by Lisa Smedman
Q’arlynd laughed out loud. “Hardly. I did it because I wanted her to take me. And it worked—just, not the way I’d expected.” He lingered in the memory. He wondered if Ilmra had survived the fall of the city. Probably not.
The kiira cooled slightly—a sign of his ancestors’ displeasure. Q’arlynd gave a mental shrug. They’d asked him to include memories he thought were instructive. The one he’d just placed in the lorestone was doubly so. It taught the magic-detection cantrip, and at the same time, served as a reminder that all reward came at a price.
He heard a crackling sound: the darkfire flames, flickering. A breeze down the chimney must have disturbed them. He was so deep in Reverie that he paid the noise no heed at first. He was reliving a night in the World Above, when he’d used a spell to spy on Eilistraee’s priestesses as they danced with swords in hand around the goddess’s sacred stone in the Misty Forest. It had been windy that night, with snow blowing through the trees. Yet the priestesses had danced naked.
He smiled, savoring the memory. He’d watched, half-hoping they’d catch him in his transgression. It had been a long time since a female had taken him …
The darkfire settled down again as the breeze ended. The flames resumed their steady flickering—not that his body needed warming anymore. Remembering the priestesses’ dance was—
All at once, he remembered he was in Sshamath. No breezes blew here—except magical ones.
“Luth—”
Something stung the back of his neck. It felt like several needles pressing into his skin at once. Whatever had just pricked him fell to the floor with a thud. As his flesh deadened, he realized whatever had just struck him had been poisoned. His jaw locked, his neck stiffened. He couldn’t complete his abjuration. Nor could he turn his head to see his assailant. Then his magical earring drew the venom up his neck, into his left ear, and into itself. All that remained was a bitter taste in his mouth—which told him what the poison was. Made from the excretions of a carrion crawler, it was designed to paralyze, rather than kill.
He sensed movement behind him. His assailant, coming closer. Q’arlynd feigned paralysis. He slowly shifted his left thumb to the fur-wrapped needle of glass that pierced his shirt cuff. As his thumb touched the spell component, he whispered a word under his breath. His finger bones tingled as lightning crackled to life inside his hand. A flick of his fingers would release it.
His assailant stepped into view. He recognized her at once: T’lar Mizz’rynturl, the bae’qeshel bard whose “school” Guldor had tried to nominate. She moved in utter silence; even when she squatted next to him, her clothing didn’t rustle. She held a dagger with a spider pommel. Ready for use, but not threatening him with it yet. She stared, pointedly, at his groin. “Thinking of me, were you?” She laughed.
Q’arlynd felt thankful he was already aroused. T’lar was disturbingly close, and the menace she exuded was a powerful aphrodisiac. Yet he wasn’t foolish enough to give in to it completely. He held the lightning within his hand, trusting to surprise to give him the edge when the time came to cast his spell. For the moment, he wanted to know what she was up to. Had she come to steal something? He kept utterly still, not even moving his eyes. Soon, however, he’d need to give in to the urge to blink.
You play a dangerous game, Grandson, whispered his ancestors from inside the kiira.
T’lar hummed softly. Q’arlynd felt magic brush his mind, as light as a cobweb. Her spell proved no more durable. It tore to pieces the instant it met the kiira. She didn’t seem to realize this, however. Perhaps under the impression her spell had succeeded, she leaned in close and asked a question that was clearly designed to stir up his thoughts.
It wasn’t the one he’d expected.
“Why was your sister killed?” she whispered, her breath hot against his ear. “What did she do to anger the Lady Penitent?”
His concentration slipped. A spark crackled from his fingertips. T’lar leaped away from him—so quickly Q’arlynd didn’t even see her move. One moment she was squatting next to him; the next, she stood halfway across the room, her dagger poised. Her arm whipped forward, and the dagger flashed through the air. Q’arlynd twisted aside and hurled a lightning bolt at her. She dodged, faster than his eye could follow. The lightning struck the shelf behind her, exploding it apart and setting several scrolls on fire. Q’arlynd frantically searched for his assailant, and felt a sharp pain in his side as he moved. He touched his shirt, and his hand came away bloody. Unlike her, he hadn’t dodged quickly enough.
