Ascendancy of the Last - By Lisa Smedman Page 0,90

lifted the chain from his neck and handed over both gemstone and ring. He watched with a bemused smile as Flinderspeld studied the ring carefully through the gemstone, assuring himself that it was, indeed, the master ring—and not the slave ring, concealed by an illusion. His time among the drow had taught him to never be too trusting. He handed the gemstone back to Q’arlynd, and put on the master ring. “Your turn.”

Reluctantly, Q’arlynd slipped the slave ring onto his own finger. He closed his eyes and braced himself as Flinderspeld thrust into his mind and rifled through his private thoughts. His jaw clenched. Then Flinderspeld delved deeper. Q’arlynd heard the svirfneblin’s voice in conversation with the awareŹnesses inside the kiira. He couldn’t make out the words.

One of his arms jerked up; Flinderspeld had taken conŹtrol of it. Q’arlynd found himself walking jerkily forward. He spun when he reached the far wall, nearly toppled, and felt his arms jerk out to steady himself. He walked forward again and squatted, then jumped. He tried to glance at Flinderspeld as the svirfneblin walked him back across the room again, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. Flinderspeld chuckled, and spun Q’arlynd around a second time.

Q’arlynd started to worry. Had he misjudged Flinderspeld? If so, he’d just condemned himself to a life of slavery. To a svirfneblin.

The insult had slipped into his mind before he could preŹvent it; Flinderspeld would certainly have heard it. Q’arlynd mentally shouted to the svirfneblin that he hadn’t meant it, that he didn’t think of the deep gnomes as a lesser race. But he knew this was a lie.

Thanks to the slave ring, so did Flinderspeld.

Q’arlynd’s hand came up. His finger pointed—at his own forehead. He felt Flinderspeld yank an evocation from his mind. Sweat trickled down Q’arlynd’s temples as he fought to form a word, but Flinderspeld held him stiffly in place. Strain as he might, all that came out was, “Nnnn—”

“Keep silent!” Flinderspeld shouted—a passable imitation of a drow master’s command, an order Q’arlynd had used many times. A bolt of magical energy streaked out of Q’arlynd’s finŹgertip and bored into his forehead, hot and painful. Q’arlynd’s eyes watered. He groaned.

Suddenly, his body was his own again.

“We’re even, now.” Flinderspeld said. He tugged the master ring off and held it out to Q’arlynd. “And I don’t want your ring. Controlling someone else’s body was … interesting, but I didn’t like the place it led me to. It felt…” He paused, searching for the word. “Wrong.”

Q’arlynd yanked off the slave ring. “You won’t help me, then.”

Flinderspeld lifted an eyebrow. “I didn’t say that.”

Q’arlynd squatted down to Flinderspeld’s level, not quite believing what he had heard. “You’ll lead me to the Fountains of Memory?” he asked eagerly.

“Not only that. I’ll let you remember it afterward.”

Q’arlynd’s eyebrows rose.

Flinderspeld smiled. “Your ancestors have promised me they’ll erase your memory of the pools, if you try to tell anyone where they are. I’m not sure if I believe them, but I’m willing to gamble that you’ll keep your mouth shut, once the spell you hope to cast at the ruined temple is complete.”

“My ancestors told you … what I’m planning?”

Flinderspeld’s smile widened to a grin. “You’ll have to trust me to keep quiet about that.”

Q’arlynd nodded to himself. Flinderspeld was better at striking a bargain than he’d thought. No wonder he was prosŹpering. “Well played.”

“For anyone else, the answer would have been no. But you weren’t all that bad, as drow go. You did set me free, regardless of what your motive was at the time. I owe you one, for that.”

Q’arlynd smiled—a genuine smile of friendship, not the false one he’d practiced in the mirror before coming here. He clasped Flinderspeld’s arms and said a word he never thought he’d utter, except in jest. “Friends?”

Flinderspeld returned the arm clasp and spoke in Low Drow. “Allies.”

Q’arlynd’s eyebrows lifted.

Flinderspeld burst into laugher. “Friends.”

T’lar rolled a spike-spider back and forth between her palms, savoring the harsh pricks as its needles drove into her flesh. The metal throwing ball wasn’t loaded, and its needles held no poison. She did it for the sensation alone. Each jab, each welling of blood was a penance for letting her target slip away. She’d learned that he’d departed for the World Above, but hadn’t been able to find out where, or why.

In another moment, however, that little problem would be rectified.

She stood, together with the new high priestess, next to a black iron barrel hoop that hung from a chain