by Lisa Smedman
Arvin felt a twinge of remorse at having taken Theyron’s life but shook it off; if the playing board had been turned, the satyr would have killed him without a moment’s pity. He peeked outside the flap that covered the doorway. The other satyrs stood a few paces away. Some were staring at the hut, but they didn’t seem to have heard anything. Two were rummaging through his pack. When one pulled out a piece of the broken dorje, the other made a grab for it. An argument broke out. The first satyr wrenched it out of the second one’s hand and bellowed a challenge. The other satyr glared back and said something. The first nodded, and placed the broken dorje back in Arvin’s pack. Then, slowly, each backed away from the other. Suddenly they charged forward, horns lowered. Their foreheads slammed together with a loud crack. Each staggered back then lowered his head a second time, like duelists bowing at each other, ready to repeat the charge. As the combatants pawed the earth with their cloven feet, the other satyrs cheered in anticipation.
Arvin breathed a sigh of relief. That should keep them busy for a while.
When he turned around, Glisena had forced herself up off the sheepskin. Eyes wide and terrified, she held herself in a seated position with trembling arms. As Arvin took a step toward her, she bleated and tried to crawl back, but only managed to collapse. She opened her mouth to scream.
Arvin leaped forward to clamp a hand against her mouth. “Don’t,” he said. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’ve come to rescue you.”
Glisena’s lips moved under Arvin’s palm. Cautioning her with a look, he lifted them slightly, allowing her to speak.
“From what?” she gasped.
“Naneth tricked you,” Arvin said. “Her spell didn’t just hasten your pregnancy along. It affected the child inside you in other ways. The child was transformed into something … else.”
“No,” Glisena whispered.
Arvin couldn’t tell if she was hearing his terrible news—and denying it—or simply reacting with horror to his words. “I’m afraid so,” he said. As he spoke, he plucked the stone that was circling her head from the air. It resisted him for a moment, straining to free itself from his palm. Then it went still.
“Naneth wouldn’t—”
“Yes she would,” Arvin said, tossing the stone aside. “Naneth isn’t just a midwife. She’s an agent of a powerful yuan-ti who is an enemy of House Extaminos. Naneth used you; she only pretended to help you after your father asked her to—”
“To kill my child,” she said in a flat voice. Her hands cradled her belly.
“Yes.”
She stared at her stomach a moment, groaned as the thing within kicked, and gave Arvin a defiant look. “I won’t let him hurt my baby.”
Arvin sighed. She was forcing him to be blunt. “Whatever’s inside you isn’t your baby anymore. We need to get you back to Ormpetarr. Someone there will know what to do.”
Glisena’s jaw tightened. “I won’t go back.” Exhausted as she was, with dark circles under her eyes, she had the determination—and stubbornness—of her father. “Dmetrio—”
“Isn’t coming,” Arvin said, finishing the sentence for her. “He’s leaving for Hlondeth. Without you.”
“That’s not true,” she whispered again. “He loves me. He’ll take me with him.”
“He won’t.”
“He will.” The determination was still in her eyes, but something else had joined it: exhaustion. Fresh beads of sweat broke out on her forehead. She sank back onto the sheepskin, trembling. “My father sent you … didn’t he? You’re lying. About Naneth. And Dmetrio. So I’ll … go back.”
“I’m telling you the truth,” Arvin insisted. “Much as I hate to do it.”
Glisena turned away, not listening to him. Even when she was down, she wouldn’t admit to defeat. Arvin had to admire that.
He’d been naive, to think that he could convince Glisena of the truth. It was simply too much, too hard. He peeked outside again—the satyrs were still butting heads, Tymora be praised—then turned his attention to the dead satyr’s belt pouch. Opening it, he found his mother’s crystal inside. He tied it around his neck with a whispered, “Nine lives,” then recovered his lapis lazuli, which still had a jagged, coin-sized flap of his skin clinging to it. He spoke the stone’s command word, and the skin fell away. Then he touched the stone to the raw wound on his forehead and spoke the command a second time. The lapis lazuli sank into the wound, attaching itself to the lacerated flesh. Fresh blood trickled from the wound; he wiped it away from his eye.
Not knowing how much time he had before the satyrs ended their contest, he decided to manifest a sending. He started to imagine the baron’s face then changed his mind. Instead he pictured Karrell.
Nothing happened.
Arvin’s heart thudded in his chest. He could visualize Karrell’s face clearly, but he couldn’t contact her. Was she dead?
Then he realized what was wrong. He was visualizing her human face. He shifted his mental picture of her, imagining her snake form instead. Instantly, the image solidified.
I’m with Glisena, he told her. I’m inside her hut. Slip in through the back, where the brambles touch the wall. I’ll contact Foesmasher.
Karrell stared back at him, tongue flickering in and out of her mouth. Arvin couldn’t read her expression—it was impossible, with that unblinking stare—but he could hear the concern in her voice as she stared at his forehead. You are wounded! I am sorry; I fell to a magical slumber. I will come. Her mouth parted in what might have been a smile. At once.
Her image faded from his mind.
Immediately, Arvin concentrated on the baron’s face. When it solidified in his mind, Foesmasher was talking to someone, emphasizing his words with a pointing fork; Arvin must have interrupted his midday meal. From the scowl on his face, he was issuing a reprimand, or arguing with Marasa again. He halted abruptly in mid-sentence as he recognized Arvin.
I found Glisena, Arvin told him.
Relief washed across the baron’s face. His eyes closed a moment; when he opened them, he blinked rapidly, as if clearing away tears. He whispered something Arvin couldn’t hear; probably a prayer of thanksgiving.
Arvin chose his next words carefully. Even with the brooch for Foesmasher to home in on, Arvin needed to pack as much information as possible into the brief message the lapis lazuli would allow. I’m with her inside a hut. Satyrs armed with bows are outside. And wolves. Bring—
I’m on my way, the baron said.
Arvin silently cursed. Now that Foesmasher had replied, there was no way for Arvin to interrupt, to tell him to bring meat for the wolves. Foesmasher continued speaking as he yanked on his helmet and drew his sword. Tell Glisena I’ll be there at …
“… once,” said a low voice from Arvin’s immediate left.
Arvin couldn’t help but be startled, even though he’d been expecting the baron. He raised a finger to his lips. “Quietly, Lord Foesmasher,” he cautioned. “The satyrs are just outside.”
The baron immediately fell to his knees beside his daughter. “Glisena,” he said in a choked voice. “Father’s here. My little dove, I’m so sorry. May Helm forgive me for what I’ve done.”
The thing inside Glisena kicked, bulging her stomach. She screwed her eyes shut and groaned.
“What’s wrong?” the baron asked, looking up at Arvin. “Is the child coming?”
“It’s … not a child,” Arvin said. Quickly, he told the baron his suspicions. He expected the baron’s face to blanch, but Foesmasher proved to have more mettle than that. “Why would Naneth do such a thing?” he asked in a pained voice.
Arvin didn’t answer.
The baron stared at his daughter. “Marasa will tend to it,” he said firmly. “Whatever it is.”
Arvin nodded, relieved.
Outside, the satyrs had resolved their argument. One of the combatants lay unconscious on the ground; the others stared at him, shaking their heads disdainfully. One, however, was staring suspiciously at the hut, his ears perke
d forward, listening. He turned to the others and said something to them. Arvin, watching, tightened his grip on his dagger.
Foesmasher must have seen Arvin tense. He sheathed his sword, lifted Glisena into his arms, and stood. He gestured for Arvin to come closer.
Arvin was still staring outside. He’d spotted a movement across the clearing in the brambles, well behind the satyrs: a snake, slithering along the ground.
Karrell was circling around the clearing to reach the hut.
“Wait,” Arvin said. “Karrell’s coming. I don’t want to leave her behind.”
“I can teleport no more than three people at a time,” the baron whispered back. “Myself, Glisena … and one other.”
Arvin’s jaw clenched. Foesmasher had neglected to tell him this important detail. “Teleport us just outside the brambles, then,” Arvin whispered back. “There’s a centaur waiting there for us: Tanglemane.”
The baron’s eyebrows rose at the name.
“He and I can watch over Glisena while you come back for Karrell,” Arvin continued.
The baron shook his head. “I am also limited to teleporting no more than three times per day. If I return for you, it will be a day before I can get back to Ormpetarr.” He nodded at Glisena. “My daughter needs me.”
Arvin’s eyes narrowed as he realized what Foesmasher was saying. “You won’t be back.”
“No.”
“Send someone else then,” Arvin insisted. “One of your clerics. I know they have teleportation magic; I’ve seen them use it.”
“Only the most powerful of them can teleport without the gauntlets to aid them—and Glisena will need their prayers.” He held out his hand. “Come with me—or stay. Choose.”
Arvin folded his arms across his chest. There really was no choice. Arvin couldn’t just abandon Karrell, or Tanglemane. “I’m staying.”
“I’ll send help as soon as I can,” Foesmasher promised. “In the meantime, Helm be with you.” Then he teleported away.
The other satyrs had started walking toward the hut. One of them called out—to Theyron, Arvin presumed—and nocked an arrow when he received no reply. The others did the same, fanning out and training their arrows on the doorway. Arvin, trapped inside a hut with only one exit, tried feverishly to decide what to do. There were too many satyrs for him to charm. And it would only take one arrow to kill him.
What was keeping Karrell?
Arvin moved to the side of the doorway, readying his dagger.
A hairy hand gripped the door flap. It started to open.
A new voice sounded outside the hut: a woman, speaking the satyr tongue. She barked what sounded like an angry question at the satyrs—one they answered with a babble of voices.
Arvin peeked outside. As he saw who the newcomer was, his mouth went dry.
Naneth.
CHAPTER 12
Arvin’s heart pounded as he stared out of the satyr hut at Naneth. For the moment, the satyrs were busy talking to her—which was bad. They’d be telling her about the human who claimed to be her assistant. Arvin had to act quickly. Energy awakened at the base of his neck, sending a prickling through his scalp as he manifested a charm. The midwife, however, didn’t cock her head; the power seemed to have had no effect on her.
She turned toward the hut and gestured.
The inside of the hut filled with an explosion of color. Arvin was still staring at Naneth and saw the swirling colors only in his peripheral vision, but his eyes were drawn to them like moths to a flame. He turned to watch the rainbows that danced and rippled in the air then took a step closer. It was like standing inside the crisscrossing rays cast by a thousand prisms. “Beautiful,” he whispered, reaching up to touch one of the rainbows. It twisted away through the air like a snake, leaving a blur of red-violet-blue in its wake. “So beautiful,” he breathed.
Dimly, he was aware of the door flap opening and Naneth stepping inside. She glanced around the hut—at Theyron’s body, the empty sheepskin where Glisena had lain, and Arvin—and her lips pressed together in a thin line that made her mouth all but disappear in her heavy jowls. Fear flickered in her eyes. It was clear what she was thinking: she’d lost Glisena, and now would have to face Sibyl’s wrath. Whatever punishment Sibyl dreamed up would probably make the suffering Naulg had gone through look trivial.
A distant part of Arvin’s mind screamed at him that this was the moment to throw the knife he held loosely at his side, to manifest a different psionic power, to run, but the colors held him. His gaze drifted back and forth, watching the rainbows.
Naneth ignored the shifting lights. Above and behind her, Arvin saw a snake peering in through a gap in the rear wall of the hut. It, too, was staring at the beautiful lights, tongue flickering in and out of its mouth as if it hoped to taste them. For some reason, that concerned Arvin, but only briefly. The lights were fascinating, scintillating, and beautiful.
More beautiful than any snake.
Naneth reached into a belt pouch at her hip and pulled out an egg painted with a blood-red symbol. She held it out toward Arvin, but he barely glanced at it; the shimmering colors still held his eye. Then she spoke a word in what sounded like Draconic.
The rainbows disappeared.
So did the hut.
Arvin found himself curled in a ball inside something smooth and leathery that pressed against him on every side. Warm, sticky fluid surrounded him, soaking his clothes and hair. With a start, he realized he was breathing it in and out like air; it felt thick and heavy in his lungs. His mind was his own again, but he was unable to move. He couldn’t even lift his chin from his chest. Suddenly claustrophobic, he kicked at the wall of his prison. It didn’t give. He jabbed it with his knife. The blade bounced off it without making a dent. Trapped—he was trapped in here! It took all of his will to keep himself from panicking.
Karrell was out there somewhere, he told himself, in the hut, with Naneth. She’d do something to rescue him.
Unless she was still staring at rainbows.
A muffled voice came from outside Arvin’s prison. “Where is the girl?”
“Naneth!” Arvin exclaimed. “You got my warning. Let me out of here, and I’ll tell you what’s going on.” His voice sounded only slightly muffled, despite the fact that he was exhaling liquid. The cloying taste of raw egg lingered on his tongue.
The egg shook violently. Arvin, dizzy, tried not to throw up.
“Where’s the girl?” Naneth repeated.
Arvin tried to manifest the power that would let him listen in on Naneth’s thoughts, but though silver sparkles erupted from his third eye, briefly illuminating the liquid that surrounded him, the link could not be forged. Whatever magic had protected Naneth from being charmed was also preventing Arvin from reading her mind.
Arvin groaned. He’d have to rely on his wits alone to convince Naneth to let him out of this prison. He thought frantically, trying to come up with a story that would sound plausible. Should he drop Sibyl’s name and claim to be working for one of the factions allied with her? Claim to be one of Talos’s worshipers? Neither was likely to work. He had only the vaguest of ideas of what Sibyl was up to; he’d probably say something that would give him away.
Suddenly, he realized there was one story that would make sense—and that would throw Naneth off track, way off track.
“You’re too late,” he told Naneth. “Chondath has claimed Glisena.”
“You’re one of Lord Wianar’s men?” Naneth asked.
Arvin smiled. She’d taken his hook. Now to set it.
“I’m Wianar’s eyes and ears within the Sespech court. Three days ago, Baron Foesmasher captured a satyr who had come to Ormpetarr to fetch you; the satyr told him his daughter was in the Chondalwood. It wasn’t in Chondath’s best interests that Glisena be found, so I sent you the warning. Just in case you didn’t heed it, I made my way here. I was surprised to find the girl had not been moved. I was ordered to take advantage of that oversight.”
“Where
is Glisena now?” Naneth asked. “In Arrabar?”
“All you need to know is that Wianar has her.”
For several moments, Naneth was silent. Then she replied—in a strained voice that instantly told Arvin how desperate she was, and how willing to bargain. “Tell your master that keeping the girl would be a terrible mistake. One that could prove fatal for him.”
“What do you mean?” Arvin asked.
There was a long pause. When Naneth at last spoke, her voice sounded reluctant. “The child in Glisena’s womb is … dangerous,” she began.
“Go on,” Arvin prompted. He held his breath, praying that Naneth would expound upon what she’d done to the baron’s daughter—that she’d reveal the nature of the thing she’d put in Glisena’s womb. “What is it?”
“A demon.”
“A demon?” Arvin gasped, horrified. “How—”
“Magic,” Naneth said smugly. “A unique form of binding no other sorcerer can perform.”
“But why?” Arvin asked, still struggling with his horror at what Naneth had done. He felt queasy, as though he were going to be sick.
A gloating smile crept into Naneth’s voice. “Lady Dediana is anxious to see the birth of her first grandchild,” she said. “What a surprise it will be when she sees the new heir. The shock alone will kill her—and if it doesn’t, the ‘child’ will. Now do you understand why it’s in Chondath’s best interests not to keep the girl? Wianar has much more to gain by letting us place someone more … agreeable on Hlondeth’s throne. Someone who would turn her back on Sespech, and instead form an alliance with Chondath.”
Arvin’s eyebrows rose. At last he understood what Sibyl had planned. The thing inside Glisena was part of an elaborate assassination attempt against Lady Dediana. Sibyl, once again, was making a bid for the throne—and this time, she was going to claim it herself, instead of merely installing a puppet. Naneth must have been in Hlondeth, these past three days, setting the whole thing up.