by Lisa Smedman
“But the child,” Arvin repeated. “Won’t you take it … with you?”
Dmetrio let out a loud hiss of laughter. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Because it’s your child. You can’t just abandon—”
Dmetrio waved a hand. Someone seized Arvin’s arms from behind—two someones, wearing armor and helmets flared like cobra hoods. “Rillis?” Arvin asked, peering at them through the smoke.
Neither was the guard Arvin had bribed for information the day before. They dragged him backward out of the basking room. A servant—the one who’d been carrying the jar of oil—closed and relocked the door behind them. Arvin found himself being dragged through the reception hall, down a corridor, out a door, and down a snow-covered ramp. His heels skidded through the snow, leaving two drag marks. He stared at them, fascinated. They were like the trails left by snakes. If he moved his feet from side to side, they slithered….
A gate creaked open and the militiamen lifted him up. Then he was floating through the air. No, not floating … he’d been thrown, tossed out by the militiamen. He landed on his back in the snowy street. As people drifted past him, shrinking back from the spot where he lay, he stared, intrigued, at the snowflakes falling out of the sky. He watched them while the snow soaked through his cloak, trousers, and shirt. They started off so small and got so big. Like that one … it was huge.
No, that wasn’t a snowflake. It was a woman’s face, looking down at him. She had dark eyes, wide cheekbones, and black, wavy hair that reached toward him like snakes.
Heart pounding, Arvin tried to crawl backward through the snow, to escape the snakes. Then he spotted the frog hiding behind them. The notion of a frog sitting on a woman’s earlobe seemed so silly, somehow, that he had to laugh. It came out like a croak.
“Vin?” the woman asked. “Are you all right?”
Arvin stared dreamily up at Karrell for several moments, tracing the curve of her lips with his eyes. He tried to raise a hand to touch them, but his arm flopped into the snow above his head. He needed to tell her something—that he’d breathed in something called osssra—but his lips wouldn’t form the word. “Sssraaa,” he slurred.
Karrell bent down and lifted his arm from the snow. “Vin,” she said, her voice low and serious. “You need help. Please try to stand.”
His arm drifted up around her shoulder, and his legs were scrabbling under him, messing up the snow. Yanked along the street by Karrell, he stumbled after her, staring at the pattern his feet made, oblivious to the people staring at them. There were so many footsteps … and not a one of them from a satyr’s cloven hoof.
Why that mattered, he couldn’t say.
Arvin sat up, rubbing his head. His mind was his own again, but his head ached, and he felt shaky; it was difficult to coordinate his movements. He took it slow, swinging first one leg, then the other, off the side of the bed. When he stood, his legs trembled. He was naked, save for his breeches and the braided leather bracelet around his right wrist. And—he touched the crystal that hung at his throat—the now-depleted power stone his mother had given him, all those years ago.
He was in a small, simply furnished room with a door and one window. Through the shutters he could see that the snow had at last stopped falling; the street was three stories below. It was dark and a horn was sounding elsewhere in the city, signaling the evening prayer. He must have been unconscious for some time.
The room’s furnishings included a bed, a narrow wardrobe by the fire, and a wooden table and chair. He was relieved to see his belt hanging on the back of the chair, his dagger still in its sheath. His magical glove lay on the table, next to a drawing of his sleeping face, rendered in charcoal on parchment. It was an amazingly good likeness; Karrell must have drawn it. A fire burned in the grate; his damp clothes and cloak hung, steaming slightly, on the fire screen in front of it. Noise wafted up from somewhere below—the overlapping sounds of voices, a stringed instrument, and the clatter of crockery. With it came the smell of food, a mouthwatering blend of stew and baking bread. Arvin’s stomach growled.
He walked toward the fire—slowly, so he wouldn’t stumble—and searched the pocket of his shirt. Inside the false seam was a familiar bulge: the lapis lazuli. Pulling it out, he affixed it to his forehead and tried to concentrate on Tanju, but the psion’s face kept slipping out of focus. Realizing he was simply too tired to manifest a sending, Arvin removed the lapis lazuli and tucked it back inside his pocket. He’d contact Tanju later. All he really had to report, anyway, was that Dmetrio wasn’t involved in Glisena’s disappearance.
