Dark Maiden's Dance

As Narbondel’s light fades, Nalfein dances with the Dark Maiden.

He has to do it quietly, in a little atrium off of his personal bedchamber, but the only people who know are not about to stop him.  So long as he plays his heresies quietly, dances for the Maiden in secret, Quenthel can't say anything, and Gromph won't.

The moon shines silver through a lamp in the ceiling, laying her light gently upon his hair, his skin, his soul, and Nalfein dances.  His limbs twist gracefully with the gentle pulse of his waist and hips.  This deep underground he cannot hear the Maiden’s song, but he doesn't need to.  He has learned her nightly hymn by heart, for every night he has danced with her in the World Above.

Run thy sword across my chains, Silver Lady, that I may join your dance.

Nalfein ends his dance with a slow rise of his hand up to the lamp above, a sweet ball of moonfire to simulate the full moon.  Nalfein tilts his head back and sinks into one hip.  He misses the real moon, the dirt beneath his feet, and the cool breeze in his hair.

There's a startled squeak at the door, and Nalfein snaps towards it, pulling his arms in slowly as he registers the slight form at the door.  He raises a hand to his throat, holding the silver disc of his holy symbol there, his other arm crosses his body, resting at his hip.

It's Vizaeth, mouth agape for the moment it takes to process the sight.  Nalfein doubts he processes the blasphemy before him, but he certainly processes Nalfein.  Once more, he is hyper-aware of his body, every line and cord of muscle, every flowing strand of silver hair.  His skin stopped crawling a long time ago, but the discomfort lingers.

“There's a dressing gown on the vanity chair,” Nalfein says quickly.  He can address the boy being in his room when he’s not stark naked.

Vizaeth shakes his head clear and stumbles over to the vanity.  Tentatively, he steps into the atrium and holds the robe out.  His eyes find his feet as Nalfein wraps the blanket of blackwork silk around himself.

“Did you need something, Apprentice Thaezyr?” Nalfein asks once he ties the belt tight around his waist.

“I–” Vizaeth begins, searching the web mosaic floor for a convincing lie.  He clearly isn't finding one.

“Vizaeth,” Nalfein says softly, “the truth, if you could.”

Vizaeth makes a face, clearly the truth is something any other master would be angry about.  Any other master…except… Nalfein puffs out a sigh and waves Vizaeth out of the atrium.

“I believe I did ask you to knock before visiting,” he remarks, dropping into the vanity chair and crossing his legs.  His attention flicks to the Weave of wards about his room and study.  They're all intact.  “How did you get past the wards?”

Vizaeth pulls another face.

“Let me rephrase,” Nalfein says, “how did you get the password to bypass my wards?”

“I saw a warrior use it to get into your room,” Vizaeth admits quickly.

Zaknafein had visited recently, bringing news from the surface and a rather nice bottle of Moonshae brandy.  Nalfein hums in acknowledgement.  Zak definitely saw Vizaeth–there’s no way he didn't–but that he said nothing meant he didn't quite catch on to any apparent danger.

He could use a glass of that brandy right now.

Nalfein glances down at his vanity.  His brush was moved, a swipe of silvery powder lifted from one of his makeup pots, and perfume–a sweet mix of mulberry wine and roses–lingers in the air.  He glances back at Vizaeth.

“Do you do this often?” Nalfein asks.  “Sneak into your teachers’ rooms and rifle through their things?”

Vizaeth shakes his head quickly.  “I’ve only done it twice,” he admits.  The other time must've been with Pharaun.  Strange that he never mentioned it…

The door to the wider chambers clicks open, and Nalfein tenses at the loud click of heels and jingle of bracelets.  He hadn't necessarily forgotten about his plans for the night, but Jarlaxle is suspiciously early.

And Vizaeth looks like he wants to sink into the floorboards.

Nalfein sighs and rises from the vanity.  “An ear to the ground then?” he guesses.  “I didn't know you took such an interest in my love life.”

