Ascendancy of the Last зкp-3

by Lisa Smedman

  Assuming, of course, one of them could be persuaded to do it.

  Laeral, she decided. She'd already guessed something was wrong with the Crescent Blade and would take less convincing.

  Qilue steeled herself. Was she really ready to bid farewell to the Promenade, her Protectors, her priestesses-everything she had worked for centuries to build? She had to. It would be the salvation of the drow. All of the drow. The dawn of a glorious new day. Out of the darkness, and into the light.

  Qilue, however, wouldn't survive to see it.

  Tears blended with the water. Eilistraee, she silently sang. Is this your will?

  The answer came not in words, but in a sign. A beam of braided moonlight and shadow lanced down into the water, directly in front of Qilue. She had only to touch it to be transported to the place she had just thought of-the place where the deed would be done.

  Qilue nodded. Very well then.

  Myroune, she sang.

  Use of the truename would ensure that Wendonai wouldn't know whom she was contacting. It would also ensure a prompt reply.

  Her sister answered at once. Wasting no time, Qilue told Laeral where to meet her and what needed to be done-in carefully couched language that used references only Laeral would understand. All the while, she could feel Wendonai's seething anger as the sword vibrated in her hand.

  Laeral agreed to do as she asked, but with great reluctance. Do you truly wish this, Sister?

  Eilistraee wishes it, Qilue replied. For the sake of the drow, it must be done.

  I will meet you there. Laeral's voice faded from her mind.

  Now there was one last thing that needed to be done.

  Qilue touched the mind of her Darksong Knight. Cavatina, she sent. Your suspicions were correct: Wendonai corrupted me. I am removing myself from the Promenade. I may not return. If I do not, you are to lead the ritual that will choose the next high priestess. You must also assist Q'arlynd with the casting he is preparing. May Eilistraee bless you, and guide your steps. Take up her sword and sing.

  That said, Qilue unlocked the doors to the room with a flick of her hand. Then she reached out of the water to grasp the moonbeam, and teleported away.

  CHAPTER 7

  T'lar watched from above as Guldor strode into his private sanctum and closed the door behind him. The wizard pulled a pinch of glittering dust from a pocket and flicked it at the door while muttering a spell. He tested the handle and nodded.

  T'lar, perched like a spider on a ceiling beam above, tensed as he began a second incantation, this one directed at the center of the room. She held her dagger by its point. If the wizard lifted his head even slightly, she'd embed it between his eyes.

  Guldor's second spell, however, had no visible effect. Nor did he glance in T'lar's direction. He unfastened his cloak and flung it to the side. The garment halted in midair and was neatly folded by an invisible conjured servitor. Guldor, meanwhile, flopped face down onto a divan and gestured at his boots. They tugged off, revealing narrow feet. Dimples appeared in the grayish soles as the servitor massaged them. Guldor, however, remained stiff and unrelaxed. It looked as though the tension of the recent Conclave meeting had not yet dissipated.

  As the invisible servitor continued to massage the wizard, T'lar spotted movement within a full-length mirror that was mounted in an ornate gold frame on the wall. The reflection of the room wavered and was replaced. It was as if a door had opened onto another chamber. A figure stepped into view within the mirror: that of Streea'Valsharess Zauviir, high priestess of Lolth. Imperious in her spider-silk robes and silver web-crown, the priestess stared into the wizard's private sanctum.

  Guldor glanced up at the mirror. He didn't look pleased to see his aunt.

  The high priestess scowled out of the mirror. "I heard what happened today."

  "Bad news travels quickly."

  "How could you have overlooked the fact that his sister was a bae'qeshel singer? I thought you were more thorough than that!"

  "You were the one who wanted to move quickly," Guldor snapped back. "I was the one who advised patience."

  "Patience!" the high priestess spat. "Don't you lecture me on patience. We've been waiting years to secure a second position on the Conclave, only to miss our chance! If we'd moved even a cycle sooner, this newly minted master wouldn't have been there."

  "You were the one who chose this cycle, not me. What's more, you promised a distraction that would prevent him from appearing before the Conclave-a promise you failed to keep!"

  "My decisions were based on information you provided! You said the other masters would be looking for a way to counter Seldszar's latest alliances. That was your recommendation, boy!"

  "You'd do well to remember, Priestess, that this 'boy' is one of those who rule this city," Guldor retorted, "while you merely sit in the shadows and spin."

  "Pah!" The priestess tossed her head, causing the tiny obsidian spiders hanging from her crown to tinkle. "Your lack of diligence has made our position even worse than it was. This new 'master' is one of Eilistraee's."

