Ascendancy of the Last

chapter 4

Q’arlynd adjusted the hang of his piwafwi and gave himself a final inspection. Directing the palm-sized mirror in its orbit with one finger, he checked to make sure his shoulder-length hair was tucked into the clip at the back of his neck and that the hood of his piwafwi draped neatly over his shoulders.

The piwafwi, made from the blue-black fur of a displacer beast, shimmered slightly, hinting at the magic it contained. Atop it, hanging by a silver chain, was a pendant made from a clear crystal.

A flick of his hand brought the mirror up to eye level. He peered into it as he inserted an earring into his pierced lobe. Carved from the egg tooth of an unhatched spider, the earring was insurance against assassination attempts. Not that anyone was likely to try poisoning him in the middle of a formal meeting, but it never hurt to be prepared.

In the mirror, his forehead appeared unadorned. Yet the selu’kiira he’d wrested from Kraanfhaor’s Door was there. Its constant pressure was similar to the pressing of a cool thumb against his skin. As a precaution, he kept the lorestone invisŹible. None but a Melarn could utilize its magic—anyone else who tried to wear it would wind up a feeblewit—but there might always be someone foolish or desperate enough to try.

Much had changed in the seven years since the fall of Ched Nasad. He’d come a long way indeed from his days of grubbing in the ruins of that fallen city, little better than the slave of a rival House.

Q’arlynd was master of his own school of wizardry now—a school just one short step away from being sanctioned as Sshamath’s eleventh official College. He’d truly made a new home for himself in this city of wizards. The only reminder of his former life was the House insignia he wore on his left wrist. Carved into the worn leather band’s adamantine oval was House Melarn’s symbol, a glyph shaped like a stick-figure person, arms bent and one leg raised.

The symbol of the dancing goddess, Eilistraee.

The goddess Q’arlynd had pledged himself to.

Inspection complete, he tucked the mirror into the breast pocket of his shirt. He slowly turned to go, savoring his surroundings. The private study was filled with expensive furniture, all of it studded with chips of beljuril that twinkled with green light. A scroll shelf stood against one wall, its diamond-shaped niches filled floor to ceiling with texts both arcane and mundane. On the opposite wall, darkfire flames danced like crackling shadows inside the hearth. The study was warm, filled with wealth—and entirely Q’arlynd’s own. A level of luxury he hadn’t experienced for years.

All thanks to the kiira on his forehead.

As he departed, he reset the door’s lock with a whispered word. He doubted anyone would recognize the abjuration any time soon—the word was from the original language of the dark elves, a language much changed since the Descent. Like the other spells Q’arlynd had learned since “opening” Kraanfhaor’s Door, the abjuration was not written in any spellbook. It was contained solely within the kiira, alongside the memories of those who had worn the lorestone before him.

As Q’arlynd strode down the corridor, students bowed. He gave each the briefest of nods. He’d deliberately delayed his departure, intending to teleport into the Stonestave just to prove that he could, despite the Faerzress that now surrounded the city.

Voices murmured inside one of the lecture halls. He glanced into it as he passed and what he saw made him halt abruptly. Zarifar, one of his five apprentices, was staring at a pentagram that had been painted on the floor with dribbled candle wax. His right forefinger jerked back and forth as he traced its outline in the air. With his head bowed, face obscured by a fuzz of tightly kinked white hair, the tall, thin drow seemed oblivious to his inattentive students. He made no move to discipline them as they chatted and chuckled amongst themselves, completely ignoring their would-be instructor.

A moment more, and the half a dozen students probably would have something to whisper at. Zarifar might be a brilŹliant geometer mage, but he was more likely to summon a monstrosity that would devour him than one that would obey him. Or recite the spell backward and send himself straight to the Abyss.

Using his master ring, Q’arlynd linked minds with his apprentice. As he’d expected, Zarifar’s thoughts were deep in the pattern. He was imagining pentagrams within pentagrams while calculating the “golden ratio” of each in turn.

