by Lisa Smedman
"Silence, idiot!"
A sword appeared in the marilith's hand. Without even looking at the dretch, it slashed backward, neatly slicing through its neck. The head landed in a tangle of ferns, surprised eyes staring blankly up at the sky as the body crumpled, its neck fountaining red. The other dretches sniffed the splatters, then dropped to all fours and began lapping up the flowing blood with their tongues.
The marilith ignored them. It gestured with the point of its sword at Karrel l's distended belly. "Soon your young will emerge," it observed.
Karrell eyed the sword point and readied another prayer. If the sword pricked her, she'd need to inflict yet another jab of pain to convince the demon that the fate link still held.
"I'll need a healer to tend me," she told the marilith, "someone who can take away the pain and staunch my blood if too much of it flows, someone who can keep me alive if the birth doesn't go well." She gestured at the circle of slashed and trampled vegetation where the marilith's swords had whirled. "Open another
gate; send me home. The odds of survival-for both of us-will be much greater then."
"No."
"If I die-"
"Then your soul will wind up on the Fuguo Plain, even without a gate," the demon said, "where, instead of being claimed by Ubtao and taken to the Outlands, it will be consumed by Dendar." The marilith smiled, revealing yellowed teeth. "As I'm sure you noticed, the Night Serpent has developed a taste for the faithful."
Karrell blanched at that but managed to keep her voice steady. "All the more reason to keep me alive," she argued, "since your soul will also be consumed."
"All the more reason to keep you close," the marilith answered.
Karrell gestured at the dretches. They had peeled back the skin of the dead one's neck and fought over the right to suck the spinal cord.
"You sent them in to herd the faithful into Dendar's mouth," Karrell said. "Why?"
The demon gloated. "You haven't figured that out?" it tsk-tsked. "You're not as clever as I thought, half- blood. Perhaps there's too much human in you."
"Then pity me. Tell me why you want Dendar to grow so big. Is it so sho'll be stuck inside her cave?"
The demon frowned. "What purpose would that serve?"
"It would prevent the Night Serpent from escaping when Sibyl opens the door to her lair."
"Why should we care if Dendar escapes?" "Because…" Karrell was at a loss.
The marilith was right. Why indeed? For all the demons cared, the entire world beyond the Abyss- and all of the souls it contained-could disappear.
"Why should Sibyl want to open that door?" the marilith continued. "Hmm?"
"To reach Smaragd," she said. She waved her hand in a circle. "Through your gate."
The marilith gave a throaty laugh. "You truly are as stupid as you seem, mortal. Nothing living can enter the Fugue Plane."
Karrell knew that, of course, just as she knew that Sibyl was very much alive-and as mortal as she was. If she could keep the marilith talking, perhaps she could learn what was really going on.
"Sibyl could enter it by dying," she said.
The marilith sighed. "Who would claim her soul?" Karrell deliberately blinked. "Why… Sseth, of course."
The marilith started to say something, then bent until its lips brushed Karrell's ear. "You look tired. Rest. Sleep." It gave Karrell a wicked smile. "Dream."
KarrelI flinched away from the demon's touch. The marilith's last comment had been an odd one. Since being dragged into Smaragd, Karrell had slept fitfully, one ear always open for the sounds of the marilith and its dretches. Her dreams had been troubled. With Dendar feeding on the souls of the faithful, any dreams Karrel I had were certain to be full-blown nightmares, perhaps more than her mind could stand. Why would the demon want Karrell to do something that might harm her-and thus it?
With a suddenness that left her dizzy, Karrell realized what was happening. Sseth communioated with his worshipers through whispers and dreams, and Sseth was bound. The dreams he was sending had turned into a writhing nest of nightmares. That was why Karrell-why all of the yuan-ti-had been having such troubling dreams for the past several months, dreams that disturbed their sleep enough to cause them to wake up, hissing in alarm. Dreams of being bound, of feeling trapped, of being prey rather than predator, dreams that were terrifying in their
imagery but not quite substantial enough or clear enough to convey whatever message Sseth was so urgently trying to send.
If Dendar gorged herself on the faithful-if she stopped eating nightmares-those dreams would come through, not in a trickle, as they had for the past several months, but in a terrible, mind- drowning rush.
Sibyl wasn't planning to enter Smaragd through Dendar's cave. Dendar was only the solution to her immediate problem. There had to be another entrance to Smaragd, one that Sseth knew-one that he was trying to send to his faithful through dreams that had become nightmares.
