“Delyn is not just complicated. She is a challenge. A singular will and a stubborn attitude is how I would describe her.”

“You never held any respect for the council. So why did you side with the council against your own daughter?” asked a concerned Lyria.

I cleared my throat and motioned Taltil for water. This would take a while.

“Delyn had never shown any interest in fencing. She would not even hold a knife at dinner. Naturally, as her mother, my concern was for her future and that became my downfall. I pushed her hard. Forced her to participate in activities which I felt would improve her. In doing that, I failed to acknowledge her other gifts.”

I took a deep breath to calm my nerves and quell the pulsating noise in my head.

Sensing my discomfort, Lyria leaned forward and asked, “Rils, do you need a break?”

I shook my head and continued.

”My Mother commanded the House. I commanded the House but not Delyn. Even from a young age, she had this uncanny ability to attract people to her cause.

It was surreal to watch her gain the centre of attention wherever she went. She would project a goal or a vision and people would flock to her.

While I worried about her inability to issue orders, in my zeal, I failed to realise that she never had to give orders. The people around her willingly served.

Her talent for crunching numbers, perhaps rivalled only by Vangere.

She would end up gaining the upper hand in any deal. None of her tutors could re-orient her path. In the end, her tutelage fell upon me as her mother and as the reigning matriarch.

Despite my best effort, Delyn continued winning deals with people who should not be outwitted and soon, the complaints reached my ears. I did the only sane thing that I thought would help her grow. I sent her to govern the outer territories.

If she is not close to the centre of power, then she cannot insult powerful people. A foolish thought. Away from my presence and with autonomy, she gained followers. Disgruntled scions of noble houses, impoverished former nobles and a bunch of other outcasts, she gathered and so began the Exarch Rebellion.

Delyn who could barely swing a sword, Delyn who lacked the experience in commanding an army, could never lead a rebellion. Right?

I failed to appreciate her real talents. I failed to nurture them.

For she mastered the true drow way of war: Spreading misinformation.

Reports of her activity were contradictory at best and intangible at worst.

I kept her under strong surveillance, confined her to her chambers and yet reports came of sighting of Delyn leading assaults on various fronts.

I even moved to her chambers, kept my eyes peeled on her at all times, denied her even a modicum of privacy and still, the conflicting reports continued to reach me. Reports that mentioned sightings of her at multiple locations at the same time. Reports that mentioned her leading an army of demons. Reports that mentioned a host of astral devas fighting by her side.

All those famed dark-elven intelligence reports were no better than a child’s scribble before her ingenuity.

Eventually, the bickering great houses in the council unified and demanded the involvement of the Sequestered Conciliators.

With that, the rebellion became inherently unpredictable. Claiming neutrality was not an option anymore.

As a mother, I should protect Delyn.

As a Matriarch, I am expected to protect my house.

In the end, after much deliberation, I aligned myself with the council. That was the only way to ensure that the house would survive no matter the outcome of the rebellion.

And Delyn’s faction won.”

Taltil carried a small waterskin. A dirty little thing in her small pudgy fingers and offered it to me. She probably went back to the cavern. I thanked her for her effort.

In my condition, the liquid tasted sweeter than nectar.

“But why exile you?” asked Lyria. She was still brimming with burning questions.

“That was the strategy we worked out, despite Delyn’s protest. She might be a prodigy with negotiation but I am her mother and there will be no deals with me. If the council won, I would plead for her. Relinquish territories, accede to trade deals, bribery if need be. If her faction won, I would take sole responsibility for the actions of my vassals and accept the exile.”

“But why the exile? She could have done the same for you?” snapped Lyria.

“As a newly promoted Matron, all eyes will be upon her. The vultures would be circling her, ready to peck at the first sign of weakness. She cannot afford to start her reign by donating territories. The exile was my gift to her.”

My words extracted a sigh of exasperation from Lyria.

“In the end, nothing is as it seems with you,” exclaimed Lyria, “You exiled yourself.”

