by Lisa Smedman
The centaurs had also forced Arvin to turn out the contents of his pack. They seemed to have an aversion to rope—they’d tossed aside his magical ropes and twines as if they were poisonous snakes, and declined to search the pack further. Fortunately, they’d made no protest when Arvin gathered the ropes up again and returned them to his pack. Nor had they confiscated his glove, which he’d managed to vanish his dagger into.
The centaurs finished speaking. Tanglemane bowed at the waist to speak in Arvin’s ear. “They serve Lord Wianar,” he said. “They will turn us over to his soldiers.”
Arvin had been afraid of that. Chondath wasn’t officially at war with Sespech … yet. But the larger state was overdue for another attempt to oust Baron Foesmasher and reclaim lands they had never given up title to. Lord Wianar would be keen to question “soldiers from Sespech” to learn the current strength of Fort Arran’s defenses. The questioning would no doubt be brutal and long.
Arvin swallowed nervously. “Would you tell them we’re not soldiers?” he asked Tanglemane.
Tanglemane’s eyes blazed. “I am a soldier,” he said. Then his voice softened. “I tried to convince them earlier that you and the female are not the baron’s vassals, but it was no use. They say you are spies.”
Arvin swallowed. “That’s worse than being a soldier, right?”
Tanglemane nodded. He lowered his voice. “You are not the first spies to cross the river. Last night, our soldiers took another across. These centaurs spotted him as he slipped into the woods. They laid the symbol in retaliation; they claim the woods as their own.”
Arvin blinked. Foesmasher, it seemed, hadn’t been content to wait for Arvin to reappear. There were others searching the Chondalwood for Glisena. The search had become a race.
Arvin glanced at the big white centaur. “What’s their leader’s name?” he asked.
“You could not pronounce it.”
“In Common,” Arvin said. “What would it translate as?”
“Stonehoof.”
Arvin caught Karrell’s eye then tipped his head at the centaur leader. “We need to talk him into letting us go,” he whispered. “Let’s see how … persuasive we can be. If I don’t manage to convince him, perhaps you can.”
“I cannot help you,” she whispered back. “That … ability comes to me only once a day.”
“Looks like it’s up to me, then,” Arvin said. Leaving Karrell, he jogged ahead to a position closer to the centaur leader. Stonehoof was even more powerfully built than Tanglemane, his massive hooves hidden by a fringe of hair. His upper torso was as pale as the rest of his body, covered with the same short white hair. His eyes were ice-blue.
Stonehoof glared at Arvin. “Return you to center of herd,” he said sternly.
Arvin spread his hands in a placating gesture. “Stonehoof,” he said, feeling energy awaken at the base of his scalp as he spoke. “You’ve got the wrong people. We don’t serve the baron—we’re not even from Sespech.”
“Came you across river in soldier wagon.” Stonehoof said. One of his ears swiveled, as if he’d heard something in the distance.
“That’s true,” Arvin agreed. “But we were only getting a ride with the soldiers. We’re actually from Hlondeth. We were just passing through Sespech on our way to—”
One of the centaurs let out a loud, startled whinny. Instantly, the herd halted. They formed a circle, facing outward with bows raised. Stonehoof planted one of his massive hooves in Arvin’s chest and shoved. Arvin stumbled backward, landing on his back in the snow beside Karrell and Tanglemane. He sat up, rubbing his bruised chest.
“The charm did not work?” Karrell whispered as she helped him to his feet.
“Apparently not,” Arvin said.
Tanglemane stood next to them, listening. He lifted his head, his nostrils flaring as he sampled the breeze, then snorted.
A moment later, Arvin’s less sensitive ears picked up the sound the centaurs had reacted to: the thud of hooves.
“Who is it?” Arvin whispered to Tanglemane. “Soldiers?”
“No.” Tanglemane said. “A lone centaur.”
As the centaur loped into view, Stonehoof and his herd relaxed. Most lowered their bows—though two kept arrows loosely nocked as they returned their attention to their captives.
The newcomer slowed to a trot and tossed his head. He was black from mane to tail, save for a blaze of white on each of his front hooves. Unlike the other centaurs, whose manes flowed freely down their backs, this one wore his hair pulled back with a thong. A wide leather belt around his waist held his quiver and bow case, as well as a large pouch.