“I don't,” Vizaeth snaps quickly, too quickly.  Nalfein doesn't bother fighting the smile on his face.

“Right.  Would you like to meet him or just dig through my closet for his shirts?”

Vizaeth flushes a brilliant shade of indigo, but slowly nods.  Nalfein gestures for him to stay put and steps out of the bedroom.

Jarlaxle stands by the bookshelf, hat already tossed on the chaise behind him.  He’s sunk into one hip, inspecting the shelf like he has any interest in half the tomes.  He's making the room smell like lavender and bergamot.  Not in an overpowering sense, but Nalfein can smell him from the door, at least.  Nalfein lets the collar of his dressing gown slip from one shoulder.

“You're early,” he remarks, prompting the mercenary to turn with an infuriating smile.  His gold eyes light up, whether from the dressing gown or just seeing Nalfein after so long.

“I–” he begins, then clears his throat and tries again, “You–I mean, um…Is that–”  Jarlaxle clears his throat again and gives Nalfein a pleading look, “Can I just skip to the part where I kiss you?”

Nalfein smiles and crosses the room, finding himself safe in Jarlaxle’s arms, at last.  Nalfein's lips find his first, a little sweet lacewing wine still fresh on his tongue.  Cardamom tickles his nose as the heady spices of a desert souk have long ago seeped into his clothes.  Or perhaps not.  The scent is more potent than when they last spoke, though for the life of him, Nalfein can't think of why Jarlaxle had returned to Calimshan.

“I’ve missed you,” Nalfein sighs.

A throat clears behind Nalfein, and he glances back at the tall wraith seated at his desk, boots propped on the zurkhwood surface.  Ion smiles, all teeth, twisting a needle-thin dagger against his palm in a way that makes lesser men’s skin crawl.  Ion Cithreth is no different from Jarlaxle under all the dressings.  His black bolero is tipped back on his head, and his twin braids hang over each shoulder, falling in dusty-brown ropes to the floor.  The light is dim enough, the stars of red in his mostly blue eyes have lit up just that little bit.

“When did you come down to mingle?” Nalfein asks.

“When it pleases me,” Ion replies, kicking off the desk and rolling to his feet.  He has to bend down a bit to meet Nalfein a foot lower, but it’s rather worth it for the swift kiss and the rolling smell of magnolias that clings to the half-drow.  It hides the bitter pang of poison poorly, and the acrid rot slips through the sweetness, like a warning.

“You mean when it occurs that I please you?” Nalfein smiles.  Ion’s poison is, at least, an upfront venture, and he’s never been one to kill where he sleeps.

“My dearest Nal,” Ion lets out a dry laugh.  “My joy does not revolve around you.”  Ion considers the rebuttal a moment, then adds, “Though I have missed your lips, of late.  Your boy toy’s don’t compare.”

“I am older than you,” Jarlaxle reminds Ion.

“Not old enough,” Ion retorts, straightening to his full height.

He’s taller than Jarlaxle by half a foot, something the mercenary took some time to get used to.  That’s the Faerie in Ion; the Maztican elf that refuses to leave his dusty hair or gray-brown skin.  It’s why Vizaeth is glaring at him from the door, something Ion has already noticed.  His eyes have flicked to the door twice, passing to Nalfein each time.  He’s waiting for an introduction, and he knows Nalfein has to acknowledge Vizaeth sooner or later, lest Jarlaxle miss him completely.  Nalfein sighs and sinks into one hip, shaking his head.

“Well, you bring the pleasant surprise, I bring the inconvenience,” Nalfein hums, dropping into one of his reading chairs and gesturing to the door.  “One of my students came to visit just before you arrived,” he clarified.

“Small bird, isn’t he?” Ion purrs, circling Jarlaxle and leaning on his shoulder.  “He’s smaller’n you, little fox.”

Nalfein gives Ion a look, and gestures Vizaeth out of his room.  “This is Apprentice Thaezyr,” he says firmly, hoping Jarlaxle, at least, catches his meaning.  He does, knitting his brow but fitting on a smile.