Lyria expected me to cry. Taltil expected me to cry. Even Maapu and Theko stirred as if expecting me to break down. Instead, I felt relieved. I have finally revealed my deeply concealed secret. Almost as if the weight of a mountain that choked the breath out of me, has been lifted. Only Lyria’s chuckle followed.

“Fate does love you. Leading a small coup, You took the power from your mother and exiled her. Now, you were forced to exile yourself,” said Lyria without any malice but with remorse in its place.

“You could have eloped with me. The three of us would have lived, in a quaint little cottage, away from the politics,” uttered Lyria with suppressed pain, “the ideal family.”

And be subjected to the pogroms of prejudiced predators, like how you were chased from your home.

I kept my thoughts private. The day had seen one too many flaring emotions. This is not the time to poke the belly of a slumbering beast.

I wanted to enjoy the respite in the comfort of Lyria. We were both driven from our homes. We are both vagrants through an unforgiving future.

Lyria looked as if she was being eaten alive from inside. I slowly wrapped my arms around her. She shivered at my touch for a narrow moment, but eventually let herself sink into my embrace.

“You should not have abandoned her,” she complained with a scintilla of doubt. She was worried about Delyn. We both were worried about Delyn.

“You should not have left her alone,” she repeated a few times, till sleep calmed us both.

As the dawn broke, Lyria was still in deep sleep, safely snuggled against my body. Her face was buried deep in the curve of my neck. The golden rays of the rising sun reflected against the drool from the tip of her lips, glistening the corner of the side of her chin.

I was torn aside between two conflicting urges. To run my fingers against her lambent cheek and to do nothing and enjoy her serene sleeping face.

Maapu tramped through the campsite, taking the choice away from me. Lyria immediately stirred into waking.

“Grand Mistress, Kind Orc look for you,” reported Maapu, “Friend of a friend. Wants to talk to you. Friend Orc will help.”

“This is suspicious,” I said wondering who is hot of my trails this time, “Let us leave soon,”

Lyria, instead volunteered to investigate alone and stubbornly resisted all attempts of persuasion.

She returned back with a slightly shorter and wider male orc in tow.

“Rils, meet Tharkas of the stone cleaver orcs,” introduced Lyria with familiarity, “Urganza sent him to fetch you.”

“Urganza was expecting?” I asked in disbelief.

“For her to delegate instead of directly involving means whatever the matter is, it is dire,” said Lyria.

The orc, Tharkas, who till now remained silent, finally spoke in a deep gravelly voice.

“I have a carriage waiting to take you to Forgewife’s Folly,” he added, “if you would accept, the journey can be made faster.”

Down the rocky trail, stood a robust wooden cart, with an angled roof, drawn by four bison. Devoid of any intricate designs or elegant patterns, it was composed of ironwood, an expensive and sturdy material. This is definitely the sort of reception Urganza would have thrown.

The bisons stood lazily in the morning sun. The threat from their bulging thews is suppressed by the docile movement of their head. One of the Bison, alarmed by our scent, turned its head and considered us with cautiousness. Its nostrils flared as it dug the ground with its overpowering frontal hooves. From its stalwart stance, the bison lowered its head presenting the redoubtable horns.

It was Tharkas’s gentle touch and soothing voice that immediately calmed the raging creature.

With little time to waste, he yoked the majestic creatures to the cart and we availed ourselves of the newfound hospitality.

In the evening when we reached Forgewife’s Folly, the familiar face of Savvas was the first to greet us.

Savvas looked like he aged a century in the brief period. Gone was his contagious charm. The boyish sparkle in his eyes abandoned him. The roguish prankster attitude that won him the attention of both men and women vanished without a trace and in their place, stood a hollow shell. His eyes reddened and bloodshot, his cheeks puffed and his hair unkempt, Savvas still carried a ruminating face.

Seeing me, he rushed towards us, “Aunt Rillie, Delyn messed up. Celerim is back but he is not himself.”