Viper's kiss

CHAPTER 11

Arvin's eyes fluttered open. He lay on his back in the middle of a clearing, surrounded by at least a dozen satyrs. All were standing with their bows at full draw, arrows pointed at him. The satyr with the pan pipes-a fellow with eyebrows that formed a V over his nose, and a pointed tuft of beard on his chin-stood next to Arvin's pack, peering at something he held cupped in one hand. Arvin frowned, and pain lanced through his forehead. Something warm and sticky-blood-trickled down his temple, and his hair felt matted. Moving his hand slowly, so the satyrs wouldn't shoot him, he touched his forehead and felt an open wound the size of a thumbprint. Realization dawned: they had cut the lapis lazuli from his flesh. The charm he'd manifested when the satyr had first startled him obviously hadn't worked.

"Is this how you treat a friend?" Arvin asked.

The satyr with the pan pipes tipped the lapis lazuli into a leather pouch that hung from his belt and wiped his hand on his furry leg. "Friend?"

"Naneth sent me," Arvin said, watching for a reaction. A couple of satyrs holding bows glanced at each other; one said something in the satyr tongue. The other shrugged and slackened the draw of his bow, just a little.

Arvin eased himself into a sitting position, keeping a wary eye on them. Blood from his forehead trickled into his eye; he wiped it away with his hand. As he did this, he took stock. The satyrs had taken his pack-it lay on the ground a short distance away-but they'd overlooked the brooch Foesmasher had given him; Arvin could feel its cold metal against his chest. They'd also overlooked his magical bracelet and glove. He'd vanished his dagger into the latter, but it would do him little good at the moment, with a dozen arrows pointed at him.

He debated whether to attempt one of his psionic powers. He longed to know what the satyr with the pan pipes was thinking, but was hesitant to use the power that would allow him to read thoughts. As soon as the first sparkle of light erupted from his third eye, the satyrs would feather him with arrows.

"I'm one of Naneth's assistants," Arvin continued. "When your friend arrived with the news that the human woman was feverish and ill, Naneth asked me to take a look. She had urgent business elsewhere, and wasn't able to come herself."

As he spoke, Arvin wondered just where Naneth had gone. Three nights had passed since the baron had stormed into her home, causing her to flee.

As the satyrs talked in their own language Arvin- glanced around. There were three tunnels through the brambles leading away from the clearing; drag marks through the slush showed the one from which they had hauled out Arvin. Around the, edges of the clearing stood a dozen huts like the one he had glimpsed while reading the thoughts of the satyr in Ormpetarr; it was impossible to tell which one Glisena was inside.

"Where is the human?" he asked. "I have healing magic that can help her."

The satyr with the pan pipes motioned with his hand; the others lowered their weapons. Then he tipped his horned head toward one of the huts-the only one that had smoke rising through the vent hole in its roof. "Follow me."

Arvin scrambled to his feet, wondering where Karrell had gone. There was no sign of her. Out of habit, he reached to touch the crystal that hung at his throat, to steady himself.

The crystal was gone; the satyrs must have taken it.

Arvin glared at the satyr who was leading him to the hut. Arvin's mother had given him the crystal just before she died; he'd worn it faithfully for two decades. Through the long years at the orphanage, it had been the one reminder that he'd once had a parent who loved him. Arvin was damned if he was going to let the satyrs keep it.

The satyr opened the door of the hut-an untanned hide hung from crude wooden pegs-and motioned for Arvin to enter. Arvin stepped inside and felt excitement course through him as he spotted the object of his search.

Glisena lay on a sheepskin near a fire pit. Her long hair damp with sweat, given over the smell of wood smoke, Arvin caught the odor of sickness; a fly circled lazily in the air above her head. Glisena still wore the dress she'd had on when she used Naneth's ring to teleport away from the palace; her winter cloak and boots lay in a heap against the far wall. Through the fabric of the dress, Arvin saw Glisena's stomach bulge momentarily: the baby kicking. Glisena gave a faint groan.