Zarifar! Where is Piri? He’s supposed to be teaching this lesson.

Zarifar startled, as if someone had just poked the tip of a dagger into his back. Two of the students snickered. Their faces paled to gray as Q’arlynd strode into the room.

“Master Melarn,” they gasped, each falling to one knee.

Q’arlynd ignored them—a worse punishment than repriŹmanding them, since it left them tensely anticipating what might come next. And when. Where is Piri, Zarifar?

“Oh. Yes.” Zarifar blinked like a surface elf coming out of Reverie. “Down at the Cage, I think he said. He asked me to fill in for him until he got back.”

Q’arlynd frowned. If Piri wanted spell components, he should have sent a student to fetch them. That he’d gone himself hinted that whatever he was purchasing was someŹthing others weren’t meant to learn about. The timing of the trip to the Breeder’s Guild was equally suspicious. Piri knew Q’arlynd was about to appear before the Conclave. There was no better moment for treachery.

Q’arlynd’s jaw clenched. This wasn’t Piri’s first betrayal. Q’arlynd had already been forced, once before, to punish him as a result of his disloyalty. A kiira had later restored the apprentice to life, in order for the spell that had stripped the death goddess of her name to be cast. Q’arlynd had wanted to dispense with the apprentice afterward, but the ancestors inside the kiira had suggested an alternative. They’d promised to strip Piri of those memories that made him dangerous and disloyal, while leaving the bulk of his magical learning intact. Until this moment, Q’arlynd had believed they’d delivered on their promise. The mind-stripped Piri had been both compliŹant and, seemingly, trustworthy.

Now Q’arlynd wasn’t so sure.

“This lesson is over,” he announced, waving a hand above the floor. The pentagram disappeared in a puff of smoke, leavŹing the smell of melted candle wax behind. “Go.”

The students scurried from the room.

Q’arlynd closed his eyes and activated his master ring a second time. Piri came instantly into view; the apprentice hadn’t bothered to remove his ring. He’d probably assumed Q’arlynd would be much too busy to scry him. Piri stood next to a narrow column of stone: one of the posts in the shimŹmering walls of force that caged the deepspawn the Breeder’s Guild tended. His face and hands glinted with an oily, greenŹish tinge: the quasit demon, stretched skin-thin, that he’d bonded with, years ago. His hair stood up in stiff spikes, white and hard as bone. He held a wand in one hand, and stood back to back with another of Q’arlynd’s apprentices: Eldrinn, son of Master Seldszar, the master who would be nominating Q’arlynd’s school for admission to the Conclave in just a few moments’ time. Eldrinn also held a wand in his hand.

“Mother’s blood,” Q’arlynd swore. “They’re dueling.”

Little wonder his apprentices had chosen this moment for their duel. Q’arlynd had expressly forbidden mage duels in an effort to preserve the fragile harmony within his school. More often than not, duels led to serious injury. Sometimes death.

The injury or death of a student or teacher was something most masters took in their stride. They encouraged backstabŹbing and betrayal among their apprentices, believing that it flensed the meat from the bone, allowing only the best to survive. Q’arlynd held a different view. Any student accepted into his school was warned that any debilitating attack or suspicious death would be traced to its root. And then that student would be expelled.

The same rules applied to the five apprentices who served as the school’s teachers.

Q’arlynd glanced at the water clock in the corner of the lecŹture hall. He was supposed to be appearing before the Conclave just a few moments from now. He tapped his foot impatiently, inclined to leave bad enough alone—until he noticed the femur that lay on the ground between the two apprentices as a dividŹing line.

This was no mere grudge match. It was a duel to the death.

Eldrinn had a determined look on his face, but his tight grip on the wand betrayed his tension. He was a mere boy, a half-drow with ash gray skin. He wore his usual spider-silk shirt and ornately embroidered piwafwi, but his waist-length hair was unbound. He’d either been tricked or goaded into leaving behind the contingency clip that could save him from whatever Piri’s wand hurled at him.

