Ascendancy of the Last - By Lisa Smedman Page 0,86

but something prevented her from teleporting away. It was as if Qilué were a lodestone, pulling in the opposite direction from the one Laeral wanted to go. Laeral wrapped her arms around her sister and tried to physically move her, but Qilué’s feet refused to lift from the block of stone.

Suddenly, she remembered her vision and the ancient wizard’s binding spell. The binding must have taken hold of Qilué, as soon as the demon’s taint shifted inside her. Laeral knew a powerful abjuration that could break the binding, but casting it would also end the spell that was holding Qilué in stasis.

She stood, desperately thinking. A binding, she knew, could be undone not just by a spell, but also by repeating a phrase, a gesture, or by meeting other, very specific conditions set by the original spellcaster. She went over the vision in her mind, but it offered no clues. In time—and with a great deal of study—she might find that key.

She stared at her frozen sister. Time was certainly someŹthing Qilué had.

Unless someone came along in the meantime and cast a disjunction spell.

Laeral squared her shoulders. If Qilué couldn’t be brought to the Darksong Knight, she decided, then Cavatina would just have to be brought here instead. That meant Laeral would have to leave her sister. In the meantime, she had to guarantee Qilué’s safety. She hung her necklace around Qilué’s neck to ensure that enemies couldn’t scry her. Then she cloaked her sister in a glamor that would further conceal her.

“I’ll be gone just a short time, sister,” Laeral said, stroking the frozen hair, even though she knew Qilué couldn’t hear or feel her. “I’ll come back with Cavatina. She’ll know what to do.”

Her promise made, she teleported away.

The night deepened. The moon moved in the sky. Shadows lengthened.

So did a hair-thin strand of web.

A spider descended from a branch above, and landed on gem-dusted hair. It crawled down an ebon cheek and across parted lips.

It began to spin its web.

CHAPTER 10

Q’arlynd strode down the cobblestoned street, ignoring the stares. Alehouse patrons halted their conversaŹtions and gaped, a gnomish musician cranking a hurdybox faltered in mid-song, and pale-skinned elves gave him sidelong glances as they passed, their hands near their swords. Alarmed whispers swirled in Q’arlynd’s wake—the word “drow” followed by low-voiced, hostile comments.

The air was uncomfortably hot, the sunlight blinding. The buildings on either side—tall, white-limed, and red-shuttered—were smooth and square, utterly unlike the fluted stalagmites and columns of Sshamath. Here and there, patches of welcome shade pooled under massive oaks whose branches held aloft the elaborate dwelling places of the surface elves. Yet these momentary respites were nothing compared to the cool, constant darkness of the Underdark. Q’arlynd’s eyes lingered on the gnomish burrows down among the tree roots, and the heavy stone arches that led to the underhalls of the dwarves—not that those races would react with any less apprehension to a drow than the rest of Silverymoon’s inhabitants.

Q’arlynd could easily have teleported to the precise spot in Silverymoon he needed to visit, but he wanted to take the measure of Flinderspeld’s adopted city. Its inhabitants turned out to be a mix of surface elves, humans, and dwarves, leavŹened by the occasional surface gnome or halfling. All seemed hostile, despite the silver star that had been limned by the gate guards’ magic on the back of his hand: his pass to move freely within the city.

He passed a white marble tower with star-shaped windows of “glass” made from thin-cut, sky blue jade. Clerics in blue robes and skullcaps—most of them surface elves or humans, and all bearing wands, staves, and a multitude of magical trinkets—passed in and out of its wide front doors. This was the Temple of Mystra, one of the goddesses Qilué honored. Q’arlynd wondered if the high priestess ever worshiped here. He nodded at Mystra’s clerics as he passed, noted their raised eyebrows, and felt the tingle of detection spells washŹing over him. He lifted his hand slightly, drawing attention to the symbol.

Silverymoon was home to at least a dozen magical colleges: the World Above’s equivalent of Sshamath. Schools devoted to the teaching of invocation, thaumaturgy, bardic song, and arcane crafting drew students from across Faerűn. Q’arlynd might have made his home here, were it not for the harsh sunlight, and the narrow-eyed stares of Silverymoon’s citizens.

He shook his head, surprised at the path his thoughts were treading.

The surface was our home, the ancestors in his kiira whisŹpered. The voice deepened to