by Lisa Smedman
Q’arlynd swore silently. Seldszar had warned him to expect opposition from the College of Mages, but not this. Things weren’t going to go as quickly as Q’arlynd had hoped. Not if the Conclave had two nominations to consider.
“I present to the Conclave T’lar Mizz’rynturl,” Guldor continued. “I nominate her School of Bae’qeshel Magic for elevation to College.”
Q’arlynd’s breath caught in his throat. Years of practice at stifling his reactions allowed him to hide any further reaction. The bae’qeshel tradition was extremely rare, with only a handful of practitioners. His sister Halisstra had been one of them.
He took another look at the female on the driftdisc. Had Halisstra known her? The more he looked at T’lar Mizz’rynturl, however, the more he doubted it. Had someone so distinctive visited Ched Nasad, Q’arlynd would have remembered her.
“What’s this School of Bae’qestel Magic?” Master Antatlab asked, mispronouncing the name. His deep bass rumble reverberated through the floor, up into the soles of Q’arlynd’s boots. Even without the benefit of the speaker’s sphere’s augmentation, it had that effect. The face of the Master of Elemental Magic was as square as a granite block, and just as deeply pitted. “I’ve never heard of such a school before!”
“Nor have I,” said the much quieter voice of Master Seldszar.
“You should pay more attention to cavern clack,” another of the masters said. “This past month, the mage halls have been buzzing with rumors that a new school had been founded. Everyone was trying to guess what it might specialize in.”
The speaker’s sphere shifted back to Master Guldor’s sharp-angled face. “The School of Bae’qeshel Magic is based on an ancient bardic tradition.”
“Bardic magic!” Master Antatlab exploded, pounding his fist on the golden ball in front of his podium. The quicksilver face quivered as if an earthquake were surging through it. “This is a conclave of mages, not minstrels!”
“Our constitution only prohibits clerical magic,” Master Guldor countered. “It is silent when it comes to the bards’ arts. And why? Because the mages who founded the Conclave recognized that bardic magic is a brother to sorcery. Both arts draw their power from the same source: the practitioner’s own heart and will.”
Q’arlynd cleared his throat softly in an attempt to get Master Seldszar’s attention. According to the rules of the Conclave, Q’arlynd was forbidden to speak unless directed to. If only he could speak, he could end this, right now, by pointing out the one thing the masters didn’t realize. While it was true that bae’qeshel was a bardic tradition, it was one that could only be practiced by someone who had taken a particular goddess as her patron deity.
Lolth.
On the surface, Guldor’s nomination of T’lar Mizz’rynturl’s school looked like nothing more than a means of countering Seldszar’s play for an allied eleventh master on the Conclave. Yet Q’arlynd knew it had to have deeper roots than that. Guldor Zauviir shared a House name with the priestess who headed up what remained of Lolth’s temple in Sshamath. And there were rumors the ties were knotted even tighter than that. Streea’Valsharess Zauviir smoldered like a coal under the heels of the wizards who had ground out her rule in Sshamath. T’lar Mizz’rynturl’s “school” was likely the high priestess’s attempt to burn the Conclave from within.
If Q’arlynd could only catch Master Seldszar’s attention, T’lar’s “school” would have as much hope of being accepted into the Conclave as a boy did of becoming matron mother of a noble House. A few quick flicks of Q’arlynd’s fingers would do the trick.
Q’arlynd cleared his throat a second time.
Seldszar still didn’t acknowledge him.
Another of the masters was speaking. “Guldor does have a point.” The speaker’s sphere bore a female face now—that of Master Felyndiira, a breathtaking beauty with long-lashed eyes and luxurious hair that swept back from a peak on her forehead. What the Master of Illusion and Phantasm really looked like was anyone’s guess. “Bards are very similar to sorcerers.”
Ah, so Felyndiira was allied with Guldor. Seldszar had wondered if she might be. There were rumors she worshiped the Spider Queen in secret.
Antatlab threw up his hands, not even bothering to touch his golden ball. “So are shadow mages, and you fought their admission to the Conclave dagger and nail!”
Felyndiira rolled her eyes. “The School of Shadow Magic was merely a cloak for Vhaeraun’s clerics. Everyone knew it—everyone but you.”
