Ричард Байерс - Dissolution

«In any case,» the novice continued, «Lolth has shown us her intent. Despite our safeguards, two spirits invaded the temple, the first in the guise of a spider, the second a living darkness. Spider and darkness, reflections of the essence of the goddess. The demons injured those who got in their way. They bruised them and broke their bones, but they didn't try to kill any of us, did they? They were plainly seeking Quenthel, and they sought to kill her and her alone.» Some of the other priestesses frowned or nodded thoughtfully. «It did seem that way,» said Vlondril, «but what do you think is unacceptable about Quenthel? Isn't she doing all the same things Triel did?» «We don't know everything she does,» said Drisinil, «and we don't know what she thinks. Lolth does.» «But you don't know she sent the demons,» T'risstree said. Born a commoner but risen to a level of power and prestige, she had evidently shed the habit of deference to the aristocracy. «Perhaps one of Quenthel's mortal enemies sent them.»

«What mortal possesses a magic potent and cunning enough to penetrate the temple wards?» Drisinil replied. «The archmage?» Vlondril offered, picking at the skin on the back of her hand. Her tone was light, as if she spoke in jest.

«Even if he does,» Drisinil said, «Gromph is a Baenre, too, and Quenthel serving as mistress strengthens his House. He has no reason to kill her, and if it isn't he, then who? Who but the goddess?» «Quenthel is still alive,» said a priestess from House Xorlarrin. She'd worn a long veil to the conclave, apparently so anyone who noticed her walking the halls would assume she was engaged in a certain necromantic meditation. «Do we think Lolth tried to kill her and failed?» «Perhaps,» Drisinil said. Some of her audience scowled or stiffened at what could be construed as blasphemy. «She is all-powerful, but her agents are not. However, I think she intended the first two assassins to fail. She's giving her priestesses a chance to ponder what's happening. To comprehend her will, perform our appointed task, and earn her favor once more.» Vlondril smiled. «And we do that by murdering Quenthel ourselves? Oh, good, child, very good.» «We kill her ourselves,» Drisinil agreed, «or, if that isn't feasible, we at least assist the next demonic assassin in whatever way we can.» T'risstree shook her head. «This is sheer speculation. You don't know the mistress's death will bring Lolth back.» «It's worth a chance,» Drisinil said. «At the very least, if we give the demons what they want, they'll stop invading Arach-Tinilith. They haven't slain any of us yet, but if we don't help them, and Quenthel lives on, they may decide to eliminate us, too, for after all, it's a demon's nature to kill.» «The demons may be less dangerous than House Baenre,» T'risstree said. «The Baenre won't know who facilitated Quenthel's demise,» Drisinil said. «So what will they do, wreak their vengeance on every priestess in Arach-Tinilith? They can't. They need us to educate their daughters and perform the secret rites.» «If Quenthel dies,» said a priestess leaning against the wall, «Molvayas has a fair chance of becoming Mistress of Arach-Tinilith—but how do the rest of us stand to gain?»

«My niece has explained,» said Molvayas, «that we'll all renew our bond with the goddess and replenish our magic. Beyond that, I promise that if I become mistress, I'll remember those who lifted me up. High priestesses, you will be my lieutenants, ranking higher than any other instructor. Novices, your time at Arach-Tinilith will be spent far more pleasantly than is the rule. You, too, will exercise authority over your peers. You'll enjoy luxuries. I'll excuse you from the more onerous ordeals and teach you secrets most pupils never learn.» «We'll hold you to that,» said another voice from the back, «and expose you if you renege.»

«Exactly,» said Molvayas. «You'll always be in a position to inform House Baenre of my guilt. Your numbers are too great for me to murder all of you, and so you know you can trust me to keep my pledge. Even if it were otherwise, I'd be stupid to play you false, considering that I'll always need loyal supporters.» «It's tempting,» the veiled Xorlarrin said. «I'd take almost any chance to win my magic back. Still, we're talking about the Baenre.» «Damn the Baenre!» Drisinil spat. «Perhaps killing Quenthel is the first rumble of the cave-in that will bury the entire clan.» «What cave-in?» T'risstree asked. «I don't know, exactly,» Drisinil admitted. «Still, consider this: Houses rise and fall. It's the way of Menzoberranzan and the will of Lolth. Thus far, House Baenre has been the exception, perching on the top of the heap for century after century. Perhaps, with the old matron mother's death, the family has finally forfeited the goddess's regard. Why not. . everyone knows Triel is out of her depth. Perhaps it's time at last for House Baenre to honor the universal law. If so, wouldn't it be glorious to commence the decline in their fortunes here, now, this very minute in this very room?» «Yes,» T'risstree declared. Surprised, Drisinil turned to face her. «You agree?» Setting her razor-edged falchion aside, T'risstree rose and said, «I was dubious, but you convinced me.» For an instant, she grinned. «I don't like Quenthel anyway. So yes, we'll usher her into her tomb, regain the goddess's approval, and run the academy as we please.» She extended her hands. Drisinil smiled and clasped them despite the twin shooting pains the pressure produced, then she turned to the other females and said, «What about the rest of you? Are you with us?» They tendered a ragged chorus of assent. She guessed that those who doubted she had hit on the way to propitiate Lolth were nonetheless eager to move up in the temple hierarchy, or at least disliked Quenthel. Maybe they were simply indulging the innate dark elf taste for bloodshed and betrayal. Drisinil herself truly did believe she'd contrived the proper metaphysical remedy for their woes but deep down, she was even more excited at the prospect of avenging herself on her torturer. How could it be otherwise? For the rest of her life, her self-mutilated hands would announce to any who looked that someone had once defeated and humiliated her. «I thank you,» she said to the other clerics. «Now, let's put our heads together. We have much to plan and only a little time before others will start to miss us.» And plan they did, whispering, bickering, occasionally grinning at some particularly inventive and vicious suggestion. Drisinil knew that some if not all of the scheming would come to nothing—it was too contingent on Quenthel's doing precisely what the plotters wanted exactly when and where they wanted it done—but the effort served to cement their commitment to the conspiracy and to limn at least the bare bones of a strategy. Finally it was done. The priestesses started to slip out the way they'd come, one and two at a time. The more restless stood in a clump around the exit, awaiting their turns. T'risstree was among them. Drisinil crossed the floor in as relaxed and casual a manner as she could affect. She didn't want someone to realize her intent, and, surprised, react in some audible way. No one did. All dark elves were actors in that they were liars, and perhaps she was a better dissembler than most. She sauntered within arm's reach of T'risstree, took hold of the dirk concealed inside her long, fringed shawl, and drove the blade into the high priestess's spine. This time, for whatever reason, the stumps of her severed pinkies didn't hurt a bit. T'risstree's back arched in a spasm of agony, and, to Drisinil's surprise, her teacher tried to flounder around to face her. Her arm shaking, T'risstree lifted the falchion. Drisinil turned along with the high priestess, keeping behind her. She grabbed hold of T'risstree's hair, jerked her head back, and sliced open her throat. The instructor collapsed. The sword slipped from her fingers and clanked on the floor. The onlookers gawked. «T'risstree T'orgh meant to betray us,» Drisinil said. «I saw it in her eyes when I took her hands. We can leave the carcass here for the time being. With luck, no one will discover it until after Quenthel's death.» Either the other conspirators believed her explanation, or, more likely, didn't care that she'd murdered the teacher. A few congratulated her on her finesse, and, utterly indifferent to the corpse sprawled in their midst, resumed their departures.