Viper's Kiss

by Lisa Smedman

  He had no idea what the text of the book said, but here and there he spotted a line that he recognized as Draconic. The spine of the book was deeply creased, as if it had been referred to many times, and one of the pages was marked with a ribbon. Flipping to it, Arvin saw an illustration of a male and female yuan-ti. Dmetrio Extaminos, it seemed, had been no aberration. It was common for a male yuan-ti to carry two swords in his scabbard … so to speak.

  Closing the book, he set it back on the shelf.

  A quick pacing of the first-floor rooms and a few knocks on walls determined that neither the kitchen nor the sitting room had any hiding places. There was a cupboard under the stairs at the back of the hall, but a glance inside revealed nothing but dust and cobwebs.

  “Glisena?” Arvin called. “Are you here?”

  There was, as he expected, no answer.

  The stairs led to a landing with three doors. All were open. The one to Arvin’s right looked as though it had been kicked open, splintering the door frame; it must have been locked when the baron arrived. Arvin glanced into the other two rooms first—a small washing-up room and a bedroom, its bed dragged to one side and its wardrobe open and spilling clothes—then turned his attention to the third room. He eased open the broken door.

  “Glisena?” he called. “Naneth?”

  As the door swung open, the stench struck him. Small and shuttered tight against the cold outside, the room reeked of snake. The walls were lined with tables; on these stood square containers made from panes of leaded glass, each with a wooden lid that had been drilled with holes. A different type of snake slithered around inside each container. One was a brown-scaled boa, coiled tight around a feebly twitching rat. Its body flexed, and the rat stopped moving. In the container next to it was a clutch of small green snakes, tangled together in a mating ball. Next to these was a flying snake from the southern lands, its body banded in light and dark green, its wings a vivid shade of turquoise. It fluttered inside its glass-walled container, hissing.

  Arvin shook his head. Naneth certainly had odd taste in pets.

  As he stepped into the room, a reddish-brown viper with a thick band of black at its throat reared up and spat a spray of venom onto the glass. Arvin eyed it warily, glad that the lid prevented it from getting out. The container next to it, however, was open; its lid sat on the table beside it. A saucer lay upside down inside the glass-walled cage, next to the gold-and-black-striped snake that was coiled there; this was where Naneth had been standing when Arvin contacted her with his sending.

  Arvin picked up the lid and set it cautiously back in place, closing the cage. The snake inside, he saw now, was coiled on top of a clutch of eggs. Its body covered most of the small, leathery ovals, but as the snake shifted, Arvin caught a glimpse of something strange—it looked like a symbol, painted in red, on the egg that was closest to the glass. Squatting down for a closer look, Arvin saw he was right. The symbol was in Draconic. What it signified, he had no idea. He touched a hand to the glass the egg rested against, and it happened. Just as it had on the ship. For the space of several heartbeats, he stared, with naked eyes, into the future.

  A pool of blood spread around someone’s feet. And a finger-thin stream of red flowed away from the pool, toward a dark shape Arvin couldn’t quite make out. Yet somehow he knew that it was something evil, something monstrous. The creature looked down then lifted the stream of blood from the ground with one hand—the hand of a woman—and began drawing the blood toward itself like a fisher hauling in a line.

  Arvin’s ears rang with an anguished scream—a woman’s scream. Startled by it, he jerked his hand away. Only after his heart had pounded for several moments did he realize the sound had been part of his vision.

  The snake shifted, covering its eggs once more. It looked at Arvin through the glass, tongue flickering in and out of its mouth, and gave a soft, menacing hiss.

  Shaken by the premonition, Arvin stood.

  Someone was going to die. Naneth?

  He forced his mind back to the job at hand. Had Naneth still been in this room when the baron kicked the door in? If so, the room might hold a clue as to where she’d gone.

  For the fourth time that evening, Arvin manifested the power that made him sensitive to psychic impressions. The snakes hissed as a low droning noise filled the air. Allowing the energy that lay just behind his navel to uncoil, Arvin held out a hand and turned in a slow circle, scanning the room. Ectoplasm blossomed in his wake on the containers that held the snakes, covering their glass with a translucent sheen.