Whatever that route was, the Circled Serpent was the key. Of that Karrell was certain. She closed her eyes, praying that key didn't fall into the wrong hands.
Something stroked her hair-the marilith's claw-tipped fingers. "A copper for your thoughts," it hissed.
Karrell pressed her lips grimly shut. Inside her belly, her children kicked. They could feel her tension, her anxiety. Forcing herself to remain calm, she placed a hand on her stomach.
The demon stared thoughtfully at it. "Is it your time?" it asked. "Has it begun?"
One of the dretches rose from its feast and sniffed Karrell, its blood-smeared nostrils twitching. Karrell smacked its hand away.
"Not yet," she told the demon, meeting its eye.
It was a lie. Karrell's water had just broken; she could feel its warmth trickling down her legs. Her stomach cramped-a hint of the contractions that would follow.
She smiled up at the demon, hiding her fear behind a mask. "Don't worry," she told the marilith. "When my labor does begin, you'll feel it."
As she spoke, she sent out a silent plea. Arvin, she thought, if you're listening, come quickly. I'm running out of time.
Arvin eased his head out of the cave and stared down. He'd had the net ready to throw, but lowered it again. It wasn't Sibyl who had returned to the cave, but Ts'ikil.
The couatl sat coiled on a ledge beside the river at the bottom of the bluff, her head drooping with exhaustion. Her body was badly burned in several places. Scorched feathers stood stiffly out from seared red flesh. Sibyl's black cloud had left oozing brown patches elsewhere along the couatl's length. Her remaining feathers had lost their rainbow luster and her wings were tattered. She held one wing at an awkward angle, as if it were broken.
Arvin opened his mouth to call out to her then hesitated. Maybe he should just sneak away while his invisibility lasted, strike out on his own and try to find the Dmetrio-seed. Unfortunately, even though Arvin had learned his psionics from HI ondeth's best tracker, he didn't have any powers that would allow him to hunt the seed down. He'd concentrated, instead, on learning powers that would help him infiltrate Sibyl's lair.
For what must have been the hundredth time, Arvin wished he hadn't broken the dorje Tanju had given him the winter before. It would have pointed, like a lodestone, directly at the Dmetrio-seed. What Arvin needed was a power that could do the same thing or-he glanced at Pakal's still form-a spell. Pakal had been able to track down the upper half of the Circled Serpent back in Sibyl's lair. Perhaps he could do the same with the seed.
The trouble was, he'd probably continue to insist on destroying the artifact.
Ts'ikil, on the other hand, had at least seemed sympathetic to Karrell's plight. Perhaps she might yet be persuaded.
Arvin negated his invisibility. "Ts'ikil!" he called. "Up here!"
It took several more shouts before the couatl raised her head. Either the cascade of the river below was drowning out Arvin's voice, or she was as far gone as Pakal was.
Arvin! Her voice was faint, weak. What has happened?
&
nbsp; "Pakal is badly wounded," Arvin shouted. "Dmetrio has taken the Circled Serpent. He has both halves."
Arvin knew he was taking a huge gamble. If Ts'ikil_ had magic that could locate the Dmetrioseed, she might go after him and leave Arvin behind, assuming she could still fly.
He felt Ts'ikil's mind slide deep into his awareness. Her mental intrusion was a mere tickle-far gentler than the pummeling Zelia had given him in her rooftop garden as she rifled through his thoughts. Momories flickered past in reverse order: the psychic impressions Arvin had picked up from the cavern, his encounter with the dog-man, Pakal's battle with the shadow asps.
"He looks bad," Arvin told her. He spoke in a normal voice, certain she was still listening in on his thoughts. "He's… alive, but his skin's turning black. Can you help him?"
I will try. Can you lower him to me?
"Yes."
That said, he uncoiled his trollgut rope. He repositioned Pakal's belt across his chest, just under the arms, and made sure it was securely buckled. He attached his rope to it, passing a loop under each
of the dwarf's legs to turn it into a sling. He carried Pakal to the mouth of the cave, eased him over the edge, and stood holding the end of the trollgut rope. "Augesto," he commanded. It lengthened, slowly lowering Pakal to the ledge below.
When the rope went slack, Arvin tossed the other end of it down. He stowed the magical net back inside his pack and slipped the pack on, then activated his bracelet. By the time he climbed down to the ledge, Ts'ikil was bending over Pakal, touching his wounds with a wingtip. She hissed softly as her feathers brushed across the puncture marks. In full daylight, Arvin got a better look at the blackness that surrounded each of the wounds. He'd assumed it to be bruising, but it was something much worse. The darkened areas on Pakal's legs seemed somehow insubstantial-shadows that clung to him, even in the full glare of direct sunlight. As Ts'ikil's wingtip touched them, it sank into nothingness.
"That's not good, is it?" Arvin said. Despite the wound in his shoulder, he bore the dwarf no ill will. Pakal had only been doing what he felt he must just as Arvin had been.
For several moments, Ts'ikil said nothing. The river surged past them, a pace or two away, sounding like one long, constant sigh. From somewhere in the distant jungle came a faint scream: a monkey's cry. The stone of the ledge felt hot, even through the soles of Arvin's boots. He wondered if they shouldn't be moving Pakal into the shade.
No, Ts'ikil said. Sunlight will hasten the cure. She gave Pakal's wounds one last touch, trilled aloud-a melody as beautiful and haunting as that of a songbird-then sank back into a loose coil. There. I have done all I can.
"When will he regain consciousness?" Arvin asked.
A day. Perhaps two.
Arvin frowned. "That's too long. We need him to find Dmetrio now." He glanced up at Ts'ikil. "Can you-" No. Pakal and Karrell were my eyes.
"Aren't there others you can call upon?"
None close by.
Arvin closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. "So that's it, thon. The Dmetrio-seed has gotten away." We will find him.
"How? You said-"
He will go to the door.
"Yes-but there's just one problem," Arvin said. "We don't know where the door is." He paused. "Do we?" No mortal does.
Her choice of words gave him a surge of hope. "What about the gods?" he asked. "Can they tell us where it is?"
We have petitioned both Ubtao and Thard Harr. They do not know its location.
"What now?" Arvin asked.
We rest and gather strength. And wait.
"Here?" Arvin said. He glanced up at the sky. "What if Sibyl returns?"
She won't, not for some time. She was even more grievously wounded than I.
"She's not dead?" Arvin said. Part of him felt disappointed by the news, but another, larger part of him was glad. He wanted to be the one to kill Sibyl. To exact revenge for what she had done to Naulg, and for what her marilith had done to Karrell. He shrugged off his pack and set it on the ledge by his feet. "What, exactly, are we waiting for?" he asked.
You already know the answer to that question. We await a dream that Sseth will send to the yuan-ti. When it comes, we must act swiftly.
Arvin snapped his fingers. "The dream will provide the location of the door, won't it?" he said. "Then
all we have to do is beat the Dmetrio-seed to it and lay an ambush."
Yes.
"A good plan, except for one thing," Arvin said. Feeling a little foolish-surely he was pointing out the obvious-he made a gesture that included Ts'ikil, Pakal and himself. "None of us is yuan-ti." He hesitated, looking at the couatl's serpent body. "Are we?"
Laughter trilled into his mind. Not me, Ts'ikil said. You.
Arvin blinked. "You think I'm yuan-ti?" he asked. He shook his head. "I'm human."
Yuan-ti blood flows in your veins.
Arvin snorted. "Why do you think that?" That should be obvious,
"Well it isn't-and I'm not yuan-ti," Arvin said, "unless the potion the Pox forced me to drink left some lingering traces." He stared at Ts'ikil. "You know what I'm talking about, right? You saw that in my memories?"
The couatl nodded.
"That potion was purged from my body a year ago," Arvin continued. "Zelia neutralized it the night she found me in the sewers."
I was not referring to the potion.
Arvin thought a moment. "Ah. You mean the mind seed. It was purged, too, but a little of Zelia's knowledge still remains. Gemstones, for example. I know their value, both in coin and as raw material for constructing dorjes and power stones." He realized he was babbling, but oouldn't stop himself. "Is that what you mean? Will my having been seeded a year ago enable me to receive Sseth's dream-message when it comes?"
Despite the couatl's frail condition, there was a twinkle in her eye. I thought I spoke plainly, but I see that you haven't understood, she said. Once again: there is yuan-ti blood in your veins.
She stared at his injured hand. "This?" Arvin asked, raising it. "Are you trying to say that the viper that bit me-Juz'la's pet-was a yuan-ti?"