As the black centaur approached, Stonehoof charged out to meet him. When only a pace or two separated them, Stonehoof reared up on his hind legs, forelegs flailing in the air. It looked to Arvin like a challenge of some sort, but a moment later Stonehoof bowed his head, and the two powerful males were slapping each other’s backs in greeting.
“Who is he?” Arvin asked.
“They greet him by the name Windswift.” Tanglemane answered.
“Is he their leader?”
Tanglemane stared appraisingly at the newcomer. “No. But he will lead the herd, someday soon, judging by the way Stonehoof submitted to him.”
Windswift turned and trotted toward them, followed by Stonehoof. The other centaurs parted to let him through their circle. Windswift said something to Tanglemane in the centaur language and received an answer, then turned his attention to Arvin and Karrell. After studying them a moment, he spoke. “You’re not soldiers.” His Common was flawless, save for a slight lisp on the final word. He swayed slightly, causing Arvin to wonder if the centaur was as exhausted as he was. Steam rose from Windswift’s back; he must have traveled some distance.
“You’re right: we’re not soldiers,” Arvin agreed, relieved to be speaking to someone who might prove sympathetic. He manifested his charm a second time. This time, Tymora willing, there would be nothing disrupt it. “We’re from Hlondeth. I’m a rope merchant’s agent, and this—” He reached for Karrell’s hand. “Is my wife.”
One of Windswift’s ears twitched, as if to catch a distant sound, and Arvin smiled. But then Windswift tossed his mane, and his eyes cleared. Arvin’s heart sank. Windswift had shaken off his charm.
The centaur’s eyes narrowed. “A psion?” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.
As Arvin stood stupidly, blinking—how had Windswift known?—Karrell gave his hand a quick squeeze and pressed something into his hand: her ring. He hid his surprise and slipped a finger into it, using her hand to shield the action. And just in time. A heartbeat later Windswift manifested a psionic power. Shielded by Karrell’s ring, Arvin no longer had cause to fear Windswift listening in on his thoughts. What did send a shiver of fear through him, however, was the power’s secondary manifestation.
A hiss.
By the gods, Arvin thought, feeling his face grow chill and pale, Windswift isn’t just any psion.
He’s one of Zelia’s mind seeds.
Arvin’s hands trembled, and his thoughts stampeded in all directions. Should he throw up a defensive mental shield? Launch a psionic attack? Had the centaur-seed realized who he was yet? Arvin had just identified himself as a rope merchant from Hlondeth, and Windswift had heard Arvin’s own, unique secondary manifestation, and yet the centaur-seed hadn’t attacked him. He didn’t seem to know who Arvin was.
Arvin’s racing heart slowed—a little. Zelia must have planted the seed in Windswift more than six months ago, before she’d met Arvin.
The hissing of the centaur-seed’s secondary display faded. One hoof pawed the snow-covered ground in irritation.
Arvin nodded to himself. Windswift must have been the person Zelia had been waiting to meet at Riverboat Landing; the centaur-seed must have been spying, on Hlondeth’s behalf, on Chondath.
It all fit. The centaur-seed couldn’t have come into the inn without giving himself away; his appearance was too distinctive. And
the fact that he hadn’t reacted to Arvin must mean one of two things. Either he hadn’t made it to his meeting with Zelia—or Zelia hadn’t come to Sespech in search of Arvin, after all.
If the latter, Arvin’s secret was safe. Zelia still thought he was dead.
Arvin could see only one way out of his current predicament, and it involved taking a gamble—a big gamble. He caught the centaur-seed’s eye and lowered his voice. “Zelia.”
Windswift drew in air with a sharp hiss.
“I, too,” Arvin said. “Three months ago.” He nodded first in Karrell’s direction, then toward Tanglemane, turning the motion into the sort of motion a yuan-ti would make: swaying, insinuative. The mannerisms came to him easily—disturbingly so. “We three,” he continued in a low, conspiratorial voice, “must reach the Chondalwood.”
Karrell, thankfully, kept her silence. The gods only knew what she was thinking about the odd turn the conversation had taken, but she had the good sense not to interrupt. Tanglemane also stood quietly, a puzzled frown on his face. The other centaurs, however, were getting restless. Stonehoof took a step closer to Arvin and Windswift, only to prance back when the centaur-seed launched a warning kick in his direction.
“Why was I not told?” Windswift hissed. “I was just….” He glanced out of the corner of his eye at the other centaurs, whose ears were twitching as they strained to listen, and thought better of continuing.
