thus came the sign

There are no spiders in his quarters. They don’t come, no matter how hoarse he prays himself. He’s scoured his reverie for Lolth, but She makes no showing of Herself, and even the memory of Her voice is faint now, an echo of an echo. She sends no sign, Pharaun sends no summons, and so he’s left to wander in the dark, as lost and alone as he’s always been.

Today, he needs to find himself. Today he will be measured, and if he is found wanting, Sorcere will spit him out as it has so many other worthless drow before him.

Vizaeth drags his feet towards the alchemy lab, stomach roiling. He didn’t dare eat breakfast. His arms itch, and he curls his fingers into his palms, fighting the urge to pick at the illusion covering them. He should have worn his usual gloves, saved the magic—Lolth knows he needs all he can scrape together for the aptitude exam later—but Nalfein is teaching this class, and he wants…he wants…

He scratches at his wrist as he steps through the door, feeling the scars that disfigure the weak flesh. He doesn’t know what he wants. For Nalfein to see him whole, unbroken, still worthy of attention, after the way he fled Entreri’s blade. To not know how much of himself he’s carved away to keep up with the rest of his class, for whom magic seems to come as easily and naturally as bleeding does to him.

“Apprentice Thaezyr, why don’t you sit on the left-hand side of the room?”

Nalfein’s voice makes him jump. He realises that, in his distraction, he’s almost seated himself by Viconia. That’s the last thing he needs, being in range of her scheming—or that of her frequent ally, Veryan Xorlarrin. Precious, sacred Veryan, who looks at him like he’s less than iblith. Like Vizaeth might break his wrists again, or worse.

He wouldn’t. If Veryan moves against him, he’ll suffer the consequences, but Vizaeth won’t touch him otherwise. To lay a hand like his on one of Lolth’s Blessed would be worse than blasphemy. If Veryan wanted to lay a sacred hand on him, however…

He grips his wrists tight and concentrates on Nalfein as he welcomes them to the class. His expectations of good behaviour are stringent: no sabotage, no murder, no maiming. Certainly Viconia must be disappointed by that—much of the class is, by the reluctance in their murmured agreement. It’s hardly fair to ban such staples of Sorcere, though from the look on his face, Nalfein is serious about it. That the class clearly isn’t doesn’t seem to please him much.

He draws a bright orange vial from his robes, and in one swift motion, smashes it onto an empty prep table. Green and orange flames erupt in a violent blaze across the dark surface, and half the class shout in alarm—at the back of the room there’s the clatter and curse of someone falling off their chair.

Nalfein steps up onto the table, arms folded, untouched by the flames. His robes, teal and gold, flutter about his immaculate body, the golden collar at his neck burnished by the dancing flames. If it wasn’t for the lack of spiders, Vizaeth would think him a holy vision.

“Let me be clear!” Nalfein raises his voice to be heard over the arcane roar of the fire. “You are all here to learn, not stab each other in the back. Your personal ambitions are not more important than your studies. Your family’s ambitions are not more important than your studies.” He flicks a hand out, pointing. “You leave everything at that door. Your family has no expectations that permeate this tower; they have no power in this room. All you have here is what you, personally, can do. I will not tolerate anything less. No one will commit murder in this room. Am I clear?”

Silence fills the classroom, and that announces their agreement more than any words could. Nalfein motions sharply, and the fire extinguishes.

“Your desks are fireproof,” he adds. “And any fire, magical or otherwise, is easily dispelled. I would not recommend standing on a flaming desk, though, not without proper protections. The desk is fireproof. You aren’t.”

He hops nimbly down, with the kind of bodily surety Vizaeth craves. There is no part of Nalfein Do’Urden that is uncertain; not his voice, not his hands, not his magic. And, Vizaeth notes, he’s not the only one scarcely able to take his eyes from the new Master—Viconia and Veryan are staring raptly at him, hanging on his every word. It’s easy to do. Nalfein’s voice is hypnotic, spellbinding the entire class as he weaves tales of his own years at Sorcere into the basic alchemical instruction.

