In which Zeth’rinn reveals a change.
Jarlaxle sat with his feet up on his desk, idly thumbing through a stack of papers. Zeth’rinn had always felt intimidated coming in here. The centre of the spider’s web, in a manner of speaking, and even though he was in no danger from Jarlaxle, the nerves in his stomach still jangled unpleasantly. He strongly considered turning around and walking right back out the door.
“I didn’t give you the password to my office so you could loiter ominously.” Jarlaxle glanced up, eyebrow cocked. “What do you need?”
Zeth’rinn cleared his throat, and approached his father’s desk with as much confidence as he could muster. “You remember the amulet you gave me?”
“Which one?”
“The important one.”
Jarlaxle set his papers aside—face down, naturally. Keeping his business his own, as always. “If you need a replacement, I can arrange one.”
“I don’t need a replacement.” From his pocket, Zeth’rinn took the amulet of disguise and briefly ran his thumb over the familiar, mask-shaped pendant. He set it before Jarlaxle. “I don’t need it at all anymore.”
Jarlaxle took his feet off the desk. He leaned forward, chin resting on clasped hands, and eyed Zeth’rinn very closely. Zeth’rinn fought the urge to cross his arms over his chest.
“No,” Jarlaxle said at length, “it appears you do not. What did you decide in the end? Some of Fel’rekt’s alchemy? Or have you been sneaking off with Eilistraeen priestesses behind my back?”
“Neither,” Zeth’rinn said. His heart thumped so loud he was certain Jarlaxle would be able to hear it. “I…found another way.”
Trying to ignore the shaking in his hands, he slowly unfastened his shirt. Jarlaxle inhaled sharply.
“Zeth’rinn Baenre, tell me you did not do what I think you did.”
“That depends what you think I did.”
He hadn’t often been afraid of his father. His upbringing hadn’t been that of a typical Menzoberranyr—certainly not that of a typical Baenre—and while Jarlaxle had not exactly gone easy on him, raising him in Bregan D’aerthe, he had never been cruel. The look of fury on his face now as he yanked Zeth’rinn’s shirt open to better see the spiderweb-shaped scars that curved below his pectorals was not one Zeth’rinn was used to.
“What did you promise her?” When Zeth’rinn, tongue tied by Jarlaxle’s apparent anger, made no immediate reply, Jarlaxle shook him. “What did you promise Lolth, you foolish boy!”
“Nothing!” Zeth’rinn grabbed his wrists. “Nothing at all; I paid the priestess, she performed the ritual. I’m in no debt to anyone, drow or goddess.”
“Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?” Jarlaxle finally let him go, shaking his head with a curse. “You know what kind of transformations She prefers! What if She’d taken a liking to you, hm? What if you came back to me with eight legs and half a mind!”
“I’m fine, ilharn,” Zeth’rinn said quietly. “Better than fine. For one thing I don’t need to worry about losing that damn amulet now.”
Jarlaxle ran a hand over his face and blew out a long breath. Without another word he went back to his desk, rummaged in one of the drawers until he came up with a large bottle of drow wine, popped the cork with his thumb, and took a very long swallow.
“You take years off my life, you know that?” He took another swig. “Gods preserve me, why does anyone have children?”
“In Menzoberranzan? So there’ll always be someone to blame.” Zeth’rinn said, hopping up to sit on the desk. “You just did it by accident.”
Jarlaxle whacked him in the arm with the bottle. “Show some respect to your elders.”
The two of them polished off most of the wine before Jarlaxle finally kicked him out, apparently having work he needed to do. Probably he wanted five minutes alone to scream in frustration—Zeth’rinn didn’t entirely blame him.
Still. He rubbed at his chest as he made his way back to his quarters—he could feel the ridges of the scars beneath his shirt, scars he would carry for the rest of his life, for they were not the kind that standard magic could remove. Whatever the risk, it had been worth it to no longer be beholden to a body that felt as though it were fighting him at every turn. And if Lolth ever did come calling, well…Zeth’rinn grinned to himself.
She’d have to get through Jarlaxle first.