Sacred Spider

Advanced Alchemy is an elective at Sorcere, only available to students in their last five years within the tower.  For the past eighty or so years it has been proctored by a rotating gamut of masters since the prior wizard in the role, Gelroos Hun’ett, was murdered by the ranger Do’Urden.

And now a Do’Urden stands in the front of the room, waiting for the rest of the class to arrive.  Viconia can’t help but appreciate the irony.

“Apprentice Thaezyr, why don’t you sit on the left-hand side of the room?” the Do’Urden advises as Vizaeth is beginning to take a seat uncomfortably close to Viconia and Veryan.  Viconia takes a moment, stock of Vizaeth’s…very different robes.  He’s still doing his hair like Master Mizzrym, and admittedly his braid rows are looking a lot cleaner, but his robes?

There’s a pattern to them, that folded eight-legged design Viconia sees on priestesses a lot.  The bodice is high-collared and sleeveless, with small diamonds of skin showing at his waist.  The whole ensemble is black, pure black, perfect black.  Viconia tilts her head to one side as Vizaeth obediently shifts across the lab room, still settling in a seat at the front and looking at the Do’Urden intently.

“Looks like someone found a new obsession,” Viconia mutters.  Veryan shakes his head.

“He’s just trying to impress the new master,” he whispers dismissively.  “The robes look unique enough.”

Viconia can concede that.  Besides, Master Do’Urden isn’t really dressed like Vizaeth.  His robes are a draped in sheets of beautiful silk, colored in greens and teals.  A golden girdle cinches his waist, embossed with clouds and decorated with circles of gold and bells that ring softly as he moves.  The silks draw up to a gold choker around his neck, and Viconia can tell his robes are backless.  He’s beautiful, the kind of beautiful Matrons in Menzoberranzan pay top dollar for.

Master Do’Urden shifts to his feet as the last stragglers find their seats.  His arms fold behind his back like Archmage Baenre’s would.

“Welcome to Advanced Alchemy,” he greets.  “You can call me Master Do’Urden–and if you try to call me anything else, you can listen to the lecture in the hallway.  I expect, given your age and abilities, that you will be a host of experienced, intelligent students who have a basic understanding of alchemical safety.  Nevertheless, it doesn’t hurt to give you a quick refresher so Sorcere isn’t graced with another Faceless One.”

A wave of snickers floats through the classroom.  Nalfein smirks back and circles his lectern.

“Now,” he continues, knocking on one of the prep tables at the front of the room.  Viconia notes, quietly, that there’s nothing on that table.  “Let me lay you all a few ground rules, so we’re clear:  First, we are learning a dangerous, volatile art, I will not have any sabotage, attempted murder, or maimings in this classroom.  I will give you one warning, if I catch you doing it again, you will learn very fast why deep dragons are called nightmare dragons, am I clear?”

A murmur of affirmations, some half-sincere, ripples through the room.  Master Do’Urden sinks into one hip and leans on the table.

“Alright,” he nods, pulling a vial of bright orange liquid from within his robes.

Master Do’Urden snaps the vial down on the prep table.  Glass shatters, and vibrant orange and green flames erupt across the black surface with a violent pop.  Half the class starts from the sudden motion, a few others jump back or shout.  Master Do’Urden, calm, cool, and collected, steps up onto the prep table and stands, arms still folded, in the flames as they lick at his robes.  Jarringly, he remains untouched, unburnt.

“Let me be clear,” he says, loud and clear over the roaring flames.  “You are all here to learn, not stab each other in the back.  Your personal ambitions are not more important than your studies, your family’s ambitions are not more important than your studies.  You leave everything at that door,” Master Do’Urden pointed to the classroom door, “Your family has no expectations that permeate this tower; they have no power in this room.  All you have here is what you, personally, can do.  I will not tolerate anything less.  No one will commit murder in this room, am I clear?”

The affirmation is silent this time, but unanimous.

