Viper's Kiss

by Lisa Smedman

  The tickling in his forehead faded. Arvin stared at Karrell, stricken by the knowledge that they had probably just given the game away, despite his feeble attempt to lay a false trail. He let his hand fall away from Karrell’s mouth.

  Her eyes asked a silent question.

  “Too late,” he croaked. “She heard all of it.”

  Karrell’s mouth tightened.

  As the cleric looked back and forth between Arvin and Karrell, obviously confused. “Are you willing to come?” he asked. “Can I teleport you?”

  “Teleport both of us,” Karrell said. “To wherever Glisena is. As quickly as you can.”

  She held out a hand for Arvin. He took it.

  “Let’s hope Naneth doesn’t beat us there,” he said.

  Karrell nodded grimly. “Yes.”

  When they arrived at the palace, the baron was waiting. His face was haggard as he strode across the reception hall to meet them. His hair was uncombed, and the odor of nervous sweat clung to him. There were dark circles under his eyes.

  “You’re here,” he said, clasping Arvin’s hand as the cleric who had teleported them there hurried away. “Helm be praised.”

  “Be careful what you say, Lord Foesmasher,” Arvin warned. “Naneth has a crystal ball. She’s using it to scry on me. I tried to mislead her, but it might not have worked. If she learns … what’s going on … she may—”

  “Don’t worry about Naneth,” Foesmasher assured Arvin. “Marasa has placed a dimensional lock on Glisena’s room. Nobody is going to teleport into it—or out. The room has also been warded against scrying. Come.”

  Foesmasher shifted his grip to Arvin’s elbow and steered him toward a door that was flanked by two soldiers. Karrell started to follow, but the soldiers blocked her way, one of them rudely thrusting a hand against her chest.

  Arvin stood his ground as Foesmasher wrenched open the door. “Karrell’s a healer,” he told the baron. “Her spells—”

  “Come from a serpent god,” Foesmasher said in a low voice. “My daughter needs human healing.”

  Arvin gave Karrell an apologetic look. She returned it with a shrug, but he could see the bitterness in her eyes. “Go,” she said. “I will wait.”

  The baron led Arvin through another reception hall; up a flight of stairs; and through a room in which several soldiers stood, armed and ready. Foesmasher gestured, and they stepped away from a locked door. Foesmasher placed his palm on the door; a heartbeat later, magical energy crackled around the lock. The door swung open, revealing a chamber in which nine of Helm’s clerics stood. They were gathered in a circle, praying in low voices, their gauntleted hands extended toward a bed where Glisena lay. Nine shields, each embossed with Helm’s eye, floated in the air behind their backs, forming a circle that turned slowly around them. Marasa sat on a stool next to the bed, holding Glisena’s hand. She glanced up, kissed Glisena, and rose to her feet, motioning for the baron to take her hand. He crossed to the bed, a strained smile on his face as he kneeled at his daughter’s side. “Little dove,” he whispered. “Father is here.”

  Glisena turned her head away from him.

  Marasa’s face was grim as she approached Arvin. “Helm be praised,” she said. “The giant found you.”

  Arvin stared at Glisena. She was still pregnant—and looked even worse than before. Despite the ministrations of the clerics, her face had a sickly yellow pallor. She had been bathed—a ceramic tub filled with scented water stood in a corner of the room—and was wearing fresh night robe, but the odor of vomit lingered in the room. She twisted restlessly on the bed, her free hand scrabbling at the blankets, shoving them aside. Her stomach was an ominous bulge.

  Arvin swallowed nervously. There was a demon in there. He met Marasa’s eye. “Does she know?” he asked. “About—”

  “We told her,” Marasa said. Her expression grew pained. “But I don’t know if she believes us. Not after what her father tried to do.” She sighed heavily, not looking at Foesmasher.

  “The cleric who teleported us here said you wanted me to listen to the demon’s thoughts,” Arvin prompted. “Are you going to try to banish it?”

  “We can’t,” Marasa said, her voice low. “It is linked to Glisena by the blood cord. If we banish it, Glisena will be drawn into the Abyss with it. We will have to try to kill it, instead.”

  Arvin, suddenly remembering the vision he’d had in Naneth’s home—of a woman, linked by a thread of blood, to her own death—felt his face grow pale. “That might kill her,” he whispered. Quickly, he told Marasa of his vision.