The timing was too coincidental. The absence of seconds and a jabbuk duello to oversee the duel was equally telling. Someone must have manipulated Piri or Eldrinn into this. Someone powerful enough to have ensured that Master Seldszar wouldn’t divine, ahead of time, that his son was about to enter into a potentially fatal duel.

If Eldrinn died, however—no, when Eldrinn died—Seldszar would learn of it immediately. Whoever had maneuvered the two apprentices into this would certainly see to that. Once alerted to his son’s death, it would take the master diviner less time to learn the circumstances than it took most males to draw breath. Then Q’arlynd’s school would suffer the conŹsequences. Contrary to all that was natural, Seldszar actually cared for his son. He’d blame Q’arlynd for the boy’s death—and would point accusingly to Q’arlynd’s stubborn insistence on keeping the demon-skinned Piri at his school.

Seldszar would likely revoke his nomination.

Q’arlynd told himself not to panic. Eldrinn was a less experienced wizard than Piri, but he might just get a lucky shot in with his wand after the pair raised defenses.

The water clock dripped. Q’arlynd was due before the Conclave this very moment. He’d have to leave his apprentices to their duel and hope that Eldrinn won.

Just as he was about to end his scrying, however, Piri sneaked a glance down at his belt. Q’arlynd couldn’t see anyŹthing on the belt but an empty wand scabbard, but he’d learned long ago not to trust his eyes alone. He yanked the master ring off his finger and held it just behind the gem on his pendant, peering through both at the same time. The images he was seeing shrank, now filling the center of the ring, rather than looming large within Q’arlynd’s mind. He couldn’t make out details, but fortunately the object revealed by the gem’s magic was large: a thin iron hoop hanging from Piri’s belt. Q’arlynd recognized it at once as half of a ring gate.

The gem also revealed a quasit demon, cloaked by invisŹibility, that hovered in the air near the spot Eldrinn would wind up in after marching ten paces. Its wings fluttering, a malicious smile on its green-skinned face, the quasit held the second ring gate in one warty hand.

It was instantly clear to Q’arlynd what Piri planned. The demon-skinned apprentice was going to use the ring gates to attack Eldrinn from behind.

“Ten paces,” Piri said over his shoulder. “Then turn, cast a single spell, and fire. Agreed?”

Eldrinn nodded. “Agreed.”

Q’arlynd gritted his teeth as he pushed the master ring back into place on his finger. Piri had left out one word from the ritual agreement. It should have been “Cast a single defensive spell.” Eldrinn had just agreed to a change in the rules that would cost him the initiative. Q’arlynd had to do something, and quickly. But what? Sshamath’s laws dictated that no outside party could influence the outcome of a duel; those who interfered in a lethal duel could be put to death themselves. But perhaps Q’arlynd could get away with merely delaying the duel.

Piri’s foot lifted slightly. “Ten—”

With a thought, Q’arlynd activated his ring. Both apprenŹtices froze in place, each with his right foot slightly lifted from the floor.

The water clock dripped. Now Q’arlynd was late.

He teleported.

He’d planned to make a formal entrance, but there was no time for that now. Instead he teleported directly to the heart of the Stonestave, to a spot just inside the great double doors of the Conclave’s meeting chamber. Unfortunately, someone was coming through the doors. The edge of a driftdisc crashed into Q’arlynd’s back, sending him staggering. He caught himself on the railing that enclosed the speaker’s sphere and saw to his dismay that several of the Conclave were frowning at him. Without apologizing for his tardiness or awkward entrance—any excuse he might give would be exploited as a weakness—he bowed to the speaker’s sphere: a ball of quicksilver suspended by magic at the center of the circular hall.

He snuck a glance at the driftdisc as he rose. On it was a female he didn’t recognize. She was bald and well muscled—not seated cross-legged on the driftdisc as was normal, but crouched on it like a spider waiting to spring. She wore a black, short-sleeved, skin-tight tunic that hugged her torso and thighs, and ended at her knees. Not a single weapon or magical item was visible on her. Even so she exuded an aura of danger.

