Part 3
The Academy
The Academy.
It is the propagation of the lies that bind drow society to-getheI; the ultimate perpetration of falsehoods repeated so many times that they ring true against any contrary evi-dence. The lessons young drow are taught of truth and jus-tice are so blatantly refuted by everyday life in wicked Menzoberranzan that it is hard to understand how any could believe them. Still they do.
Even now, decades removed, the thought of the place frightens me, not for any physical pain or the ever-present sense of possible death-1 have trod down many roads equally dangerous in that way. The Academy of Menzober-ranzan frightens me when I think of the survivors, the grad-uates, existing-reveling-within the evil fabrications that shape their world.
They live with t~e belief tha t anything is acceptable if you can get away with it, that self-gratification is the most im-portant aspect of existence, and that power comes only to she or he who is strong enough and cunning enough to snatch it from the failing hands of those who no longer de-serve it. Compassion has no place in Menzoberranzan, and yet it is compassion, not feaI; that brings harmony to most races. It is harmony, working toward shared goals, that pre-cedes greatness.
Lies engulf the drow in fear and mistrust, refute friend-ship at the tip of a Lloth-blessed sword. The hatred and am-bition fostered by these amoral tenets are the doom of my people, a weakness that they perceive as strength. The result is a paralyzing, paranoid existence that the drow call the edge of readiness.
I do not know how I survived the Academy; how I discov-ered the falsehoods early enough to use them in contrast, and thus strengthen, those ideals I most cherish.
It was-Zaknafein, I must believe, my teacheJ: Through the experiences of Zak's long years, which embittered him and cost him so much, I came to hear the screams: the screams of protest against murderous treachery; the screams of rage from the leaders of drow society; the high priestesses of the Spider Queen, echoing down the paths of my mind, ever to hold a place within my mind. The screams of dying children.
Chapter 12 This Enemy,"They"
Wearing the outfit of a noble son, and with a dagger con-cealed in one boot-a suggestion from Dinin-Drizzt as-cended the wide stone stairway that led to Tier Breche, the Academy of the drow. Drizzt reached the top and moved between the giant pillars, under the impassive gazes of two guards, last-year students of Melee-Magthere.
Thro dozen other young drow milled about the Academy compound, but Drizzt hardly noticed them. Three struc-tures dominated his vision and his thoughts. 1b his left stood the pointed stalagmite tower of Sorcere, the school of wiz-ardry. Drizzt would spend the first sixth months of his tenth and last year of study in there.
Before him, at the back of the level, loomed the most im-pressive structure, Arach.Tinilith, the school of Lloth, carved from the stone into the likeness of a giant spider. By drow reckoning, this was the Academy's most important building and thus was normally reserved for females. Male students were housed within Arach- Tinilith only during their last six months of study.
While Sorcere and Arach. Tinilith were the more graceful structures, the most important building for Drizzt at that tentative moment lined the wall to his right. The pyramidal structure of Melee-Magthere, the school of fighters. This building would be Drizzt's home for the next nine years. His companions, he now realized, were those other dark elves in the compound-fighters, like himself, about to begin their formal training. The class, at twenty-five, was unusu-ally large for the school of fighters.
Even more unusual, several of the novice students were nobles. Drizzt wondered how his skills would measure up against theirs, how his sessions with Zaknafein compared to the battles these others had no doubt fought with the weapon masters of their respective families.
Those thoughts inevitably led Drizzt back to his last encounter with his mentor. He quickly dismissed the memo-ries of that unpleasant duel, and, more pointedly, the dis-turbing questions Zak's observations had forced him to consider. There was no place for such doubts on this occa-sion. Melee-Magthere loomed before him, the greatest test and the greatest lesson of his young life.
"My greetings" came a voice behind him. Drizzt turned to face a fellow novice, who wore a sword and dirk uncom-fortably on his belt and who appeared even more nervous than Drizzt-a comforting sight.
"Kelnozz of House Kenafin, fifteenth house" the novice said.
