Arselu'tel'quess-high magic. Something said to be impossible for the drow.
Something Q'arlynd knew from experience was possible.
Opening the gate had opened Q'arlynd's eyes to the power that drow wizards might wield, if only they could pool their arcane talents and set their hearts and minds jointly on a casting-something they would be able to do with the rings he was creating. The rings would enable those mages who would form the core of his College to open their minds to each other. They would be able to listen in on each other's innermost thoughts-and to Q'arlynd's, if he so chose-but only if they opened their own minds to scrutiny at the same time. It would be difficult for them, at first, but in time they would learn to do something that drow found almost impossible: trust one another.
Of course, all this would come to pass only if Q'arlynd succeeded in prying the secrets of high magic out of the kiira he'd found. That was something he hadn't accomplished yet, despite a year and a half of trying.
The thought made him grind his teeth.
The copper was molten again. Darbleth removed it from the furnace and held it ready for the second spell.
Q'arlynd picked up a small glass vial and unstoppered it. Wisps of yellowish-red smoke rose from the acid it held. Carefully, he tipped the vial over the dish, letting five drops fall. He set the bottle aside on the workbench and picked up a bowl of bluish-gray powder. He dropped five pinches of this into the mix. Then he picked up the second of the four spell scrolls and an eagle feather, and touched the latter to the molten metal. The feather instantly burst into flame, but Q'arlynd forced the quill into the copper, stirring it as he read from the scroll. The vivid motes of faerie fire danced briefly across his knuckles. Q'arlynd ignored them and continued his casting.
The second spell would allow him to extend his mental reach through any of the five lesser rings at will and instantly see what its wearer was up to. It would also allow him to see the wearer's surroundings-clearly enough that he could teleport to that place, if he chose to.
The wearers of the lesser rings, of course, would expect to scry him in return. For that reason, he added a pinch of ground jade. If Q'arlynd chose, he could let the other wizards scry him. If, however, he was doing something he'd rather they not see, his ring would create a false image of his choosing.
The copper was cooling again, so Darbleth returned it to the furnace.
They waited.
Darbleth once more removed the crucible, and Q'arlynd picked up his third scroll. The first two parchments had held divination magic. This one was different. The spell it contained would cause the five lesser rings to exert a subtle influence on their wearers, making them loath to remove them. As he read the enchantment, Q'arlynd dropped a pinch of crushed pearl into the molten copper, followed by a sticky, fingernail-sized fragment of honeycomb.
The fourth scroll held the final spell-an enchantment that Q'arlynd would use only if absolutely necessary. As he read from it, he dropped five needle-thin slivers of iron into the crucible, one by one.
This done, he leaned over the crucible and let a strand of his shoulder-length hair touch the molten copper. The smell of scorched hair joined the reek of burned feather as he bound himself to the metal, ensuring that he would remain master of the six rings. He rose, and pinched off the singed bits of hair.
"I'm done," he told Darbleth. "Proceed with the casting."
The duergar, his expression as somber as ever, returned the crucible to the furnace and watched the copper melt. Then he took it to his centrifuge. He poured the copper into a ceramic flask at one end of the centrifuge's central arm, and yanked out the pin that held the arm in place. A powerful spring snapped the arm into motion, driving the molten metal into the plaster mold. The arm spun for a time, gradually slowed, then stopped.
Darbleth removed the mold. While they waited for the metal inside it to cool, Q'arlynd listened to the sounds that entered the workshop through the stalagmite's open roof. He heard the dull roar of other darkfire furnaces and forges, the muffled clank of hammers on anvils, the murmur of voices and the hiss of water-quenched metal. The sounds might have come from a duergar city; indeed, many of those who worked in the Darkfire Pillars were of that race. Few of the drow liked the duergar-the antipathy between the two ran deep-but they grudgingly admitted duergar were the best metal crafters in the Underdark.
Q'arlynd wanted nothing but the best, in every detail of the college he hoped to create. Fortunately, Master Seldszar's coin pouch proved deep enough to provide it.
When the metal was at last cool, Darbleth broke open the mold. Inside was the casting: five rings, linked by sprues to the master ring like fingers and thumb to a palm. He sawed the sprues off and filed the rings smooth. He gave each ring a final polish, then handed the lot to Q'arlynd. He finished by carefully sweeping the copper dust from his saw and his workbench onto a sheaf of parchment, added the sprues from the casting, then folded the parchment around them. This, too, he handed to Q'arlynd.
Later, Q'arlynd would negate any residual magic the waste metal held and dispose of it, lest anyone else use it to subvert the rings.
Q'arlynd paid the duergar his fee-coin that Q'arlynd's patron had provided without even asking what it was for-and left the workshop. Weaving between the workshops of the Darkfire Pillars, he made his way back to the city's main cavern.
Sshamath was smaller than Ched Nasad had been, but no less beautiful. Its main cavern was wide, rather than deep, and was dominated by Z'orr'bauth, a pillar of stone as thick, from one side to the other, as four blocks of a surface city. Sparkling with decorative faerie fire that shaded from blue-green to violet, it was connected to the cavern's lesser columns via a series of arched bridges. Across these flowed a steady stream of traffic: drow on foot or in palanquins borne by massive ogres or minotaurs, soldiers of the city guard, and diminutive goblin slaves. Wizards flew between the buildings, seated cross-legged on driftdiscs. A wide ramp spiraled around Z'orr'bauth itself, leading from the cavern floor up to a hole in the ceiling, the city's main entrance.
Hanging from the ceiling between Z'orr'bauth and the spot where Q'arlynd walked was the Stonestave, a stalactite that had been stoneshaped to resemble a wizard's staff. Seat of the city's government, it contained the chamber where the Conclave met.
One day, Q'arlynd would stand in that chamber as a master. First, however, he had to crack the kiira's secrets. And for that, he needed a test subject.
He made his way to the Dark Weavings Bazaar, a cluster of slender stalagmites that had been turned into shops and inns. It was also home to the slave market. Anywhere else, a slave market would include dozens of holding pens and auction blocks, but in Sshamath, where magic was prolific, the entire market was contained in one building. It lay near the bazaar's center, a blocky edifice of cut stone. Its walls were blank, save for a massive glyph, carved in relief on each side, that sent out a silent magical compulsion for passersby to make their lives easier by buying a slave. Or better yet, two slaves.
As he approached the building, Q'arlynd noticed two white-robed wizards from the College of Necromancy huddled together and talking in low voices, as if plotting something. Curious, he decided to eavesdrop on their discussion. It probably wasn't anything important, but one never knew what scrap of information might prove valuable.
He whispered a quick divination and flicked a finger in their direction, and their whispers became clear. "… a priestess of Eilistraee," one of them said, nodding in the direction of the slave house. "She's-"
The other necromancer made a furtive hand sign. The speaker abruptly fell silent and glanced in Q'arlynd's direction. Q'arlynd was puzzled-but only for a moment. Looking down, he saw violet sparks dancing around the finger he'd used to direct his spell. He curled his hand into a fist, cursing softly.