One of the masters must have invited her to the Conclave. She would never have gotten past its guards and wards otherŹwise. Q’arlynd wondered what her business here could possibly be. He hoped it could wait until after the vote.

Master Seldszar waved a hand at Q’arlynd. “Masters of the Conclave, I present Q’arlynd Melarn.” The Master of Divination beckoned Q’arlynd to stand next to his podium. Q’arlynd strode smoothly to that spot. Seldszar smiled benevoŹlently at Q’arlynd through the crystals orbiting his head, but at the same time his nostrils flared slightly: a reprimand for Q’arlynd’s tardiness. In this hall, where all displays of emoŹtion were tightly constrained, it spoke louder than a shout. Aloud, Seldszar said, “As you all know, the reason we have convened is to discuss the promotion of an eleventh school to the rank of College, and the addition of another master to our conclave. As I gave notice in my sending, it now pleases me to nominate Master Q’arlynd’s School of Ancient Arcana for elevation to College.”

“I second the nomination,” Master Urlryn said from across the room.

So far, so good. The Master of the College of Conjuration and Summoning had made good on his promise, and he had good reason to. In return for second-speaking Q’arlynd’s nomination, the awarenesses inside the kiira on Q’arlynd’s forehead would assist Urlryn with an ongoing problem: the Faerzress that surrounded the city. It hampered divination and prevented mages from teleporting in and out of the city—something that had caused no end of embarrassment to Urlryn’s school.

Urlryn might have the appearance of a slothful indulger, with his heavy jowls and soft, corpulent frame, but the mind behind those heavy-lidded eyes was as sharp as a dagger. He knew which side of the sava board to play if he wanted to restore his College to its former standing.

As the female on the driftdisc moved to the podium occupied by Master Guldor, Q’arlynd quickly scried his two apprentices. Piri and Eldrinn were just as he’d left them, frozen back to back. He was thankful that the Cage occupied an infrequently visited corner of Sshamath. With luck, the Conclave’s debate would be brief, the vote would carry, and Q’arlynd would be able to teleport away before anyone noticed what he’d done to the duelists. With even more luck, he might talk his apprentices out of killing each other.

As the driftdisc sighed to a stop beside the Master of the College of Mages, Guldor touched the gold ball that hovered in the air in front of him. The speaker’s sphere assumed the likeness of his face: a chin as pointed as his ears, and eyes that matched the slant of eyebrows that extended to meet the hair at his temples.

“I too have a school I wish to nominate this day,” Guldor said, his voice seeming to come from the animated quickŹsilver head.

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 reacŹtion. 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 someŹone so distinctive visited Ched Nasad, Q’arlynd would have remembered her.

“What’s this School of Bae’qeshel Magic?” Master Antatlab asked, mispronouncing the name. His deep bass rumble reverŹberated through the floor, up into the soles of Q’arlynd’s boots. Even without the benefit of the speaker’s sphere’s augmentaŹtion, 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 speŹcialize 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 embroiŹdered 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 counŹter arguments. Warily, they fenced back and forth. Q’arlynd could imagine the unspoken calculations that must be whirlŹing 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, surŹrounded 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 meaŹsured 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 forŹfeited 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 permitŹted 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 stateŹment, 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 masŹters, 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 correspondŹing 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 careŹfully 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 tenŹtacles 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 unaccountŹably 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.

“Mother’s blood,” Q’arlynd swore. This monster was a fast one.

Suddenly he recalled what his masters at the Conservatory had taught him about these creatures, so many years ago: deepspawn were capable of listening in on thoughts. For someone who could cast spells to shield his mind, this wasn’t a problem. But Q’arlynd had trained as a battle mage. He had dozens of lethal spells at his fingertips, still more that would shield his body. But none that would hide the contents of his mind.