Q’arlynd cast a cantrip that plucked at Seldszar’s embroidered sleeve, but the Master of Divination paid it no heed. Seldszar reached for the golden ball in front of his podium. As he touched it, the quicksilver face widened, and its eyes darted back and forth in time with Seldszar’s own. Even at this critical juncture, his attention was at least partially on his scrying crystals. “This Conclave was convened to consider the nomination of the School of Ancient Arcana, a nomination that has already been second-spoken,” he said with a nod at Master Urlryn. “Since no second has spoken for the so-called ‘school’ Guldor has nominated, I suggest we focus on the task at hand and not be distracted by frivolous—”
“I second the nomination of the School of Bae’qeshel Magic.” The sphere’s features shifted, adopting the face of the only other female among the ten masters. Shurdriira Helviiryn, Master of the College of Alteration stared at Seldszar and arched an eyebrow, as if daring him to protest her second.
The speaker’s sphere shifted to a gaunt male face with hungry eyes. “The nomination has been second-spoken,” it said in a paper-thin whisper that filled the chamber—the voice of Tsabrak, Master of the College of Necromancy. The vampire drow’s real face was little more than a shadow, lost in the hood of his bone white robe. “Two nominations stand. Let the debate begin.”
One by one, the masters stated their arguments and counter arguments. Warily, they fenced back and forth. Q’arlynd could imagine the unspoken calculations that must be whirling through their heads. Support one nomination? Both? What was to be gained—and lost—by building or breaking alliances? Was it better to speak first, or hold back until others declared themselves?
With this second, more complicated nomination to consider, the debate might go on for a full cycle. Or more.
Q’arlynd snuck another look at his apprentices. They were still frozen in place next to the shimmering wall of force. Behind it, one of the tentacled deepspawn the Breeder’s Guild raised stared hungrily out at the two duelists.
Then Q’arlynd noticed something that chilled his gut like ice water. A crack had just appeared in the wall of force, next to the duelists. A crack that was widening.
There could be only one explanation for the rupture in what was otherwise a carefully tended wall. Someone must have spotted the two frozen duelists and decided to weaken Q’arlynd’s school by ensuring the “accidental” deaths of two of its apprentices.
Q’arlynd couldn’t wait for the debate to end. The second nomination had to be made null and void. Now.
He gripped the railing in front of him and took a deep breath. The moment there was a gap in the debate, he spoke. “I realize none but a master is permitted to speak, but there’s something you must hear!” he said in a loud, clear voice. “Bae’qeshel magic is—”
Suddenly, Q’arlynd couldn’t move. A sphere of glass, surrounded by solid stone, enclosed him.
A magical imprisonment! The favorite tactic, it was rumored, of Master Masoj—who supposedly was in full support of Q’arlynd’s nomination. Q’arlynd hadn’t felt the Master of Abjuration touch him—hadn’t felt anyone touch him, for that matter. Yet the spell had been cast anyway.
Q’arlynd was trapped like a fly in amber. He couldn’t cast spells, couldn’t escape. He might never see Sshamath again, let alone realize his dream of being elevated to the Conclave. He realized he’d been both hasty and stupid. Arrogant enough to think the Conclave would listen to him, that the masters wouldn’t punish him for breaking protocol. Of all
the things Q’arlynd had ever done, this had been among the most foolish.
He might be trapped, but there was one course of action open to him: thanks to his master ring, he could still scry. He refocused his attention on his apprentices. He might as well twist the dagger in deeper by watching Eldrinn die.
Via the scrying, he watched as Piri and Eldrinn unfroze. Neither noticed the crack spreading through the wall of force. Each glanced suspiciously at the other, then down at the ring on his finger. No feeblewits, they. Not like their master. They had figured out what had just happened, and what to do about it. With jerky motions, fighting the compulsions Q’arlynd had built into their rings, both Piri and Eldrinn tugged them from their fingers. They shouldn’t have been able to do that. In ordinary circumstances, Q’arlynd would have wondered what magic was used to counter the rings’ hold on their minds. But this was hardly the time to ponder such trivial betrayals.
