeva been feeding her? “Look…we can discuss what happened with Father in a more private setting. I think you would prefer that.”
“There are quite a few things I would like to ‘discuss’, but you are a guest for now. Excuse me, does your friend have to perpetually make that clanking noise?”
Zola follows Larynda’s gaze, looking behind her at Pipper, who seemed to have followed her here, dancing haphazardly to the tune of the ambient music in full armour. Clink-clank, clink-clank, CLANK.
“Yes,” Zola replies without missing a beat. “Anyway, as I was saying: I did not know about any of you until very recently. The incident with our father was the first time I met him. I bore no ill will toward him.”
“But you killed him.”
She shouldn’t be surprised at the accusation, but she is and she can’t hide it. “N…No! He’s alive!”
“Where is he, then?” Larynda shoots back immediately.
“I…I don’t know. I can’t say.”
“Sounds like something you’d say if he were dead.”
Shit. Zola can’t deny how this looks for her. She resists shrinking under the pressure of Larynda’s resentful gaze — that would all but prove her guilt in her sister’s eyes — and shakes her head instead. “Believe what you want, sister, but I did not kill our father.”
The silence she is met with somehow feels longer and more crushing than the one that had swallowed the whole room earlier.
“Is there anything else?” says Larynda. “I have to respect Mother’s reasons for having you here, but I don’t have to like it.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Zola sighs out. She turns her gaze to the man sitting to Larynda’s right. He has long, straight hair swept over his shoulders and is dressed in purple robes embroidered with the Rhomdaen house glyph. “You are my cousin Kekoph? Pleased to meet you.”
“I cannot say the same,” he says, just as acidic.
“I was told about you, how you came to be adopted into the main family. I’m sorry about your parents.”
A chill look of fury spreads across Kekoph’s face. “That is none of your concern. You are clearly rubbing us all the wrong way, so perhaps you and your friend would care to bother someone else?”
She sighs again. “Yes, why don’t I bother Sandor here. You are my sister’s bodyguard?”
The other man in this grouping lifts his chin. He has four beady red eyes under his hood, possibly more. And he smiles a too-wide, too-toothy grin.
“Er, well…” She feels her mouth go dry instantly and just looks at the other two again. “Well. It was not my intention, but I am sorry to have spoiled your evening.”
“It’s more than an evening you’ve spoiled,” Larynda says, her voice dangerously low. “You met Father just once, and on that day, I lost a parent. Go, and enjoy yourself.”
There is nothing more for Zola to say. Her shoulders slump in defeat, and she spins on her heel to walk away as her cheeks burn hot. But a wisp of white in the corner of her eye gives her sudden pause and, acting on instinct, she looks over her shoulder.
The pale, misty aura that envelops Larynda and Kekoph, and trails towards Molgar and Vorn, fades away the moment Zola looks at it. She blinks, once, twice. “Pipper, what is that? That white aura around them?”
Pipper’s helmeted head whirls around. “Um, I don’t see any aura.”
Zola looks at her in confusion before glancing back once more. There it is again, that moonlit mist, dissipating just as she turns her head, like a note petering out at the end of a song. A song, hummed sweetly by a woman’s voice, that she can almost hear under the hush of air. It soothes the pain of loss and frustration pricking inside her, easing her embarrassment away.
Eilistraee’s presence is here, in this very room. But what is the goddess trying to tell her?
Zola holds her breath and follows a tendril of that wisping aura, curling around Molgar’s feet. He is as oblivious to it as everyone else, judging by the way he fixes his glare on her when she comes near. His face is sharp and angular, somewhat reminiscent of Kelolg; and where Kekoph and Vorn have an air of lazy confidence about them, Molgar seems always alert and on edge. Behind him, the representatives of House Gorr and House Menat watch on.
“Cousin Molgar…”
“Zola. I think I’ve already met your friend.”
All four of them turn to see Velania walking up to Molgar. “Sister Velania of the Temple of Selûne, the ghost of your future,” she says breezily.
“I didn’t realise priestesses were in the habit of breaking and entering.”
“Well, I must congratulate you on your quick response.”
