Ascendancy of the Last

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 unfasŹtened 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 posiŹtion 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 appearŹing 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 recomŹmendation, 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 whisŹpered. 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 priestŹess, 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 crissŹcrossed 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’ disŹpleasure. 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, flickerŹing. 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 threatŹening 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 powerŹful 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 surŹvive. 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 surŹrounded 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. After 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 ceremoŹnial 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 enchantŹment so that it produces gorgondy wine upon command?”

Master Seldszar interrupted the study of the spheres orbitŹing 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 someŹthing 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 lorestone 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 masŹters. “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 instruŹment, and lifted an eyebrow. The selu’kiira on his forehead turned visible.

Q’arlynd, watching Masoj, resisted the urge to smile when the other wizard’s pupils dilated. Seldszar was not only a master wizard, but a master manipulator. Masoj was reading between the lines, just as Seldszar had hoped. He obviŹously believed Seldszar had already dabbled in high magic. Judging by the way Masoj’s eyes slid sideways to Urlryn, he must have been wondering if the Master of Conjuration and Summoning also had a kiira. Ironically, Masoj didn’t once look at Q’arlynd—the only one of the four who actually had worked an arselu’tel’quess spell—not just once, but twice.

“Well now.” Masoj’s lips settled in a forced smile. “That should give those web-shrouded bitches pause, should they start thinking about taking out another of the Conclave.” One hand flipped upward, its fingers curled: the sign for a dead spider.

Q’arlynd joined the other masters in polite laughter.

“That’s settled, then.” Master Seldszar leaned forward and removed the decanter’s stopper. He poured some of the contents into the goblet. He flicked a finger, and one of his crystals left its orbit. It drifted above the center of the table and hung there, spinning slowly in place. He drank down the wine and set the empty goblet back on the table. His pupils narrowed to pinpricks.

“Where was the spell cast that turned the dark elves into drow?” he intoned, staring intently at the crystal.

Urlryn, Masoj, and Q’arlynd leaned forward expectantly. In a moment, the gnomish “vision wine” would do its work. Seldszar would tear aside the hazy screen the city’s Faerzress had imposed on his divinations and pinpoint the spot where the spell that would set the drow free must be cast.

Slowly, an image filled the crystal. At first, it was too small to make out. But as Q’arlynd stared at the crystal and concentrated, the vision filled his mind, obliterating the room in which he sat. It was as if he were a bird, looking down upon a clearing in a forest. Tiny figures—surface elves, but too distant to make out their individual features—moved back and forth across the clearing, entering and exiting a round building whose domed roof reflected flashes of sunlight. The dome, he saw as the image drew closer, was constructed of thousands of leaf-shaped shards of pale green glass that had been fitted together like a puzzle. They were held together not by strips of lead, but by the interwoven branches of trees whose trunks buttressed the building’s sides.

An awed female voice whispered from inside the lorestone: One of his temples.

Q’arlynd’s heart quickened. He didn’t need to ask which god the temple honored. The ancestor who had spoken had lived at a time when the Seldarine were still worshiped by the dark elves, and had paid homage to this one, in particular. Q’arlynd knew, without needing to ask, which god she was referring to: Corellon Larethian, First of the Seldarine.

Creator and protector of the elves, she added in a hushed, reverent voice.

The god who condemned us, another voice said harshly—a male voice, this time. Q’arlynd recognized it as belonging to one of his post-Descent ancestors.

Q’arlynd had drifted away from the vision while speaking to the ancestors; he saw it anew as a gauzy curtain, overlayŹing the room. The other three masters stared at the crystal in silence, their eyes squinted against the World Above’s harsh glare. All three wore slight frowns. They obviously didn’t recognize the building.

“It’s a temple to Corellon Larethian,” Q’arlynd told them. “In the forest of…”

He waited for his ancestor to supply the name, but there was only silence.

I never worshiped at that temple, the female said. I have no idea where it is situated.

Nor do I, the male added.