Arvin smiled to himself. So Windswift had met with Zelia. “I was at Riverboat Landing recently, too,” he answered in a low voice. “And I was not told about you, either. We like to play our pieces behind our hand, don’t we?”
Windswift tossed his head. “That we do.” He arched one eyebrow. “You’re not as handsome as we usually pick,” he chided.
Arvin gave a mental groan. What was Karrell thinking of all this? He returned the centaur-seed’s coy look. “We needed someone less … distinctive for this mission, this time. A mission I should be attending to.” He glanced pointedly at the Chondalwood. The sky was brightening over the forest; it was almost dawn.
“Yes. You’ve been delayed long enough.” Windswift turned and addressed the other centaurs in their own language. There was more than one murmur of protest, and Stonehoof reared up, challenging the centaur-seed a second time, but an instant later he clapped Windswift on the back, as he had before.
This time, Arvin was close enough to the centaur-seed to hear the hiss of the charm power’s secondary display.
Stonehoof whinnied an order, and the centaurs lowered their bows. They handed Karrell’s club back to her—and very pointedly ignored Tanglemane when he held out his hand for his knife—then allowed a gap to form in their ranks. Tanglemane stiffened then, eyes darting back and forth and tail lashing, trotted through it. Arvin and Karrell followed.
When they were well away from the centaur-seed, Arvin slipped the ring off his finger and pressed it back into Karrell’s hand. “Thanks,” he whispered. “Now let’s get out of here before Stonehoof changes his mind.”
CHAPTER 10
When they reached the edge of the Chondalwood, Arvin glanced back the way they’d come. Stonehoof and his herd of centaurs were disappearing around a bend in the river, headed south. Across the river to the west, smoke rose from the chimneys of Fort Arran, white against the gray winter sky, as the soldiers started their day. A patrol would no doubt soon be sent out; Arvin had used the lapis lazuli to send a message to one of the officers he’d met last night, warning about the death symbols in the snow. The bodies of Sergeant Dunnald and Burrian—and those of the missing patrols—would be recovered. And the centaurs—including Zelia’s seed—would be tracked down and dealt with.
In the meantime, the centaurs wouldn’t be laying out any more death symbols in the snow, which had been gradually melting as Arvin, Karrell, and Tanglemane had walked toward the wood. Soon there would be nothing on the ground but slush.
Tanglemane, who had been trudging along behind Arvin and Karrell, also turned to look at the departing herd.
“What now?” Arvin asked. “Will you return to the fort?”
Tanglemane shook his head. “You’ll need a guide.” He smiled. “It will be good to be out of harness, for a time.”
Karrell tipped back her head, looking up at the trees. “It looks so odd,” she said. “Trees, without leaves. This forest seems so … lifeless.”
“I assure you, it is not,” Tanglemane replied. “The Chondalwood is filled with life—though only the strongest will have survived this harsh winter.”
Arvin stared at the forest. The Chondalwood was a gloomy place, indeed. Tendrils of withered, brown-leafed ivy clung to bare branches, and dark moss hugged the trees. The slushy ground was an impassible-looking tangle of fallen logs, wilted ferns, and bushes dotted with blackened lumps that had once been berries. Dead boughs, snapped by the previous night’s cold and hanging by a thread of bark, groaned in the breeze. As Arvin glanced up, an icicle fell from a branch and plunged point-first into the slush at his feet. He hoped it wasn’t an omen of things to come.
He touched the crystal at his throat for reassurance then turned to Tanglemane. “I need to find a landmark,” he told the centaur. “One that would be easily recognized by the animals that live in this part of the forest. Is there one nearby?”
Tanglemane thought a moment. “There is Giant’s Rest, a stone that looks like a slumbering giant. Everyone knows it, and it’s no more than a morning’s trot from here.”
Arvin stared at the tangle on the forest floor. “Even through that?”
“I will carry you.”
Arvin’s eyebrows rose. From all he’d heard, a centaur would rather cut off a hoof than allow a rider on his back.
“You saved my life,” Tanglemane said, answering Arvin’s unspoken question. “Not once, but twice. I repay my debts. Both to you … and to the baron.”
“What put you in the baron’s debt?” Arvin asked.
Tanglemane snorted. “Nearly two years ago, he spared my son’s life. I vowed to serve him until that debt had been repaid. To serve in harness, if need be.” He spoke in a level voice, but his whisking tail gave away his agitation.