“Evidently not quick enough, since you’re back.”
Velania’s faux-friendly smile turns a touch awkward. “Look, Molgar, I’m not here to cause offence—”
“I’m finding it quite offensive. Were you here to cause offence last time? Sorry—” Molgar turns to the representatives. “I caught Sister Velania here sneaking around our house.”
Zola speaks up. “That is a bold accusation, Cousin Molgar. I think it rather uncouth to air this in front of our honoured guests.”
“Our honoured guests should know what kind of snakes are among us,” he growls.
“Now, now, Molgar,” Gorr interjects. “Whatever troubles are between us, we should leave them for another time.”
Menat leans in closer, studying her curiously. “Zola, yes? I believe I’ve heard about you. I was wondering how true some of it was. Eldest daughter of House Rhomdaen? It’s a bold claim to make when Larynda is known to us, and sitting right there.”
“Bold, but true.” Zola does not acknowledge Molgar fuming next to her. He storms off from this little group, making his way toward Larynda, Kekoph, and Sandor. He seems to consider body-checking Pipper on the way, but seeing the hulking mass of armour she is covered in, thinks better of it.
In the periphery of the sword dancer’s vision, the aura intensifies into a brilliant shine once Molgar joins his cousins. Eilistraee is trying to guide her actions today. She realises now where Larynda’s dreams, the ones she had consulted Lillian about, were coming from.
Her kin are not making it easy. But I’ve got to try, don’t I? It’s the only thing I can do.
When she walks up behind Vorn, she catches Tebrin’s eye over her cousin’s shoulder. She hates how that is enough to stop the breath in her throat, set her heart drumming against her chest, and make her veins thrum with heat.
But she steadies herself by taking a deep breath, and clears her throat politely.
“Cousin Vorn.”
Vorn turns around, regarding her with a disdainfully arched brow. He looks remarkably similar to Kekoph, even sporting the same hairstyle, only he is shorter and slimmer in his frame. They must be fraternal twins. She briefly wonders whether Rhomdaen women are somehow predisposed to birthing twins.
“‘Cousin’? How very familial for a first meeting,” Vorn snarks at her.
“We are related in that way, are we not?”
“Until recently, I didn’t even know you existed.”
“Nor did I you. But that aside — may I have a word with all of you?”
His gaze flits past Zola to the Rhomdaens sitting across the room. “All of us? What about?”
“Trust me, you’re going to want to hear this. It’s… It’s a family matter.”
The frown on his face deepens and he seems to be considering which pithy put-down he is going to use on her. But his eyes wander over to Dwirhian, dancing with Velania around the centre of the room, and something shifts ever so slightly. Whatever words they had exchanged earlier, Zola is thankful for them as he, apparently surprising even himself, relents with a sigh. “Fine.”
She flashes him a grateful smile and turns to lead him to the others. Tebrin makes no comment as they depart, quietly swilling the goblet of wine in his hand.
“Against my better judgement,” Vorn says when the others stare at him questioningly, “our newest cousin has requested a conversation with us.”
Zola nods. “This is going to sound odd, and as much as you don’t want to, please bear with me: have any of you been having strange dreams?”
A palpable beat of silence. The twin brothers exchange baffled looks with each other before turning their shared incredulity back at her. Molgar sighs and takes a gulp from his cup. “Really now? This is what you came to talk to us about? Dreams?” he says.
But Larynda is completely still, frozen and quiet as the shadow of uncertainty falls on her face.
Zola’s stare cuts directly at her sister. “Larynda, you know what I’m talking about.”
She snaps out of it, scoffing and sputtering. “You presume to know such things about me?”
“I don’t presume. I speak of what I know. You have been seeing strange dreams, haven’t you? And we drow, we do not dream.”
“Exactly, we don’t. So why do you think that I am?”
“You think they’re from Lolth, but you can feel that they’re not. A nude drow woman, silver light, music?”
“You…” Larynda juts forward to the edge of her seat, snarling at Zola again. “You’ve come into our house, ruined the evening with your rude companions, caused untold amounts of chaos, and now you’re telling me I’m having fairy-tale dreams?”
“I’m only speaking frankly about what’s happening. Please, Larynda, I have nothing against you. You may think I killed our father, but I didn’t.”
“What else am I supposed to think? You show up, and our father— My father is dead.”
“I…I never wanted to hurt you. I wish we could’ve known each other. I wish we could’ve grown up together.” Sorrow weighs down and thickens Zola’s voice, unable to keep her feelings bottled up any longer. She shakes her head sadly. “But alas, there’s no use in bemoaning a fate that could’ve been.”
Larynda falls quiet again. She still looks uncertain, inhibited by doubt, but the wall of ice she’d put up between her and Zola is beginning to flake away. Her hands quiver and she clenches them into fists to hide it. Beside her, Kekoph and Vorn and Molgar watch on in uncomfortable silence.
“Our parents did wrong to me. I did— I do feel hatred for them for what they did,” Zola continues. “But you have to believe me: I did not kill our father. He’s…he’s being held by someone.”
“Who?” Larynda demands.
“I can’t say it here.”
“No, you can’t just come in here and say he’s still alive and not tell me where he is!”
“He’s being held by the same person who’s holding my adoptive mothers, the people who raised me, hostage—”
“I don’t know who those people are!”
“Just listen, please!” Zola hisses through gritted teeth. “For the sake of our house, I cannot say that name here. I’m trying to save you from a terrible fate—”
The Heart Bell tolls at the same time as the doors on the northern wall unlock and swing open.
A tall, statuesque, older drow woman with voluminous hair and outfitted in an elegant, white deep-cut dress with high slits glides into the room. Her amber eyes, gleaming like polished gold coins, scans every face before her with regal indifference. The servants stand at attention in stock-still silence — they need not introduce her to anyone.
“Welcome, everyone, and thank you for attending at such short notice,” says Matron Mother Phaeva Rhomdaen. “I understand you’re all very busy, so allow me to address the most pressing question you must have. One of our guests here bears a strong resemblance to my daughter Larynda. I have kept this hidden from you for a long time for fear of blackmail or attack, but the truth is: I have two daughters, twins, who have had very different lives.”
Zola hears Larynda taking in a long, trembling breath.
“I invited you here to introduce her to the houses before any wild schemes could play out. However, I have other news that I must now reveal. Another guest here, Tebrin Zoland, is known to you and has begun to worm his way into some of your houses.” Phaeva looks at the Gorr representative in particular. “He is not one of us. He is a devil, seeking to establish himself in our city.”
Gasps. The shrink of hidden daggers being drawn. Tebrin’s eyes widen and dart wildly across the foyer, his jaw clenching tight; no longer the cool-headed, ever-prepared strategist. Then he laughs. “Is this really how you’d have things play out?” he cries out.
“Speak not in this house, devil,” Phaeva snaps. “Think yourself lucky you’re an invited guest, or you’d have been flayed and fed to the ankhegs already.”
He flexes his shoulders and large raven wings spread from his back. The commotion from the other guests grow even more agitated. “Then, as your guest, I suggest you get better wine,” he says, tossing his goblet aside. “This one tastes of rust.”
He turns and takes off the ground, barging through a tall, tinted window. Shards of painted glass fly across the floor, causing the drow who’d begun running at him to skid to a halt. Zola can do nothing but watch as her betrothed abandons her in this nest of spiders.
Phaeva claps her hands once, the sound reverberating through the air in the foyer like the ringing of the Bell, and all the guests obediently quiet themselves. “The devil knows that if we had killed him here, he’d have only returned later. We must deal with him another day.”
“And how did you come to know of this?” asks Gorr.
“A series of careful background checks that he almost evaded. What I have also discovered, I am sad to say, is that his consort is none other than my wayward daughter. Why else would she come here under such heavy guard but to assist him in his schemes?”
Phaeva raises an accusing finger at Zola across the room. As the looks of shock and anger are redirected towards her, the whole world seems to spin around her.
No. No. This can’t be happening.
“But I will not allow her and her paramour to threaten the stability of our house,” the Matron proclaims. “Larynda, do not let them leave alive.”
(To be continued.)