Jarlaxle shrugs Ion off him and sweeps his hat off in an exaggerated bow.  “Charmed, I’m sure,” he says, but his eyes are studying Vizaeth for any sign of danger.

Ion flicks his hat brim and smiles, “Ion Cithreth, not that you care,” he chimes.  Vizaeth scrunches his face, and Ion grins.  “What’s the matter, little bird?” he asks.  “Never seen a half-Faerie drow before?”

Vizaeth’s eyes swipe up and down Ion.  “Not one walking around like his blood isn’t tainted,” he snarls back.

“Pray tell, which half’s doing the tainting,” Ion shoots back.  “Up top, they think it’s yours.”

“Ion,” Nalfein warns.  “I don’t need a fight in here, stop picking one.”

“Fine,” Ion drops into the other reading chair, crossing his legs and starting on his dagger trick again.

“He shouldn’t be allowed to speak to—” Vizaeth begins but stops himself when Nalfein holds up a hand.

“He’s going to, no matter what we say,” Nalfein promises.  “And don’t bother with magic, he’s lousy with the Art.”

“So, this is Mizzrym’s little toy, right?” Ion asks, still grinning.

“Ion, you’re not that lousy with the Art,” Nalfein continues, then turns fully to Vizaeth.  “Any questions, or can I spend time with my lovers in peace?”

Vizaeth shifts uncomfortably, still glaring at Ion.  “Pha—Master—”

“Call him Pharaun,” Nalfein interrupts.  “I know this is a personal favor.  What tome does he want this time?”

Vizaeth blinks, then shakes his head out.  “He actually said you would have some kind of…dust?  He wanted to look at it.”

Ion lets out a bark of laughter.  “Son of a bitch,” he crows, unfolding to his feet, “what color?”

“He was asking for something of Master Do’Urden’s,” Vizaeth snaps.

“No he wasn’t,” Nalfein sighs into his hand.  “What color?”

“He…Didn’t say,” Vizaeth admits.

“Then let’s go ask him!” Ion hops to his feet and skips over to the desk to fetch his bag and censer.  “It’s been ages since I saw Pharaun.  I expect a very sour face.  Oh, explain to the little bird.”

Nalfein wants to sink into the floorboards now, but obliges.  “Ion, in his infinite madness, has concocted an alchemical powder that simulates the spell Eyebite when burned.  It comes in three colors depending on effect.  Pharaun has been waiting for a chance to inspect it, and I imagine knew Ion would be here…somehow.”

Vizaeth lights up at the mention of a necromancy spell, but it still keeping his distance from Ion.  He looks at Nalfein for guidance again.

“Ion will behave himself, he loves showing off his alchemical skills,” Nalfein promises.  “Just…try not to piss him off yourself.  He’s not above personal demonstrations.”

Vizaeth makes a face, but politely waits for Ion to finish fetching his things.  His censer clinks against his bag buckle, spilling a dark purple powder on the floor.  Vizaeth notes it, eyes wide, then tepidly follows Ion out.  Jarlaxle waits for the door to close before sinking down to sit on the floor beside Nalfein.  He rests his chin on Nalfein’s thigh and smiles faintly.

“One way to get him out of your hair,” he remarks.

“You brought him,” Nalfein argues.  “How did Pharaun find out, though?  You usually keep things quiet.”

“And Ion keeps them quieter,” Jarlaxle agrees.  “I expect a gate guard has been paid off.”

“Mm,” Nalfein hums, tracing over Jarlaxle’s head.  “Do you want to wait for Ion to get back?”

“A little,” Jarlaxle admits.  “But…if you need to loosen up a bit from what I expect was a slight scare…I do have a bit more appetite than he does right now.”

“Then why wait?” Nalfein asks, tilting Jarlaxle’s head up.  “I do find my Evensong is rather incomplete without a little dance between the sheets.”