Do’Urden flicks his hand, and the flames die.  “Your desks are fireproof,” he adds.  “And any fire, magical or otherwise, is easily dispelled.  I would not recommend standing on a flaming desk, though, not without proper protections.  The desk is fireproof, you aren’t.”

Do’Urden hops down off the desk with the nimbleness of a warrior.  He has Viconia’s attention now, and Veryan is staring, rapt, at their new teacher.  A glimmer of excitement is in his eyes, likely an interest in the idea of being free from family expectations.  Veryan hates his family, hates how many expectations are dumped on his thin shoulders.

Veryan tucks a strand of white hair behind his mottled ear and looks at Viconia with a ghost of a smile.  Viconia can’t help but return it.  Veryan’s skin is missing its gray pigment in piebald splotches, a variation on Lolth’s sacred Szarkai his family considers valuable.  It’s why he was apprenticed to Master Julani Baenre, why he was adopted by Matron Mother Zeerith–despite being her great nephew–why the priestesses of Arach-Tinilith and older apprentices dare to stroke his long hair for good luck before exams.  The pedestal has not suited Veryan Xolarrin, and to know he’s not on it here, in this class, is more exciting than words can describe.

Master Do’Urden continues his lecture calmly, rolling through basic safety when brewing potions, explaining the purpose of a burn box…and yet through it all he peppers in anecdotes and playful asides, often at the expense of Sorcere’s other masters.  The whole class is listening intently, whether enamored by their teacher’s beauty, cowed by his demonstration, or genuinely engaged.  It doesn’t matter why, only that everyone is listening.

There's a ripple of laughter when Master Do'urden recounts a tale from his own years at Sorcere.  Master Mizzrym had to plunge a failed batch of alchemist's fire into the burn box, and did so screaming.  Viconia notices Vizaeth isn't glaring about as the class laughs.  Then again it does sound very much like the master.

As the class winds down, Viconia glances at Veryan again.  Her friend’s leg has started to bounce nervously, as if he knows they have to leave soon.  The aptitude exam runs the rest of the day, sorting the forty-fifth year students into advanced classes best suited to their preferred schools.  Viconia has already had to bat two hands away from Veryan’s head this morning.  His braid is looser than it was at breakfast; she clearly hasn't been fully successful.

Master Do’Urden leans back on the desk and nods to the class.  “For next class, I’d like a process for a potion of sleep, from memory.  You've all had Master Julani and Archmage Baenre's classes, I have the same essay requirements.  This process should be two pages front and back, neat handwriting, precise measurements.  I'll collect the pages at the beginning of our next class and grade them accordingly.  Otherwise, dismissed.”

Viconia turns to gather her things when she hears Veryan yelp.  She bolts back upright, spinning to help her friend when someone else shoves her away.

“Leave him alone!” she barks as a crowd starts to form.  Veryan’s yelp has become a wail, and he’s fighting with a boy who has wrapped the end of his braid around his hand, trying to hold the weaker Xolarrin out to people.

“Come on Szarkai, spread the blessing,” he sneers.

“Stop it!” Viconia shrieks.  She can hear another, familiar voice joining hers, she glances in its direction, and realizes it’s Vizaeth, standing from the front row, looking ready to claw the attacker’s eyes out.

Veryan is terrified of Vizaeth, but in this moment, Viconia is reminded that they share a very common pain of being manhandled by classmates.  The only other student hanging back is Rhylfein Dyrr, who watches with a quiet rage.

Vizaeth bolts forwards as the student yanks at Veryan's braid, and Viconia scrambles into the crowd to help.  The crowd jeers, yanking at her hair and trying to shove her back.  They never dare strike her, but she can see through the throngs of students that they give Vizaeth no such grace.

