Ascendancy of the Last - By Lisa Smedman Page 0,62

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