The deepspawn retreated fully behind the wall of force. It waved a tentacle at Q’arlynd, taunting him. The other two tentacles continued to cling tightly to Eldrinn and to something invisible: Piri’s quasit. Even as Q’arlynd watched, Eldrinn stopped struggling, and slumped. His wand fell from his fingers and clattered to the ground.

Q’arlynd had to think of something, and quickly. If he didn’t, the deepspawn would kill Eldrinn—assuming it hadn’t already done so. And now that the monster had withdrawn behind the walls of its cage, Q’arlynd would only be able to target it through the hole. He edged to the side, trying to get into position to do that, but the deepspawn read his mind and moved away.

Come out from behind the wall, coward, he thought at it. Let’s see if you can catch a lightning bolt in your tentacles.

Q’arlynd moved to the spot where his other apprentice lay, bent down, and touched his fingers to Piri’s throat. Blood pulsed beneath the skin. Piri, at least, was still alive. As Q’arlynd straightened, his foot nudged something that scraped across the ground. Something metal. He looked down, but didn’t see anything there.

Then he realized what it must be: Piri’s ring gate!

Q’arlynd hurled himself at the ground. As he did so, the tentacle holding the quasit flicked forward, trying to toss the demon away. This time, Q’arlynd was faster. Before the deepspawn could release the quasit, Q’arlynd landed, chest down, on the spot where the ring gate lay. As he made contact with it, he shouted an incantation. The mirror in his shirt pocket shattered, fueling his spell. Energy rushed out of it, as fast as light. It erupted out of the second ring gate, into the deepspawn. Intense silver light played over the tentacled monster, altering the very substance of its body. When the light vanished, so too did the creature’s natural coloration. A heartbeat before, the deepspawn had been a living, breathing thing. Now it was transformed into clear, solid glass.

Its body, no longer suspended by magic, crashed to the ground. Tentacles shattered.

Q’arlynd stood and brushed himself off. Tinkling bits of mirror fell from the ruin of his shirt pocket. “Bet you didn’t expect that one,” he said dryly. Then he hurried forward. He stepped carefully through the rent in the wall of force and felt its powerful energies lift the hair on his arms and scalp. When he was underneath the transformed deepspawn, he reached up and grabbed the tentacle that held Eldrinn, and wrenched on it. As it snapped, the boy tumbled to the ground. Eldrinn groaned, low and deep—a sound that was music to Q’arlynd’s ears. The boy was still alive!

Q’arlynd scooped up Eldrinn’s wand. It was of a type he didn’t recognize: solid white, with an inscription in Espruar, the script of the surface elves, spiraling around it. Q’arlynd didn’t have time to solve the puzzle the wand presented, however. In a few moments his spell would lapse, and the deepspawn would revert back to flesh. Even missing its tenŹtacles, it would be a formidable foe.

He touched Eldrinn and teleported away.

They materialized within the private hospice of the College of Divination. Q’arlynd barked out an abbreviated explanation to the startled attendant. Instead of springing to his cabinet of potions, however, the elderly apothecary shifted Eldrinn’s sleeve, revealing a vial that was tied to the boy’s forearm. “Why didn’t you use this?” He yanked out the vial and uncorked it. “It’s just as potent as anything I have here.”

“It is?”

“I ought to know. It’s one of my best.”

Q’arlynd shook his head at yet another mystery he didn’t have time to solve. Eldrinn had obviously been given the potion by the apothecary, but how had the boy expected to consume it in the middle of a duel?

“Is there more of that?” Q’arlynd asked.

The apothecary nodded at his cabinet as he parted Eldrinn’s lips and dribbled the potion into the boy’s mouth. “In there. Why?”

“Get it ready,” Q’arlynd said. “There’s another of my apprentices who might need it, once I’ve finished with him.” Then he teleported away.

He returned to the Cage in time to see a member of the Breeder’s Guild rushing to the spot where the wall of force had been breached. The fellow skidded to a halt, reached into a pouch at his hip, and held up a pinch of something. Crushed gemstone dusted his dark fingers. He hurled the dust at the breach in the wall and chanted an incantation—but abruptly halted when he noticed the transformed deepspawn, its clear glass body all but invisible behind the shimmering wall.

