Vanity's brood

CHAPTER 10

The marilith lowered its face to Karrell's and glared into her eyes.

"Naughty mortal," it scolded. "Don't you dare run away again."

Karrell, her legs held by a twist of the demon's tail, met the marilith's eye with a defiant look.

"Or what?" she countered. "You'll kill me? Go ahead."

The demon hissed. Its tail tightened. As it did, Karrell whispered Ubtao's name under her breath and brushed a hand against the marilith's mottled green scales. The wound-ing spell took effect, sending a jolt of pain through

through the marilith's body. The demon gasped and its coils loosened again.

Karrell felt the ground beneath her feet

grow soggy. The foul smell of rot drifted up from the ground-the jungle reacting to her spell. She distracted the demon by speaking again.

"By killing me, you'll only kill yourself," she reminded it.

The demon's eyes narrowed.

"Let go of me," Karrell demanded. She nodded down at her belly. "You know I can't run."

The demon tilted its head, considering. One of its six hands toyed with a strand of sulfur-yellow hair. A half- dozen dretches surrounded it. One of them scratched at its belly, setting the blubber there to jiggling.

"Mistress," it croaked. "Should we kill it?" Drool dribbled from its mouth as it gave a fang-toothed smile.

"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?

"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?

Was Arvin, indeed, as cold-blooded and dispassionate as any full-blooded yuan-ti?

No, he told himself sternly. He wasn't. There was Karrell. He loved her. The need to rescue her burned in him, not just to rescue her, but to save the children he'd fathered. They mattered to him.

The fact remained that he was part yuan-ti. He couldn't deny it any longer, even to himself. It explained so much: why it felt so natural to morph into a flying snake, why his psionics were so powerful. Yuan-ti had a number of inborn magical abilities that mimicked psionic powers. Their ability to charm humans, for example. That was one of the first powers Arvin had learned. It had just come naturally to him.

Because he had yuan-ti blood.

He squared his shoulders. So what, he told himself. It doesn't change anything. I'm still the person I've always been. I just understand myself a little better now.

He turned, saw Ts'ikil watching him. "Were you listening to my thoughts?"

No.

"Thank you." He stood. "Tell me about the Circled Serpent. If I'm going after the Dmetrio-seed, I'll need to know as much about it as he does."

It is ancient-it was made at the height of the Mhairshaulk Empire. It was one of several keys, the rest of which have been lost in the intervening millennia. The sarrukh, creators of the yuan-ti and other reptilian races, erected a series of gates to other planes of existence. The keys could be used to open any of them.

"How?"

Ts'ikil ignored the question. You think you can survive in Smaragd.

"Karrell has for six months, pregnant and alone." Not alone. Karrell is one of the k'aaxlaat. Ubtao watches over her.

"Even in Smaragd?"

Even there. Ts'ikil's eyes bored into Arvin's. You, on the other hand, have yet to choose a god.

Arvin touched the crystal at his throat. "I worship Tymora."

When it suits you.

"That's as much as most mortals can say."

That is true, but the fact remains: you are not a cleric. You will have no protection in Smaragd.

It took Arvin a moment to realize what Ts'ikil had just said. Hope surged through him. "You… you're going to let me do it, aren't you? Enter Smaragd." He tilted his head. "What changed your mind?"

I have not changed my mind. The Circled Serpent must be destroyed. A key that can release Dendar-that can bring about the destruction of this world-can not be permitted to remain in existence. She lifted her unbroken wing. Feathers hung from it in tatters. I am injured; my part in this has diminished.

She lowered her wing. Fortunately, so has Sibyl's. She was equally weakened by ourbattle, and she does not know thal Zelia's seed has the key.

It has come down to a race between yourself and the Dmelrio-seed. If he reaches the door first and opens it, I fully expect that you will follow him inside. You must, if you are to save Karrell's life.

"That much is obvious," Arvin said.

Yes, but the course of action you must pursue is not. You will be tempted to rush to find Karrell first. Don't. Once the seed enters Smaragd, he will hurry to Sseth's side. You must concentrate on stopping him from reaching the god instead. If he succeeds in freeing Sseth, Karrell will be the first to die. She

immediately-where she is within his realm. With a thought, he will destroy her.

Despite the sticky heat, Arvin shivered. "What if

I manage to take the Circled Serpent from the seed and open the door with it?"

If you did, you would open a way for any who wished to follow.

"Couldn't I close the door behind me?" Arvin asked.

Not from inside Smaragd. The door can only be opened-or closed-from this plane.