As he was making his way back to the bed, the door opened. Karrell came in, carrying a platter on which stood a bowl of stew, some bread, and a mug of ale. She set the platter down on the table then took Arvin’s arm, guiding him toward the table. “You’re still unwell,” she said. “You should rest.”
Arvin sank into the chair. “How long have I been here?” The savory odors of carrots, potatoes, and beef rose to his nostrils. He licked his lips and picked up a spoon from the platter. “And where am I?”
“I found you at midday, outside the ambassador’s residence,” Karrell answered, closing the door. “You are at the Fairwinds Inn, a short distance from there.”
Arvin nodded and tore a chunk off the bread, following it up with some stew. As the flavors washed over his tongue, he closed his eyes and sighed. He took a drink of ale then tucked into the stew in earnest. “Thanks,” he said, nodding at the bowl. “And thanks for helping me.”
“You were fortunate,” Karrell said. “Osssra can be fatal to humans.”
“What is it?”
Karrell walked to the fire screen and lifted Arvin’s cloak from it, turning it so the other side was to the heat. “Osssra are oils,” she told him over her shoulder. “When burned, they have special properties. Some osssra clear the mind, while others heal the body. Some purge enchantments, while still others—like the one whose odor lingers on your hair and skin—stimulate dreams and memories.”
“The only thing it stimulated in me was dizziness,” Arvin said, talking around a mouthful of bread. The food was helping; he was starting to feel better already. “It made me as stupid as a slug.”
“Be thankful it only enfeebled your mind. Some osssra are fatal to humans. They are intended for yuan-ti.”
“You know a lot about these magical oils,” Arvin noted between spoonfuls of stew.
Karrell shrugged and continued turning his clothing. “You came from the direction of the palace. Did you manage an audience with the baron, after all?”
“You were watching the ambassador’s residence, weren’t you?” Arvin asked between mouthfuls of food.
“Yes,” she admitted. “Was he just as rude as before?”
Arvin’s fist tightened on the spoon. “Worse. He’s an arrogant, unfeeling bastard. Just like all the rest of—”
Karrell’s eyes narrowed. “All the rest of what?”
Arvin shrugged. He might as well say it. This wasn’t Hlondeth; he could say what he liked.
“House Extaminos.”
“Ah.” Karrell walked back across the room and sank onto the bed—the only other place to sit. She toyed with the collar of her dress, which was white and hemmed with intricate turquoise embroidery. The dress was made from a soft, thin fabric unsuited to a winter climate, a fabric that hugged her breasts. She tossed her hair with a flick of her head, revealing her jade earplug and the soft curve of her jaw and throat. Arvin found himself losing interest in his food. He really was feeling better—much better. Even without the benefits of a charm spell, Karrell looked amazing.
She smiled and said something in a low voice. Arvin leaned forward. “Excuse me?” he asked, sopping up the last of the stew with his bread. “What did you just—”
He realized that she’d slid one hand behind her, as if to lean back on it. He caught sight of her fingers moving in an all-too-familiar gesture. Before she could complete her spell, he manifested a charm o
f his own. The base of his scalp prickled as psionic energy rushed from it. Break her promise, would she? Well he wasn’t about to let her get the better of him this time.
He saw Karrell tilt her head slightly.
Arvin felt a rush of warmth flow through him. He could see, by the sparkle in her dark eyes and the way she looked at him, that she cared for him—really cared for him—as much as he did for her. She’d just saved his life, hadn’t she? Karrell was someone he could count on, trust in, confide in. Setting down the piece of bread, he turned toward her. “He doesn’t care,” he told her.
She gave a slight frown. “Who does not care—and about what?”
“Dmetrio Extaminos.” Arvin shoved the empty bowl away. “I tried to tell him that the woman carrying his child might be in danger, and he just laughed. He’s not even going to try to look for Glisena; he’s just going to walk away. To abandon his own child. Just like….”
He looked away.
Karrell laid a hand on his knee. “Just like what, Vin?”
“It’s Arvin,” he said.
“Just Arvin?” she asked. “No clan name?”
“My father didn’t live long enough to marry my mother. He died before I was born. Or at least, that’s what my mother told me.”
