R.A. Salvatore's War of the Spider Queen: Dissolution, Insurrection, Condemnation Read Online Free PDF Page A

shrinking fear. She would enjoy watching the actual mutilations as well. The most amusing part might be when a novice had already cut one hand, and had to employ it, throbbing and streaming blood, to maim the other. . . .
    “No!”
    Surprised by the outburst, Quenthel peered to see who had spoken. The mass of would-be truants obliged her by dividing in the center, opening a lane to the willowy female standing in the back. It was Drisinil Barrison Del’Armgo, she of the sharp nose and green eyes, whom Quenthel had from the first suspected of instigating the mass elopement. Somehow the long-legged novice had smuggled a sizable dagger, more of a short sword really, into the disciplinary session. She held it ready in a low guard.
    Quenthel reacted as would any dark elf in the same situation. She yearned to accept the challenge and kill the other female, felt the need like a sensual tension pressing for an explosive release. Either responding to her surge of emotion or else themselves vexed by Drisinil’s temerity, the whip vipers reared and hissed.
    The problem was that, despite Quenthel’s assertions to the contrary, the students were not altogether devoid of importance. They were the raw but valuable ore sent to the Academy to be refined and hammered into useful implements. No one would fret over a few amputated pinkies, but the matron mothers did expect that, for the most part, their children would survive their education, an assumption the idiot Mizzrym renegade had already called into question. True, Pharaun had only lost males, but still, by any sensible reckoning, he had used up the school’s quota of allowable deaths for several years to come.
    At this juncture it would be a poor idea for Quenthel to kill any student, certainly a scion of the powerful Barrison Del’Armgo. Quenthel didn’t want to stir up discord between the Academy and the noble Houses when Menzoberranzan already perched on the brink of dissolution.
    Besides, she was a bit concerned that the other failed runaways might take it into their heads to jump into the fight on their ringleader’s side.
    Quenthel quieted the vipers with a thought, fixed Drisinil with her steeliest stare, and said, “Think.”
    “I have thought,” Drisinil retorted. “I’ve thought, why should we spend ten years of our lives cooped up on Tier Breche when there’s nothing for us here?”
    “There is everything for you here,” said Quenthel, maintaining the pressure of her gaze. “This is where you learn to be all that a lady of Menzoberranzan must be.”
    “What? What am I learning?”
    “At the moment, patience and submission.”
    “That’s not what I came for.”
    “Evidently not. Consider this, then. All the priestesses of Menzoberranzan are currently playing a game, and the object of the game is to convince others that nothing is amiss. If a student leaves ArachTinilith prematurely, as none has ever done since the founding of the city, that will seem peculiar, a hint that all is not as it ought to be.”
    “Perhaps I don’t care about the game.”
    “Your mother does. She plays as diligently as the rest of us. Do you think she will welcome you home if you jeopardize her efforts?”
    Drisinil’s emerald eyes blinked, the first sign that Quenthel’s stare was unsettling her. “I . . . yes, certainly she would!”
    “You, a traitor to your House, your city, your sex, and the goddess herself?”
    “The goddess—”
    “Don’t say it!” Quenthel snapped. “Or your life ends, and your soul is bound to torment forevermore. I speak not only as Mistress of Arach-Tinilith, but as a Baenre. You remember Baenre, Barrison Del’Armgo? We are the First House, and you, merely the Second. Even if you should succeed in departing Arach-Tinilith, even if your gross and uncouth dam should be so unwise as to accept you back into that hovel you Del’Armgo call a home, you will not survive the month. My sister Triel, Matron Mother Baenre, will personally attend to