Like echoes rippling through a cavern, other voices folŹlowed: Neither do I. Nor do I. Nor I…

Q’arlynd felt his cheeks grow warm. He turned slightly to Seldszar. He hated to pressure the more senior master. Yet he had no choice.

Seldszar, however, didn’t acknowledge Q’arlynd’s cue. His eyes remained locked on the temple. “If it’s Corellon’s, that would explain the oak trees,” he observed.

Thirteen of them, the female voice said. One for each branch that supports the Creator.

Three fewer, after the Fall, the male added. They withered, without Corellon’s grace.

At first, Q’arlynd couldn’t understand what they were talking about. Then he remembered what he’d been taught during his short tenure at Eilistraee’s shrine in the Misty Forest. Corellon Larethian had, indeed, once ruled thirteen lesser Seldarine. Two betrayed him—Lolth and her son Vhaeraun—and a third allowed herself to be banished from Arvandor, together with her mother and brother, so the drow might one day find redemption: Eilistraee.

That number grew to eleven, during the time I trod the Underdark, the male voice said. The Black Archer’s priests slew several of our House.

Q’arlynd’s ancestor supplied the name of the god who had found favor in Corellon’s court: Shevarash the Black Archer, the once-mortal surface elf who had vowed never to rest, smile, or laugh, until the last drow was slain. A slaughter Corellon condoned—despite the fact that its victims included Eilistraee’s drow faithful, even though they had rejected the wanton cruelty of their race.

Q’arlynd snorted. So much for the surface elves’ high ideals.

He realized the other masters were staring at him. They too had withdrawn from the vision. The crystal that had proŹvided the vision left its spot above the table and resumed its orbit around Seldszar’s head.

Q’arlynd cleared his throat. He repeated what his ancesŹtors had just told him. “You’ll have noted there were thirteen oak trees supporting the dome,” he told the other masters. “A significant number. The vision showed us a temple that was built at a time when Lolth, Vhaeraun, and Eilistraee were still counted among the Seldarine.”

“But that was thirty millennia ago—before the first Crown War!” Urlryn blurted.

“Indeed.” Seldszar wet his dry lips. “The vision tasted of dust.”

“Surely the temple no longer stands,” Urlryn continued.

Masoj waved a bony hand. “As long as the abjuration is cast in the same spot, it won’t matter if the temple’s fallen.”

“You miss my point,” Urlryn said. “Without knowing what the spot currently looks like, we can’t teleport to it. Even the most experienced teleportation mage couldn’t find it.” He nodded in Q’arlynd’s direction.

Q’arlynd inclined his head, proud that the other master was acknowledging his expertise in that field.

Masoj stared pointedly at Seldszar, “Do you know where the temple stood? Does your lorestone?”

Seldszar sat quietly a moment, communing with his kiira. “No,” he said at last. He stared pointedly at Q’arlynd’s kiira.

“My ancestors …” Q’arlynd swallowed nervously. “They, ah, didn’t recognize the forest.”

It would be somewhere in Aryvandaar, the female voice said. Or Keltormir.

“But it’s somewhere in the lands that were once home to ancient Aryvandaar, or Keltormir,” he repeated aloud. A memory sprang into his mind. He stared, through the eyes of one of his long-dead ancestors, at a map spread on a table. Kingdoms were labeled, in a flowing hand: Aryvandaar, Illefarn, Miyeritar, Shantel Othreier, Keltormir, Thearnytaar, Eiellur, Syopiir, Orishaar, and Ilythiir. He knew where Miyeritar was—today that portion of the World Above was known as the High Moor. Aryvandaar, he saw, lay just north of it, while Keltormir was well to the south of that.

Q’arlynd described what he’d just seen.

“That’s hardly very helpful,” Masoj said.

“At least it’s better than ‘somewhere on the surface,’” Urlryn countered. “That’s the best most drow can do, when it comes to ancient geography.”

Q’arlynd stroked his chin, thinking hard, as Masoj and Urlryn traded glares. Something niggled at him. At last he worked out what it was. “There’s something that’s botherŹing me,” he told them. “Sages date the Descent to just over eleven thousand years ago. Yet Master Seldszar’s vision showed us a temple that had to have been built at least thirty thousand years ago. That’s a difference of nineteen thousand years.”

Urlryn shrugged. “A mythal could have sustained the temple for that long.”

“That’s indeed possible,” Q’arlynd agreed. “But if the temple was still standing at the time of the Descent, why didn’t my ancestors recognize it? Some of them are dark elves—one of them worshiped Corellon Larethian.” He paused. “I think she didn’t recognize the temple because it was gone before her time. Smothered by the forest, perhaps. But the site must have remained holy, at least until the time of the Descent. I think that’s why the high mages whose magic invoked the Descent chose the spot: because no one, save them, knew where it was.”

Seldszar tapped his fingers together in a patter of applause. “Well done, my boy, well done.” He nodded at the others. “You see why I chose to nominate him to the Conclave?”

“We’re still no further ahead,” Masoj protested. “We already knew the casting was done at one of Corellon Larethian’s temples.”

No, we didn’t, Q’arlynd thought. But he held his tongue.

Seldszar tapped the empty decanter. “The question we should be asking ourselves,” he told the others, “is why the gorgondy wine gave an image that didn’t precisely answer the question I posed. ‘Where was the spell cast that turned the dark elves into drow?’ was how I phrased it. The vision should have showed us what the area looks like now, not thousands of years ago.”

Urlryn frowned. “Are you suggesting the high mages stepped back in time?”

“It’s possible,” Seldszar said. “Gorgondy wine is a gnomish vintage, made using water drawn from a series of magical pools whose waters provide glimpses of the past. The pools are also rumored to have other enchantments. Their ripples, for example, are said to spontaneously form teleportation circles to the place being viewed—though it’s unclear whether the traveler arrives there in the present day, or slips into the past.”

Q’arlynd nodded. He already knew that much. Years ago, when listening in on Flinderspeld’s thoughts, his former slave had briefly thought about the pools. The svirfneblin had been pondering the very question Seldszar just posed—whether he could use the so-called Fountains of Memory to slip back to a time before Blingdenstone fell, and warn its residents of the impending attack. Flinderspeld had decided they couldn’t, for one, very obvious, reason.

“The pools couldn’t send a traveler into the past,” Q’arlynd said aloud. “If they did, the svirfneblin would have used them already, to do just that, and a number of the calamities that befell their race would never have happened. The fall of Blingdenstone, for example. If the pools do hold teleportaŹtion magic, they must be a gateway to the present.”

“Past or present—it doesn’t matter,” Urlryn said. He rocked his bulk forward on his cushion, not bothering to hide his excitement. “We can still use the pools to reach the spot where the temple stood. As long as they take us to the right spot, the magic can be undone!”

“Precisely!” Seldszar agreed. “There is, however, one probŹlem.” He glanced at the empty goblet. “Only the deep gnomes know where the pools lie—and they’re not telling.”

“Easily remedied,” Masoj said with a chuckle. He nodded at the decanter. “Detain the svirfneblin who sold you the wine. Slice the information out of him one finger at a time. Give him five chances to talk—ten, if he’s stubborn.”

Q’arlynd felt the kiira grow cool against his forehead. He heard his ancestors’ whispered disapproval. He interrupted. “No need for that, Master Masoj. A svirfneblin who owes me a favor knows the location of these pools. I’ll have the answer, soon enough.”

Urlryn snorted skeptically, and Masoj made a sour face. Seldszar, however, looked thoughtful. After a moment of staring at the crystals orbiting his head, he slowly nodded. “Do it. Ask him.”

Q’arlynd hadn’t mentioned the svirfneblin’s gender. Seldszar might have guessed it, of course. He’d have had an even chance of being right. Yet Q’arlynd doubted the diviner ever guessed—about anything.

Seldszar must have foreseen success.

Funny, how Eilistraee’s dance worked, Q’arlynd mused. After all these years, he would finally learn what had become of his former slave, Flinderspeld.





Halisstra walked around the throne, her fingers caressŹing its smooth black marble. The throne was carved in the shape of a spider, resting on its back. The head formed a foot stool; the cephalothorax, the seat; and the bulging abdomen, the backrest. Four legs served to support the chair, while the other four splayed out from either side of the seat and curved toward the ceiling. Between these stretched steel-thread webs festooned with tiny red spiders. Halisstra plucked a strand of web with the tip of her claw. The steel thread vibrated, shedding spiders like drops of blood and filling the audience chamber with a shrill note. The sound sent a visible shiver through the priestess who crawled behind Halisstra, never once lifting her glance from the flagstone floor.

“Beautiful,” Halisstra said. She closed her eyes to savor the way the note—chill as a draft from the grave—made the hair on her arms rise. Then she leaned down and curled her fingers in the priestess’s long white tresses. She yanked the smaller female into the air and whispered in her ear. “I am pleased with its song. You will be rewarded.”

The priestess, clad in a bodice-hugging black robe that would have vanished against her skin in the darkened room but for its hair-thin tracery of white lines, winced at the pain of being held aloft by her hair. “Your pleasure is my reward, Lady Penitent.”

Halisstra leaned closer, until the jaws protruding from her cheeks brushed the priestess’s neck. “And your pain is my pleasure.” She bit, just deep enough to puncture the skin. Then she opened her fingers and let the priestess drop. The priestess fell to her hands and knees, and grunted as the poison took hold, rendering her body rigid.

Halisstra settled herself on the throne. The marble felt cool against her bare skin. She sang a breeze into existence and used it to set the webs vibrating. A thousand shrill notes encircled the throne, like the hum of fast-spinning blades.

“Send in the first petitioner,” she ordered.

Unseen hands pushed a female out of the magical darkness that clouded the arched doorway: a priestess of Eilistraee.

She staggered into the room. Her eyes had been seared blind, and her fingers broken. Her dark skin was welted from the beating administered by Halisstra’s worshipers, and her lips were swollen and bloody. Yet even as she faltered to a halt, she drew herself erect with a remarkable inner strength.

Halisstra despised her.

“Kneel,” she shouted. She wove magic into the word, turnŹing it into a compulsion the priestess could not help but obey. The priestess fell to her knees as if smashed with a hammer. One broken hand lifted to her chest—to the spot where her holy symbol used to hang—then jerked away as it brushed against the obsidian spider that now hung from the silver chain. Her head, however, remained erect. “Eilish … tray … hee…”

“Blasphemy!” Halisstra shrieked. “Do not utter that foul name in the presence of the Lady Penitent, or it will go harshly for you!”

The priestess made a gurgling noise. She laughed! Halisstra sprang from her throne. “You… dare!” she hissed. She towered over the priestess, her spider jaws clacking in fury. The eight legs protruding from her chest arched open, ready to grab. Her jaws fairly ached with the desire to bite and rend.

The priestess spat.

Halisstra snarled and swept the priestess up to her mouth—then realized this was what Eilistraee’s bitch wanted. A quick, clean death: to be delivered into the arms of her goddess. “I’m not going to give it to you,” Halisstra muttered. She tossed the priestess aside, spun on her heel, and settled herself on the throne. She idly stroked the head of the female who still kneeled, paralyzed, beside the throne, properly subŹservient. The webs continued to shrill.

She had an idea. “You will be redeemed,” she told Eilistraee’s priestess with a smile. “I give you a choice: the song or the spider.”

The priestess shook her head. “Nuh.”

Halisstra shrugged. “Very well then. I’ll choose for you.” She tapped her claw-tipped fingers against the arm of her throne, pretending to consider. In fact, she’d been lying when she’d offered the priestess a choice: the spider’s venom was reserved for those truly worthy of it. “I think you’ll choose … the song.” She turned to the webs beside her and began to play.

Magic jerked the priestess to her feet. Tugged by the comŹpulsion Halisstra’s bae’qeshel music wove, she staggered in a circle around the throne. Halisstra plucked faster, and the dancer’s tempo increased. The priestess spun in a ragged pirŹouette, her arms flailing and broken fingers raised above her head as she circled the throne. Halisstra gave a gleeful peal of laughter and played on. And on. The priestess staggered and fell, but immediately rose to her knees and continued her dance. Her knees left bloody smears on the flagstones.

Halisstra watched, gloating. In a moment or two, it would be over. The priestess would crack and repent. She would shed Eilistraee’s faith and cast the tattered skin aside. Embrace the pain, the sorrow, the self-loathing. Sacrifice herself to a force greater than herself. She would become a penitent, redeemed through sweat, blood, and suffering.

Halisstra would break her.

The priestess suddenly lunged at the throne. Halisstra reared back in alarm, but it wasn’t an attack. The priestess flopped forward, bringing her neck down atop the web. Steel threads sliced into her neck. Hot, sticky blood sprayed as she fell limp across the arm of the throne like a loose heavy cloak, her head lolling on a near-severed neck

The web strings fell silent.

Halisstra hissed her fury. She yanked the priestess off the web, snapping a strand of it, and stared into the slack-jawed face. “You smile?” she screamed. “You fool! You will never, never be redeemed!” She hurled the body across the room.

The kneeling priestess twitched; her paralysis was startŹing to wear off. Halisstra leaped off the throne and grabbed her minion, intending to tear her apart for her insolence—she hadn’t been given permission to move, Abyss take her—but a whisper of song distracted her. It was coming from the webs on the throne. Halisstra cocked her head, listening. The voice belonged to T’lar, the assassin who’d been the first to accept penitence and redemption.

Lady Penitent, the webs sang. News from Sshamath.

Halisstra dropped the priestess and climbed back onto her throne. Sing on, she ordered. It had better be good news, she thought. She wasn’t in the mood for more insolence.

Streea’Valsharess Zauviir is dead. The temple is ours.

Halisstra barked out a delighted laugh.

There is something else you should know. There is a wizard in Sshamath who opposes us.

“Hardly news,” Halisstra laughed. “All of Sshamath’s wizards are hostile.”

This one will bear watching. His name is Q’arlynd Melarn.

Halisstra’s breath caught. Her brother Q’arlynd, alive? “Impossible! He died in the collapse of Ched Nasad!”

The webs fell silent for a moment. Halisstra frowned. “T’lar? Are you still there?”

I do not believe the one who calls himself Q’arlynd Melarn to be an imposter, Lady Penitent, T’lar sang back. He told the Conclave he had a sister who was a bae’qeshel bard—a sister who died. He said her name was Halisstra Melarn.

“Halisstra!” Halisstra howled. She broke into shrill laughŹter. “She’s Halisstra no more. She’s—” Suddenly realizing what she was saying, she snapped her mouth shut. Her spider legs drummed against her chest; She forced them still with an effort. “Describe this wizard,” she ordered.

T’lar did.

The description fit. It was Q’arlynd. Halisstra shook her head, wondering how he’d managed to escape the golem. Not to mention getting crushed by the stones of a falling city.

There is one thing more, Lady Penitent. Q’arlynd Melarn has taken Eilistraee as his patron.

Halisstra’s eyebrows rose. “He has? How dare he!”

He refuses to repent.

Halisstra’s lips curled in a sneer.

Lady? T’lar’s voice asked. What is your will?

Halisstra clenched her fists; her claws dug into flesh. “If he is Eilistraee’s,” she said slowly, “he must die. Kill him.”

It will be my pleasure.

And his pain, Halisstra thought grimly. She laughed at her own joke.

The webs in her throne vibrated, shaking off the last drops of the dead priestess’s blood.