Ascendancy of the Last - By Lisa Smedman Page 0,29

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