There’s a ripple of laughter as he tells of how Pharaun failed a batch of alchemist’s fire, and cast it into the burn box whilst screaming. Vizaeth’s nails dig into his wrists, and he bites his tongue on a hiss as one catches a fresher scar. Pharaun barely even looks at him any more—how long has it been since they’ve touched? He closes his eyes for a moment, and nearly chokes on despair when he can’t recall the feel of Pharaun’s mouth on his.

He stares blankly at the false smoothness of his arms. Pharaun is administering the aptitude exam following this class. Could he have him alone, just for a few minutes? Just long enough to apologise, earn forgiveness before every last trace of him fades. He’ll give up his body to Pharaun’s knife again, even give up the Thayan tomes if he asks it. He can’t keep going alone like this.

There’ll be nothing left of him if he tries.

As the class winds down, Nalfein delivers the homework requirements—Vizaeth’s empty stomach cramps; he’s terrible at essays—and dismisses them. He’s gathering up his things, trying not to think about the exam, the essay, anything at all, when there’s a wail of pain from the other side of the room. He flicks his eyes up disdainfully, then freezes.

Merdax Kenafin has Veryan’s braid wrapped around his hand. He’s shoving him out, offering him to the class.

“Come on Szarkai, spread the blessing!”

“Stop it!” Vizaeth snaps, at the same time as Viconia shrieks the same words. He hates to in any way agree with the bitch, but filthy hands are snatching at Veryan, pushing at him, clawing for blessings from his Lolth-kissed skin. Vizaeth doesn’t need Her to speak to know blasphemy when it’s right in front of him.

He shoves his way forwards and immediately takes an elbow to the face. Someone hisses whore at him as he claws through the crowd; a foot connects with his ankle, a fist with his cheek. One of Merdax’s cronies shoulders him into the corner of a desk, laughing when he nearly falls trying to right himself. He lashes a hand out, raking his nails across their cheek, gratified at the yelp that follows. Something heavy slams into his side—it feels like a book—and hands snatch at his hair, ripping apart his braids.

None of it stops him. It’s only pain, and if there’s one thing Vizaeth knows, it’s how to hurt.

He grabs for Merdax’s throat, but the blasphemous toad is too quick. His elbow smashes into Vizaeth’s mouth, and he stumbles back—though not without inflicting damage of his own. Merdax’s neck bears four deep scratches, and there’s blood under his nails. In his mouth too, he can taste it, and they should have known better than to let him bleed, when there’s so much power in a drow’s blood.

Before he can claw Merdax into ribbons, Nalfein breaks through the crowd. He snags Merdax by the hair, and yanks so viciously he squeals. The other apprentices scramble away from the Master’s evident displeasure, and Vizaeth is slammed into a desk, all the air knocked out of him.

“Were you listening at the start of class?” Nalfein doesn’t raise his voice, but the low, quiet calm is as terrifying as any Matron’s shout. “Let go. That is a fellow apprentice, not a toy.”

Merdax drops Veryan’s hair as though burned. Veryan darts away, bruises already blooming on his tear-tracked face, his lip split and bloody.

“Are you alright, apprentice Xorlarrin?” Nalfein asks. Veryan gives a tight nod, and Nalfein turns to Vizaeth and Viconia. “Apprentice Despana, apprentice Thaezyr; since you were kind enough to defend your fellow apprentice, perhaps you can also escort him to the infirmary? I’ll see to it Master Mizzrym knows why you’ll be missing the aptitude exam.”

No exam. No Pharaun. Guilt follows swiftly on the heels of sudden relief, and Vizaeth licks blood from his lips as he hurries to gather his books. The other apprentices filter out, sneering at him, at Viconia, at Veryan. He bares bloody teeth, and some few have the decency to flinch. One boy, with more arrogance than sense, reaches for Veryan’s hair again, and Vizaeth snaps at him. He curses and cracks him hard in the side of the head.