"Drizzt Do'Urden of Daermon N'a'shezbaernon, House Do'Urden, Ninth House of Menzoberranzan" Drizzt replied automatically, exactly as Matron Malice had instructed him.
"A noble" remarked Kelnozz, understanding the signifi-cance of Drizzt bearing the same surname as his house.
Kelnozz dropped into a low bow. "I am honored by your presence"
Drizzt was starting to like this place already. With the treatment he normally received at home, he hardly thought of himself as a noble. Any self-important notions that might have occurred to him at Kelnozz's gracious greeting were dispelled a moment later, though, when the masters came out.
Drizzt saw his brother, Dinin, among them but pretended-as Dinin had warned him to-not "to notice, nor to expect any special treatment. Drizzt rushed inside Melee-Magthere along with the rest of the students when the whips began to snap and the masters started shouting of the dire consequences if they tarried. They were herded down a few side corridors and into an oval room.
"Sit or stand as you will!" one of the masters growled. No-ticing two of the students whispering off to the side, the master took his whip out and-crack/-took one of the of-fenders off his feet.
Drizzt couldn't believe how quickly the room then came to order.
"I am Hatch'net" the master began in a resounding voice, "the master of Lore. This room will be your hall of instruc-tion for fifty cycles of Narbondel" He looked around at the adorned belts on every figure. "You will bring no weapons to this place!"
Hatch'net paced the perimeter of the room, making cer-tain that every eye followed his movements attentively. "You are drow" he snapped suddenly. "Do you understand what that means? Do you know where you come from, and the history of our people? Menzoberranzan was not always our home, nor was any other cavern of the Underdark. Once we walked the surface of the world" He spun suddenly and came up right in Drizzt's face.
"Do you know of the surface?" Master Hatch'net snarled.
Drizzt recoiled and shook his head.
"An awful place" Hatch'net continued, turning back to the whole of the group. "Each day, as the glow begins its rise in Narbondel, a great ball of fire rises into the open sky above, bringing hours of a light greater than the punishing spells of the priestesses of Lloth!" He held his arms outstretched, with his eyes turned upward, and an unbelievable grimace spread across his face.
Students' gasps rose up all about him.
"Even in the night, when the ball of fire has gone below the far rim of the world" Hatch'net continued, weaving his words as if he were telling a horror tale, "one cannot escape the uncounted terrors of the surface. Reminders of what the next day will bring, dots of light-and sometimes a lesser ball of silvery fire-mar the sky's blessed darkness.
"Once our people walked the surface of the world" he re-peated/ his tone now one of lament, "in ages long past, even longer than the lines of the great houses. In that distant age, we walked beside the pale-skinned elves, the faeries!"
"It cannot be true!" one student cried from the side.
Hatch'net looked at him earnestly, considering whether more would be gained by beating the student for his unasked. for interruption or by allowing the group to partic-ipate. "It is!" he replied, choosing the latter course. "We thought the faeries our friends; we called them kin! We could not know, in our innocence, that they were the em-bodiments of deceit and evil. We could not know that they would turn on us suddenly and drive us from them, slaugh-tering our children and the eldest of our race!
"Without mercy the evil faeries pursued us across the sur. face world. Always we asked for peace, and always we were answered by swords and killing arrows!"
He paused, his face twisting into a widening, malicious smile. "Then we found the goddess!"
"Praise Lloth!" came one anonymous cry. Again Hatch'net let the slip of tongue go by unpunished, knowing that every accenting comment only drew his audience deeper into his web of rhetoric.
"Indeed" the master replied. "All praise to the Spider Queen. It was she who took our orphaned race to her side and helped us fight off our enemies. It was she who guided the forematrons of our race to the paradise of the Underdark. It is she" he roared, a clenched fist rising into the air, "who now gives us the strength and the magic to pay back our enemies.
"We are the drow!" Hatch'net cried. "You are the drow, never again to be downtrodden, rulers of all you desire, conquerors of lands you choose to inhabit!"