He saw a flash of motion out of the corner of his eye: her kick. Her foot slammed into his face. Spitting blood, he went down. He landed on his back, bent across his cushion like a sacrifice on an altar stone. She hurled herself on top of him, straddling his stomach, hooking her legs around his, and twining her fingers in his so he couldn’t gesture. Her legs squeezed. He gasped as the wound on his side pulled open and tried to buck her off, but she was too strong. Swift as a striking spider, she transferred both of his hands to one of hers. Her free hand scooped up her dagger, and she jammed the hilt into his mouth like a bit. He tasted metal and sweat-impregnated leather, and the legs of the spider-shaped pommel dug sharply into his cheek. She forced his head back, pushing so hard he thought his neck would snap. Involuntary tears sprung to his eyes. He tried not to gag.
“I could kill you,” she told him. “Quicker than a blink.” The dagger jerked for emphasis. He gurgled from the pain, tasting the blood that slid down his throat from his split lips. “But first, I offer you the opportunity to do penance.”
The arousal he’d felt a moment ago was gone. Fear had replaced it, along with confusion. He tried to talk, but all that came out was, “Whuh—whuh—?”
“You’re Eilistraee’s,” she hissed. “Forswear her, and live. Embrace the Lady Penitent. Embrace Lolth.”
Q’arlynd felt sweat break out on his forehead. Not so long ago, it would have been easy to renounce Eilistraee. That was no longer possible. His ancestors whispered fiercely at him from within the lorestone. Fight her, they urged. Die proudly, with Eilistraee’s song on your lips! Q’arlynd found himself swept up in their strident chorus, unable to speak the words T’lar had ordered him to. Nor did he want to, he suddenly realized. He took comfort in the fact that it was Eilistraee, rather than Lolth, who would claim his soul after death. He finally understood what Leliana had tried to explain to him, back when they’d first met: that to have tried, even if failure was the result, was more worthy than to surrender and survive. He remembered her words still: “To Eilistraee, struggle is honored equally with success.”
Of course, to pretend to surrender wouldn’t hurt.
“Will you do penance?” T’lar asked. She stared at him intently, her lithe body silhouetted by the light of the burning scroll shelf.
Q’arlynd managed the slightest of nods.
She removed her dagger from his mouth and reversed it. The point pricked his neck. He didn’t dare swallow, lest it’s the razor-sharp steel slice open the bulge in his throat.
T’lar smiled. “Pledge yourself to Lolth, then, and be redeemed. Refuse, and I’ll open your throat. You’ll be dead before your magic can save you.”
Q’arlynd opened his bloody lips, drew breath, and prepared to speak the only spell that might save him. It required no gestures, no components. Just a single word.
Whether it would work given that Sshamath was surrounded by Faerzress, was an open question. He decided to aim for somewhere close at hand.
“Da’bauth!” he spat.
Magic wrenched him sideways through space. He landed hard on his back in the hallway outside his study, cracking his head on the floor. He shook off the pain and sprang to his feet. With a wave, he unlocked the door. Wrenching it open, he hurled a spell into the room. Yellowish green vapor poured from his palm, filling his study with a deadly, swirling cloud. He slammed the door shut and locked it again.
He waited, using the beats of his pounding heart to mark the time. Afte
r twice the amount of time required, he cast a protective spell on himself and opened the door. His study was a shambles. Burning scrolls littered the floor. Everything was dusted with the residue of the poisonous fog he’d conjured. He scanned the room for footprints, but saw none. Nor did he see T’lar, even when he peered through his gem.
She had vanished as mysteriously as she’d arrived.
He stood, holding the wound in his side, wondering if she would be back. He doubted she’d make the same mistake twice: the next time they met, she’d kill him, rather than trying to convert him.
The more he thought about it, the odder the encounter seemed. “Redemption” was something Eilistraee offered. Lolth’s priestesses never gave those who had strayed from the web a second chance. Blasphemy was always cause for retribution—the only variation was whether the blasphemer’s death was swift or lingering.
And just who was the Lady Penitent? Was that another of the new titles Lolth had assumed since ending her Silence?