“Lolth’s not going to thank you for this, you stupid y’haerrd,” he spits.

“Lay another finger on Her Blessed and I’ll bite it off,” Vizaeth retorts, and the boy storms off, sour at being denied his blessing. With any luck, he’ll fail his exam, and Lolth’s mercy can find him where it will. She is not so forgiving as Vizaeth is.

Viconia passes Veryan his bag, and the three of them make their way towards the infirmary. Vizaeth slows his pace the further they get from Nalfein’s classroom, paranoia prickling his spine. Sorcere, as always, has too many places for enemies to hide, and Merdax Kenafin’s coterie is sizeable. Behind him, Viconia clings to Veryan’s side, her arm looped into his. She’s always too familiar with him, like they’re friends, or worse. She shouldn’t be touching him. No-one should be touching him.

“It’s okay,” she says, on noticing Vizaeth’s glare.

“That’s the first Master to stop them,” he mutters.

Veryan’s hands knot in the ruined remains of his braid, and his voice is a miserable whisper. “I should cut it.”

“Don’t say that!” Viconia looks aghast. “You love your hair!”

You don’t know what he loves. You don’t know the meaning of the word.

“But if people are going to keep touching it…”

“Break their fingers,” Vizaeth says. “They’ll learn not to touch something sacred.”

Hypocrisy, given his own past, but Xunhrae’s blasphemy is paid for. She’s dead and he won’t repeat her mistakes. Viconia’s claws tighten around Veryan’s arm.

“I don’t think it matters that Szarkai are sacred. Touching him without asking is just rude.”

You mean like you’re doing?

“Defiling one of Lolth’s Blessed is more than rude.”

She rolls her eyes, pulling a face, though for once keeps her oversized mouth shut. It’s not respect, but it’ll do.

The infirmary is bereft of the usual whining procession of broken students, and only one priestess is in residence. Mistress Dyrr, Vizaeth realises with a sinking stomach. She’s the one who ‘healed’ his nose and left it crooked. She motions the three of them over and, after a curt examination, dismisses Viconia back to class. Viconia’s lips press thin, and she glances at Veryan, who whispers something Vizaeth can’t make out. Whatever it is, it satisfies, for she goes without complaint, leaving the two of them in Mistress Dyrr’s cold, capable hands.

---

The hour of the aptitude exam comes and goes. Best for Veryan to stay, Mistress Dyrr says, lest he fall prey to further blasphemy. She tends him with gentler hands than she does Vizaeth, who gets a damp rag and the blunt end of a healing spell on the tooth Kenafin knocked loose. After that she mostly leaves them be, only occasionally drifting back to poke at his black eye, pursing her lips every time she does it. Weighing up whether she needs to expend her precious magic, or if it’ll heal fast enough on its own not to bother.

On the cot next to him, Veryan lies sprawled on his stomach, a mottled funnel-web spider crawling across his hands. Where it came from, Vizaeth doesn’t know—he was busy trying not to choke on Mistress Dyrr’s bony fingers, and when she was done with her expert dental care, the spider was there. It’s marked as Veryan is marked, Szarkai with eight legs, and faint hope flickers in Vizaeth’s heart. Is this a sign? Has She finally answered his prayers?

If She has, he isn’t sure what it means.

“Wanna try?”

Veryan holds the funnel-web out to him, an offering that could be thanks or threat, for what may be a blessing to the Blessed, sign or not, may as easily be death for one not so precious to the Mother of Spiders.

“No.” Vizaeth rolls to his side, gazing at the spider. “She’s beautiful.”

“She’s deadly.” Veryan withdraws her, and she crawls slowly to the back of his hand. “In a few months, she’ll migrate to the south end of Araurilcaurak to lay eggs. She’s at her most aggressive when caring for her young.”

