Vanity's Brood

by Lisa Smedman

  Arvin wasted no time on preliminaries; Zelia certainly wouldn’t. He concentrated on the memory of her voice and shaped his own mental words with the inflections she would use.

  The door is a volcanic crater at the head of the River Chun, he sent. I am there. How quickly can you reach me?

  The Dmetrio-seed looked startled then wary. For a moment, Arvin wondered if something in his tone had given him away. You want me to…? he started to ask, then caught himself. A sly smile crept across his face. I will be there by sunset.

  The sending ended as he bent over and picked up the object he had been lying on—the flying carpet.

  Arvin took a deep breath, glanced at the sun, then smiled. “I’ll be ready for you,” he promised. Then he began his preparations.

  The Dmetrio-seed arrived exactly at sunset, when the sky to the west was a deep purplish red and the crater gloomy with shadow. He circled the peak on the flying carpet, staring down into the crater. Arvin, circling higher above in flying snake form, couldn’t make out the expression on the seed’s face but could imagine it. The seed, expecting a meeting with Zelia, would be puzzled at finding the crater empty. He would be probing for psionic energies or scanning the area for thoughts, perhaps even surveying the seemingly empty crater with a power that would banish illusions.

  Arvin waited well out of range, not yet daring to make his move. He’d managed to lure the Dmetrio-seed there, but had the seed brought the Circled Serpent with him?

  The flying carpet landed inside the crater. The seed stepped off it, hesitated, then pulled out a box that had been tucked inside his shirt. The seed looked around warily then shouted something, but Arvin was too high above to make out the words. Then the seed opened the box. Arvin saw a gleam of silver inside. He watched as the seed tossed the box aside and began to fit the two halves of the key together. While the seed was busy assembling the Circled Serpent, was the best moment to strike.

  Arvin stiffened his wings and dived.

  As he hurtled toward the crater, he clawed ectoplasm out of the air around him and shaped it into a flying snake that hurtled through the air next to him. A loud droning noise surrounded him as he gave his construct a single mental command—seize it!—and aimed it like an arrow at the Circled Serpent. Then he attacked.

  Imagining his arms lashing forward, he sent strands of mental energy whipping through the air toward the Dmetrio-seed. The seed sent his mind slithering away into emptiness that left Arvin’s attack with nothing to latch onto, then countered Arvin’s attack with one of his own—a psychic crush that crashed through the mental shield Arvin had erected in front of himself and looped tightly around his mind. Arvin was barely able to remain conscious as it constricted, squeezing his thoughts together like the broken bones of a mouse in a serpent’s coils. He tumbled through the air, his mind no longer in control of his body. Suddenly, he was human again. He slammed into the crater floor, knocking the air from his lungs. Dazed, he looked up.

  The Dmetrio-seed was at the other side of the crater, struggling with Arvin’s construct. It had seized the Circled Serpent in its mouth and was tugging on it while the seed clung grimly to it. Arvin forced himself to his knees, waving a hand. That way, he commanded. The construct obeyed, dragging the seed with it. At last, it wrenched the Circled Serpent from the seed’s hands—but even as it did, a loud hissing filled the air. The seed glared at the construct and it exploded into a mist of ectoplasm. The Circled Serpent clattered to the floor of the crater, practically at the seed’s feet.

  Instead of picking it up, the seed whirled toward the real threat: Arvin. Surprise flickered across his face as he recognized his attacker. He visibly relaxed, then crooked a finger at Arvin—just as Zelia had done in the rooftop garden. Arvin felt a hollow open at the base of his spine; his muladhara opening, preparing to spill its psionic energies to the winds.

  He smiled. The seed, just as he’d hoped, had chosen to toy with him instead of killing him outright. Arvin knew better than to use his psionics.

  “Augesto!” he shouted.

  The Dmetio-seed reacted immediately. A sharp hissing filled the air—his secondary display. His psionic attack struck Arvin even as it sounded, and Arvin felt the air rush from his lungs in an explosive breath. His lungs strained as he tried to inhale, but it was as if an invisible rope had cinched tight around his chest. Only by concentrating was he able to draw a thin, gasping breath.

