by Lisa Smedman
“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 couldn’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 strong 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 tendays, 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 want 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 flyin
g 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 our battle, and she does not know that Zelia’s seed has the key.
It has come down to a race between yourself and the Dmetrio-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 is the cleric of his enemy, and Sseth will know—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? Assuming 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 other gods 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 her soul 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 her coin—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 if one 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 children 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 enter a 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 apsion.
That made Arvin
pause. Ts’ikil had used the right word—most people called him a “mind mage”—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 his 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.