If she bit him, what would happen? Or if she bit someone else?

“And the venom? What does it do?”

Veryan frowns at him. “What kind of poison are you looking for?”

“A paralysing one,” Vizaeth says. He pictures Pharaun on his floor, frozen and awaiting worship, ready to recieve all his apologies. “Expensive, but it makes everything hurt.”

“Like the Champion’s Funnel Web?” The spider pauses in her wanderings, as though she’s heard her name. “Paralyses, but enhances sensation. They’re aggressive and rare, so it’s hard to collect venom.”

But Lolth sent you one! I fought for you and She sent you one, don’t you understand?

“Can you get me some?”

“Why should I?” Veryan sits up, eyes hard. “You stole my best friend’s face and broke both my wrists. Why should I help you?”

Cold panic sends him scrambling up, clutching the rucked sheets in a death grip. The feeble remains of the illusion on his arms collapses. Who has Veryan exposed him to? Viconia? House Xorlarrin? One of his tutors is a Baenre, if Vizaeth remembers right, does the First House know? Maybe not, maybe none of them. It’s the kind of thing Veryan could and should wait to use—timing is everything with blackmail.

“I’m not gonna tell anyone,” Veryan continues. Liar. “Who’d believe me? I just don’t see why I should help you.”

“I’ll use it on Merdax Kenafin,” Vizaeth blurts out. Vengeance, without getting his hands dirty—Veryan can surely appreciate the value of such an offer. He’ll find another way to apologise to Pharaun, he has to make certain Veryan has no reason to tell.

Veryan watches the funnel-web crawl down his arm, thinking. Vizaeth’s chest is tight, his nails claw holes in the sheets. You have to accept. I can’t kill you, you have to accept.

He gets no answer, because before Veryan reaches a decision, the infirmary door opens, and Pharaun walks in. Vizaeth’s heart stutters, and he hurries to pull the illusion back over his arms, neaten the wreck of his hair, his robes—but Pharaun isn’t looking at him. Again. He’s dragging a red-headed boy by the collar; whip-thin, with archaic robes and blood pouring from his nose. Rhylfein, Vizaeth dredges up the name. Of House Dyrr. Mistress Dyrr’s nephew or cousin or some such.

She hisses at the sight of him and strides over, eyes glittering with fury. The force of her slap echoes, and Vizaeth can’t help but wince. She grabs Rhylfein by the hair, nails scraping his scalp by the looks, and hauls him off to the other side of the infirmary, her low words indistinct but angry. A second slap rings out, accompanied by a pained yelp. Family squabbling. Vizaeth is familiar.

But Pharaun still isn’t looking at him, even though he’s drawn close to his and Veryan’s cots.

“Did Mistress Dyrr tell you to stay?” he asks. Veryan only nods in reply, stiffening as Pharaun twines the end of his braid in his hand. “Apprentice Kenafin should really learn to use gentler hands with one of Lolth’s sacred spiders.”

He trails his fingers up Veryan’s back, over his neck, circles the cot without relinquishing the grip on his hair. His back is deliberately to Vizaeth as he traces the edge of the white patch over Veryan’s eye, and speaks with a voice lover-soft and enticing.

“I suppose I’ll have to give you your exam in private, won’t I?”

Vizaeth’s jaw clenches. That Pharaun of all people should treat Lolth’s Blessed with such casual intimacy is incomprehensible. He’s not for you! I’m your Blessed, put your hands on me!

Another slap from across the room draws Pharaun’s attention from the blasphemy he’s committing.

“You know,” he remarks lightly, “I brought him here to get the nose fixed, not to be further injured.”

Mistress Dyrr’s glare could strip flesh from bone. Pharaun tugs his hand free of Veryan’s hair and straightens up.

“Well, I have another aptitude exam to administer,” he says, and at last he turns, and Vizaeth dissolves. All the anger, the jealousy, the despair; all of it melts beneath that perfect ruby gaze. Pharaun takes his chin and tilts his face up, one thumb just barely brushing his lower lip.