The little bird is silent, too silent, and Ion is starting to hate the silence.  He looks for something to prod at, not to start a fight, mind, just to scratch at.  It’s an itch, to poke, prod, and needle.  Nalfein and Jarlaxle barely let it affect them, but this little bird is just full of raw nerves.

He dresses like Pharaun, but he doesn’t look much like him, not in the ways such a mimicry would suit him.  Ion’s eyes settle on the armlet, and he tilts his head.  He knows that armlet design, recognizes the dull red film tacky in its crevices.

“Why are you wearing a bloodletter armlet?” he asks, peering at it.  Vizaeth shoots Ion a glare.  “I only ask because Sorcere doesn’t teach Blood Magic,” Ion clarifies.  “I’ve seen hundreds like it, never in Menzoberranzan, and never one so freshly used.  Unless…you’ve been cleaning it, right?”

“Why do you care?” Vizaeth snaps.

“Because if you’re not cleaning the reservoir, you’re leaving latent magic to dry onto the armlet, it’ll corrode the metal,” Ion remarks.  “Also, there’s a very slight chance if you let enough magic build up, the next spell you cast will go wild.  You know, conjure a fog cloud when you mean to turn to mist.  What have you been using it for?”

“Magic, now fuck off,” Vizaeth spits.

“You’ve been using blood magic without realizing it,” Ion guesses.  Vizaeth goes rigid.  “It’s fine, I won’t tell.  It can stay our little secret.”  Ion holds a finger to his lips and grins.  “But it is illegal in Menzoberranzan, so I’d be careful how….blatantly you do it.”

Vizaeth opens his mouth for another rude retort, then pauses, as if realizing something.  “Why’s it illegal?” he asks.

“Well, two reasons,” Ion smiles, hook, line, and sinker, “the first, using it in place of basic fundamentals can cause Weave Rot.  The Art weaves in us and weaves out, and if we skip our fundamentals, it can cause a tangle.”

“I have a tangle,” Vizaeth blurts out, then covers his mouth.

“You have Weave Rot?  Okay, makes the second bit a little less dire.  The second bit is just that it’s essentially necromancy of the living.  You can use your own vitality in place of materials.  Your first concern, though, should be untangling that Weave Rot.  You can’t use blood magic to fix that.”

“Untangling it has taken ages,” Vizaeth snarls.

“Arach Tinilith used to have a Weave Seamstress,” Ion recalls.  “Lidnolu.  Does she still teach?”

“I don’t know,” Vizaeth admits.  “Master Zaurett and Master Do’Urden would’ve asked her if she did, wouldn’t they?  What’s a Weave Seamstress?”

“A necromancer that can alter the flow of living weave,” Ion answers.  “I know a Myrkulite that can do it, but you’d need to be okay with a plane-touched human interacting with your inner weave.”

Vizaeth recoils a little.  “Can’t I learn to do it myself?” he asks, almost demands.  Ion halts and spins to Vizaeth studying him for a long moment before bending down to look the boy in either scarlet eye.

“You wanna live that badly, boy?” he asks.

“Yes,” Vizaeth spits.

“What for?”

Vizaeth looks Ion squarely in the eyes, and Ion grins.  The little bird’s got fight to him, way more than Nalfein made it seem.

“Do I need a reason?” he asks.

“Could always use mine,” Ion offers.

“And what’s that?”

“Spite.”

Vizaeth looks hungrier by the second.  If it weren’t for the way he bristles at Ion’s very being, he’d think this was a kindred spirit.

“If they tell you to bow, you look them in the eye.  If they tell you to break, you break them back.  If they fuck you over for their own satisfaction, you remind them they still bleed.  And if they want you dead, you give ‘em a few more decades to squirm.” Ion unhooks his censer and lets it hang between them.  The adamantine bulb forms the abdomen of a great spider, her eight legs and head serving as the base as she hangs from a seemingly delicate chain.  “Drow exist to spite Corellon, why not spite them back?”