“Some fathers are not worth knowing,” Karrell said.
Arvin caught the look in her eye, and saw that it would be better not to pursue this comment. He tried to lighten the mood. “The yuan-ti have that advantage,” he said. “Their women lay their eggs all together in a brood chamber. None of them know their fathers.” He chuckled. “It’s a wonder they know who their mothers are.”
“The yuan-ti of Tashalar have a similar custom,” said Karrell. “So I hear.” She flipped her hair back, showing off her jade ear plug. “I am of the Tabaxi, of Clan Chex’en.”
“Check … shen,” Arvin repeated, trying to capture the same inflection. “Was that your father’s clan?”
Karrell smiled. “My mother’s. The humans of Chult, like the yuan-ti, pay little attention to who sired them.” Her smile faded. “In most cases.”
“The Tabaxi don’t have husbands?” Arvin asked.
“We do not use that word. We call them yaakuns,” She paused, searching for the translation. “Lovers.”
Arvin nodded. “What about you? Do you have—”
“Brothers and sisters?” she interrupted. “No. And you?”
Arvin had a feeling she’d deliberately misinterpreted his question. He let it drop. “I was my mother’s only child.”
“Was?”
“My mother died of plague when I was six.”
“You must have been very lonely afterward.”
Arvin shrugged. “There were plenty of other kids in the orphanage.” Only one of them, however, had been his friend: Naulg. And Naulg was dead.
“Orphanage?” Karrell repeated. The word was obviously unfamiliar to her.
“It’s something like a brood chamber,” Arvin said, “for human children who have no parents. The priests run it.”
“Priests of what god?”
“Ilmater,” Arvin said, his lips twisting as he spoke the name. “God of suffering. His priests made sure we got plenty of it.”
“This orphanage of yours sounds … unpleasant.”
“It was,” Arvin agreed grimly.
Karrell stared into the distance. Her hand was still resting on his knee. Arvin glanced at the ring on her little finger. He’d love to know what she was thinking right now. Just as well that the ring was shielding her thoughts; otherwise he might be tempted to listen in on them.
She must have sensed his unwillingness to talk further about his childhood, for she changed the subject abruptly. “That woman you came to Sespech to find,” she asked. “Was it Glisena Foesmasher?”
A tiny warning voice sounded in the back of Arvin’s mind. One look into Karrell’s dark eyes, and it was extinguished. Arvin nodded. “The baron’s daughter ran away a tenday ago; I came to Sespech to help find her. A midwife helped her flee the palace. Glisena thinks the midwife was helping her, but Glisena is being used. They want her child—Dmetrio’s the father. They hope to use it in a grab for Hlondeth’s throne. Once it’s born, the gods only know what Sibyl will do with—”
“Sibyl?” Karrell asked sharply. Her grip on Arvin’s knee tightened.
“She’s a yuan-ti,” Arvin explained. “The midwife is one of her followers. They believe that Sibyl’s an avatar of the god Sseth.”
“She’s no avatar,” Karrell whispered.
Arvin blinked. “You know who I’m talking about?”
Karrell’s eyes bored into his. “How do you know about Sibyl?”
Arvin’s jaw clenched. “She killed my friend. I swore I’d do whatever I could to avenge his death. Even if it meant taking on an avatar.”
Karrell took his measure for several moments before speaking. “Sibyl is mortal, though that was not always the case. For a time—during the Time of Troubles, when the gods walked Faerûn—her body was possessed by Sseth. But when the Time of Troubles ended, the god withdrew from her body. That was fifteen years ago; she has been mortal since. But she hopes to become a god, just as did Sseth, who himself was once no more than an avatar of Merrshaulk.”
Arvin stared at Karrell. He had only the barest notion of what she was talking about. The only god he knew much about was Ilmater; the priests at the orphanage had drilled every painful, gory detail of the sufferings of the Crying God’s martyrs into the children under their care. Arvin didn’t even know Hoar’s history, despite the fact that he had sworn an oath of vengeance to that god—an oath the Doombringer seemed bent on forcing Arvin to keep.
“How do you know all this stuff about Sibyl?” Arvin asked Karrell.
Karrell gave him a hard, level look. “To defeat an enemy, one must learn her ways.”