At the front of the room, Master Do’Urden is slowly moving towards the crowd, a displeased expression on his face.  The crowd doesn’t seem to notice until the master is shoving them aside.  He stops at the boy holding Veryan, grabs the boy’s long, high ponytail, wraps it once around his hand, then yanks down, hard.  The boy shrieks.  The crowd silences and parts.  At the edge of the far crowd, Vizaeth is shoved against a desk in the retreat.  Blood gushes from his nose–though it doesn't look broken–and his left eye is already starting to purple.

“Were you listening to me at the start of class?” Master Do'Urden asks, voice deathly even.  “Let go.  That’s a fellow apprentice, not a toy.”

The boy releases Veryan, who scrambles out of the way, in tears and wringing his braid.  His face and knuckles are already bruising, his lip split and still bleeding.  Master Do’Urden lets go of the boy’s ponytail and turns to Veryan.

“Are you alright, Apprentice Xolarrin?” he asks.  Veryan nods, but his face is tracked with tears.

“Apprentice Despana, Apprentice Thaezyr,” Master Do’Urden speaks softly, but Veryan’s stiffening shoulders don’t go unnoticed.  “Since you were kind enough to defend your fellow apprentice, perhaps you can also escort him to the infirmary?  I’ll see to it Master Mizzrym knows why you’ll be missing the aptitude exam.”

Viconia swallows and nods, stumbling to fetch her bag, then gathers Veryan’s things for him.  Vizaeth gathers his books and stands with Veryan as the other students filter out, baring his teeth at any who dare to get too close.  Veryan crosses his arms over his chest and shrinks, trying to keep calm.  One boy, who clearly didn’t get the memo, reaches for Veryan’s head, and Vizaeth snaps at his hand, narrowly missing biting it.  The boy cracks his hand against Vizaeth's head.  He spits something, but Viconia doesn't bother listening.

“Here,” Viconia holds Veryan’s bag out for him, and he takes it with shaking hands and nods to indicate he’s ready to go.

Vizaeth takes the lead initially, but slows as they get further from Master Do’Urden’s classroom.  Viconia keeps at Veryan’s side, arm looped around his.  For reasons beyond Viconia, Vizaeth glares at this with the same venom he afforded their classmates.

“It’s okay,” Viconia pipes up.

“That’s the first master to stop them,” Vizaeth mutters, and Veryan sniffs loudly.

“I should cut it,” he whispers.

“Don’t say that!” Viconia protests, “You love your hair!”

“But if people are going to keep touching it–” Veryan begins, wringing his braid.  It's a beautiful rope of hair, one well-cared for and meticulously kept, but Veryan has slowly moved from elaborate hairpieces with pearl-studded webbing to simple braids and ponytails–his expensive garments and jewelry tucked away for when he doesn't need to worry about lesser houses stealing them for their minor blessings.

“Break their fingers,” Vizaeth suggests.  “They’ll learn not to touch something sacred."

Veryan shifts uncomfortably, eyes darting to the floor.  Viconia tightens her grip on his arm.

"I don't think it matters that Szarkai are sacred," she notes.  "Touching him without asking is just rude."

"Defiling one of Lolth's blessed is more than rude," Vizaeth spits.  Veryan flinches.

Viconia rolls her eyes and keeps walking without acknowledging the words.  Vizaeth seems content with that as they step into the infirmary.

It's early enough in the day that almost no one is in the infirmary proper, and only one of Arach-Tinlith's mistresses patrols the room.  She gestures the trio over and looks amid them.

"Apprentice Despana, you can return to class," she says with a nod.

Viconia purses her lips and glances at Veryan.

"It's fine," Veryan whispers.  "I'll be okay.  Vizaeth is just intimidating."

Viconia gives Veryan's arm a gentle reassuring squeeze and departs, feeling distinctly toothless.

Mistress Nenrina Dyrr has Veryan and Vizaeth stay through the aptitude exam.  "To avoid more blasphemy," she says, combing along the crown of Veryan's head like he's a precious pet.  She leaves them alone, aside from occasionally checking on Vizaeth's shiner and bloody nose.  It's not broken this time, but the blood has certainly seeped into his robes.