"The surface?" came a question.
"The surface?" echoed Hatch'net with a laugh. "Who would want to return to that vile place? Let the faeries have it! Let them burn under the fires of the open sky! We claim the Underdark, where we can feel the core of the world thrumming under our feet, and where the stones of the walls show the heat of the world's power!"
Drizzt sat silent, absorbing every word of-the talented or-
ator's often-rehearsed speech. Drizzt was caught, as were all the new students, in Hatch'net's hypnotic variations of in-flection and rallying cries. Hatch'net had been the master of Lore at the Academy for more than two centuries, owning more prestige in Menzoberranzan than nearly any other male drow, and many of the females. The matrons of the ruling families understood well the value of his practiced tongue.
So it went every day, an endless stream of hate rhetoric di-rected against an enemy that none of the students had ever seen. The surface elves were not the only target of Hatch'net's sniping. Dwarves, gnomes, humans, halflings, and all of the surface races-and even subterranean races such as the duergar dwarves, which the drow often traded with and fought beside-each found an unpleasant spot in the master's ranting.
Drizzt came to understand why no weapons were permit-ted in the oval chamber. When he left his lesson each day, he found his hands clenched by his sides in rage, uncon-sciously grasping for a scimitar hilt. It was obvious from the commonplace fights among the students that others felt the same way. Always, though, the overriding factor that kept some measure of control was the master's lie of the horrors of the outside world and the comforting bond of the stu. dents' common heritage-a heritage, the students would soon come to believe, that gave them enough enemies to battle beyond each other.
The long, draining hours in the oval chamber left little time for the students to mingle. They shared common bar-racks, but their extensive duties outside of Hatch'net's lessons-serving the older students and masters, preparing meals, and cleaning the building-gave them barely enough time for rest. By the end of the first week, they walked on the edge of exhaustion, a condition, Drizzt realized, that only increased the stirring effect of Master Hatch'net's les sons.
Drizzt accepted the existence stoically, considering it far better than the six years he had served his mother and sis-ters as page prince. Still, there was one great disappoint-ment to Dnzzt in his first weeks at Melee-Magthere. He found himself longing for his practice sessions.
He sat on the edge of his bedroll late one night, holding a scimitar up before his shining eyes, remembering those many hours engaged in battle-play with Zaknafein.
"We go to the lesson in two hours" Kelnozz, in the next
bunk, reminded him. "Get some rest"
"I feel the edge leaving my hands" Drizzt replied quietly.
"The blade feels heavier, unbalanced"
"The grand melee is barely ten cycles of Narbondel away" Kelnozz said. "You will get all the practice you desire there! Fear not, whatever edge has been dulled by the days with the master of Lore will soon be regained. For the next nine years, that fine blade of yours will rarely leave your hands!"
Drizzt slid the scimitar back into its scabbard and reclined on his bunk. As with so many aspects of his life so far-and, he was beginning to fear, with so many aspects of his future in Menzoberranzan-he had no choice but to accept the cir-cumstances of his existence.
"This segment of your training is at an end" Master Hatch'net announced on the morning of the fiftieth day. An-other master, Dinin, entered the room, leading a magically suspended iron box filled with meagerly padded wooden poles of every length and design comparable to drow weap-ons.
"Choose the sparring pole that most resembles your own weapon of choice" Hatch'net explained as Dinin made his way around the room. He came to his brother, and Drizzt's eyes settled at once on his choice: two slightly curving poles about three-and-a-half feet long. Drizzt lifted them out and put them through a simple cut. Their weight and balance closely resembled the scimitars that had become so familiar to his hands.
"For the pride of Daermon N'a'shezbaernon" Dinin whis-pered, then moved along.
Drizzt twirled the mock weapons again. It was time to measure the value of his sessions with Zak.
"Your class must have an order" Hatch'net was saying as Drizzt turned his attention beyond the scope of his new weapons. "Thus the grand melee. Remember, there can be only one victor!"