  Marasa listened quietly, a strained look on her face. Then she gave a helpless shrug. “There is nothing else left to try,” she said. She stared at Glisena. “The demon is small, and Helm willing, will succumb to High Watcher Davinu’s holy word. It can then be birthed—or removed—in the same way as a stillborn child. But if the demon does not succumb—if it tries to trick us by feigning death—we need to know what it is thinking. Perhaps it will give us some clue that will tell us what will harm it.”

  “I see,” Arvin said, not wholly convinced. His eyes remained locked on Glisena’s distended belly. It was taut as a drum—one that might tear open at any moment.

  “Prepare yourself,” Marasa said. “And we will begin.”

  Arvin took off his cloak and draped it over a chair. Sending his awareness down into his muladhara, he was relieved to see that it contained enough energy to manifest the power Marasa had requested. He walked across the room, steeling himself for what he was about to experience. The thought of contacting the demon’s mind a second time terrified him, but—he glanced at Glisena’s pale face—if it would help, he would do it.

  He crossed the room and stood at the foot of Glisena’s bed. “I’m ready,” he told Marasa.

  She nodded at one of the clerics—an older man with pale blue eyes and hair so white and fine that the age spots on his scalp could clearly be seen through it. He seemed hale enough, however; he wore the suit of armor that was the priestly vestment of Helm’s clerics with the upright posture and ease of a much younger man.

  “Give High Watcher Davinu a signal, Arvin, when you have made contact,” Marasa said. “Once you have, he will begin.”

  Arvin smiled to himself. Using the silent speech, he could have described, moment by moment, exactly what was happening as he manifested his power. But he didn’t want anyone to know he was Guild … ex-Guild. “I’ll raise my hand,” he said.

  As he prepared to manifest his power, Glisena caught his hand. Startled, Arvin looked down at her. She was straining to speak, her eyes imploring him. Concerned, he moved to the side of the bed and leaned over to hear what she was saying.

  “Where did it go?” she whispered.

  “Where did what go?” Arvin asked.

  Glisena glanced warily at her father then continued to whisper in Arvin’s ear. Her breath was fever-hot. “My baby,” she said. “Naneth had to take my baby out before she put the demon in. She had to put her somewhere. Find my baby for me. Promise you will. Please?”

  Arvin blinked. It hadn’t occurred to him, until now, to wonder what had happened to the child Glisena had been carrying. He’d assumed it had died or been subsumed when Naneth summoned the demon into Glisena’s womb. Either that, or teleported elsewhere—the Abyss, perhaps—and had died a swift death outside the womb.

  But what if it had been teleported into another womb?

  If it had, Glisena’s unborn child might still be alive. And Naneth would have an extra playing piece to haggle with.

  An extra playing piece she had offered to trade for Glisena earlier, when she thought Arvin was Lord Wianar’s man.

  Foesmasher leaned forward, stiff with tension. “What is Glisena saying?”

  Arvin straightened, shaking his head. “She’s delirious,” he said, trying to ease his hand out of Glisena’s. She clung to it with a grip tight as death. Her eyes begged a silent question of him.

  He nodded. “I’ll do it,” he promis
ed her.

  Glisena’s hands relaxed.

  “Do what?” the baron growled.

  Arvin didn’t answer.

  Glisena sighed and released his hand, closing her eyes. When she opened them again, she nodded at High Watcher Davinu. “I’m ready,” she announced in a faint whisper. Then, in a stronger voice, she said, “You may begin.”

  Arvin smiled. Despite Glisena’s faults, she was her father’s daughter.

  As Davinu prepared to cast his spell, Arvin sent his awareness down into the power points at the middle of his forehead and base of his scalp. Linking them, he manifested his power. Sparkles of silver erupted from his eyes and drifted gently down toward Glisena’s stomach; as they settled there, vanishing, the thoughts of those in the room swam into his mind. Marasa was relieved that Arvin was finally here, and praying for Helm’s mercy on the innocent Glisena. High Watcher Davinu was concentrating on the spell he was about to cast. He would channel Helm’s glorious might into a single word so powerful that it would snuff out even a demon’s life. The other clerics were focused on their prayers.

  And the demon—dark, malevolent, seething, and gloating. Soon, it thought, the words reverberating like the growls of a dragon in its cave. I will be free soon. The bindings… fade.