“Hey! What did you do to our breeding stock?”

“A transmutation,” Q’arlynd shouted back. “I suggest you complete your spell. The transmutation’s only temporary.”

The guild member hesitated, as if wanting to challenge Q’arlynd further, but decided against it. He waved his hands and chanted, hurriedly completing his repair.

Q’arlynd picked up Piri’s wand, touched his apprentice, and teleported away. This time, the destination was his priŹvate study. He’d have to placate the Breeder’s Guild—they’d demand compensation for the damage to their deepspawn—but that could wait. He patted down Piri’s pockets, looking for the ring the apprentice had removed earlier. He found it—the compulsion built into the rings was too strong for his apprenŹtices to rid themselves of the rings entirely—and slipped the ring into his own pocket. As he waited for Piri to recover, he examined the apprentice’s wand. It was made of ebony, inlaid with chips of red agate: a fire wand. A wise choice for a duel, given Piri’s demon skin. If the wand’s blast had been deflected back at Piri, the fire would have sloughed off his body like water off a slate roof.

Eventually, Piri groaned and rolled onto his back. His eyes opened, then widened as he took in his surroundings—and the fact that Q’arlynd was pointing Eldrinn’s wand at him. Suddenly, they blazed red as forge-heated steel. Twin beams of red streaked out of Piri’s eyes at Q’arlynd—only to bounce off the magical protection Q’arlynd already had in place. The heat beams ricocheted off the master’s magical shield and scored deep burn marks on the ceiling instead.

Q’arlynd stared down the length of slim white wood at his apprentice. “I don’t know what this wand does,” he told Piri. “But I’m curious to find out. How about you?”

Piri shook his head. Though his green-tinged face seemed devoid of expression, his wide eyes gave him away. He was afraid of the wand in Q’arlynd’s hand. Deathly afraid.

Q’arlynd dug Piri’s ring out of his pocket and held it where the apprentice could see it. “Let’s have a talk. Mind to mind. I want to know why you and Eldrinn were dueling. Let me look into your thoughts, then maybe I won’t use this wand on you.”

“No!” Piri blurted. But at the same time, his fingers twitched. Do it.

Q’arlynd forced the ring onto Piri’s finger, then shoved his way into the apprentice’s mind. What he found there made him nod. Piri’s thoughts weren’t the only ones fluttering through the apprentice’s brain. Q’arlynd detected a second presence in there, one that spoke in a high, tittering voice.

The quasit demon Piri had bonded with hadn’t been content to remain inside the skin the apprentice now wore. It was also whispering around inside Piri’s skull. Piri was either listening to it—or being controlled by it. Thanks to the ring, Q’arlynd could read its thoughts.

The quasit had goaded Piri into seducing Alexa, the only female among Q’arlynd’s five apprentices. The demon had also ensured that Eldrinn, her consort, learned of the tryst. Despite his anger, Eldrinn wasn’t stupid enough to have chalŹlenged Piri; it had been the other way around. In the end, Eldrinn had been forced to accept the challenge. To have done anything else would have meant forever being subservient to the other apprentice.

The demon’s motivation in all this was simple—and simple-minded. Power shared between four apprentices was better than power shared between five. It had hoped to eliminate Q’arlynd’s apprentices, one by one, and thus claw its way to the top.

Even now, Piri was struggling against the demon’s influence—and failing. He’d rallied enough to agree to wear the ring, but was suffering for it now, as the quasit flayed his mind from within.

And why not? The quasit had nothing to lose. Not now. Q’arlynd knew, by reading its thoughts, which wand Eldrinn had selected for the duel. A wand of banishment, created by a moon elf cleric. A wand capable of sending the quasit back to the Abyss.

