Viper's Kiss

by Lisa Smedman

  White Muzzle yelped and started to lift a paw. The other wolves tensed, and she immediately lowered it again. She growled at them, her legs firmly braced to meet any challenge.

  “If the centaur dies, then you will die,” Arvin continued, taking his dagger back from Tanglemane. “Tell your pack to stand aside and let us enter the satyr camp. After we’ve finished our business there, you’ll get your meat. As promised.”

  White Muzzle’s eyes narrowed as she heard this, but she quickly turned and spoke to her pack in a series of threatening growls. One or two growled back at her, but when she bared her teeth, they parted, letting Arvin, Karrell, and Tanglemane through. For several paces, Arvin walked with tense shoulders, expecting an attack to come at any moment—but none did. By the time the three of them had reached the edge of the brambles, the wolves had melted away into the forest.

  “Well done,” Karrell said.

  Arvin nodded his acknowledgement. His eyes were on the brambles; they formed a near-impenetrable mass. Clumps of mushy berries, blackened by the earlier frost, hung from a tangle of vines studded with finger-long thorns.

  “What now?” Arvin asked.

  “There will be a path through them, somewhere,” Tanglemane answered. “Let’s circle around.”

  Before long, Arvin spotted hoofprints in the snow. Squatting down, he saw a tunnel leading into the heart of the tangled vines.

  “This must be the way in,” he said. He glanced up at Tanglemane then down again at the hole. He and Karrell could follow the path on their hands and knees, but Tanglemane would never be able to fit.

  Tanglemane nodded, as if hearing his thoughts. “I will have to wait here.”

  “What about the wolves?” Karrell asked.

  Tanglemane held up his bloody palm. “I’ll have to trust in Arvin’s magic to hold them back.”

  “The fate link will last at least until sunset,” Arvin said. “Tymora willing, we’ll be back before then—with some meat for the wolves. And the baron can teleport us all away.”

  He turned to Karrell. “The next part is up to you,” he told her. “We need to make sure Glisena is here—and that Naneth isn’t. In your serpent form, you could slip in and out without being seen. Will you do it?”

  Karrell nodded and started removing her shirt.

  “Be careful,” Arvin added. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  Karrell dropped her shirt to the ground, gave Arvin a kiss that sent a rush of warmth through him, and shifted. She slithered away into the brambles.

  Arvin waited. While Tanglemane kept a wary eye on the forest, watching for wolves, Arvin stared at the brambles. After what seemed like an eternity, Karrell returned. Still in her serpent form, she coiled her body at his feet and lifted her head. “Glisena is there,” she said. Her tongue flickered in and out of her mouth, which was curved into a smile. “She is in one of the huts. There is no sign of Naneth.”

  Relief washed through Arvin. He touched the brooch that was still pinned to the inside of his shirt. “I need to get close to Glisena,” he announced. “Close enough that Foesmasher can teleport in. I’m going to go openly into the camp; I’ll charm the first satyr I meet and tell him that Naneth sent me. If that doesn’t work, I might need a distraction.” He stared down at Karrell. “Follow me, but stay out of sight. If I run into trouble, I’ll use my stone to call you. Use your own judgment about whether to intervene.”

  He turned to the centaur. “Stand fast, Tanglemane. Don’t let the wolves spook you.”

  Then he dropped to his hands and knees. As he crawled into the brambles, keeping low to avoid snagging his pack, he saw Karrell slither off to the right.

  The tunnel through the brambles twisted this way and that, branching several times and coming back together again. Wary of getting lost in what was obviously a maze, Arvin consistently chose the left fork, hoping this would eventually lead him to the center of the tangle. Every now and then he saw what was probably a satyr’s hoofprint in the slush, but the wet ground was too soft to hold a firm outline. There was no way to tell which direction the satyr had been traveling in. A thorn plucked at his cloak, snagging it and preventing him from going forward until he yanked it free. Other thorns jabbed at him through the fabric of his clothes. Soon his arms and legs were covered in tiny scratches. He crawled on, ignoring these pinpricks of pain.

  At last the brambles thinned up ahead, and he was able to see a clearing. From it came the murmur of voices and the sounds of satyrs going about their daily chores. Unfortunately, the tunnel through the brambles at this point bent sharply to the right. Arvin followed it, but after going a short distance, it led back to another path. He’d just looped back the way he’d come. Frustrated at being so close yet so far from his goal, he tried another route, turning right, this time. He crawled quickly, angry at the waste of time. The next fork, if he remembered correctly, was just ahead.

  Glancing up, he saw a satyr squatting in the tunnel, pan pipes raised to his lips. Startled, Arvin manifested a charm, but even as he did, the satyr blew into his pipes. Music swirled around Arvin like falling leaves, lulling him to sleep.

  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 they had hauled Arvin out of. 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. She stared up at the ceiling, hands on her enormous belly, her long hair damp with sweat. Even 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 lifepulse; 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 hut 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 he—

  Unable 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 radi
ating 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.