蛛后之战(被遗忘的国度系列英文版)-第57章

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She　recalled　acquiring　this　capacity　when　she　herself　was　a　novice　in　ArachTinilith。　She'd　learned　every　divine　art　easily。　It　had　been　one　of　the　signs　that　Lolth　had　chosen　her　for　greatness。　But　relatively　speaking；　this　particular　mastery　had　e　harder　than　most。　According　to　Vlondril；　unwrinkled　but　showing　signs　of　madness　even　then；　it　had　been　because　Quenthel　was　of　too　dynamic　a　character。　She　had　no　instinct　for　passivity。
Abruptly　the　Baenre　realized　her　thoughts　were　nudging　her　out　of　the　desired　state。　Vlondril　had　also　said　that　was　always　the　way。　The　mind　didn't　like　to　hush。　It　wanted　to　babble。　Quenthel　took　another　deep；　slow　breath；　exhaled　it　through　her　mouth；　and　expelled　that　importunate　inner　voice　along　with　it。
Time　passed。　She　had　no　idea　how　much　time；　nor；　immersed　in　the　meditation；　did　she　care。　The　temple　was　utterly　silent；　which　surely　meant　that　most　everyone　had　exited；　or　perhaps；　in　one　or　two　instances；　perished。
Gradually　it　dawned　on　Quenthel　that　her　trance　wasn't　quite　perfect。　The　dead　quiet；　proof　that　all　instruction；　prayers；　and　rituals　had　ceased；　irked　her　just　a　little；　and　she　doubted　she　could　purge　that　final　hint　of　emotion。　She　cared　too　much　about　her　role　of　Mistress　of　ArachTinilith。　She'd　e　to　the　Academy　intent　on　making　it　grander　and　more　effective　than　ever　before。　Thus　would　she　honor　Lolth　and　demonstrate　her　fitness　to　one　day　rule　the　entire　city。　Instead；　she'd　presided　over　an　extended　disaster；　regular　functions　disrupted；　residents　battered　or　even　dead。
It　galled　her　to　think　how　many　of　her　sister　nobles　would　blame　her；　but　she　knew　it　wasn't　her　fault。　It　was　in　large　measure　the　fault　of　the　teachers　and　students　themselves。　Most　who　had　perished　earned　their　destruction　by　dint　of　their　idiotic　little　mutiny；　and　actually；　that　was　as　it　should　be。　The　traitors　had　violated　the　precepts　of　Lolth。
Indeed；　when　Quenthel　thought　about　it；　the　real　misfortune　might　be　that　weaklings　like　Jyslin　and　Minolin　were　still　alive。　They　were　cowards　and　whiners；　unfit；　but　they'd　survive　merely　because　the　manifestation　of　evil　hadn't　passed　their　way；　and　because　the　Baenre　herself　had　sent　them　to　safety。　Perhaps　that　had　been　a　mistake。
Quenthel　realized　she　was　ruminating　once　more。　With　an　effort　of　will　she　arrested　the　internal　monologue。　For　a　few　seconds。
But　as　Vlondril　had　taught　her；　it　was　devilishly　hard　to　attain　passivity　by　straining　for　it。　Besides；　Quenthel　was　pondering　important　matters；　new　insights　that　would　guide　her　steps　in　the　days　to　e。
If　preserving　even　the　most　worthless　specimens　of　her　flock　constituted　an　error；　at　least　it　was　one　she　could　rectify。　She'd　already　slaughtered　the　mutineers。　How　easy；　then；　it　would　be　to　butcher　those　who　lacked　even　the　spirit　to　rebel。　She　imagined　herself　stalking　among　her　underlings；　peering　into　their　eyes；　swinging　the　whip　whenever　she　discerned　inadequacy。　The　trance　state　facilitated　visualization；　and　the　fantasy　was　as　vivid　as　life。　She　smelled　the　blood　and　felt　it　splatter　her　face。　The　muscles　of　her　whip　arm　clenched　and　relaxed。
Quenthel　could　kill　everyone　if　necessary。　She'd　enjoy　it；　and　perhaps　when　the　clergy　was　pure　and　strong　again；　Lolth　would　condescend　to　speak。
If　not；　that　might　mean　that　all　Menzoberranzan　required　cleansing；　beginning　with　the　First　House。　Quenthel　would　usurp　pathetic；　indecisive　Triel's　throne—not　in　a　hundred　years　but　now；　and　preparation　be　damned。　Then；　the　very　next　day；　she　and　her　kin　would　wage　a　war　of　extermination　on　the　thousands　who　served　the　goddess　and　her　chosen　prophet　with　false　hearts　or　insufficient　zeal。
How　glorious　it　would　be；　and　it　could　begin　as　soon　as　she　ferreted　out　the　first　weakling。　Her　fingers　closed　on　the　haft　of　her　whip；　or　rather　they　tried　and　in　so　doing　reminded　her　that　she　was　in　reality　holding　the　thin　bone　wand。
She'd　fotten　all　about　the　magical　artifact　and　the　demon　as　well；　and　she　could　only　think　of　one　explanation。　Despite　her　vigilance；　the　spirit　had　managed　to　possess　her　without　her　realizing　it。