Vizaeth’s eyes fall on the censer, a dangerous flicker of something turning them into scarlet embers.  Ion smirks.  The boy has fight; he just needs the right motivation.  Ion is happy to provide.

“And in case your favorite toy needs a reminder about how much of a blessing it is to see your face,” Ion draws a vial of malice from his bag and extends it, “there’s nothing like painful darkness to remind us what a gift our eyes are.”

Vizaeth grins now, taking the vial and curling it against one wrist so he can attempt subtly pocketing it.  The boy is easy to goad, to prod.  It’s been awhile since Ion had such a delightful opportunity to make mischief for Menzoberranzan, for Pharaun.

Mizzrym should cower the second he sees Ion in his office astride his favorite.  Ion intends to drink his fear like wine, and leave Vizaeth to the rest.

Mizzrym’s face pales when Ion saunters in, like he didn’t expect his request to come with the creator.  Ion has to fight the grin on his face, or at least to keep it easy.  Mizzrym already looks a little green, and Ion has been told many a time his worst smiles are all teeth.

“C-Cithreth!  What a surprise!” Mizzrym stammers out, barely keeping his composure.  “M-Master Do’Urden didn’t mention you’d be visiting.”

“Oh, but how else would you know You could get a bite of fear from me?” Ion asks, dropping himself in one of Mizzrym’s chairs and taking in the unwelcome atmosphere.  “It is orange Eyebite Incense you needed, yes?  You didn’t tell Apprentice Thaezyr here the color.”

Ion gestures to Vizaeth, who is meeting Mizzrym’s gaze with surprising ease.  Mizzrym’s look is almost rage, tempered by cowardice.  Ion smiles fully now, and Mizzrym shrinks away from him.

“I-I think you’re mistaken,” Mizzrym lies; he does it well.  Not well enough.

“No?  The boy insisted you sent him for something in Master Do’Urden’s rooms.”

“And you believed him?”

“A regular fool lying about an alchemical compound would not know the suspension of nothic eye, when mixed with vitriols of divine miasma and lolth’s candle form a dust, much less that the dust would be of value.”

“Apprentice Thaezyr is no regular fool.”

“Of course he isn’t!  He’s a fascinating little bird!  What color do you want?”

“I—I—” Mizzrym stammers, unable to find a proper excuse.

“Here’s my deal,” Ion removed three vials of powder from his bag and holds them in front of Mizzrym.  “I’ll give you all three, plus you can have all fifteen pages of my research notes, to copy, not to keep, and all I ask in return is a nominal token, and pages seventy to eighty-five.”

“I am not giving you—” Mizzrym began, but Ion leaned over the desk and looked him squarely in the eyes.  Mizzrym’s simpering mouth snapped shut.

“I can always give you a firsthand experience with the violet dust,” Ion offered.  “I’m sure Thaezyr would love to see that.”

“Fine,” Mizzrym jerked back from his seat.  “Pages seventy to eighty-five, to copy, not keep.  As for your nominal token…”

“The Teyachumyet totem,” Ion requested.

“I paid squarely for—” Mizzrym began.

“I am not negotiating, Pharaun.  The totem, or you only get the notes.  How’s your Maztican Elvish, speaking of?”

Mizzrym flushes what must be a deep purple, his face lighting up with heat.  “Fine!  Take the damn thing, darthiir!  See to it you don’t abscond with any other trinkets as you rob me blind!”

“You say, as you used an apprentice to steal my work,” Ion retorts, setting the vials on Mizzrym’s desk and walking to a curio cabinet.

Mizzrym has left the totem, a hand-sized spider of white marble, on display, and a small recluse spider has settled comfortably on its abdomen.  Ion opens the cabinet and gently gathers the small brown spider with one hand, setting her down on the shelf with barely a nudge.  The spider seems barely bothered by the move, and she skitters into the totem’s spot as Ion lifts it away.

The power of the spider summoned by the totem thrums through Ion’s fingertips, and he lays a gentle kiss upon the totem’s fiddled abdomen before drawing a length of white silk from his back and tightly winding it around hand and totem alike before wresting his hand free and placing the totem in his bag.