  Arvin shuddered. He raised his hand and signaled for Davinu to begin.

  Davinu raised one gauntleted hand above his head. Praying now—evoking Helm in a low chant as the other clerics whispered their own prayers in the background—he slowly closed his hand into a fist. He caught Marasa’s eye—she nodded—and that of the baron. Foesmasher squeezed Glisena’s hand. His free hand was clenched in a white-knuckled fist and trembling.

  Soon, the demon thought, its voice an evil chuckle.

  “Do it,” Foesmasher croaked.

  Davinu’s hand swept down toward Glisena’s stomach, creating a sound like that of a sword sweeping through the air. “Moritas!” he cried.

  Glisena’s eyes flew open. She gasped, arching her back.

  Foesmasher’s eyes squeezed shut; his lips moved rapidly in silent prayer.

  Soon, the demon whispered. I will be—

  Arvin heard a wet thud—a sound like a blade striking flesh. For the space of a heartbeat, everyone in the room was silent, their minds blank with suspense. Even the demon was still. Arvin searched desperately for its mind, hope bubbling through him.

  He found only silence. He closed his eyes in relief.

  Stupid mortal, the demon suddenly roared. You thought you could kill me? Its mind erupted with laughter: a sound like thick, hot, bubbling blood.

  Arvin opened his eyes. Davinu, Marasa, and Foesmasher were staring at him expectantly, their faces filled with cautious hope.

  “It’s … not … dead,” he croaked.

  Their faces crumpled into despair.

  I hear you, the demon growled into Arvin’s mind. I will remember your voice. It gave a mental shove … and the manifestation ended.

  Arvin sagged.

  Marasa caught his arm, steadying him. “Did you overhear anything?” she asked. “Anything that might help?”

  “The demon is bound,” Arvin said. “But the bindings that hold it are fading. It thinks it will be free. ‘Soon’ was the word it used.”

  Marasa looked grim. She stared at Glisena’s distended stomach. “Does that mean it will be born?” she asked softly. “Or….”

  Foesmasher dropped his daughter’s hand and rose to his feet. “Abyss take you!” he gritted at Davinu, his fists balled. “And you,” he said, pointing at Marasa. “You assured me the prayer would work.”

  “I don’t understand why it didn’t, my lord,” Davinu protested, backing away. “Something so small … yet so powerful? We expected a minor demon—a quasit, given the size—but it appears we were wrong. Naneth seems to have reduced a larger demon—many times over—without diminishing its vital energies in the slightest.”

  Marasa stood her ground before the baron’s verbal onslaught. “Thuragar,” she said, her voice dangerously low. “If Helm has forsaken your daughter, you have only yourself to blame.”

  Foesmasher glared. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword.

  Marasa glared back.

  The other clerics glanced warily between baron and cleric, waiting for the storm to break.

  When it did, it came as a flood of tears. They spilled down Foesmasher’s cheeks as he stared at his daughter. His hand fell away from his sword. He turned away, his shoulders trembling with silent sobs.

  Davinu turned to Marasa. “What now?” he asked in a weary voice.

  Marasa sighed. She looked ready to collapse herself. One hand touched Glisena’s forehead. “We wait,” she announced at last, “until it is born. And banish it then.”

  “The birth will be … difficult,” Davinu said, his voice a mere whisper.

  Marasa’s eyes glistened with anguish. “Yes.”

  Arvin shuffled his feet nervously.

  Marasa turned to him. “Go,” she said in a flat voice. “Rest and meditate—but do not leave the palace. We may have need of your mind magic later.”

  Arvin nodded. He wanted to wish Marasa and the other clerics luck, but if Helm had forsaken Glisena, so too might Tymora. His heart was heavy—could he do nothing to stop Sibyl’s foul machinations? Giving Glisena one last sorrowful glance, he left the bed chamber and walked wearily down the corridor, back to the reception hall where he’d left Karrell.

  She wasn’t there.

  Arvin turned to the soldiers. “The woman I came here with,” he said. “Where did she go?”

  The soldiers exchanged uncomfortable looks.

  “What?” Arvin snapped.

  “She left a message for you,” one of them answered at last. “She said she had to talk to someone, and for you to stay here, at the palace. She’ll return when she was done.”