Arvin thought for a moment. "I could leave the Circled Serpent outside with someone else, someone who could close the door behind me and open it again once I've gotten Karrell."

The couatl's laughter trilled softly through his mind. With me, perhaps? Assumi ng I let you use the door and closed it after you, how would you let me know when it is time to open it?

Arvin opened his mouth then closed it again. He already knew his lapis lazuli wasn't capable of penetrating Smaragd. It probably wouldn't allow him to do a sending from within that layer of the Abyss, either. Once inside, he'd be on his own.

"Can the key be carried into Smaragd then out again?"

To Arvin's surprise, the couatl answered. It can, but if it is lost there, we would lose the opportunity to destroy it, and the gate would remain open. Ts'ikil paused-long enough for Arvin to silently acknowledge what she meant by "lost." His death. One of Sseth's faithful would eventually free him, and the key would fall into Sseth's coils. The god of serpents will be sorely tempted to release Dendar. The Night Serpent would readily agree to feed on the faithful of othergods until only Sseth's worshipers remain.

Without worshipers to sustain them, the gods themselves would fade, Ts'ikil continued. Only Sseth would remain. She paused. Is the life of one woman-however precious that life might be-worth such a risk?

Arvin squeezed his eyes shut. It was-to him-but who was he to make that decision? He shook his head at the irony. He had hoped to persuade Ts'ikil into supporting a rescue attempt. Instead she was coming close to talking him into abandoning it and without, as far as he could tell, the use of so much as a simple charm spell.

"What if Sseth's faithful can't free him?" Arvin asked. "I'm no cleric, but I do know that only a god is powerful enough to bind another god. That binding is going to be hard to break."

That is true, but one of Sseth's mortal worshipers could accomplish it, if his faith was strong enough.

Arvin brightened at that. "Zelia's only a lay worshiper; she's no cleric," he told Ts'ikil. "If her seed's faith isn't strong enough to do the job, there's little danger in letting him open the door."

What if it is strong enough? Are you really willing to take so large a gamble, when it is souls that you are wagering with?

Arvin hesitated. The soul that mattered most to him was Karrell's.

Her future is assured, continued the couatl She is one of Ubtao's faithful, and hersoul will be lifted to his domain from the Fugue Plain after she dies. Knowing that, you must ask yourself if rescuing the body that holds that soul is an act of love… or selfishness.

"And our children?" Arvin said. "Would Ubtao accept their souls as well? Or would they be condemned to the torments of the Fugue Plain forever?"

The couatl said nothing for several moments. It was answer enough. She stared at Arvin's crystal.

Their fate is in Tymora's hands, she said at last, because, in the end, it will all come down to a toss of hercoin-to whether the Dmetrio-seed reaches the door before you. If it is open when you arrive, and you can

stop him from freeing Sseth, you will get an opportunity to rescue Karrell. She held up a cautioning wingtip. Before you start praying to Tymora, you had better weigh the dangers and decide ifone woman's life is worth the terrible consequences should you fail.

Arvin closed his eyes. His heart tipped the balance heavily in one direction, his head another. Logic warred with emotion. He wasn't sure which would triumph-the human passion that surged in him whenever he thought about Karrell and the chlldren he had fathered with her, or the cold, hard logic of the serpent that coiled around his family tree.

Only one thing was clear: he needed to find out where the door was. One way to do that would be to sleep, dream, and hope that one of his nightmares might contain a message from Sseth. He was so worked up by his conversation with Ts'ikil, however, he was pacing. Sleep would be almost impossible. He thought of the dog-man and his ability to render others unconscious and halted abruptly.

"Can you do that?" he asked Ts'ikil. "Put me to sleep with magic?"

The couatl gave him a sad smile. I could, but your sleep would be deep and dreamless.

Arvin paused. "I just realized something. If the Dmetrio-seed uses osssra-"

Ts'ikil looked grim. He will entera dream state more swiftly, and his dreams will be clearer than yours.

"I don't suppose you're carrying any osssra. by any chance?" Arvin asked.

The couatl shook her head. I came unprepared. Unlike you, I am not a psion.

That made Arvin pause. Ts'ikil had used the right word-most people called him a "mind merge"-but had made the usual incorrect assumption. Not all psions could see the future. Arvin could catch glimpses, in a limited fashion. From Tanju, he had learned how to

choose the better of two possible courses of action-to gain a psionic inkling of the immediate future, events no more than a heartbeat or two distant.

Ts'ikil had reminded him of one thing, however- his meditations. By using them, he could still h is mind and force it into a state between waking and sleep. He could listen to his dreams, perhaps even seek out the ones Sseth was sending.

