Lisa Smedman - Ascendancy of the Last

During their days at the Conservatory, one of the first things the novices had been taught was a cantrip that revealed magical auras. Q'arlynd had mastered it readily enough. The gesture was a simple flicking of the fingers that mimicked an eye opening, and the trigger was a single word: faerjal. Yet Ilmra had miscast the spell when a magical item was brought out for her to examine, and had failed to identify the item correctly. She'd been strapped as a result-hard enough to fracture a finger. Later that cycle, when her turn came to list the colors of the auras around the items laid out on the table, she'd faltered a second time. Q'arlynd had tried to help her by signing the answers.

Instead of taking his help, she'd pointed out what he was doing to their instructor-even though this meant admitting her own failure. She'd watched, smiling, as he'd been lashed, then submitted to a lashing herself. Later, after Q'arlynd had been sent to his room to meditate on the folly and futility of trying to aid another, she'd slipped into his chamber and taken him. Even now, decades later, he vividly remembered her fingers digging painfully into the hot red welts that crisscrossed his shoulders as she mounted him.

It had been one of the sweetest experiences of his young life.

His forehead warmed: the kiira, absorbing the memory. An image formed in his mind: one of the ancestors who'd worn the lorestone millennia ago. She had white hair, yet her skin was a faded brown, rather than black. You tried to help Ilmra, out of compassion. You followed Eilistraee's dance, even then.

Q'arlynd laughed out loud. "Hardly. I did it because I wanted her to take me. And it worked-just, not the way I'd expected." He lingered in the memory. He wondered if Ilmra had survived the fall of the city. Probably not.

The kiira cooled slightly-a sign of his ancestors' displeasure. Q'arlynd gave a mental shrug. They'd asked him to include memories he thought were instructive. The one he'd just placed in the lorestone was doubly so. It taught the magic-detection cantrip, and at the same time, served as a reminder that all reward came at a price.

He heard a crackling sound: the darkfire flames, flickering. A breeze down the chimney must have disturbed them. He was so deep in Reverie that he paid the noise no heed at first. He was reliving a night in the World Above, when he'd used a spell to spy on Eilistraee's priestesses as they danced with swords in hand around the goddess's sacred stone in the Misty Forest. It had been windy that night, with snow blowing through the trees. Yet the priestesses had danced naked.

He smiled, savoring the memory. He'd watched, half-hoping they'd catch him in his transgression. It had been a long time since a female had taken him…

The darkfire settled down again as the breeze ended. The flames resumed their steady flickering-not that his body needed warming anymore. Remembering the priestesses' dance was-

All at once, he remembered he was in Sshamath. No breezes blew here-except magical ones.

"Luth-"

Something stung the back of his neck. It felt like several needles pressing into his skin at once. Whatever had just pricked him fell to the floor with a thud. As his flesh deadened, he realized whatever had just struck him had been poisoned. His jaw locked, his neck stiffened. He couldn't complete his abjuration. Nor could he turn his head to see his assailant. Then his magical earring drew the venom up his neck, into his left ear, and into itself. All that remained was a bitter taste in his mouth-which told him what the poison was. Made from the excretions of a carrion crawler, it was designed to paralyze, rather than kill.

He sensed movement behind him. His assailant, coming closer. Q'arlynd feigned paralysis. He slowly shifted his left thumb to the fur-wrapped needle of glass that pierced his shirt cuff. As his thumb touched the spell component, he whispered a word under his breath. His finger bones tingled as lightning crackled to life inside his hand. A flick of his fingers would release it.

His assailant stepped into view. He recognized her at once: T'lar Mizz'rynturl, the bae'qeshel bard whose "school" Guldor had tried to nominate. She moved in utter silence; even when she squatted next to him, her clothing didn't rustle. She held a dagger with a spider pommel. Ready for use, but not threatening him with it yet. She stared, pointedly, at his groin. "Thinking of me, were you?" She laughed.

Q'arlynd felt thankful he was already aroused. T'lar was disturbingly close, and the menace she exuded was a powerful aphrodisiac. Yet he wasn't foolish enough to give in to it completely. He held the lightning within his hand, trusting to surprise to give him the edge when the time came to cast his spell. For the moment, he wanted to know what she was up to. Had she come to steal something? He kept utterly still, not even moving his eyes. Soon, however, he'd need to give in to the urge to blink.

You play a dangerous game, Grandson, whispered his ancestors from inside the kiira.

T'lar hummed softly. Q'arlynd felt magic brush his mind, as light as a cobweb. Her spell proved no more durable. It tore to pieces the instant it met the kiira. She didn't seem to realize this, however. Perhaps under the impression her spell had succeeded, she leaned in close and asked a question that was clearly designed to stir up his thoughts.

It wasn't the one he'd expected.

"Why was your sister killed?" she whispered, her breath hot against his ear. "What did she do to anger the Lady Penitent?"

His concentration slipped. A spark crackled from his fingertips. T'lar leaped away from him-so quickly Q'arlynd didn't even see her move. One moment she was squatting next to him; the next, she stood halfway across the room, her dagger poised. Her arm whipped forward, and the dagger flashed through the air. Q'arlynd twisted aside and hurled a lightning bolt at her. She dodged, faster than his eye could follow. The lightning struck the shelf behind her, exploding it apart and setting several scrolls on fire. Q'arlynd frantically searched for his assailant, and felt a sharp pain in his side as he moved. He touched his shirt, and his hand came away bloody. Unlike her, he hadn't dodged quickly enough.

He saw a flash of motion out of the corner of his eye: her kick. Her foot slammed into his face. Spitting blood, he went down. He landed on his back, bent across his cushion like a sacrifice on an altar stone. She hurled herself on top of him, straddling his stomach, hooking her legs around his, and twining her fingers in his so he couldn't gesture. Her legs squeezed. He gasped as the wound on his side pulled open and tried to buck her off, but she was too strong. Swift as a striking spider, she transferred both of his hands to one of hers. Her free hand scooped up her dagger, and she jammed the hilt into his mouth like a bit. He tasted metal and sweat-impregnated leather, and the legs of the spider-shaped pommel dug sharply into his cheek. She forced his head back, pushing so hard he thought his neck would snap. Involuntary tears sprung to his eyes. He tried not to gag.

"I could kill you," she told him. "Quicker than a blink." The dagger jerked for emphasis. He gurgled from the pain, tasting the blood that slid down his throat from his split lips. "But first, I offer you the opportunity to do penance."

The arousal he'd felt a moment ago was gone. Fear had replaced it, along with confusion. He tried to talk, but all that came out was, "Whuh-whuh-?"

"You're Eilistraee's," she hissed. "Forswear her, and live. Embrace the Lady Penitent. Embrace Lolth."

Q'arlynd felt sweat break out on his forehead. Not so long ago, it would have been easy to renounce Eilistraee. That was no longer possible. His ancestors whispered fiercely at him from within the lorestone. Fight her, they urged. Die proudly, with Eilistraee's song on your lips! Q'arlynd found himself swept up in their strident chorus, unable to speak the words T'lar had ordered him to. Nor did he want to, he suddenly realized. He took comfort in the fact that it was Eilistraee, rather than Lolth, who would claim his soul after death. He finally understood what Leliana had tried to explain to him, back when they'd first met: that to have tried, even if failure was the result, was more worthy than to surrender and survive. He remembered her words still: "To Eilistraee, struggle is honored equally with success."