At least mother and baby were both alive.

Arvin should have felt elation. Instead he felt sadness and a grim sense of foreboding.

The satyr gave Arvin a shove from behind. "Heal her."

Arvin stumbled forward. Kneeling beside Glisena, he saw that the object circling above her was not a fly, after all, but a small black-and-white stone, ellipsoid in shape. That it was magical, he had no doubt. It was probably what had kept the spellcasters from finding Glisena. He left it alone; grabbing it would only alarm the satyr.

Gently, Arvin turned her face toward him. Her skin felt hot under his fingers. "Glisena?" he said. "Can you hear me?"

She blinked and tried to focus. "Dmetrio?"

Arvin's jaw clenched. Dmetrio Extaminos had cast this woman aside like spoiled fruit, long ago. Arvin longed to tell Glisena the truth-that Dmetrio was the last person she should expect. That he would soon be departing for Hlondeth without giving her a second thought. But that would hardly be a kindness.

"No, Arvin said gently. "It's not Dmetrio."

He snuck a glance at the satyr. The fellow stood near the door, scowling at Arvin, pan pipes still in hand.

"Naneth sent me," Arvin announced in a louder voice.

"Where… is she?" Glisena asked weakly. "Why hasn't she come?"

Once again, Arvin said nothing.

As she finally focused on him, Glisena's eyes widened in alarm. "Your face," she whispered. "It's bloody."

That one, Arvin had an answer for. "There was a misunderstanding," he said, glancing at the satyr as he spoke. "The satyrs didn't recognize me. Now be still. I need to figure out what's wrong with you."

He went through the motions of checking Glisena as a healer would, drawing upon his memories of how the priests at the orphanage had inspected children in the sick room. He held a finger to her throat, feeling her life-pulse; peered into her eyes; and sniffed her stale-smelling breath. Then he laid the back of his hand against her forehead as if measuring the heat of her fever. "When did you last see Naneth?" he asked.

"The night I… left," Glisena said. "She brought me here."

Arvin lifted each of Glisena's hands, pressing on the fingernails as if checking their color. Her fingers were bare; she no longer had Naneth's teleportation ring. Naneth must have taken it from her to prevent Glisena from leaving the satyr camp.

Glisena looked at Arvin with worried eyes. "Is it supposed to hurt so much? Naneth said the baby would be born soon after the spell. But it's been more than… a tenday. And still it won't come. Do you think my baby is…" Her words choked off and her hands tightened on her stomach protectively. Tears puddled at the corners of her eyes and trickled down her cheeks.

Arvin wiped them away. "I'll check," he told her.

He laid his hands on Glisena's distended stomach. It felt taut as a drum beneath his palms. Was the child in distress? There might be a way to find out… and to learn what the satyrs intended, as well.

"I'm going to cast a spell," Arvin told the satyr. "One that will tell me what is causing the fever."

The satyr stared suspiciously at him a moment then raised his pan pipes to his lips. "Cast your spell. But remember that the others outside will kill you, should I fall."

Arvin nodded. He sent his awareness deep into himself, awakening the power points at the base of his scalp and in his throat. Silver sparkles erupted from his third eye as the power manifested, momentarily obscuring his vision. Then the thoughts of those inside the but crowded into his mind. Glisena's were filled with anxious worry-she feared for her own life, as well as that of her child. She also clung to a desperate hope that Dmetrio would come for her. Naneth had promised to tell Dmetrio where she was. What could possibly have delayed him? Had something bad happened to him? Maybe heUnable to listen further, Arvin turned his attention to the satyr's thoughts.

The satyr-whose name turned out to be Theyron didn't believe Arvin's story. Naneth had warned him that one of the baron's men might show up and try to fetch Glisena home. The baron's man might even use Naneth's name, in an attempt to trick the satyrs and take Glisena away-just as this human had done.