"You know," he said aloud. "That just might work."

Without explaining-the couatl could continue to read his mind, if she wanted to know what he was doing-Arvin lay down on his stomach on the ledge. Its stone was rough, so hot it felt as though it would burn right through the fabric of his trousers, but he paid it no heed. He was used to meditating in worse conditions, and had long since learned to block such trivial discomforts from his mind. He assumed the bhujang asana, arching his upper torso and head back like a rearing cobra. In a small corner of his mind, he smiled. No wonder he'd preferred that asana to the cross-legged position his mother used for meditation. He, unlike her, had serpent blood flowing in his veins.

And he was about to find out if it was enough to hear what Sseth had to say.

Arvin went deep. Deeper than his usual meditations, deeper even than he'd gone while under Tanju's instruction a year before in the abandoned quarry. He viewed his mind as he'd seen it then, as an intricately knotted net of memories and thoughts. But he viewed the strands as if through a magnifying lens. He could see not only the cords that were braided into each rope, but the individual thought fibers that made up each cord. A handful were a pale yellow-tan, mottled with irregular spots of black: hair-thin serpents with

unblinking eyes and flickering tongues. Though he was reminded of the tendrils that Zelia's mind seed had insinuated, the sight of those serpents didn't stir up any unpleasant emotions. They were the legacy of his father's yuan-ti blood. Judging by the triangular shape of the head, Salim's ancestors had been pythons in their serpent form.

Bulges pulsed along the bodies of the hair-thin snakes like mice passing through a serpent's gullet: individual thoughts flowing through Arvin's mind. With deep, even breaths, he slowed them, putting his mind ever more at peace. He was distantly aware of his body sinking into a state much like sleep. His breathing and heartbeat slowed, and despite the fierce jungle heat, his body cooled slightly. His arms, however, remained rigid, supporting the asana.

Dreamlike images began to crowd into the darkness behind his closed eyelids. Fragments of memory floated by. Karrell's face and her voice, the word in her language for kiss: tsu. The warehouse and workshop Arvin had been forced to abandon a year ago, after the militia discovered the plague-riddled body of the cultist who had died there. And memories from farther back. Of the day he'd learned that Naulg had escaped from the orphanage, and the sorrow Arvin had felt at his friend not saying good-bye. Of his mother's face, the day she'd departed on what was to be her last job as a guide, and the tight hug she'd given him after placing around his neck the bead that enclosed the crystal he wore ever since.

He was distantly aware of his body, of a tear triokling down his cheek. It vanished quickly in the intense jungle heat.

He waited, watching the shifting images, drifting. Eventually, they began to blend in the way that dreams will. He was lying in a bed with Karrell, tenderly stroking her cheek, not in the room they'd

shared in Ormpetarr but at the orphanage. The bed was small and narrow and hard, its straw-filled mattress scratchy. One of the clerics stood over them, frowning. The gray robe held out his hands, and Arvin saw that they were bound not with the traditional red cord, but with a serpent whose body was a tube of molten lava.

The smell of burned flesh and hair was thick in the room, coming from a lump of osssra that burned in a brazier in the corner. The brazier fell over, spilling a wave of lava across the floor. The osssra lay in the middle of it-a severed snake head. Its tongue flickered out of its mouth and wrapped around Arvin's wrist. He yanked it free but found himself trapped in the embrace of a six-armed creature-Sibyl, with Karrell's face.

Her stomach bulged like a dead body rotting in the sun. Tiny human hands erupted from it, the fingers seeding themselves like tendrils in his own stomach. He could feel them growing into him, burning their way up his veins toward his heart, which Karrell held in her hand. It pulsed, then lay quivering, then pulsed, then quivered again. She bit into it like an apple, blood-juice running down her chin and throat. Then she laughed with Sibyl's voice, a gurgling hiss like water bubbling through a sewer.

Stink surrounded Arvin, the stench of his own rotting flesh. The plague had found him. It had crept, disguised as his mother, into his bed, and rushed into his nostrils. Deep in his lungs, it festered. Inside his stomach, it grew, forming child-sized tumors that would burst and spread their seeds.

A scream echoed in his ears: his own. Dimly, he could sense Ts'ikil bending over him, touching his shoulder with a wingtip. That steadied him. The nightmare had left his arms trembling, his heart pounding faster than a rattler's shaking tail, his body drenched in sweat.

In the momentary reprieve granted by Ts'ikil, he was aware of the ache in his left hand, the crusted blood on his right shoulder.

Then he plunged back into nightmare.