“Thank you so much for looking after Lolth’s Blessed,” he purrs. Vizaeth suppresses a whimper, his breath stuttering. “You’ll be rewarded for your diligence, I promise.”

Vizaeth watches him leave and knows now what Veryan’s spider means. He doesn’t need the poison; defending Her chosen has brought Pharaun back to him, and finally, finally, he’ll be able to fix what he broke between them. They’ll be whole again.

“He told me starting a fight was stupid.”

Rhylfein, his cousin apparently finished with her abuse, drags a cot over to join them, scraping the legs obnoxiously across the floor. He shoots a grin at Vizaeth. “Nice with the claws, Thaezyr. Maybe next time you’ll take that fucker’s eyes out.”

Vizaeth takes in the dark bruise swelling his cheek. “What was her problem?”

“Oh, I broke my nose.” He tosses a bloody rag to the cot and hops up to sit. “She’s only mad because if Lord Dyrr found out, she’d get in trouble too.”

“Who broke it?” Veryan asks.

“Kenafin. I started it. Someone needed to teach him a lesson.”

Rhylfein runs a finger up the bridge of his nose. It’s perfectly straight—no crooked noses for House Dyrr. No crooked anything; apart from the bruise, doubtless left as punishment, Rhylfein’s face is entirely free of imperfections. His neck, the stretch of collarbone exposed between his low neckline and wide choker, his wrists where he’s shoved up the sleeves of his robes, all of it bereft of blemish or scar. If he is marked, it’s in places that can’t be seen whilst he’s fully dressed.

Vizaeth realises then that he’s trying to figure out what Rhylfein looks like when he’s not fully dressed, and that he’s completely lost the thread of the conversation. Rhylfein swings his legs up onto Vizaeth’s cot, one foot half an inch from his thigh.

“Look,” he says, crossing his ankles, the action making Vizaeth’s face heat for no reason he can fathom. “All I’m saying is someone needs to teach Merdax and all his little cronies that messing with you has consequences. Lolthite consequences. I’ll do the heavy lifting if I have to.”

Veryan looks doubtful. “I’ve seen Nenrina belt you for difficult injuries.”

“Then she can belt me,” is the careless reply. “I think I’d look much better with a scar.”

“I could give you one.” The words are out without thought or consideration for what Pharaun might think. Merdax must have hit him harder than he thought, for such idiocy to spill from his mouth. Rhylfein leans forward, grinning fully this time, and the flash of his teeth makes something strange lurch behind Vizaeth’s ribs.

“At least take me out for a date first, handsome.”

Every single thought in Vizaeth’s head goes up in smoke. He’s never looked at Rhylfein before, not this closely. It’s not like looking in a mirror. It’s not like looking at Pharaun.

It’s better.

“Rhylfein,” Veryan says quietly, “could you snag me a venom vial from Mistress Nenrina’s drawers?”

Vizaeth tries to clear his head as Rhylfein fetches the vial and finds excising that smile no simple task. He can’t feel any enchantments on him, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there—is that Rhylfein’s specialty? It seems unlikely, given all Vizaeth really knows of him is how frequently he picks fights.

On the other cot, Veryan coaxes the funnel-web up to the vial, until she rears at the false threat. A word hisses from his throat that sends a red shiver down Vizaeth’s spine, and the spider sinks her fangs into the soft lid. Veryan strokes her abdomen with encouraging fingers as she gives up her gift, blue-tinged venom slowly pattering into the vial. When he’s done, he holds it out—to Vizaeth.

“That’s enough to drop Master Argith,” he says. Vizaeth takes it with trembling fingers. “Use it carefully, please, and not on anyone I’m friends with.”

“I thought—” Words fail him. Veryan carries the spider to a window, and gently sets her on the sil—is this agreement to Vizaeth’s offer? Is his silence guaranteed?