Eldrinn had been clever. Flensed of the demon skin, Piri would suffer greatly. Perhaps even die. But there was healing magic that would enable him to live—the magic within the vial Eldrinn had carried. Eldrinn had gambled that he’d be quick enough, and lucky enough, to preserve Piri’s life after killing his real foe in the duel: the demon.

From the floor, the apprentice glared up at Q’arlynd with demon red eyes. His lip twitched in a snarl. “I’ll have my revenge,” the quasit said aloud, forcing Piri’s voice into a high, brittle twang.

“I don’t think so,” Q’arlynd said. He took a deep breath. He didn’t want to do this, but he had to. Even if it killed Piri.

Q’arlynd retreated from Piri’s mind and activated the wand.

Piri screamed—his own voice, this time—as the demon skin wrenched itself from his body. Blood seeped from Piri’s body as fat, muscles, and ligaments were suddenly exposed. Q’arlynd leaned forward to teleport Piri to the apothecary, but before he could touch him the apprentice’s body disappeared. Q’arlynd’s fingers brushed blood-soaked carpet instead of weeping flesh.

Q’arlynd started. Had the quasit yanked Piri into the Abyss after it?

He attempted to scry his apprentice, but when he tried to call a vision through the ring, none came. Where was Piri? Even if the apprentice were dead, Q’arlynd should have been able to scry him—unless the ring had been removed from Piri’s finger.

Q’arlynd closed his eyes and sent his awareness into the lorestone. Ancestors, he asked. Is there any other way I might find him? A chorus of voices answered from within the kiira. None held out any hope.

Perhaps he could ask Master Seldszar to attempt a scrying. But then he discarded the notion. Even if he teleported to the Conclave’s chamber this instant and somehow managed to convey what he needed without mentioning the duel and raising Seldszar’s ire, it would probably already be too late.

Piri would, most likely, already be dead.

Q’arlynd stared at the blood-soaked carpet a moment longer, then sighed. There had been no way to predict what had just happened, he told himself. He’d done everything he could to save his apprentice. The guilt he felt was a sign of weakness.

Something a master of a College couldn’t afford.

Not weakness, a female voice whispered from the lorestone. Compassion. Q’arlynd gave a mental shove, forcing his ancestor away. Sometimes the lorestone felt a little too close for comfort. Especially after what he’d just seen in Piri’s mind.

He walked to the cabinet, opened a drawer, and placed Eldrinn’s wand inside it. As he closed the drawer, a voice whispered into his ear. “Congratulations, Master Q’arlynd. The College of Ancient Arcana is officially recognized.”

It was Seldszar, communicating by magic. The diviner’s voice sounded clearly in the room. He was no doubt scryŹing on Q’arlynd and casting the spell through a font. This, despite the study’s magical protections. It had to be a delibŹerate intrusion, designed to remind Q’arlynd who the more powerful mage was.

“My thanks,” Q’arlynd answered. Steeling himself, he prepared to tell Seldszar about the duel. “Your son—”

“Yes. The duel,” the voice answered. “I just learned of it. I’ll take my pound of flesh from you later, for permitting Eldrinn to indulge in such foolishness. But just now, there’s work to be done. Urlryn demands a solution to the problem of the Faerzress.” He paused. “As do I.”

Q’arlynd bowed. “You’ll have your solution,” he promised. It was the truth—or at least, true enough to have passed any other divination Seldszar might have just cast. The memories of Q’arlynd’s ancestors, stored all these centuries within the kiira, did indeed hold the key to severing the bond that high magic had wrought between the drow and Faerzress. His ancestors not only knew what spells had been cast, but how to undo them.

The only thing they didn’t know was precisely where those spells had to be cast, in order for the bond to be undone. Nor had Seldszar’s divinations been able to solve the problem. But with luck—and the aid of a shipment that was on its way to Q’arlynd, even now, from distant Silverymoon—they would uncover that missing puzzle piece.

Q’arlynd hoped he was right. If he failed to deliver, Seldszar wasn’t going to be happy with him.