It was as horrible as what had come before: twisted images of Karrell blended with Zelia, Naulg was swallowed whole by Sibyl, a silver snake coiled around Arvin's neck and tightened, slowly and remorselessly. In his dream, he saw his body convulse, his back wrenching backward in agony like a serpent's, until he was staring at his feet.

The image was unmistakable: the Circled Serpent, but was it a message from Sseth or just his own feverish imagination?

A heartbeat later, it was gone, replaced by scenes of infants impaled on fang-shaped stakes, a priest yanking Arvin's head back and forcing him to consume raw sewage while reciting his prayers at the same time, and Karrell-except that when Arvin tried to embrace her, she turned to shadow-stuff.

Nowhere, in any of the imagery, did he see a door.

It was getting increasingly difficult to continue. Had it been a normal dream, he would have woken up screaming long ago. Only the discipline imposed by a year's practice at meditation allowed him to continue for so long. That, and the lingering traces of Zelia's credo.

Control, he told himself savagely. If you want to see Karrell again, you've got to persevere.

The small portion of his mind that remained detached from his nightmares wondered what images Zelia's seed was experiencing. What would his nightmares be like? He doubted there was anyone Zelia cared for, save for herself. Certainly no one she loved. If Zelia herself was sleeping at that moment, she would probably be dreaming about her seeds turning on her.

The thought made Arvin smile. It gave him the strength to carry on.

The images swept relentlessly past. Arvin waded through a river of blood in which screaming human heads bobbed, suddenly found himself a winged snake stripped of his wings and plunging to his death, and saw a boil of pestilence rise on his stomach. He scratched it and a marilith erupted from the wounds his fingers clawed. He realized, suddenly and viscerally, how terrible a place sleep would be if Dendar did not feed on nightmares.

He had no idea how much time was passing. A tiny corner of his mind told him the sun still beat down on his prone body but with less intensity. There was a distant pang of hunger in his stomach and a full sensation that told him he would need to urinate soon. He fought a battle, however, and such things were trivial. The Dmetrio-seed had osssra on his side. Arvin had only his own will.

The nightmare images pummeled him, weakened him, wearing down his resolve. His body could endure the strain he was putting it under by holding the bhujang asana for so long, but his mind would soon snap. Already he could see the ropes that made up his mental net starting to fray. The sun's heat was making him lightheaded, and he would need to drink soon or he would faint.

A feather brushed his lips, bringing with it a trickle of water-Ts'ikil, lifting water to his mouth. Arvin sucked it greedily down-and saw, in his nightmare, himself suckling at Karrell's breast, only to find his head impaled by cold flat steel as the marilith shoved one of her swords through Karrell's back.

No! In his nightmare, he wrenched his head away. His eyes fluttered open, too-bright sunllght and the riotous colors of Ts'ikil's feathers swam before him,

and his arms trembled. He collapsed, slamming his chest down onto hot, rough stone. For a moment, full wakefulness claimed him; he squeezed his oyes shut and straightened his arms, forcing himself back into the asana, forcing his mind back into the realm of nightmare,

Then he was aware of something that he hadn't noticed before. His forehead tingled. Either the iron cobra was closing in, or…

Or someone else was scrying on him and trying to communicate with him.

Sseth.

With a croaked whisper, Arvin activated the lapis lazuli. He pictured Sseth as the god had been depicted in the Temple of Emerald Scales in Hlondeth-an enormous winged serpent with green and bronze scales looming over his worshipers. Distantly, he felt his mouth form silent words.

"Sseth. I am one of…" he hesitated, fearful of telling an outright lie to a god, "one of your people. Tell me how to reach you."

The mental image Arvin had formed suddenly shifted. The statue he had pictured became flesh, and the face of a sleeping serpent filled his mind. Thick vegetation covered it: a tangle of leafy vines, bulging white rootlets, and interwoven tree branches and roots. Arvin's breathing faltered as he realized he was looking at the face of a god.

The eye opened. A slit pupil swiveled to stare at Arvin through the constricting lace of foliage. Arvin gasped as his awareness tumbled into it.

Into Sseth's own nightmares.

Sseth lay in his jungle domain, basking under a brooding purple sky, surrounded by his minions- the souls of his yuan-ti priests. His merest whim should have produced fervent, fawning service, but they had turned their backs on him. Without a

word-ignoring even his commands-they slithered away. As they did, the jungle around Sseth came to life. Tree trunks glowed red then turned into tubes of lava. Vines became streamers of molten rock. These flowed over Sseth, burning him. The immense heat curled his scales like dead leaves. Then they crystallized, trapping him in solid stone. Trapped like an insect in amber-him! A god! He tried to open his mouth, but it would not move. The petrified vines had bound it shut.