“I see our sacred friend is trotting out Lolth’s Wrath,” Rhylfein remarks wryly. “You picked quite the instrument this time.”

Veryan stays by the sil, with the spider, watching her slow movements. “Vizaeth, do you remember that week after you broke my wrists? When your Matron was bedridden, possibly dying?”

A cold, dark void opens in Vizaeth’s gut. Yvael had been sick enough to bring Jhinlara back from Arach-Tinilith to pray at her bedside, make sacrifice in her aid. Xunhrae had been too busy screaming into her own head to care much about it, other than to recognise that if Yvael died, it would be to Jhinlara’s benefit.

She didn’t die. But she never entirely recovered. His three younger sisters are weak, frailer than even he is, and every one after Ornav’ray has been stillborn.

Veryan, with his Szarkai mottled skin and his knowing red eyes, smiles like Lolth.

“You’ve reminded me very well that I have been swallowing my hate,” he says. He leans on the cot, never taking his eyes from Vizaeth’s. His voice drops to a whisper, but it’s not the distressed sound of earlier, it’s a spider’s voice, fanged and venomous. “Maybe Merdax Kenafin would like a taste. Do you think he can stomach Lolth?”

The dark divinity echoing beneath his words draws an answering smile to Vizaeth’s face, and his fingers tighten around the vial. It is acceptance of his offer, and more, it’s a command from Lolth’s Blessed. It might as well have come from Lolth Herself, and Vizaeth will not disappoint Her.

Veryan’s smile fades. He flicks a glance at Rhylfein, then slips silently from the infirmary. Vizaeth realises he’s holding his breath and lets it out in a rush. Rhylfein drops onto the cot next to him, and his shoulders immediately tense again.

“Relax, Thaezyr. You’re not the one I want to kill right now.” Rhylfein crosses his legs and takes his hand, lifting it to examine the venom. “Got any ideas on how you’re going to use it yet?”

As a matter of fact, he does. There’s a spell in one of the Thayan tomes that requires an immobile…donor. Rope had been his plan, but this will work even better. And Kenafin does have very pretty eyes.

“Maybe.”

Rhylfein starts to release him, then cocks his head and catches his wrist, pulling it to him. At some point since Pharaun left the illusion has failed again, and all his scars are plain to see, dozens of dark lines laddering up his arm from wrist to bicep.

“The idiots in alchemy class didn’t do that to you,” Rhylfein says, frowning. “You did that to yourself. What for?”

Vizaeth snatches his arm back. “Necromancy,” he snaps. “You wouldn’t understand it.”

Rhylfein’s eyes darken. “Oh, I don’t know.” He leans closer, voice low. “I know a fair bit about necromancy.” The way the corner of his mouth curves up ignites a black heat in Vizaeth’s core. “But maybe you could explain it to me over a drink sometime.”

“Not interested.” Vizaeth scrambles away from him, hating how fast his heart is racing, how hot his face is. Rhylfein falls back onto the cot, tucking his arms behind his head.

“If you say so.”

Mistress Dyrr is nowhere to be seen, and Vizaeth feels absolutely, completely, entirely fine. He’s halfway to the door when Rhylfein calls after him.

“Thaezyr?”

He turns. Torchlight catches in Rhylfein’s eyes, turning them, for a moment, the colour of fresh blood.

“Don’t be selfish with Kenafin.”

Of all things, it’s his smile as he says it that has Vizaeth replying, in a hoarse voice, “I won’t.”

“It’s a date, then.” Rhylfein winks at him.

He doesn’t dignify the stupid remark with a response. He has Lolth’s gift, he has Her command, and his path is once more clear in the dark. Kenafin will suffer, Pharaun will love him, Veryan will keep his secret. All things as they are meant to be.

The fact that Rhylfein’s smile gleams in his reverie, therefore, is totally and utterly meaningless.