  Arvin felt his face grow pale. “Did she mention a name?”

  The second soldier chuckled. “Looks like he’s been stood up,” he whispered to his companion.

  The first soldier nodded then answered. “It was Zeliar … or Zelias. Something like that.”

  Arvin barely heard him. A chasm seemed to have opened at his feet. Nodding his thanks for the message, he stumbled from the room.

  Zelia.

  CHAPTER 14

  Arvin sat in Karrell’s room at the Fairwinds Inn, staring at the cold ashes in the fireplace, exhausted in mind and body. His limbs were heavy with fatigue and his wounds ached; even thinking was as difficult as wading through deep water.

  What was Karrell doing, speaking to Zelia? She was putting not only Arvin’s life in danger by doing so, but her own life, as well. The two women might share the same goal—finding Sibyl—but Zelia was utterly ruthless in that pursuit. She’d allowed Arvin and Naulg to fall into the hands of The Pox then subjected Arvin to one of the cruelest psionic powers of all in order to achieve her goal. Why would Karrell ever want to ally herself with such a person?

  Because, Arvin thought heavily, Karrell was also a yuan-ti. She didn’t fear that race, the way a human would.

  And because—and with this thought, Arvin sighed heavily—Zelia was a far more powerful psion than he was, far more capable.

  Had Karrell decided to abandon him?

  The drawing Karrell had done of him was still lying on the table. He picked it up. She’d drawn him as he lay sleeping; in the portrait, his face looked relaxed, at peace, which was hardly how he felt right now.

  Everything had gone right, yet everything had gone wrong. He’d done what Tanju had demanded of him—found Foesmasher’s daughter—even without using the dorje. But what good had it done? Glisena was about to give birth to a demon; her chances of survival weren’t high. And once again, those who had committed this foul crime—Naneth and the abomination Sibyl—would go unpunished.

  Thunder grumbled in the coal-dark sky, a distant echo to Arvin’s thoughts.

  If Glisena did die, Foesmasher would be devastated. The
baron didn’t think clearly where his daughter was concerned. He was bound to take his frustrations out on those who were “responsible,” in however oblique a way, for any harm that came to her. He demonstrated that when he’d lashed out at the soldier after the death of the satyr. Arvin might be the next one on the chopping block—especially if his absence from the palace were discovered. Marasa had instructed him to stay close at hand, and he’d disobeyed her. That alone would be enough to rouse the baron’s wrath.

  Arvin clenched his gloved hand until his abbreviated little finger ached. It was like serving the Guild, all over again.

  He’d been wrong to think he could make a new home for himself in Sespech; wrong in putting his faith in the baron; and most of all, wrong about Karrell.

  He stared at the bed in which they’d made love—in which they’d conceived a child—then he looked back at the portrait, still in his hand. He crumpled it and tossed it onto the cold ashes in the fireplace.

  He leaned forward and drummed his fingers on the table. If he knew where Zelia was, he might have tried to head Karrell off, to talk some sense into her. But the baron had been too preoccupied—to say the least—for Arvin to ask him where Zelia had been spotted. All Arvin knew was that she was somewhere in Ormpetarr …

  … Which was all Karrell knew about Zelia, as well. And yet the message she’d left with the soldiers sounded as if she knew where Zelia was. How? Karrell was a stranger here; she knew less about Ormpetarr than even Arvin did. She’d have no idea which inn Zelia might have chosen to stay at—

  Arvin stiffened. Zelia was an agent of House Extaminos, a trusted employee of Lady Dediana. She wouldn’t stay at an inn.

  She’d stay at the ambassador’s residence.

  That was where Karrell went.

  His exhaustion suddenly forgotten, Arvin hurried from the room.

  Arvin approached the ambassador’s residence warily, his feet squelching on melting snow. If he was right in his guess that Zelia was staying here, he didn’t want to run into her in the street. He pulled his hood up and tugged it down over his forehead to hide his wound. The lapis lazuli was still in place over his third eye; if Naneth scried on him again, he wanted to know it. Besides, removing the stone wouldn’t accomplish much. Though the cut on his forehead had scabbed over completely, hiding the stone from view, Zelia would quickly realize what had prompted such a wound. Even with several days’ worth of stubble shadowing Arvin’s face, she’d recognize him.