No! Q’arlynd silently raged. It’s not me you have to be worried about. It’s—
The scrying ended.
Time passed.
Had Q’arlynd’s heart been beating, he might have measured time by it.
Suddenly, he was back inside the Stonestave’s central chamber, facing the Conclave once more. He immediately dropped to one knee and turned his head, exposing his throat. “My profound apologies, masters. I bow to your …”
He noticed something: a golden ball, hovering in the air just ahead of him. He glanced up and saw all ten masters staring at him. Nine of them had golden balls hovering in the air in front of them; Master Seldszar did not. He’d temporarily forfeited his right to a voice on the Conclave, so Q’arlynd might say his piece.
The speaker’s sphere bore Master Tsabrak’s visage. The vampire drow’s voice whispered out of it. “Rise, Q’arlynd. Finish what you started to say earlier.”
Q’arlynd rose to his feet and nodded his thanks to Seldszar. Q’arlynd was certain he’d pay for this later—pay dearly—but he was glad to have been given a second chance. He turned to face the female he was about to accuse. She stared back at him from her perch on the driftdisc—a flat, level stare that held a promise of retribution for whatever he was about to say.
Q’arlynd couldn’t worry about that now. Nor could he let himself be distracted by speculating how much time had passed while he’d been imprisoned, and whether one or both of his apprentices were dead. He would keep this short and to the point. He touched the golden ball.
“Bae’qeshel is a bardic tradition, it’s true,” he told the Conclave, his eyes still locked on those of the female on the driftdisc, returning her challenge. “But it is only practiced by members of a particular faith—by those who worship Lolth.”
T’lar didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Someone else in the room must have, though. Q’arlynd heard more than one sharp intake of breath.
Guldor was the first to touch his golden ball. “How can you make such accusations? You know nothing of bae’qeshel magic!”
“My sister was a bae’qeshel bard.”
Guldor was good: his face didn’t even flush. “You lie.”
“A simple divination will prove that I do not,” Q’arlynd said quietly. He waited a moment or two—long enough for any of the masters who had a spell that would detect falsehoods to cast it. “My sister, Halisstra Melarn, was a bae’qeshel bard. She was also a devotee of Lolth. You cannot be the first, without the second. Something you were no doubt privy to, Guldor Zauviir.”
The sphere assumed Master Shurdriira’s face. “I withdraw my second.”
For several moments, there was silence in the chamber. Then Master Tsabrak spoke. “T’lar Mizz’rynturl, leave us.”
Never once taking her eyes off Q’arlynd, T’lar moved back. Instead of the anger Q’arlynd expected, T’lar looked as if she were appraising him—sizing him up. The doors to the chamber opened silently, and the driftdisc slid out, whisking her away.
Guldor’s face was purple with barely suppressed rage, but he rallied quickly. “Q’arlynd Melarn,” he said in a soft voice. “Do you worship the Spider Queen?”
Q’arlynd answered warily, aware that whatever divinations the masters might have cast earlier would still be detecting falsehoods. “I was raised to follow Lolth—as are all drow. But I never formally pledged myself to her.”
Guldor smiled. “Because you worship Eilistraee?”
Q’arlynd’s eyes narrowed slightly before he could prevent it. He was on dangerous ground, here. Eilistraee’s worship was not forbidden in Sshamath—the Conclave officially permitted all faiths—but her worship was still a quick way to make enemies, among those masters who had, secretly, taken the Spider Queen as their patron deity.
One thing was in his favor, however. Guldor had to be guessing. If not, he would have phrased that last as a statement, rather than a question.
“Only females are welcomed into Eilistraee’s circle,” Q’arlynd answered. He arched an eyebrow. “Surely you don’t mistake me for one?”
“Males can become lay worshipers.”
Q’arlynd waved a hand dismissively—the hand that didn’t bear Eilistraee’s crescent-shaped scar. He turned away from Guldor. “He’s grasping at spider silk,” he told the other masters, feigning a lighthearted tone he didn’t feel. “Appropriate, considering the company he keeps.”
Someone chuckled.