  "Perhaps." Guldor made a wry face. "Or perhaps not. My accusation was a spear thrust in the dark. We'll have to delve deeper before we can be certain."

  "Perhaps it's time someone a little more certain headed up your College."

  Guldor's head jerked up. "Is that a threat?"

  T'lar listened as the pair continued to argue. The politics of this city mattered little to her. She merely carried out the Lady Penitent's commands.

  When Streea'Valsharess Zauviir had invited the Temple of the Black Mother to invest a shrine in Sshamath, T'lar had expected the Lady Penitent to reject the offer out of hand. The priestesses of Sshamath were weak; they'd been responsible for one of Lolth's greatest defeats. The Lady Penitent, however, had decided to accept. T'lar remembered her words: "Where better to spin my web, than in the void where Lolth's was torn asunder?" And so T'lar had been sent north.

  Streea'Valsharess Zauviir had promised great things, describing Sshamath as an egg sac seething with discontent and ready to burst. She'd promised to deliver the entire city into the Lady Penitent's hands. She'd lied-T'lar could see that. The Conclave held this city in an adamantine grip. Instead of fighting the masters, the high priestess hoped to join them.

  Weakness. The very thing the Lady Penitent most despised.

  Streea'Valsharess Zauviir would have to be eliminated-sooner, rather than later.

  The image in the mirror faded. Guldor at last relaxed. When he closed his eyes, T'lar hummed a melody that shifted her appearance to match what she'd just seen in the mirror, then sprang off the beam. She drew upon her dro'zress an instant before she landed, halting her downward momentum, and landed soundlessly on the floor behind the wizard. She jabbed stiffened fingers into pressure points on Guldor's back, sending him into a spasm. Guldor gasped in pain. His eyes sprang open, and he saw T'lar's reflection in the mirror. "How-?"

  Before he could complete the question, she grabbed his hair, yanked his head back, and sliced his throat.

  Blood soaked the cushions of the divan and ran in streams onto the floor. T'lar caught some of the warm liquid in a cupped hand and raised it to her lips. "Strength," she whispered. Then she drank. Behind her, the invisible servitor mindlessly continued the task it had been set: massaging its dead master's feet.

  T'lar pointed her bloody dagger at the mirror. You're next, she silently vowed. But before she dealt with the high priestess, there was something T'lar wanted to know. Like an itch, her curiosity had to be scratched.

  She sang the hymn the Lady Penitent had taught her. She exhaled, and felt her body fold inward on itself and become gaseous. With a thought, she sent herself wafting toward the door Guldor had oh-so-carefully sealed with his magic. She slipped through the crack underneath it and was gone.

  *****

  Q'arlynd sat on a low, round pillow, his legs crossed, deep in Reverie. He felt the heat from the darkfire hearth on his skin, smelled the remnants of his rothe-
and-sporeball stew, and could still taste the last sip of wine he'd taken before settling into his trance. His eyes were open, but his mind was far away.

  His thoughts wandered back several decades, to his days as a student in Ched Nasad's Conservatory. He thought of Ilmra, one of the females who had made the rare decision to become a mage, rather than a priestess. She'd been a fine-looking female, one he'd fantasized about more than once during their time together as novices. He'd imagined himself victoriously battling Ched Nasad's enemies beside her, then "surrendering" to a struggle of a very different sort.

  During their days at the Conservatory, one of the first things the novices had been taught was a cantrip that revealed magical auras. Q'arlynd had mastered it readily enough. The gesture was a simple flicking of the fingers that mimicked an eye opening, and the trigger was a single word: faerjal. Yet Ilmra had miscast the spell when a magical item was brought out for her to examine, and had failed to identify the item correctly. She'd been strapped as a result-hard enough to fracture a finger. Later that cycle, when her turn came to list the colors of the auras around the items laid out on the table, she'd faltered a second time. Q'arlynd had tried to help her by signing the answers.

  Instead of taking his help, she'd pointed out what he was doing to their instructor-even though this meant admitting her own failure. She'd watched, smiling, as he'd been lashed, then submitted to a lashing herself. Later, after Q'arlynd had been sent to his room to meditate on the folly and futility of trying to aid another, she'd slipped into his chamber and taken him. Even now, decades later, he vividly remembered her fingers digging painfully into the hot red welts that crisscrossed his shoulders as she mounted him.

  It had been one of the sweetest experiences of his young life.

  His forehead warmed: the kiira, absorbing the memory. An image formed in his mind: one of the ancestors who'd worn the lorestone millennia ago. She had white hair, yet her skin was a faded brown, rather than black. You tried to help Ilmra, out of compassion. You followed Eilistraee's dance, even then.

  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 Eilis
traee'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.