For　without　its　influence；　those　thoughts　would　never　have　occurred　to　her。　Destroy　her　own　followers？　Try　to　murder　Triel　without　the　vaguest　semblance　of　a　strategy；　and　fight　virtually　every　other　House　in　the　city　at　once？
It　wasn't　the　prospect　of　wholesale　bloodshed　that　dismayed　her—war　and　torture　were　her　birthright　and　often　her　delight—but　this　was　evil　without　sense；　a　delirium　that　would　surely　destroy　her　and　conceivably　even　House　Baenre　along　with　her。
Yet　did　it　matter？　She　sensed　the　ecstasy　implicit　in　letting　go。　If　she　permitted　it；　the　demon　would　exalt　her；　and　even　if　she　perished　an　hour　later；　what　difference　would　it　make？　She'd　find　more　joy　in　that　brief　span　that　in　centuries　of　mundane　life。
For　what　seemed　a　long　while；　she　wavered；　uncertain　whether　to　manipulate　the　wand　or　cast　it　aside；　take　up　her　whip；　and　go　hunting。　In　the　end；　one　consideration　enabled　her　to　choose　the　former。　No　matter　how　sweet　the　temptation　to　bee　a　pure　and　transcendent　being；　doing　so　would　be　to　surrender　to　the　will　of　her　phantom　enemy；　allowing　the　faceless　spellcaster　to　dominate；　transform；　and　ultimately　destroy　her。　Quenthel　Baenre　could　not　embrace　defeat。
Instead；　she　snapped　the　length　of　bone　in　two。
An　instant　later；　she　felt　an　extraordinary　lightness　and　clarity　in　her　head；　a　sign　that　the　demon　had　departed；　as；　in　fact；　her　eyes　confirmed。　Vaguely　visible　at　last；　a　misshapen　shadow　without　a　source；　the　entity　floated　in　front　of　her；　then；　without　turning　or　shifting　any　of　its　amorphous　limbs；　receded　quick　as　a　bow　shot。　It　was　tiny；　a　dot；　and　gone。　Quenthel　felt　a　pang　of　loss；　but　it　only　lasted　a　moment。　Then　she　smiled。
Gromph　sat　before　one　of　the　enchanted　windows　in　his　hidden　chamber。　He'd　crossed　his　feet　atop　a　hassock　and　held　a　crystal　goblet　of　black　wine　in　his　hand。　He'd　thrown　the　strangely　carved　ivory　casements　wide　and　supposed　he　must　look　like　the　soul　of　ease　awaiting　some　pleasant　entertainment。
Well；　that　was　the　hope；　but　despite　himself　the　Archmage　of　Menzoberranzan　was　growing　used　to　disappointment。
He　hadn't　made　any　progress　in　finding　the　runaway　males。　His　divinations　were　so　oblique　and　contradictory　as　to　be　useless。　Apparently　some　able　spellcaster　had　forestalled　his　efforts。　His　genuine　spies　had　turned　up　nothing；　indeed；　had　managed　to　get　themselves　strangled　in　Eastmyr　by　parties　unknown。　The　only　satisfaction；　if　one　could　call　it　that；　was　that　his　decoy　was　still　on　the　loose；　still　occupying　the　priestesses'　attention。　Why　Pharaun　Mizzrym　had　deemed　it　expedient　to　slaughter　a　patrol　from　the　Academy；　though；　was　more　than　Gromph　could　prehend。
The　Baenre　wizard　hadn't　yet　managed　to　kill　Quenthel；　either。　For　the　past　few　nights；　he'd　dispatched　his　conjured　minions；　then　settled　before　the　window　to　watch　them　do　his　bidding。　Impossibly；　even　stripped　of　her　magic；　his　sister　had　disposed　of　the　first　three　spirits　and　the　traitors　he'd　inspired　as　well。　Like　some　bungler　in　a　farce；　Gromph　had　only　managed　to　account　for　a　few　lesser　clerics　with　whom　he　had　no　quarrel；　who　would　otherwise　have　gone　on　to　contribute　to　the　strength　of　Menzoberranzan　and　the　House　that　controlled　it。　It　was　maddening
This　night；　he　prayed；　would　be　different。　Quenthel　had　turned　out　to　be　petent　at　disposing　of　spirits　wearing　some　semblance　of　material　form；　but　surely　she　would　prove　more　vulnerable　to　an　assailant　that　slipped　imperceptibly　into　her　mind。
The　enchanted　window　afforded　Gromph　a　view　of　the　interior　of　ArachTinilith　as　if　he　were　but　a　few　feet　away。　He　watched　his　sister　and　her　squad　encounter　wretches　whom　the　spirit　had　already　overwhelmed　with　the　infusion　of　an　evil　more　profound　than　any　mortal；　even　a　dark　elf；　could　readily　bear。　He　looked　for　some　sign　that　Quenthel　was　growing　afraid。　The　indication　would　be　subtle　if　she　let　it　slip　at　all；　but　perhaps　a　brother　would　spot　it。
He　didn't；　and　eventually　Quenthel　ordered　her　minions　to　evacuate　the　building　and　sat　down　to　meditate。
The　Archmage　frowned。　Evidently　the　imperious　bitch　had　figured　out　what　was　going　on　and　had