Veryan lays on his stomach across the cot, letting a mottled funnel web crawl across his hands.  The spider is extremely venomous, but Veryan's never been bitten by one of Lolth's children, and he knows how to be gentle.

Vizaeth is staring at him, more accurately at the spider.  His red eyes trace along her creeping legs as they explore Veryan's icy white palms.  He seems fascinated, or maybe he's just waiting for the spider to bite him.

"Wanna try?" Verayn offers, lifting the spider gently and holding her out across the gap.

"No," Vizaeth shakes his head.  "She's beautiful," he adds, rolling to his side to stare.  Veryan tries not to shudder and brings the spider back to his cot.

"She's deadly," Veryan notes as she walks around to the back of his hand.  "In a few months she'll migrate to the south end of Araurilcaurak to lay eggs.  She's at her most aggressive when caring for her young."

Vizaeth nods in a way Veryan doesn't like.  "And the venom?  What does it do?"

Veryan knits his brow and gives Vizaeth a concerned look.

"What kind of poison are you looking for?" he asks, for he can't think of another reason Vizaeth would want such a thing.

"A paralyzing one, expensive," Vizaeth reports, "but it makes everything hurt."

"Like the Champion's Funnel Web?" Veryan guesses.  "Paralyzes but enhances sensation.  They're really aggressive and rare so it's hard to collect venom."

"Can you get me some?" Vizaeth begs.

"Why should I?" Veryan asks, sitting up.  Vizaeth scowls.  "You stole my best friend's face, and broke both my wrists.  Why should I help you?"

Vizaeth's scowl melts, and his face turns a sickly gray.  He scrambles upright and, for a moment, clearly contemplates lunging at Veryan.

"I'm not gonna tell anyone," Veryan concedes.  "Who'd believe me?  I just don't see why I should help you."

"I'll use it on Merdax Kenafin," Vizaeth offers.

Veryan glances down at his spider, letting her meander down his arm as he considers it.  Merdax is the one that grabbed his hair, an annoying, cocky wizard.  He's also bothered Viconia and Rhylfein, Vizaeth too.  Hurting him would feel like justice.  But there was still one problem:

Why should he give Vizaeth free reign to pass his warped idea of justice to everyone that ever wronged him?  How long would it take before that justice turned back on him?

The door opens, and Master Mizzrym glides in, holding Rhylfein by the collar of his robes.  Rhylfein's hair is in disarray, and blood is pouring from his nose.  Mistress Nenrina sees Rhylfein and lets out a chiding hiss as she rushes to her cousin.  The slap across his face rings through the hall, and even Vizaeth seems to wince.  Mistress Nenrina has Rhylfein by the scalp, and walks him to a cot far enough away that Veryan can't make out the words passing between them.  He does hear the second crack of her hand, but their argument is indistinct.

"Did Mistress Dyrr tell you to stay?" Master Mizzrym asks, scarlet eyes snapping up to the arguing Dyrrs as Rhylfein is slapped a third time.

Veryan nods.  He doesn't want to look at the argument, but as Pharaun starts to circle him, he finds himself trying to focus on Rhylfein's voice.

"Apprentice Kenafin should really learn to use gentler hands with one of Lolth's sacred spiders," Master Mizzrym sighs, deftly twisting Veryan's braid about his hand.  Veryan tenses.  Fingers draw like whispers up his spine.

Nenrina slaps Rhylfein again, this time he's whimpering in his responses.  Veryan is expecting a whip to come next.

Master Mizzrym circles in front of Veryan now, tracing the patch of white over his left eye.  "I suppose I'll have to give you your exam in private, won't I?"