As he stood, pondering the mystery, he heard footsteps approaching along the hallway. He whirled, and lightning crackled from his fingertips. He stopped short of casting it when he saw Alexa gaping at him. He still held his trueseeing gem and raised it to his eyes to confirm that this was, indeed, his apprentice, before he allowed the lightning to dissipate.
“Master—you’re wounded! Permit me to assist you.” She rushed forward, lifting a gold chain from around her neck. Q’arlynd twisted away. “It’s just a scratch,” he said harshly, anger rising in him as he realized how close he—a master of his own College—had just come to getting killed. “No need for that.”
He waved the healing periapt away. The blood red gem was carved with a stylized spider: symbol of the faith that had created it. Q’arlynd didn’t want anything of Lolth’s touching him, ever again. “I’ll use a healing potion, instead.”
Alexa bowed her head. “As you wish, Master Q’arlynd.” Though straight-cut bangs shaded her eyes, Q’arlynd could see her gaze slide sideways, to take in his ruined study, as she replaced the periapt around her neck.
She lingered, when she should have taken the hint and left.
“What is it, apprentice?” Q’arlynd snapped.
“The gorgondy wine has arrived.”
That, at least, was good news.
Alexa waited, a gleam in her eyes. There was something else she wanted to tell him. “And?” Q’arlynd prompted.
“Master Guldor’s dead. Streea’Valsharess Zauviir killed him.”
Q’arlynd cracked a smile. More good news.
“She slit his throat,” Alexa continued. “They sent for a diviner, and he saw the whole thing. She did it with a ceremonial dagger. It was a sacrifice to Lolth.”
Q’arlynd’s eyes narrowed as he remembered T’lar’s dagger. “Did she offer him a chance to repent, first?”
Alexa looked puzzled.
“Never mind.” Q’arlynd waved a hand—and winced. “Tell the slaves to fetch me some clean clothes. Something formal. I’ve got an important meeting to attend.”
Q’arlynd nodded to the three seated masters and set the decanter on the low table, next to the goblet that already stood there. The decanter’s cut-glass contours sparkled, reflecting the glimmer of the blue-white faerie fire that danced across the ceiling of Master Seldszar’s scrying room. The wine the decanter held was a rich ruby red. Even with the crystal stopper in place, Q’arlynd could smell its heady bouquet. The fragrance tugged at his mind, causing his thoughts to wander to …
He shook his head and stepped back from the ankle-high table. “Gorgondy wine,” he announced.
Master Urlryn leaned forward on his cushion to examine the decanter. The golden goblet hanging against his chest swung forward slightly on its mithral chain. He caught it before it could strike the decanter. “I wonder …—If my goblet samples a little, might I be able to alter the vessel’s enchantment so that it produces gorgondy wine upon command?”
Master Seldszar interrupted the study of the spheres orbiting his head just long enough to give Urlryn a cautionary look. “There’s only one draught. We’ll need it. All of it.”
Urlryn settled back on his cushion, which flattened under his weight. A smile briefly played across his face, causing his jowls to twitch. “A pity. Gorgondy is worth its weight in mithral.”
As the two masters bantered, Q’arlynd circled to the only available cushion. He stepped cautiously to avoid bumping Urlryn’s phantasmal guard dog with his foot. He knew where it sat: a sheen of drool marked the pale green chrysolite tiles on the floor. He seated himself across the table from the third master and placed his hands flat against his bent knees, where the others could easily see his fingers. Masters only trusted each other so far. Keeping one’s hands visible and unmoving was a sign of good faith.
The master on the opposite side of the table—Master Masoj—was as lean and wiry as Urlryn was corpulent. Masoj kept the front half of his scalp shaved. The bone white hair capping the back of his head hung in a single braid that touched the floor behind his cushion. Glittering dust covered his face, neck, and hands—and, presumably, the rest of his body under his clothes and boots—a protective abjuration capable of deflecting even the most powerful spells. Q’arlynd imagined it must feel gritty and uncomfortable, especially in the armpits and groin. But perhaps the Master of Abjuration had a spell that would negate that.