Outside the window, thunder grumbled in the distance: the voice of Hoar. Arvin whistled softly. “I think the gods have thrown us together for a reason.”
“I, too, believe this,” Karrell said. She leaned closer and spoke in a confiding voice. “The yuan-ti of the south still believe Sibyl to be Sseth’s avatar. Only a handful see her for what she really is—a power-mad mortal out to resurrect the empire of Serpentes at any cost.”
Arvin had heard of Serpentes. It was an ancient yuan-ti empire that had stretched across the whole of the Chultan Peninsula—an empire that the yuan-ti still talked about, even though it had fallen nearly fourteen centuries ago. “I thought it was Hlondeth that Sibyl was after,” he said.
“Only as a means to an end,” Karrell said. “Nearly two years ago, Sibyl vanished from our lands. We were relieved to hear that she was gone, until we learned that she had traveled north. When we learned that she had gone to Hlondeth—”
“Who’s we?” Arvin interrupted.
“The K’aaxlaat,” Karrell said.
He gave her a blank look.
“Protectors of the jungle. We walk in the footsteps of Ubtao.”
Arvin nodded, though he was no closer to understanding. It sounded like some sort of druidic sect.
“We realized,” Karrell continued, “what Sibyl must be looking for: an artifact that had been given, long ago, to House Extaminos for safekeeping. It was hidden, then forgotten as the centuries went by. But Dmetrio Extaminos found it.”
Despite himself, Arvin was intrigued. “And you came north to Hlondeth to find it. To steal it.”
Karrell’s eyes blazed. “No. To recover it. To prevent it from falling into Sibyl’s hands. To ensure it would never be used again.”
“What is it?”
“Do you know the Story of Sseth?” Karrell asked.
Arvin shrugged. “Not really. Those of us of the ‘lesser race’ aren’t exactly encouraged to learn about the serpent god. I’ve never even set foot inside the Cathedral of Emerald Scales. Except once. By proxy.”
The memory rose, unbidden, from those that lingered on from Zelia’s mind seed. He’d
seen the temple through her eyes as she genuflected before a statue of the god in winged serpent form. He nodded to himself; no wonder the yuan-ti believed Sibyl to be Sseth’s avatar. She had the wings—even for an abomination, that was rare. And her eyes glowed red—they flickered like the flames that had surrounded Sseth’s statue.
Arvin dredged up the last of Zelia’s memory. “There’s a prophecy about Sseth rising from the flames, isn’t there?”
Karrell nodded, visibly impressed. “From the Peaks of Flame—volcanoes on the Chult Peninsula. There is a door there, one Sibyl hopes to open. She thinks it leads to Sseth’s domain. She hopes to convince the god to claim her as his avatar once more. But the door does not lead to the Viper Pit. It leads to a cave on the Fugue Plane occupied by one of the eternal evils—Dendar the Night Serpent. Should the door be opened, and the Night Serpent escape, thousands will die—perhaps hundreds of thousands. A giant is a mere morsel to her; she can swallow an entire village in one gulp. Those she swallows are utterly destroyed; not a shred of their souls remain for the gods to claim. And the more souls she consumes, the larger she grows—and the more she feeds. According to the prophecies, if released and unchecked, she will grow until she is capable of swallowing the very sun—of plunging the world into eternal night. A night in which no plants will grow, all of the waters of Faerûn will freeze, and the gods themselves will fade as their last worshipers die.”
Arvin felt his eyes widen. Normally he would have blown off such an exaggerated story. But to hear Karrell tell it—to hear the tremble in her voice as she spoke of the end of the world—shook him. “This thing you came north to find,” he said. “It’s a key, right?”
Karrell’s eyes bored into his. “It is called the Circled Serpent. It is made of silver, in the shape of a serpent biting its own tail and has a diameter about so.” She held her hands about two palms’ widths apart. “It was fashioned in two halves—one with a head, the other with a tail—which must be fitted together for its magic to work.”
She lowered her hands. “I know this much: that Dmetrio Extaminos found the Circled Serpent when he was restoring the old section of Hlondeth. I believe he may have brought it with him to Sespech, but I am unable to locate it with my magic. During your last visit to the ambassador’s residence, did you see anything like I have just described?”