  Arvin focused on the saucer Naneth had dropped. A vision flashed before his eyes—of Naneth, startled, releasing it. The image was faint and ghostly, at first, but grew in detail and solidity as Naneth listened and responded to the warning Arvin had sent. By the end of the sending, the midwife was visibly agitated. She ran from the room, into the bedroom across the landing, and returned an instant later with something tucked in the crook of one arm. Slamming the door behind herself, she quickly locked it. She shoved aside one of the glass containers, ignoring the agitated hissing of her snakes, and placed the item on the tabletop. It turned out to be a wrought-iron statuette of a rearing serpent holding a fist-sized sphere of crystal in its mouth.

  Arvin felt the blood drain from his cheeks. He’d seen a crystal ball identical to it once before. It had belonged to a yuan-ti named Karshis—a yuan-ti who had served Sibyl.

  Sibyl, the abomination who had killed Naulg, Arvin’s oldest friend.

  Painful memories swam into Arvin’s mind—of Naulg, barely recognizable as human, his body hideously transformed by the potion Sibyl’s minions had forced him to consume. Driven insane by his transformation, Naulg had glared at Arvin after his rescue, frothing and snapping his teeth, not recognizing his friend. And Arvin, staring down at one of the few people to have shown him kindness without wanting something in return, had realized that there was only one thing he could do for his old friend, one final kindness.

  He could still hear Naulg’s final choked gasp as the cleric’s prayer took effect … and the silence that followed.

  Together with Nicco and the others in the Secession, Arvin had thwarted Sibyl’s plan to turn the humans of Hlondeth into mindless semblances of yuan-ti. But the abomination herself was still at large. Though the Secession had been searching for her, these past six months, they’d turned up no trace of her. Arvin had bided his time, hiding from Zelia and slowly learning new psionic powers from Tanju. He’d told himself that, when Sibyl did rear up out of her hole again, he’d be ready to avenge himself on her. That was something he’d sworn to do—sworn in the presence of a cleric of Hoar, god of retribution.

  The god must have been listening. Why else would he have placed another of Sibyl’s followers in Arvin’s path?

  As if in answer, thunder grumbled somewhere outside, rattling the shutters of the windows.

  Arvin swallowed and nervously touched the crystal that hung at his throat.

  The vision his manifestation had conjured up was still unfolding. In it, Naneth raised a hand to her mouth and pointed her forefinger at the crystal ball. “Mistress,” she said in a tight, urgent voice, one hand stroking the crystal. “Mistress, heed me.”

  A figure took shape within the sphere—a black serpent with the face of a woman, four humanlike arms, and enormous wings that fluttered above her shoulders. The abomination twisted to look at Naneth with eyes the color of dark red flame, her forked tongue flickering.

  “Sibyl,” Arvin said in an anguished whisper, speaking the name at the same time the ghostly figure of Naneth did.

  “Speak,” the abomination hissed.

  Arvin watched, horrified.

  “I have just received word, mistress,” Naneth said, addressing the figure that stared at her from inside the sphere. “The baron has learned of our plan.”

  Sibyl’s eyes narrowed. “Who told you this?”

  “A man I’ve never met before. A spellcaster—he used magic to deliver his mes
sage.”

  “Describe him.”

  Arvin’s breath caught.

  “He was human. With collar-length brown hair, and….” Naneth paused, frowning. “And an oval of blue stone attached to his forehead.”

  “Do you have any idea who he might be?”

  “None.”

  Arvin laughed with nervous relief. The description Naneth had just given was vague enough that it might have been anyone—aside from the lapis lazuli, which he’d be careful to keep out of sight from now on.

  “What, precisely, did the spellcaster say?”

  Naneth frowned. “Only this: ‘He knows what you did.’” She paused. “It’s a ruse, isn’t it? One designed to get us to tip our hand.”

  “You humans are not always as stupid as you seem,” Sibyl answered, her tongue flickering in and out through her smile.

  From behind the closed door came the sounds of a man shouting. Then footsteps pounded up the stairs. For a moment, Arvin thought the baron had returned, but then he realized that this was part of the vision. To his eyes, the door was still closed and locked—and shuddering as the baron pounded on it and shouted at Naneth to open it.

  The midwife gave a quick glance over her shoulder then turned back to the sphere. “The baron is here,” she whispered in a tight voice. “Should I—”

  Sibyl’s wings flared. “Do nothing rash,” she hissed. “Do not go to the girl; if this is a ruse, they will have a means of following you. Avoid the baron, for now. Continue your preparations.”

  Naneth bowed her head. “I am your servant, oh Sibilant Death.”

  As the baron shouted what sounded like a final warning, the image of Sibyl vanished from the sphere. Scooping up the crystal ball, Naneth spoke several words in a foreign language. Then she vanished, leaving only swirling dust motes behind.

  A heartbeat later the door crashed open, propelled by the baron’s boot. He stormed into the room and glared around it, nose crinkling as he caught the odor of snake. Then he whirled and stomped out of sight.

  Devoid of emotion to feed it, the manifestation ended.

  Arvin knocked a fist against his own forehead, chastising himself in the silent speech. Stupid. If only he hadn’t sent that warning to Naneth, they might have learned where Glisena was—but now Naneth was gone.

  It was no consolation to Arvin that, until a few moments ago, Naneth had seemed nothing more than a helpful midwife. Marasa had been right all along. Glisena had been kidnapped, albeit without her realizing it. The baron’s daughter had unwittingly placed herself—and her unborn child—in the hands of servants of an utterly ruthless and evil abomination. What terrible scheme was Sibyl up to this time?

  Whatever it was, it had to involve the child.

  Six months ago, Sibyl had attempted to install Osran Extaminos, youngest brother of Lady Dediana, on Hlondeth’s throne. She would have succeeded, had Arvin not thwarted her plan to turn Hlondeth’s humans into Osran’s private slave army. This time around, Sibyl must have been planning to use Lady Dediana’s grandchild.

  That this was a scheme of opportunity, Arvin had no doubt. There was no way for Sibyl to have known that Glisena was pregnant by Dmetrio, or that the baron would summon a midwife to the palace to end that pregnancy. That it had been Naneth the baron had chosen had been mere ill fortune.

  Unless—and here was a chilling thought—Dmetrio was somehow involved. Had he gotten the baron’s daughter pregnant on purpose?

  Another talk with Ambassador Extaminos was in order. It would have to be a very private talk, one in which Arvin would listen both to what was said—and what wasn’t being said.

  In the meantime, he needed to send a warning. He stepped out into the hallway, pulled the lapis lazuli from his pocket, held it to his forehead, and spoke the command word. He concentrated, and the face of his mentor became clear in his mind—a deeply lined face framed by short gray hair, the eyes with a curious fold to the eyelid that marked Tanju as coming from the East.

  Tanju blinked in surprise as the sending connected them then turned to listen to what Arvin had to say.

  “Glisena is pregnant with Dmetrio’s child,” Arvin told him. “A midwife named Naneth helped Glisena hide. Naneth serves Sibyl. Sibyl hopes to use the child.”

  Tanju nodded thoughtfully. He ran a hand through his hair as he composed his reply. “Learn what Sibyl intends. I will warn Lady Dediana.”

  The connection faded. “Atmiya,” Arvin said, letting the lapis lazuli fall into his palm. He tucked it carefully back into his pocket and turned toward the stairs. Just as he was about to descend, he heard a creaking noise from below: the front door opening. Then a male voice called out. “Naneth?” The voice sounded hesitant, uncertain. Something moved in the hallway downstairs. It sounded like the clomping of a horse, though softer, like the footsteps of a foal.

  Remaining motionless, Arvin peered down the stairs. A short, slender man wearing a forest-green hooded cloak stood in the hallway, staring nervously into the kitchen. At first Arvin took him to be an elf, but then he realized that those weren’t goat’s-fleece trousers but the fellow’s own thickly furred legs. Each ended in a black cloven hoof. As the man turned, Arvin saw his face. It was narrow and had pointed ears, like those of an elf, but a black horn curled from each temple. The chin was sharp and covered in a tuft of black hair.

  A satyr.