He stared in mute fury as a dog-headed giant wearing a starched white kilt and golden sandals strode toward him, each of his steps crunching the petrified vegetation underfoot. Around the usurpur's head was the symbol of his power: a golden diadem of a rearing cobra.

The awareness that was Arvin had no idea who the dog-headed giant was, save that he was reminiscent of the dog-man who had followed Arvin all the way from Hlondeth. The awareness that was Sseth, however, understood that the head was not that of a dog, but of a jackal, a scavenger of the desert. It conveyed to Arvin the full extent of what that meant. It was no giant who strode toward him with an evil leer on his lips but a rival god, Set, Lord of Carrion, brother to jackals and serpents, King of Malice and Lord of Evil, slayer of his own kin.

Sseth raged. An angry hiss slipped between his clenched jaws.

Set grabbed his mouth in his massive hands and forced it open. He placed a golden sandal on Sseth's forked tongue, stilling it. Then he stepped inside.

Sseth tried to thrash away, but to no avail; the petrified vegetation held him fast. He felt Set force his way down his gullet. For a heartbeat, all was still. Then came a tearing sensation. To Arvin, it felt as though the skin were being flayed from his body. To

Sseth, who had a deeper understanding, it was recognized as skin sloughing free. Never before, however, had the shedding of his skin been so painful.

When it was done, Set stood before him, clad in Sseth's own green-and-bronze skin. A serpent head cloaked his own; through its gaping jaws Set's jackal grin could be seen. Then the rival god vanished.

Sseth tried to follow but could not move. His jaw, however, was still open. He snapped it shut, only to feel a tooth break against one of the potrified vines that bound him. Looking down, he saw that the tooth was embedded in the ground. It stood upright, like a miniature volcano, blood flowing from the broken tip like lava. Then the molten rock crystalized. Sseth stared at it, focusing his entire attention upon the tooth. Upon the crater at its tip. Thisss…

A sudden clarity came to Arvin's mind. He recognized that shape. The tooth had the exact contours of the volcano he'd viewed from the air while trying to get his bearings after coming through the portal. The broken top of the tooth had the same jagged edges as the crater at the volcano's peak. Sseth's message was clear: the door was inside that, crater.

Yes, Sseth hissed. Yesss.

"How do I open it?" Arvin asked.

Too late. Tho sending was over. Blackness descended.

When consciousness returned, Arvin found himself lying face down on the ground. He must have collapsed a second time. Blood trickled from his upper lip where a tooth had torn it. The tooth felt loose in his mouth when he worried it with his tongue.

Ts'ikil bent over him, her expression anxious. Did you learn where the door is?

Arvin rose, shaking, to his feet. "You weren't listening to my thoughts?"

Sseth might not have spoken if I had.

The sun was low enough in the west that shadows from the cliff across the river had started to creep across the ledge on which they stood. Arvin turned and looked north. Peeking above the treetops was the distant mountain he had seen in Sseth's dreams. inside its crater lay the door to Smaragd-the door that led to Karrell.

Ts'ikil turned in that direction. Her awareness slid into Arvin's mind. After a moment, she spoke. Have you enough magic left to fly?

Arvin had just been worrying about that. He'd taken the time to replenish his muladhara at the beginning of his meditation, but the numerous manifestations the metamorphosis power would require to carry him such a distance would certainly deplete it again. If he was going to do battle with the Dmetrioseed, he'd need to conserve his power.

Ts'ikil extended her good wing. Only one of her flight feathers remained intact and unbent; she nodded at it. Take it.

Arvin started. "You want me to pull your feather out?"

It will allow you to reach the volcano without wasting your power.

Arvin grasped it then hesitated. Was it some sort of trick? Would him having the feather somehow allow Ts'ikil to come along for the ride? To reach the door and prevent him from opening it?

No.

"Then why help me?"

Ts'ikil nodded at Pakal. The dwarf lay on the stone, the patches on his legs only slightly more insubstantial than the shadows that crept toward him. Then she stared at Arvin. I help you because, even though I know what is in your heart, there is still a chance-her lips quirked-albeit only a coin's toss

chance, that you will choose the correct path through the labyrinth that lies ahead.

Arvin nodded. He grasped the feather and pulled. It slid cleanly from Ts'ikil's wing. He felt his feet drift away from the ground. He was flying.

Gripping the feather tightly, he took a deep breath. "I'll make the right choice," he promised Ts'ikil.

Though whether right for himself and Karrell-or for the world-remained to be seen.