Veryan can't tell if Vizaeth is glaring at him or Master Mizzrym, but he doesn't care.  Master Mizzrym's touch is like venom, an unwanted searing burn on his skin.  His braid coils about Mizzrym's arm like a snake.  Veryan wishes it was a real snake, crushing Mizzrym's arm in its coiling vise, wishes he had the gall to throw the one in his hand at the master's face.  A chill rushes up his spine as fingertips trace one pointed ear.  Mizzrym's eyes swim with a reverence that makes Veryan nauseous.

Nenrina's next slap draws Mizzrym's gaze.  "You know," he says, jovial as if it were a big joke, "I brought him here to get the nose fixed, not to be further injured."

Nenrina glares at Mizzrym, who is disentangling himself from Veryan's braid.  She places a hand over Rhylfein's face and mutters out an incantation, one that will heal Rhylfein's broken nose more perfectly than an apprentice is usually owed.  When the healing magic has done its work, she turns and slaps Rhylfein again.  She drops a wet rag in his lap and spits something that must've been particularly vicious, because Rhylfein recoils.

"Well, I have another aptitude exam to administer," Mizzrym straightens himself out and turns to Vizaeth, tilting his glowering face up for a better look.  "Thank you so much for looking after Lolth's Blessed.  You'll be rewarded for your diligence, I promise."

Mizzrym slips out, Vizaeth hanging off of his last words with an insatiable hunger.  Veryan doesn't understand, but he's never understood Vizaeth.

"He told me starting a fight was stupid," Rhylfein protested as he pulled a cot over.  "Oh, nice with the claws, Thaezyr, maybe next time you'll take that fucker's eyes out."

Vizaeth only glares for a moment before softening a little.  "What was her problem?"

"Oh, I broke my nose," Rhylfein balls up the rag he used to clean off his face and drops it on the cot.  He boosts himself up to sit down.  "She's only mad because if Lord Dyrr found out she'd get in trouble too."

Veryan winces at the swollen bruise across Rhylfein's cheek.  Rhylfein is the only drow Veryan knows who has never gotten a scar at some point, but he always seems to be nursing wounds from one beating or another.

"Who broke your nose?" Veryan pipes up.  Vizaeth stares at Rhylfein, fascinated.  He looks as though he's never seen an unscarred drow before.  He probably hasn't.

"Kenafin," Rhylfein traces up the perfect line of his nose, checking for imperfections.  "I started it.  Someone needed to teach him a lesson."

"Merdax is a head taller than you," Veryan warns, and Rhylfein shrugs.  He doesn't care.

"Passing around Lolth's blessing is stupid," he says bluntly.  "Personally, I think they should've told Mistress Baenre what Kenafin did.  She would've whipped him until he passed out."

"I'd rather not make a big scene," Veryan counters.  Especially not with Quenthel , he thinks but doesn't say.  Quenthel Baenre dotes on him like Master Mizzrym; he wants to vomit whenever she says his name.

Rhylfein shrugs again and puts his foot up on Vizaeth's cot, smirking.  Vizaeth looks at the foot, and Veryan almost thinks he's blushing.

"Look," Rhylfein crosses his ankles and smiles as Vizaeth turns an even deeper shade of indigo.  "All I'm saying is, someone needs to teach Merdax and all his little cronies that messing with you has consequences.  Lolthite consequences.  I'll do the heavy lifting if I have to."

"I've seen Nenrina belt you for difficult injuries," Veryan warns.

"Then she can belt me," Rhylfein replies.  "I think I'd look much better with a scar."

"I could give you one," Vizaeth offers, but it doesn't sound like a threat, especially since he looks surprised the words even came out of his mouth.  Rhylfein grins and leans in.

"At least take me out for a date first, handsome," he teases.  Vizaeth flushes completely this time.  It's strange, seeing the killer of Veryan's best friend turn into a flustered mess around Rhylfein.  He didn't even get like this with Pharaun .