The couatl sighed aloud. Don't you wonder why its venom didn't kill you?
"I got lucky," Arvin said, touching the crystal at his throat. "Tymora be thanked."
The viper was one of the most deadly in the Black Jungle. You have a slrong resistance to snake venom.
"So?" Arvin was starting to get irritated by Ts'ikil's persistence.
Such a strong natural resistance is typically found only in those humans who are part yuan-ti.
"My mother was human!" Arvin said, his temper making his words louder than he'd intended.
And your father?
Arvin balled his fists. His father had been a bard named Salim. Arvin's mother had described him as a gifted singer whose voice could still a tavern full of boisterous drunks to rapt silence. That was where Arvin's mother had met Salim: in a tavern in Hlondeth, one she'd stopped at in the course of her wanderings. He wasn't a psion like her, or even an adventurer, but she fell deeply in love with him. They remained together only for a handful of ten- days, but in that time they conceived a child. Then, one night, a vision had come to Arvin's mother in a dream: Salim, drowning, dragging Arvin's mother down with him.
Salim had been planning a voyage to Reth to sing at the gladiatorial games. It was an important commission-one not to be refused if he wanted other business to follow. He had already asked Arvin's mother to accompany him. He refused to believe that her dream was a premonition, but he had not known her long enough to know the extent of her powers. She had already made her dislike of gladiatorial games
known, so Salim thought she was simply refusing to accompany him. He boarded a ship bound for Reth and drowned along with everyone else on board, just as she had foretold, when it sank in the stormy waters of the Vilhon Reach. Had Arvin's mother gone with him, she too would have drowned, and Arvin-still in her womb-would never have been born.
That was the extent of what Arvin's
mother had told him about his father. She had described Salim as tall and agile, with dark brown hair and eyes, just like Arvin's. She'd never mentioned scales, slit pupils, or any other hint that there might have been yuan-ti in his blood.
Arvin didn't believe that his mother would have lied to him, but what if she herself hadn't known Salim wasn't fully human? What if Arvin really did have a trace of yuan-ti in his ancestry?
Impossible, he told himself. He had been inspected by Gonthril, leader of the rebels of Hlondeth, and pronounced wholly human. Humans with yuan-ti ancestry always had a hint of serpent about them, like the scales that freckled Karrell's breasts. If Arvin's father had been part yuan-ti, surely his mother would have noticed something.
Then again, perhaps she had. Maybe it hadn't mattered to her enough to mention it.
Why does the idea of having a yuan-ti heritage frighten you?
"It doesn't," Arvin snapped, "and get out of my head."
He felt the couatl's awareness slide away.
The intense heat of the jungle had made Arvin sticky with sweat. He stalked over to the lip of the ledge, kneeled, and pulled off what remained of his shirt. He splashed river water on his face and chest. It cooled him but didn't help him to feel any cleaner. He dunked the top of his head into the water, letting
it soak his hair, then flipped his hair back. It still didn't help.
He didn't wanl to be part yuan-ti-he'd only recently gotten used to the idea that his children would be part serpent. He'd learned, by falling in love with Karrell, that not all yuan-ti were cruel and cold, but growing up in Hlondeth had taught him to be wary of the race. Yuan-ti were the masters, and humans were slaves and servants. Inferiors. Yet humans, despite being downtrodden, had a fierce pride. They knew they were better than yuan-ti. Less arrogant, less vicious, on the whole. Yuan-ti rarely laughed or cried and certainly never caroused or howled with grief. They were incapable of the depths of joy and sorrow that humans felt. They were emotionally detached.
Just as Arvin himself was.
The realization hit him like an ice-cold blast of wind. He sat, utterly motionless, water dripping onto his shoulders from his wet hair. Aside from the feelings Karrell stirred in him, when was the last time he'd been utterly passionate about something? He could count the number of true friends he'd had in his life on one hand. If he was brutally honest, they narrowed down to just one: Naulg, who had defended him at the orphanage when they were both just boys. After Arvin had escaped from the Pox, he'd set about trying to rescue Naulg and had eventually succeeded-but just a little too late to save his friend's life. If Arvin had been a little more zealous in his efforts, a little more passionate about his friend's welfare, might Naulg have survived? Was a lack of strong emotion the reason why Arvin had been so reluctant to take up the worship of Hoar, god of vengeance, as the cleric Nicco had urged?