Q’arlynd noted—without looking directly at Masoj’s forehead—that it was smooth, without indentation. He wondered if Masoj was one of the two who’d been promised the chance to claim a kiira. Seldszar was playing his pieces close to his chest on that one. Even Q’arlynd didn’t know which two masters, besides Seldszar, were descended from Miyeritari stock.
Seldszar sat with his arms folded. Even though they hid the largest of the eyes embroidered on his piwafwi, the other eyes all seemed to stare vigilantly in every direction at once. Seldszar’s own eyes—a strange, pale yellow—remained fixed on the crystal spheres orbiting his head. Clear eyelids swept across his eyes every few heartbeats.
Though Seldszar never removed his gaze from his crystals, Q’arlynd felt the master’s attention shift to him. “Master Q’arlynd,” Seldszar said. “Thank you for joining us.”
Q’arlynd sat straighter. Master. He loved the sound of the word. He inclined his head in acknowledgement of Seldszar’s formal greeting.
Masoj shifted slightly, his bony knees creaking. “Let’s get to the point, shall we? My vote wasn’t enough. You require something else from me before I can claim my prize. What?”
Ah, Q’arlynd thought. The Master of Abjuration had been promised a kiira. Whether Masoj’s bloodline was pure enough for him to claim it, however, remained to be seen.
“Yes, young Master Q’arlynd,” Urlryn said. His voice dropped just enough on the title to imply scorn, without openly stating it. An act, for Masoj’s benefit. Urlryn didn’t want the Master of Abjuration to know how much hope he’d balanced on the knife’s edge of this meeting. Urlryn’s College had been greatly weakened by the augmented Faerzress—though not nearly as severely as the College of Divination. He nodded across the table at Seldszar. “Tell us what our combined centuries of study couldn’t. How is the Faerzress to be unmade?”
“It isn’t,” Q’arlynd answered bluntly. “Sshamath’s Faerzress will remain long after we four are dust. What we will do, instead, is remove ourselves from it. Sever the link between drow and Faerzress.”
“All drow?” Urlryn asked—another scripted question.
Q’arlynd shook his head. He repeated what his ancestors had told him. “Not all. Those who worship the Spider Queen will derive no benefit from our casting.”
He waited. This was the moment of revelation. Seldszar had been able to learn much about Masoj, but not his faith. If the Master of Abjuration worshiped Lolth, these careful negotiations would be for naught.
“‘Our’ casting?” Masoj asked, lifting an eyebrow.
Q’arlynd touched the lores
tone on his forehead. “I’ll be present, though not actively participating. The ancestors of House Melarn will be on hand to provide advice, should you three have any questions.”
We stand ready, they whispered.
Masoj nodded, but his attention was on the other two masters. “What spell am I to provide?”
Q’arlynd hid a sigh of relief. Masoj wasn’t a spider kisser. “The casting is complex, requiring several participants,” he explained. “The Colleges of Masters Seldszar and Urlryn will provide mages to cast the simpler abjurations: those that break enchantments and remove curses. I have also secured a promise of assistance from a priestess capable of evoking a miracle.”
Masoj’s eyebrow rose a little farther. He didn’t ask which deity the priestess honored—that was easy enough for him to guess, thanks to Guldor’s accusations at the Conclave. Q’arlynd wondered how Masoj would react when he actually met Qilué.
“What we need from you,” Q’arlynd continued, “is your expertise in reversing magical imprisonments.”
“Where is the abjuration to be cast?” Masoj asked.
“We don’t know yet.”
Masoj’s nostrils flared slightly.
“But we will in a moment,” Seldszar interjected. He nodded at the decanter. “A vision will reveal it presently. That’s why I invited each of you here. One of us may recognize something the others do not.”
That wasn’t quite true, Q’arlynd reflected. Masoj wasn’t nearly as well versed in ancient lore as the other two masters, and he wouldn’t be that useful. Letting him observe the vision first hand, however, would give the impression that the others had nothing to hide.
Masoj folded his arms. “And if I refuse to participate?”
Seldszar lifted his hands, fingers poised. “Then you’ll never learn what it feels like to pluck at the strands of the Weave, and play it like a harp.” He mimed playing an instrument, and lifted an eyebrow. The selu’kiira on his forehead turned visible.