Out of the corner of his eye, Q’arlynd watched Guldor. The master’s lips were pressed tightly together. Guldor would have anticipated that his nomination of T’lar Mizz’rynturl might fail, but he hadn’t expected to be mocked. Q’arlynd had just made a lasting enemy of the master of a very powerful College.
The face on the sphere grew fatter, more jowly. “Now that only one nomination remains to be considered,” Master Urlryn said, “Why don’t you tell us, Q’arlynd, why the School of Ancient Arcana should be named a College.”
That was better. Things were back on track. And Eldrinn couldn’t have been dead yet—if he had been, Master Seldszar wouldn’t have looked so unperturbed. Though gods only knew what was happening, down at the Cage.
“The reason is simple,” Q’arlynd began. He followed the speech he’d rehearsed with Seldszar earlier, down to the last syllable. “Accept my school as Sshamath’s eleventh College, and your city will reap the rewards. To the city itself, my College can provide powerful magic: spells that have been forgotten since the time of the Descent, spells that have been revealed to me by … this.”
He pointed to his forehead with a flourish, and dropped the invisibility that had been hiding the lorestone. A corresponding bulge appeared on the forehead of the face on the speaker’s sphere. “Only a few of you will have seen its like before,” he told the masters. “It’s a selu’kiira of ancient Miyeritar.”
Eyes widened. The masters must have noted the lorestone’s deep color.
Q’arlynd held up a cautioning finger. “Lest any of you think of claiming it, I offer this warning. The lorestone will only share its secrets with a descendant of House Melarn—and I am the last surviving member of that noble House. Everyone else, from its matron mother to the lowest boy, lies buried in the rubble of Ched Nasad. Anyone else who attempts to wear House Melarn’s lorestone will wind up feebleminded.”
Heads nodded slightly at that. All remembered the state Eldrinn had been in, when Q’arlynd had returned the boy to the city two and a half years ago. The connection was obvious.
His speech concluded, Q’arlynd fell silent. There was a further incentive for certain masters, but it couldn’t be spoken aloud. Master Seldszar had spent the last year carefully tracing the lineage of each of the current masters of Sshamath’s Colleges. Two other masters, besides Seldszar, could trace their lineage back to ancient Miyeritar. Like him, each might be able to claim a kiira from Kraanfhaor’s Door, so long as he was shown how—something that wouldn’t happen until the College of Ancient Arcana became a reality. Neither of the two masters would know for certain whether anyone else had been promised a selu�
�kiira. Each would do whatever he could to influence the rest of the Conclave, in order to claim his reward.
“A pretty promise,” Master Shurdriira said. She tipped her head. “But how do we know you will share this magic?”
Q’arlynd smiled. “I have already.” He watched as that sunk in—as the masters glanced covertly at one another, wondering who had already benefited. Then he added, “Do you dare run the risk of being the only one without access to my spells?”
Master Seldszar flicked his fingers: My ball.
Q’arlynd inclined his head, then nudged the gold ball to Seldszar. The Master of Divination touched it, and the speaker’s sphere assumed his likeness. “I suggest we end this debate and put the nomination to a vote.”
“Agreed,” Urlryn said.
“Agreed,” Tsabrak echoed.
One by one—with the exception of Guldor, who remained sullenly silent—the other masters gave their assent.
Tsabrak spoke. “Q’arlynd Melarn, leave us.”
Q’arlynd bowed. Even before he’d finished rising, he teleported away.
He appeared straddling the femur that was the dividing line, his hands raised and ready to cast a spell. Piri lay on the ground a few paces away, either unconscious or dead, his wand beside him. Eldrinn was in even more dire straights. The deepspawn had already squeezed three of its six tentacles through the gap in the wall of force. One was wrapped around the boy’s chest, and held him dangling above the ground. Though Eldrinn still held his wand, he was either too frightened or too badly hurt to use it. His eyes widened as he spotted Q’arlynd, and his mouth worked, but no words came out. Judging by his purple face, there wasn’t any air left in his lungs.
Q’arlynd conjured lightning. He aimed for the base of the tentacle that held Eldrinn, but the monster was unaccountably fast. It yanked that tentacle—and Eldrinn with it—back behind what remained of the wall of force. The magical barrier absorbed the eye-searing bolt.