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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 other