heartbeat and the surge of blood through her arteries。 The pressure of her buttocks and spine against the chair。 The feeblest of drafts caressing and cooling her left profile。 The vipers shifting restlessly； brushing her feet and ankles； the touch perceptible even through her boots。
Yet none of the sensations was of any particular significance。 They prenotsented themselves so vividly only because she'd entered a state of utter disnotpassionate quietude； and thus receptivity。 A condition in which she would be equally cognizant of events within her mind and soul。
She recalled acquiring this capacity when she herself was a novice in Arach…Tinilith。 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 Vlonnotdril； unwrinkled but showing signs of madness even then； it had been benotcause 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 Arach…Tinilith。 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 disnotaster； 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 denotstruction 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 inadenotquacy。 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； benotginning 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 exnottermination 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 forgotten 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 pernotmitted 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 manotnipulate 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