  The seed picked up the Circled Serpent, twisted it back into a circle, then bared his fangs in a delighted smile.

  “This time, you won’t have to play dead, Arvin,” he hissed. “You’ll be—”

  A rumbling noise from the crater wall behind him interrupted his gloating. The seed whirled—just as a teetering slab of stone crashed down on him. Dmetrio vanished underneath the slab, which shattered explosively as it struck the crater floor.

  Immediately, Arvin could breathe again. “Nine lives,” he breathed, touching the crystal at his neck. Then he ran toward the fallen rock.

  The seed lay in the middle of a scattering of broken stone—he either hadn’t known any powers that would whisk him away or hadn’t had time to manifest them. The falling slab must have struck him square on the head. His high forehead was caved in, and his jaw hung loose, attached only at one side. The arms and legs were likewise broken and bent, fragments of white bone protruding through bloody flesh. Even so, Arvin bent and touched a finger to the seed’s twisted throat. As he expected, there was no sign of life.

  Jumbled together with the stone were fragments of Arvin’s trollgut rope. His trap had worked just as he’d hoped it would. He had tied off the slab of stone with his rope, then loosened it until the rope was all that held it in place. The astral construct had lured the Dmetrio-seed into position, and upon Arvin’s command, the rope had lengthened, allowing the stone to fall.

  Only one thing had not gone according to plan: the construct was supposed to have carried the Circled Serpent out of the way before the stone fell. Falling to his knees, Arvin scrabbled at the broken rock, clearing it away from the seed’s body. The Circled Serpent was supposed to be indestructable, but a part of him worried, even so, that the rock might have dented it, preventing it from being used.

  He heaved a sigh of relief when he saw where it had landed: inside a fold of stone that sheltered it from the crush of falling rock. They key was undented. Whole. Closing his eyes, he whispered a prayer to Tymora. He silently promised the goddess of fortune a hundred gold coins—no, a thousand—for her benevolence, then ended it with the plea that she extend the run of good fortune just a little bit longer.

  “Just long enough for me to rescue Karrell,” he said.

  Then he stood. Slowly, he twisted the Circled Serpent back into a circle again. He was careful not to press the head toward the tail; that, he had learned from Pakal, would cause it to consume itself.

  When it was a circle again, he walked to the center of the crater, a confident smile on his lips. Last summer, one of Gonthril’s rebels had used a magical device to open a secret passage in the Extaminos gardens. The Circled Serpent, Arvin reasoned, had to work in the same manner. Just as Chorl had done with his hollow metal tube that night, Arvin bent and lightly tapped the Circled Serpent against the ground. Instead of emitting a musical tone as the tube had done, the Circled Serpent struck the stone with a dull clank.

  He waited, but no door opened.

  Arvin tried again.

  Nothing happened.

  Arvin stood, thinking. He tried holding the Circled Serpent parallel with the crater floor, then turned it a right angle to it, then held it parallel again. He tried walking in a circle around the crater, first in one direction, then the other. He tried drawing a circle on the stone with the Circled Serpent.

  Still nothing happened.

  The sun had disappeared below the horizon, and stars started to appear in the sky above. Inside the crater, all was in shadow. Arvin was worried but refused to admit defeat. He would solve the puzzle. Perhaps t
he Circled Serpent worked more like Naneth’s teleportation ring. He tried gently tugging it, then laid it on the ground and stood inside it, on tiptoe, with both feet, but wasn’t transported anywhere.

  He tried to recall everything he had ever gleaned from the guild about opening magical doors. He tossed the Circled Serpent into the air, spinning, but nothing happened. He rolled it around the circumference of the crater—a task made difficult by the pile of broken stone covering the Dmetrio-seed’s body—but neither action triggered its magic.

  Though the night air was cooling, he could feel anxious sweat beading on his forehead. There had to be a way in—but how? Perhaps, like the portal he and Pakal had used, the door to Smaragd would only open at certain times of day, or maybe it could only be opened by a follower of Sseth. Was that why Ts’ikil had seemed so unconcerned about the key winding up in Arvin’s hands?

  If that was the case, why all the dire warnings about what would happen if Arvin were to enter Smaragd? Those only made sense if there was a way Arvin could use the key.

  He pondered. How would one of Sseth’s faithful use the key to open the door?

  He felt a familiar tickle in his forehead: the lapis lazuli, warning him that someone was scrying on him. Ts’ikil? If so, her timing was impeccable. Arvin had just located, in one of Zelia’s memories, a possible solution to his problem.

  “If you’re watching, Ts’ikil, it’s too late,” he announced. “I’ve made my decision.”

  Bracing his feet, he held the Circled Serpent out at arm’s length in his right hand. Then—imitating the motion he’d seen in Zelia’s dream-memory of her visit to the temple in Hlondeth—Arvin moved it in an undulating motion.

  The sign of Sseth.

  A ring of glowing red appeared around the edge of the crater. A wave of heat pressed in upon Arvin from all sides. He saw he was surrounded by a thin line of lava. It formed a perfect circle around the edge of the crater. The line of red expanded. As Arvin watched, it grew to the width of a palm, charring the Dmetrio seed’s body with its intense heat. One of the fragments of the rock that had fallen from the lip of the crater above began to melt.

  Arvin grinned. He’d done it! He’d opened the door. But—he shot a glance at the lava that bubbled inside the circle that surrounded him—did the entrance to Smaragd indeed lie through the molten interior of a volcano? If so, only an immortal would survive the passage through it.

  The floor of the crater tilted suddenly, sending him staggering to the side. He clung to the Circled Serpent, and after an unsteady step or two, found his balance again. It felt as though the floor of the crater had become detached—was it floating on a bed of lava? The crack widened farther still, its edge creeping inward toward the spot where Arvin stood. Already the moat of lava was nearly a pace wide.

  The tickling in his forehead continued to intensify until it felt like a hot ember burned within his scar. Something made him look up: a flicker of darkness against the starry sky near the lip of the crater. With a start, he saw a hooded serpent peering down at him. As it humped its body up over the edge of the crater, he heard a scraping sound—the rasp of metal against stone.

  The iron cobra.

  It slithered into the crater, its battered metal body scraping against the stone. Arvin backed away from it but was forced to halt as the unsteady floor tipped still further. The cobra, too, halted, just on the other side of the circle of lava. It stared at Arvin across the molten rock, its dented face illuminated from below by the red glow. Then it drew back into a coil, preparing to spring across the gap.

  Swiftly, Arvin drew energy into his third eye. He hurled a line of sparkling silver at the iron cobra, looping it around the serpent’s neck. As the iron cobra began to move, he yanked.

  Unbalanced, the cobra toppled into the lava. It thrashed, trying to escape, but began to melt. Soon nothing remained except a bubbling layer of melted metal. For a heartbeat or two, gleaming red eyes glared out of the glowing puddle. Then, with an angry hiss, they vanished.

  So did the sensation in Arvin’s forehead.

  The iron cobra had been following Arvin. Had it given Sibyl his location?

  If so, there was little Arvin could do about it now. He teetered on the circular slab of stone. The heat grew steadily more intense. The ever-present damp had long since evaporated from his clothes. His skin felt hot and dry. He could use the couatl feather to fly above the crater, but if he did—if his feet weren’t touching it when it at last opened—would he lose his chance to enter Smaragd?

  If indeed that door did lead to Smaragd. What if it opened onto another plane—the Elemental Plane of Fire, for example?

  Or even just the interior of a volcano, which would just as certainly kill him.

  The circle of stone tilted, throwing Arvin to his knees. He started to slide toward the lava, then found a toehold and handhold and scrambled back up the tilting surface, balancing it once more, but not for long. The crack of lava was several paces wide, steadily closing in on the spot where he huddled.

  A flapping sound, high overhead, made Arvin look up. He saw a winged serpent silhouetted against the sky. Ts’ikil—or Sibyl? It flew awkwardly, with sudden lurches, perhaps due to a broken wing.

  As it wheeled above the crater, Arvin recognized it as Sibyl. The abomination’s black wings were tattered and her body was crisscrossed with deep lash marks and burns from her battle with the couatl, but her face was alight with a wicked grin as she suddenly dived toward the spot where Arvin lay.

  Arvin tried to wrestle his backpack off, hoping to get at the net it contained. At the very least, he could ensure Sibyl’s death before he himself died. It was impossible to hold the Circled Serpent, cling to the rock and reach his pack all at the same time. Something had to go. The Circled Serpent, he decided, hurling it beyond the line of lava, but even as he wrenched his backpack in front of him and tore the flap open, Sibyl struck the edge of the circle of stone. It flipped upside down like a pot lid, spilling Arvin not into lava but into a black nothingness. He fell, still clinging to his pack, and saw Sibyl dive past him. Above them both was a circle of bright, flaming red in an otherwise purple and brooding sky. Below was thick jungle.

  A long way below. Far enough for the fall to kill him.

  Arvin fumbled desperately inside his pack, searching for the couatl feather, as he fell toward the trees below.

  Karrell awoke with a scream. For several moments, she struggled to escape from the dream that clung to her like a heavy shroud, blocking all sensation of the waking world. She had been swimming in a bowl of venom, trying desperately to keep her head above water to prevent the deadly poison from slipping past her lips. The pool, at the same time, was an acid that ate into her flesh. It was gnawing a hole through her stomach, which pulsed as her children struggled to free themselves. If they did break free, however, they would die. Their first breath would be a lungful of liquid poison.

  Arvin was in her dream as well. He stood at the side of the pool, holding a silver rope in his hands. He twisted it, tying it into a loop, then threw it. Karrell caught it and looped it around her wrist, but it coiled around her tooth instead. Arvin yanked the silver rope he held, forcing her mouth open. The venom rushed in, gagging and drowning her, and …

  With a whispered prayer to Ubtao, Karrell shoved the dream memories aside. She sat up, expecting to find the marilith hovering over her. Instead the demon’s attention was fixed upon the sky. It was difficult to see details through the thick screen of jungle, but something was happening up there, almost directly above them. The dark purple clouds swirled in a spiral around a circle that glowed a dull red.

  “What’s—” Karrell gasped as a contraction twisted her gut, “happening?” she managed to finish at last.

  The demon gave no answer. Fortunately, it hadn’t noticed her flinch. It watched, transfixed, as a bulge appeared below the circle of red in the sky. The bulge lengthened like dripping sap, then fell toward the jungle below in a bright red, bubbling streak. An exp
losive hiss of steam rose from the jungle as it struck.

  Whatever was happening, Karrell was thankful for the distraction. After their earlier discussion, she’d pretended to take the demon’s advice. She’d closed her eyes, feigning sleep, hoping that the demon would attribute any grimaces she made to nightmares and not to a pain that it didn’t feel. Exhausted, Karrell had actually fallen into a restless slumber, but when she was awake she was unable to hide the agony that cramped her stomach every few moments. Her face, she was certain, was as pale as parchment. Sweat trickled onto her lips, leaving the faint taste of acid on them.

  When the demon turned to her, Karrell glanced up at the sky, redirecting its attention there. “Are we in danger?” she asked, hoping the demon would interpret her look of discomfort as fear.

  “Stay here,” was the demon’s only answer. It gestured, and half a dozen dretches appeared. “Watch her,” it instructed them. “See that she doesn’t leave this spot. Use your magical fear to herd her back here, but do not harm her.”

  The dretches nodded their bulbous heads and grunted. One or two of them fixed beady eyes on Karrell and smiled, revealing teeth like broken needles.

  The marilith disappeared.

  Karrell tried to stand, but a wave of agony forced her back to her knees. She could feel an intense pressure deep in her pelvis; her children, straining to be born.

  “Ubtao,” she panted. “Not in this place. Not now. Not here.”

  The layers of rotted vegetation beneath her hands and knees quivered as she spoke her god’s name, turning to slime. Acid ate into her palms. Staggering upright, she wiped them on a nearby tree. The bark sprouted needles that tore her skin. The ground underfoot continued to liquefy, and Karrell sank into putrid water past her knees before her feet finally settled on something solid.

  The dretches giggled—a loathsome, gurgling sound as vile as the bubbles rising through the putrid water in which they stood. The slimy stuff lapped at their bulging bellies, but they didn’t seem to mind it. One of them bent over and slurped some into its mouth.