But maybe this human did have healing magic, as he claimed. If he was the baron's man, he would want to heal Glisena; a dead female wasn't worth stealing. And it was important that Glisena remain alive. Naneth had promised the satyrs much wealth, in return for watching over the female for a few days. As to why Naneth had asked them to hide the baron's daughter, Theyron didn't know-and didn't care. When Naneth returned to claim the female, his clan would reap its reward.

As for the human, well, as soon as the baron's man completed the healing, Theyron would kill him. One note from the pipes, and the human would slumber. And his throat could be slit.

Unsettled by the callousness of the satyr's thoughts, Arvin disengaged from his mind; he doubted he was going to learn much more, and his manifestation would end soon. He turned his attention to the third source of thoughts within the hut: the unborn child. He focused on them, letting the thoughts of Glisena and the satyr fade to the background…

Rage. Boiling, inarticulate, all-consuming rage.

The thoughts of the child pounded into Arvin's mind like a hammer smashing against his skull. Out! snarled a voice as deep and hollow and devoid of humanity as a bottomless chasm. Release me!The thing inside the womb began kicking, fists, and feet pounding against Glisena's flesh, jolting Arvin's hand up and down. Let… me. OUT!

Shocked, Arvin jerked his hand away and ended the manifestation. He stared at Glisena in horror. Whatever was inside her wasn't human.

It wasn't yuan-ti, either.

Naneth had changed the unborn child in Glisena's womb into something… else.

The thought sickened Arvin to the point where he felt physically ill. This was even more monstrous than what Zelia had done to him. This time, the victim had been an innocent babe. But it was an innocent babe no longer.

"Something's… wrong, isn't it?" Glisena asked in a trembling voice.

Belatedly, Arvin composed his expression. "I don't know yet," he said. Then, acting on a hunch, he added, "I'll need to take a look."

Easing Glisena's hands aside, he unfastened the lacings of her dress nearest her stomach. Even without opening her dress, he could feel the heat radiating from her belly. He lifted the fabric to glance at her stomach and saw something that disturbed him: a series of crisscrossing lines. They looked like the faint whitish scratches fingernails would leave on skin. Remembering his glimpse of Naneth casting her spell on Glisena, Arvin was certain that the midwife had drawn them. That certainty solidified when he recognized the symbol the lines formed. It was the same one he'd spotted on the egg that one of Naneth's pet serpents had been sitting on.

Arvin had no idea what the symbol signified. But he was certain it wasn't good.

He refastened the lacings of Glisena's dress and took her hand. "Something is wrong," he told her. "But I'm here to help."

Theyron tapped a hoof impatiently. "Well? Can you heal her?"

Still squatting beside Glisena, holding her hand, Arvin brought his gloved hand up to scratch his head-a gesture a man would make when thinking. "The fever has held her in its grip for many days," he said. "It won't be easy to break its hold." As he spoke, the power he was manifesting filled the air with a low droning noise: its secondary display. Theyron didn't notice it, however; he had already turned to stare at the distraction Arvin had just manifested. His eyebrows pulled into an even tighter V as he frowned, trying to figure out what had just caught his attention.

With a whisper, Arvin summoned the dagger from within his glove. It appeared in his hand as he had been holding it when he'd vanished it: point between his fingers, ready to throw. His hand whipped forward. At the last instant, Theyron turned his head back and tried to blow into his pipes, but before he could exhale, the dagger buried itself in his throat.

Arvin leaped to his feet, manifesting a second power. A glowing line of silver energy shot out of his forehead, wrapped itself around the pan pipes, and yanked. The pipes flew out of Theyron's hands. Arvin caught them in his gloved hand and vanished them into his glove. He spoke the word that sent the magical dagger back to his other hand then rushed forward, plunging the weapon to the hilt in the satyr's chest. Slowly, with a faint gurgling noise, Theyron slumped to the floor, pulling free of the dagger.

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. BringI'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 perked 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 Foe- smasher 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 but 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: