Homeland by R. A. Salvatore

many others that the seductive matron managed to sneak away from other houses—were almost legendary in Menzoberranzan. Who was she to be spouting reminders of prudent and proper behavior? Vierna bit her lip and hoped that neither Briza nor Malice had been reading her thoughts at that moment.
    In Menzoberranzan, thinking such gossip about a high priestess, whether or not it was true, got you painfully executed.
    Her mother’s eyes narrowed, and Vierna thought she had been discovered. “He is yours to prepare,” Matron Malice said to her.
    “Maya is younger,” Vierna dared to protest. “I could attain the level of high priestess in but a few years if I may keep to my studies.”
    “Or never,” the matron sternly reminded her. “Take the child to the chapel proper. Wean him to words and teach him all that he will need to know to properly serve as a page prince of House Do’Urden.”
    “I will see to him,” Briza offered, one hand subconsciously slipping to her snake-headed whip. “I do so enjoy teaching males their place in our world.”
    Malice glared at her. “You are a high priestess. You have other duties more important than word-weaning a male child.” Then to Vierna, she said, “The babe is yours; do not disappoint me in this! The lessons you teach Drizzt will reinforce your own understanding of our ways. This exercise at ‘mothering’ will aid you in your quest to become a high priestess.” She let Vierna take a moment to view the task in a more positive light, then her tone became unmistakably threatening once again. “It may aid you, but it surely can destroy you!”
    Vierna sighed but kept her thoughts silent. The chore that Matron Malice had dropped on her shoulders would consume the bulk of her time for at least ten years. Vierna didn’t like the prospects, she and this purple-eyed child together for ten long years. The alternative, however, the wrath of Matron Malice Do’Urden, seemed a worse thing by far.

    Alton blew another web from his mouth. “You are just a boy, an apprentice,” he stammered. “Why would you—?”
    “Kill him?” Masoj finished the thought. “Not to save you, if that is your hope.” He spat down at the Faceless One’s body. “Look at me, a prince of the sixth house, a cleaning steward for that wretched—”
    “Hun’ett,” Alton cut in. “House Hun’ett is the sixth house.”
    The younger drow put a finger to pursed lips. “Wait,” he remarked with a widening smile, an evil smile of sarcasm. “We are the fifth house now, I suppose, with DeVir wiped out.”
    “Not yet!” Alton growled.
    “Momentarily,” Masoj assured him, fingering the crossbow quarrel.
    Alton slumped even farther back in the web. To be killed by a master was bad enough, but the indignity of being shot down by a boy….
    “I suppose I should thank you,” Masoj said. “I had planned to kill that one for many tendays.”
    “Why?” Alton pressed his new assailant. “You would dare to kill a master of Sorcere simply because your family put you in servitude to him?”
    “Because he would snub me!” Masoj yelled. “Four years I have slaved for him, that back end of a carrion crawler. Cleaned his boots. Prepared salve for his disgusting face! Was it ever enough? Not for that one.” He spat at the corpse again and continued, talking more to himself than to the trapped student. “Nobles aspiring to wizardry have the advantage of being trained as apprentices before they reach the proper age for entry into Sorcere.”
    “Of course,” Alton said. “I myself trained under—”
    “He meant to keep me out of Sorcere!” Masoj rambled, ignoring Alton altogether. “He would have forced me into Melee-Magthere, the fighters’ school, instead. The fighters’ school! My twenty-fifth birthday is only two tendays away.” Masoj looked up, as though he suddenly remembered that he was not alone in the room.
    “I knew I must kill him,” he continued, now speaking directly to Alton. “Then