Arvin smiled. “Gods willing,” he told Tanglemane, “you’re finally going to get the chance to pay off that debt. We came to these woods to find something for the baron. Something he holds dear. It’s in a satyr camp we believe is nearby.”
“A worthy task, indeed,” Tanglemane said. He flashed broad white teeth in a grin. “Much better than pulling a wagon.” He knelt. “Climb aboard.”
During their ride through the forest, a wet snow began to fall. It lasted only a short time, but by the time they reached Giant’s Rest, Arvin was both soaked to the skin and utterly exhausted. The only thing keeping him awake was the constant ache of his legs, spread too wide across Tanglemane’s broad back. Arvin didn’t see the massive stone at first—he was too busy wincing. Only when Karrell, seated behind him with her arms tight around his waist, pointed it out did he realize they’d arrived at the clearing.
Arvin studied the stone through the dripping branches. It did, indeed, look like a sleeping giant lying on his back with an arm draped over his eyes. Fully fifteen paces long, the enormous rock was a variety of hues. A darker patch of brownish-gray began at the “waist” of the giant and ended just short of the “feet,” and the knob of stone that looked like a head bore veins of quartz that streaked the stone white, giving the impression of hair.
“That is no natural rock,” Karrell said. “Nor even a fallen statue. Something turned a giant to stone.” She glanced around nervously.
“Whatever happened here took place centuries ago,” Arvin said. “Just look at how weathered he is.”
Tanglemane knelt, and first Karrell, then Arvin, slid from his back. Arvin winced; it felt as if his legs would never straighten. The insides of his calves and thighs had been chafed raw by the wet fabric of his pants, and his lower back ached. It was already highsun, and he still hadn
’t performed his morning meditations. He needed them as much as he needed to rest, and to sleep. But Glisena was somewhere in these woods. The more time that passed, the less chance they had of finding her before she gave birth to her child—and became expendable.
Arvin lifted his arms above his head, stretching. He twisted first right, then left, trying to loosen tightly kinked muscles. Then he reached into his pocket for the lapis lazuli. “I should get started,” he told Karrell. “If I manage to summon a wolf, it might be some time before it gets here.”
Karrell nodded. “When it comes, I will be ready.”
Tanglemane whickered. “You’re summoning wolves?” he asked, his voice rising.
“Only one,” Arvin reassured him. “That’s how we’ll find what we’re looking for. Karrell will speak to the wolf. It can tell us if there’s a satyr camp nearby.”
Tanglemane’s nostrils flared. “Wolves run in packs. How can you summon just one? It is winter, and they will be hungry. You must not do this. Summon an eagle, instead. Their eyes are keen.”
“I can’t summon an eagle,” Arvin said. “I couldn’t possibly imitate its cries, and it wouldn’t be able to see through the trees. What we need is a keen sense of smell. If you’re afraid of the wolves….” Belatedly, he realized what he was saying; the lack of sleep had left him irritable. “Sorry,” he told Tanglemane.
The centaur turned, his tail whisking angrily back and forth. Without another word, he trotted away into the forest. Arvin sighed, hoping Tanglemane would come back when his temper cooled.
He touched the lapis lazuli to his forehead. He spoke its command word and felt tendrils of magical energy fuse with his flesh. Then he walked to the head of the stone giant and knelt beside it on the muddy ground. Pressing his cheek against the cold, wet stone, letting the weathered face fill his vision, he linked his mind with the power inside the lapis lazuli. Psionic energy slowly awakened at the base of his scalp; the power point there was as sluggish as his thoughts. Eventually, it uncoiled. Arvin sent his mind out into the forest, questing, and slowly the creature he was seeking materialized in his mind’s eye. For a heartbeat or two, several wolves blurred across his vision. He selected one of them: a lean, gray wolf with a muzzle white as frost, its ears erect and nostrils flaring. To this wolf, Arvin sent out not words, but a wolf’s howl. He imitated it from memory, drawing upon his recollections of the wolf he’d spotted, years ago, while walking past a noble’s garden in Hlondeth. The animal had been straining at the end of a short length of chain—a prisoner. Intrigued by its cries, Arvin had returned to the garden the next night to stare at the wolf through the wrought-iron fence. And the night after that saw him at the garden again. Moved to compassion, he had slipped into the garden to set it free. His reward had been a sharp bite on the arm; two tiny white scars remained where the wolf’s teeth had broken the skin. But he’d smiled and bade the wolf Tymora’s luck as it bolted into the night.