  What was a satyr doing in a city, far from any forest?

  “Naneth?” the fellow called again. “Come now, woman, are you here?” He spoke with a high, soft voice, with a lilt that made it sound as if he were reciting poetry.

  Was the satyr also one of Sibyl’s servants? There was one way to find out—by probing his thoughts. Slowly, Arvin drew back from the staircase, intending to manifest the power from hiding, but the satyr’s senses were keen. His eyes darted to the spot where Arvin stood. He bleated in surprise then bolted.

  He was out the door before Arvin could react. Cursing, Arvin pounded down the stairs and out the front door himself. He glanced right, left … and saw the satyr disappearing around a corner. Arvin charged after him, elbowing his way through the people on the street and summoning his dagger from his glove as he ran. If need be, he would use it, but only as a threat—he had less lethal ways of bringing the satyr down.

  The satyr sprinted up the street, darting nervous glances behind himself as he ran. His hood had fallen away from his head, revealing his ramlike horns and dark, flowing hair. He skidded around a corner, slipping a little on the snow, and Arvin narrowed the gap between them. Arvin pelted around the corner.

  A hoof lashed out, narrowly missing his groin. Pain shot through Arvin’s thigh as the hoof gouged into it—and the satyr was off and running again, this time down an alley.

  Biting his lip against the throbbing of his thigh, Arvin stumbled after him. He shoved his ungloved hand into his pocket and pulled from it a fist-sized knot. He skidded to a stop and threw the monkey’s fist at the satyr, shouting the command word that activated its magic.

  The ensorcelled knot unraveled in flight, splitting into four trailing strands. The main part of the monkey’s fist struck the satyr in the side as he rounded another corner, and immediately two of the strands of twine wrapped around his waist. The others encircled his legs. The twine yanked his legs together, immobilizing them, and he tumbled to the ground.

  Arvin approached cautiously, dagger in hand. He halted just outside the flailing arc of the satyr’s bound legs. He glared down at the fellow, manifesting the power that would allow him to listen in on the satyr’s thoughts. “Who … are you?” he panted, a spray of silver sparkles erupting from his forehead as the power manifested. He turned his dagger so that its blade caught the light. “Do you serve Sibyl?”

  The satyr’s ears twitched. He tossed his head. “Leave me be, thief. I carry no gems—not a single sparkle.” Behind the words was a faint, panicky echo: his thoughts. They were in his own language, but Arvin heard them as if they’d been spoken in the common tongue.
What has he done to Naneth? If he has caused her harm….

  “Sibyl,” Arvin repeated sternly. “The abomination. Do you serve Sibyl?”

  Who? The satyr struggled against the twine and tried to rise to his feet, but tripped and fell backward. His thoughts tumbled over one another. What game does he play? What does he want of me?

  Arvin sighed and vanished the dagger back into his glove. “I made a mistake, it seems,” he told the satyr. “I thought you were the thief.”

  The satyr paused in his struggles. “You were not the mischief-maker who trampled Naneth’s home?” Who is he, then?

  Arvin shook his head. “I came to consult Naneth,” he said, answering the unspoken question. “I found her door open, her home disrupted.”

  “Ah.” The satyr relaxed. That is why he was there. His woman is with child.

  Arvin knelt beside the satyr and grasped the monkey’s fist firmly. He repeated the command and the twine instantly unwound from the satyr’s limbs and reknotted itself back into a monkey’s fist.

  A sorcerer, the satyr thought. They are thick as brambles here.

  “Was that why you came to Naneth’s house?” Arvin asked, extending a hand to help the satyr up. “Is your woman also pregnant?”

  A troubled look crept into the satyr’s eyes. The female, he thought. She is unwell. If Naneth does not attend her, she may lose her child. “Yes,” he answered aloud.

  Arvin barely masked his startle. The satyr was thinking in his own language, but the power Arvin was manifesting allowed him to understand the subtle nuances of each word. “Female,” he’d said, not “woman.” He wasn’t referring to one of his own kind—he was talking about a woman of some other race.

  Glisena?

  “Is the birth not going well?” Arvin probed. “Is that why you came to fetch Naneth?”