Ascendancy of the Last - By Lisa Smedman Page 0,24

to Rylla and tell her about this. Tell her where I’ve gone—and that I’ll report back the moment I discover anything.”

“If I seal the door, how will you escape this room?”

Cavatina smiled. “Eilistraee’s blessings will see me safely home.”

Horaldin nodded at last. “May she guide your steps,” he intoned. He hurried across the room and squeezed through the hole in the door. Cavatina heard him repeat his spell, and the door sealed itself shut.

Cavatina prayed. “Eilistraee,” she sang softly. “Is this the path you wish me to follow?”

A moment later, the goddess’s reply came. Not in words, but in a gentle yet firm tug on Cavatina’s hand—like a partner, inviting her to dance.

Cavatina drew her singing sword, took a deep breath, and stepped through the portal.

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