蛛后之战(被遗忘的国度系列英文版)-第46章

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ely　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　in　a　sense　responded　appropriately。　But　it　shouldn't　matter。　He'd　withstood　contact　with　the　ultimate　essence　of　evil；　but　he　was　the　greatest　wizard　in　the　world　and　had　taken　precautions。　Quenthel　enjoyed　neither　advantage。
In　time；　a　sublime　cruelty　twisted　her　features。　Gromph　exclaimed　in　triumph；　for　the　netherspirit　plainly　had　her　in　its　grasp。　Evidently　she　wasn't　going　to　drop　dead　of　an　aneurysm　or　mit　suicide；　but　no　matter：　she　was　doomed。　Her　personality　erased；　consumed　by　the　pulsion　to　degrade　and　destroy；　she　was　bound　to　provoke　someone　into　killing　her。
Then　she　broke　the　skinny　white　wand　in　two；　unleashing　a　magic　that　thrust　the　netherspirit　out　of　her。　Gromph；　for　all　his　knowledge；　had　never　seen　anything　quite　like　it。　Taking　on　just　a　hint　of　palpable　form；　his　agent　fled　the　scene。
The　Baenre　wizard　bolted　up　in　his　chair　and　threw　his　goblet；　smashing　it　against　the　wall。　He　cursed　foully；　and　the　malignancy　in　his　words；　hammering　through　the　black　lotusscented　air；　made　the　greenish　flames　of　the　everlasting　candles　gutter。
Struggling　for　posure；　he　told　himself　it　didn't　matter。　He'd　get　her　eventually。　He'd　throw　entity　after　entity　at　her　until　。　。　。
But　what　had　happened　to　the　netherspirit？　Constrained　by　Gromph's　mand；　it　should　have　kept　attacking　until　either　it　toppled　the　pillars　of　Quenthel's　reason　or　she　destroyed　it。　Instead；　it　had　run　away。
The　mistress's　unfamiliar　magic　had　broken　the　binding—so　much　was　clear—but　where　had　the　creature　gone？　Back　to　its　own　world？　Probably；　but　something—a　slight　acceleration　of　his　heartbeat　or　a　subtle　prickling　on　the　back　of　his　neck；　perhaps—made　Gromph　want　to　check。
The　casement　responded　to　his　will。　Framed　in　that　rectangular　space；　the　netherspirit；　still　visible；　perhaps　as　tangible　as　smoke；　half　flew；　half　bounded　down　one　of　the　labyrinthine　corridors　of　Sorcere。　A　defensive　ward　activated；　piercing　the　intruder　with　crisscrossing　shafts　of　yellow　light；　but　it　tore　itself　free　and　charged　on。　A　bluegowned　master　peered　out　the　door　of　his　sanctum；　spotted　the　wraith；　started　to　conjure；　and　the　intruder　stopped　him　with　a　sweep　of　a　shadowy　paw。　The　blow　didn't　rock　the　wizard　backward　or　leave　a　mark；　but　he　fell　like　a　block　of　stone。
Gromph　surmised　his　erstwhile　agent　was　ing　after　him。　Either　it　was　angry　over　its　forced　servitude；　or　Quenthel　had　done　more　than　merely　dissolve　his　control。　She'd　wrested　it　away　from　him　and　turned　the　entity　into　her　own　assassin。
Either　way；　the　spirit　represented　a　threat；　and　unfortunately；　Gromph　himself　didn't　know　its　full　capabilities。　Still；　he　had　no　real　reason　for　concern。　His　magic　was　more　than　a　match　for　any　such　entity；　especially　in　his　stronghold。
He　watched　the　netherspirit　flow　through　the　black　marble　door　of　his　office　like　water　through　a　sieve。　It　scrambled　over　the　white　bone　desk　and　headed　straight　for　the　hidden　access　to　his　sanctum。　Magic　crackled　purple　and　blue　around　it；　but　it　burst　through。　It　hurtled　up　the　shaft。
Gromph　smiled。　He　had　the　creature　where　he　wanted　it；　for　he'd　created　the　passage　with　defense　in　mind。　Simply　by　focusing　his　will；　he　destroyed　it。
The　shaft　wasn't　made　of　matter。　Still；　a　metallic　crashing　and　grinding　sounded　through　the　hole　in　the　middle　of　the　floor　as　the　artificial　space　folded　in　on　itself。　If　the　rebellious　spirit　screamed；　its　voice　was　lost　among　the　din。
Gromph　would　have　enjoyed　hearing　it　squeal；　but　the　important　thing　was　that　it　was　gone。　Most　likely；　the　collapse　had　crushed　it　to　nothing；　but　even　if　not；　it　had　surely　ejected　it；　maimed　and　disoriented；　in　some　remote　halfworld。　The　crisis　was　over；　and　the　archmage　was　left　only　with　the　annoyance　of　transporting　himself　in　and　out　of　his　hideaway　via　spell　until　such　time　as　he　invested　the　six　hours　necessary　to　recreate　the　passage。
However；　just　to　maintain　the　habit　of　caution　that　had　balked　a　thousand　enemies；　he　turned　back　to　the　window；　then　scowled。
The　space　still　framed　the　spirit；　and　as　far　as　Gromph　could　see；　the　shadowy　thing　was　unharmed。　Darting　and　wheeling