The speaker's sphere shifted back to Master Guldor's sharp-angled face. "The School of Bae'qeshel Magic is based on an ancient bardic tradition."

"Bardic magic!" Master Antatlab exploded, pounding his fist on the golden ball in front of his podium. The quicksilver face quivered as if an earthquake were surging through it. "This is a conclave of mages, not minstrels!"

"Our constitution only prohibits clerical magic," Master Guldor countered. "It is silent when it comes to the bards' arts. And why? Because the mages who founded the Conclave recognized that bardic magic is a brother to sorcery. Both arts draw their power from the same source: the practitioner's own heart and will."

Q'arlynd cleared his throat softly in an attempt to get Master Seldszar's attention. According to the rules of the Conclave, Q'arlynd was forbidden to speak unless directed to. If only he could speak, he could end this, right now, by pointing out the one thing the masters didn't realize. While it was true that bae'qeshel was a bardic tradition, it was one that could only be practiced by someone who had taken a particular goddess as her patron deity.

Lolth.

On the surface, Guldor's nomination of T'lar Mizz'rynturl's school looked like nothing more than a means of countering Seldszar's play for an allied eleventh master on the Conclave. Yet Q'arlynd knew it had to have deeper roots than that. Guldor Zauviir shared a House name with the priestess who headed up what remained of Lolth's temple in Sshamath. And there were rumors the ties were knotted even tighter than that. Streea'Valsharess Zauviir smoldered like a coal under the heels of the wizards who had ground out her rule in Sshamath. T'lar Mizz'rynturl's "school" was likely the high priestess's attempt to burn the Conclave from within.

If Q'arlynd could only catch Master Seldszar's attention, T'lar's "school" would have as much hope of being accepted into the Conclave as a boy did of becoming matron mother of a noble House. A few quick flicks of Q'arlynd's fingers would do the trick.

Q'arlynd cleared his throat a second time.

Seldszar still didn't acknowledge him.

Another of the masters was speaking. "Guldor does have a point." The speaker's sphere bore a female face now-that of Master Felyndiira, a breathtaking beauty with long-lashed eyes and luxurious hair that swept back from a peak on her forehead. What the Master of Illusion and Phantasm really looked like was anyone's guess. "Bards are very similar to sorcerers."

Ah, so Felyndiira was allied with Guldor. Seldszar had wondered if she might be. There were rumors she worshiped the Spider Queen in secret.

Antatlab threw up his hands, not even bothering to touch his golden ball. "So are shadow mages, and you fought their admission to the Conclave dagger and nail!"

Felyndiira rolled her eyes. "The School of Shadow Magic was merely a cloak for Vhaeraun's clerics. Everyone knew it-everyone but you."

Q'arlynd cast a cantrip that plucked at Seldszar's embroidered sleeve, but the Master of Divination paid it no heed. Seldszar reached for the golden ball in front of his podium. As he touched it, the quicksilver face widened, and its eyes darted back and forth in time with Seldszar's own. Even at this critical juncture, his attention was at least partially on his scrying crystals. "This Conclave was convened to consider the nomination of the School of Ancient Arcana, a nomination that has already been second-spoken," he said with a nod at Master Urlryn. "Since no second has spoken for the so-called 'school' Guldor has nominated, I suggest we focus on the task at hand and not be distracted by frivolous-"

"I second the nomination of the School of Bae'qeshel Magic." The sphere's features shifted, adopting the face of the only other female among the ten masters. Shurdriira Helviiryn, Master of the College of Alteration stared at Seldszar and arched an eyebrow, as if daring him to protest her second.

The speaker's sphere shifted to a gaunt male face with hungry eyes. "The nomination has been second-spoken," it said in a paper-thin whisper that filled the chamber-the voice of Tsabrak, Master of the College of Necromancy. The vampire drow's real face was little more than a shadow, lost in the hood of his bone white robe. "Two nominations stand. Let the debate begin."

One by one, the masters stated their arguments and counter arguments. Warily, they fenced back and forth. Q'arlynd could imagine the unspoken calculations that must be whirling through their heads. Support one nomination? Both? What was to be gained-and lost-by building or breaking alliances? Was it better to speak first, or hold back until others declared themselves?

With this second, more complicated nomination to consider, the debate might go on for a full cycle. Or more.

Q'arlynd snuck another look at his apprentices. They were still frozen in place next to the shimmering wall of force. Behind it, one of the tentacled deepspawn the Breeder's Guild raised stared hungrily out at the two duelists.

Then Q'arlynd noticed something that chilled his gut like ice water. A crack had just appeared in the wall of force, next to the duelists. A crack that was widening.

There could be only one explanation for the rupture in what was otherwise a carefully tended wall. Someone must have spotted the two frozen duelists and decided to weaken Q'arlynd's school by ensuring the "accidental" deaths of two of its apprentices.

Q'arlynd couldn't wait for the debate to end. The second nomination had to be made null and void. Now.

He gripped the railing in front of him and took a deep breath. The moment there was a gap in the debate, he spoke. "I realize none but a master is permitted to speak, but there's something you must hear!" he said in a loud, clear voice. "Bae'qeshel magic is-"

Suddenly, Q'arlynd couldn't move. A sphere of glass, surrounded by solid stone, enclosed him.

A magical imprisonment! The favorite tactic, it was rumored, of Master Masoj-who supposedly was in full support of Q'arlynd's nomination. Q'arlynd hadn't felt the Master of Abjuration touch him-hadn't felt anyone touch him, for that matter. Yet the spell had been cast anyway.

Q'arlynd was trapped like a fly in amber. He couldn't cast spells, couldn't escape. He might never see Sshamath again, let alone realize his dream of being elevated to the Conclave.

He realized he'd been both hasty and stupid. Arrogant enough to think the Conclave would listen to him, that the masters wouldn't punish him for breaking protocol. Of all the things Q'arlynd had ever done, this had been among the most foolish.

He might be trapped, but there was one course of action open to him: thanks to his master ring, he could still scry. He refocused his attention on his apprentices. He might as well twist the dagger in deeper by watching Eldrinn die.

Via the scrying, he watched as Piri and Eldrinn unfroze. Neither noticed the crack spreading through the wall of force. Each glanced suspiciously at the other, then down at the ring on his finger. No feeblewits, they. Not like their master. They had figured out what had just happened, and what to do about it. With jerky motions, fighting the compulsions Q'arlynd had built into their rings, both Piri and Eldrinn tugged them from their fingers. They shouldn't have been able to do that. In ordinary circumstances, Q'arlynd would have wondered what magic was used to counter the rings' hold on their minds. But this was hardly the time to ponder such trivial betrayals.

No! Q'arlynd silently raged. It's not me you have to be worried about. It's-

The scrying ended.

Time passed.

Had Q'arlynd's heart been beating, he might have measured time by it.

Suddenly, he was back inside the Stonestave's central chamber, facing the Conclave once more. He immediately dropped to one knee and turned his head, exposing his throat. "My profound apologies, masters. I bow to your…"