Then again, Pharaun doesn't drop compliments into every sentence when he flirts.  Veryan can't tell how serious Rhylfein is, but his friend has always courted danger.  His House simultaneously treats him like a powder keg and a monster.  To be handled with care, but not cherished, never acknowledged for his personal accomplishments.  Veryan, on his pedestal of sacrosanct being, can only be punished by his matron, but that has not left him unscarred.  Szarkai or not, Veryan is still a male, and still the matron’s grandson, not her child.

Veryan feels a tickle by his ear, and he twitches a little before glancing over to the spider as she meanders up his cheek.  He’s quite forgotten about her, on her slow crawl to nowhere in particular.  Veryan tuts and coaxes her back onto his hand before she tangles in his hair and gets confused.  He tucks up into a ball and watches her amble from hand to hand, each long spindly leg feeling gracefully along his skin.

She is a predator.  A spider.  No one else can touch her like this.  Only Veryan soothes Lolth's children enough to cradle them in his patchwork hands.  He watches this spider, and the pull on his scalp from unbidden hands begins to burn.

No one else can touch her without her say; why should anyone be allowed to treat him any differently?  Veryan tilts his head as the burn mounts in his veins.  Only he can soothe her children, after all.

“Rhylfein,” he says softly, “can you snag me a venom vial from Mistress Nenrina’s drawers?”

Rhylfein pops to his feet and walks off, returning a moment later with the requested vial.  Veryan takes it with one hand and coaxes the spider with his thumb, gentle, slow.  The spider rears up at the vial, her legs stretching out in an attempt at menace.  Veryan tilts the vial just right, then nudges her abdomen with his thumb.

“ Bite ,” he hisses in a dialect of Drow he knows the other two do not understand, the one he hears in fevered dreams.

The spider lunges, sinking her fangs into the soft lid of the vial.  Slowly, clear, blue-tinted venom drips from her fangs.  Veryan only needs a little, but it’s quite a bit from the spider’s perspective.  He strokes her abdomen encouragingly, then taps her underbelly when he’s gathered enough.  The spider backs away, calm as if her moment of agitation had never happened.  He holds the vial out to Vizaeth.

“That’s enough to drop Master Argith,” Veryan notes as the fellow apprentice gingerly takes the prized venom.  “Use it carefully, please, and not on anyone I’m friends with."

Vizaeth looks up at Veryan, a little dumbstruck, as if he's forgotten why Szarkai are deemed sacred.  Veryan carries the spider to a windowsill and places her gently on the surface, away from any errant foot.

"I thought–" Vizaeth begins, clearly lost.

"I see our sacred friend is trotting out Lolth's Wrath," Rhylfein grins.  "You picked quite the instrument this time."

Veryan doesn't answer for a moment, letting the spider creep onto the stone sill.

"Vizaeth, do you remember that week after you broke my wrists?  Where your matron was bedridden, possibly dying?"

Veryan glances back at Vizaeth, and suddenly he has grown very small indeed.  His eyes widen, and he clutches the vial to his chest.  Veryan wonders how he looks.  Like a vengeful wraith, red-eyed and patchworked skin, a smile of all teeth.  They're called Ghost Spiders for a reason, after all.

"You've reminded me very well that I have been swallowing my hate," Veryan goes on, leaning on the cot, keeping his eyes level with Vizaeth when he would rather avert them.  Those wide red eyes stare back, afraid and excited.  Behind him, Rhylfein grins.

Veryan hopes Vizaeth hears Lolth in his voice, ignores how his hands shake trying to meet his stolen gaze.

"Maybe Merdax Kenafin would like a taste," he adds in a soft whisper and a curl of a smirk.  "Do you think he can stomach Lolth?"

Vizaeth's grin bares teeth, his hand grips the venom tightly as it shudders.  Veryan thinks of the reared spider, coaxed to threaten a toothless opponent.  He imagines Lolth feels this powerful, when she sends her priestesses to war.

Veryan shifts back, casting Rhylfein a ghost of a smile and departs.