“I’ll return tomorrow with my notes,” Ion turns to Mizzrym.  “And to copy the pages I requested, of course.  I’m glad we could come to an agreement.”

Mizzrym snarls back, but the motion is restrained.  Vizaeth, meanwhile, stares at Ion with a restrained awe.  Ion smiles at him, letting his lips stretch wide.

“Will you be taking your leave as well, Apprentice?” he asks.  Vizaeth begins to speak, when Mizzrym stands, his chair skidding back.

“He will be staying, Cithreth,” the master growls low, for once refusing to cow when Ion’s smile turns on him.

“As you say,” Ion bows and departs with a small glance between himself and Vizaeth.

“What do you think?” Nalfein asks later, when he notices Ion toying with something he finds, on further inspection, to be a small gold ring that isn’t Nalfein’s, and certainly isn’t Jarlaxle’s.  Ion tilts his head back and shifts as best he can with the latter draped over his middle.

“I think Mizzrym’s bitten off more than he can chew with that boy,” Ion replies, twisting the ring to shoot a needle out into the central ring, then flicking it back.  “Bloodletter ring, like the armlet.”

“Those are expensive,” Jarlaxle half-mutters into Ion’s waist.  For all his talk of appetite, satisfying two men seems to have exhausted the usually enthusiastic mercenary.  Ion absently slips his hand down Jarlaxle’s back and shrugs.

“Mostly because the magic they’re used for is banned,” he reminds the man.

“How did Pharaun get it?” Nalfein asks.

“Bregan D’aerthe,” Jarlaxle reasons rather matter-of-factly, now shifting to rest his chin on Ion, instead of speaking into his skin.  “Mizzrym regularly comes to us for his black market goods.”

“Or steals them from other masters,” Nalfein reasons.  “He uses Thaezyr for that.”

“Mizzrym thinks he has a sycophant,” Ion mutters.

“Even as a sycophant, he’d be dangerous,” Jarlaxle scoffs.  “There’s a wealth of gossip on the boy.”

“He’s not just Mizzrym’s favorite,” Nalfein notes, “Zaurett likes him too.”

“Zaurett fucked Xzar of Zhentil Keep,” Ion replied, drawing a muffled cackle from Jarlaxle.

“Psychopomps of different flavors,” Jarlaxle mused.  “What about the Spider Mage?”

“The boy has talent for naught but necromancy and transmutation,” Ion replied, not looking away from the ring he was inspecting.  “I suspect him a true necromancer in the making, once the Weave Rot is sorted.  He’s not really suited for much else, which means his divination is…well, let’s say lacking.  If Jalynfein has met the boy, it is in passing.”

“Honestly, I doubt Thaezyr even knows the Spider Mage is blind,” Nalfein admits.

“Ion, have a care with that,” Jarlaxle requests as Ion begins to slip it on one finger.  He climbs up to straddle Ion’s waist and slowly pull the ring off.  He deposits it on the bedside table and begins to roll back to the side when Ion tips him onto his back.

“You think I can’t handle myself?” Ion asks, teasing.

“I’m not in the mood to see you bleed,” Jarlaxle replies.  “Nothing more.”

“Ion,” Nalfein says, thinking he might protest the attempt to start up another round over a ring.  From the looks on both Jarlaxle and Ion, he’s probably not about to succeed.

“Maybe I like a little blood,” Ion ignores Nalfein, leaning over Jarlaxle and grinning.

“There are ways to get a little blood that don’t involve impaling one’s finger,” Jarlaxle countered.

“Show me,” Ion insisted.  Jarlaxle leaned towards Nalfein.

“Care to join?”

“When the mood invites me,” Nalfein answers.  “You two seem to be having your own fun.”

“The mood will call you eventually,” Ion teases.  “We came here for you, after all.”

“Aye,” Nalfein confirms, leaning back to watch.  “That you did.”