by Lisa Smedman
“Did Zelia give you a second pinch of powder?” Arvin asked.
“No.”
“You trusted her? After what she did to me?”
Karrell winced. “I had to take the chance. The lives of thousands of people—”
“What about this person?” Arvin asked, thumping a hand against his chest. It felt hollow. “You were going to leave without even saying good-bye.”
“There was no time,” Karrell said, her dark eyes flashing. “And I would have returned. Once I had secured the Circled Serpent and carried it to a place of safety, I would have come back to you.”
“If you’d lived,” Arvin said bitterly. “And if you didn’t, I’d never have known what had happened to you.”
She lifted a hand to his face. “You would have contacted me,” she said. Her fingers lightly touched the scab on his forehead. “With your stone. I would have told you, then, where I was.”
Arvin turned away from her touch.
“Do you want the truth?” she asked.
Arvin glanced reluctantly back at her.
“I feared that you would try to talk me out of it,” she said. She sighed. “And that you would succeed. I could not run that risk. Too much is at stake.”
Arvin nodded. He stared at Helm’s gauntlet for several long moments then turned to Karrell. “Zelia played you for a fool,” he told her. “When she told you that you would be the one to infiltrate Sibyl’s lair, she was lying.”
Karrell tossed her head. “Of course you would say that.”
“I’m not just saying that,” Arvin told her. “I know that. I spied on Zelia, earlier tonight. Probably just after you met with her. When she was talking to Naneth.”
“And?” Karrell prompted.
“Zelia planted a mind seed in her.”
Karrell absorbed this news without reacting. “I thought Zelia might do that,” she said evenly. “And I knew it would anger you, if you found out. What I do not understand is why you feel any sympathy for the midwife. After what she did to the baron’s daughter—”
“I don’t feel sympathy for her,” Arvin said. “Naneth deserves what’s coming to her.” He shuddered, remembering the terrible headaches, the nightmarish dreams, the impulses that were not his own—impulses that had, just before the mind seed was due to blossom, driven him to kill an innocent man. “The point is that Zelia was using you to further her own ends.”
“Zelia no more used me than I used her,” Karrell countered. “I sought her out. I asked her to help me get close to Sibyl, and that is what she did.” She frowned. “Or rather, what she tried to do. Our plan would have worked, if the rogues had not interfered.”
“You’re lucky they did,” Arvin said. “Zelia never would have let you impersonate Naneth.”
Karrell’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you so certain of that?”
“Zelia planted a mind seed in me—remember?” He tapped his temple. “I know how her mind works. Zelia doesn’t delegate—she does the job herself. Or rather, her mind seeds do. She probably would have let Naneth teleport you to the House Extaminos compound—but that’s as far as your part in it would go. She’d let Naneth report to Sibyl that ‘Glisena’ had been delivered—thus ensuring that Naneth remained in Sibyl’s good graces—then would have found a way, somehow, to stall the midwife for seven days, until the mind seed blossomed. You, meanwhile, would become superfluous—and would be disposed of.”
“It is a convincing argument,” Karrell said. “Except for one point. Why would Zelia kill me? Why throw away a valuable ally?”
“She wouldn’t have thrown you away,” Arvin said grimly. “She’d have seeded you.”
“Ah.” Karrell remained silent for several moments. She stared out through the chapel’s stained-glass window. Outside, a light snow had begun to fall. “Thank you for risking your life to save me,” she said at last. “If I had listened to your warnings….” A tear slid down her cheek. She brushed it angrily away. “It is just that so many lives are at stake. So much is resting on my shoulders. If Sibyl finds the second half of the Circled Serpent and uses it to unlock the door, the Night Serpent will escape.”
“And the world will come to an end,” Arvin whispered—believing it, this time. He held out his arms questioningly. Karrell nodded, and he embraced her. They kissed.
Several moments later she broke off the kiss and squared her shoulders. “At least Zelia has given me a starting point,” she said. “The location of Sibyl’s den. That is where the stolen half of the Circled Serpent must be.” She met Arvin’s eye. “I will go there,” she said. “Alone, if need be. Unless….”
Arvin hesitated. Recovering ancient artifacts wasn’t what he’d signed on for, and the people Karrell hoped to save were strangers from a distant land. Whether they lived or died meant nothing to him personally. But the fact that they would die to further Sibyl’s plans did.
“I’ll do it,” he said, taking her hand. “I’ll come with you to Hlondeth, and help you find the Circled Serpent. But before we go anywhere, I need to meditate and restore my energies.” He heard Karrell’s stomach growl and gave her a brief smile. “And it sounds as though you need to eat.” He laid a hand gently on her stomach. “Or as though someone does.”
Karrell lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it then rose to her feet. “I will find a servant,” she said. “Someone who can bring us food.”
Arvin nodded and watched her leave. Then he stripped off his shirt and pants, preparing himself for his meditations. He lowered himself to the floor and assumed the bhujanga asana. The stone tiles were cold against his bare legs and palms; the sensation helped him ignore his aches and pains, helped him focus.
Toward the end of his meditations, he heard hurried footsteps in the corridor outside the chapel. He rose to his feet as a soldier strode into the room. The soldier was one of those who had been standing vigil outside Glisena’s chamber earlier—a man with short black hair and eyes as gray as steel. His eyes were wide and worried.
“The baron demands your presence,” he announced. “At once.”
Arvin looked around. “Where is Karrell? Have you seen her? She—”
“There is no time,” the soldier said, gesturing impatiently. “High Watcher Davinu needs you.”
Arvin nodded as he pulled on his shirt and pants. He told himself not to worry—Karrell was probably eating in the kitchen or somewhere else in the palace. She wouldn’t abandon him a second time. Not after he’d promised to help her. He’d find her later, after the clerics had dealt with the demon.
As he followed the soldier from the room, he wondered what it would be like to listen in on a demon’s thoughts as it was being born.
He shuddered. He was certain the experience wasn’t going to be a pleasant one.
CHAPTER 15
As Arvin strode along behind the soldier, he glanced this way and that, looking for Karrell. He didn’t think she’d desert him a second time, especially after he’d at last convinced her how dangerous Zelia was, but a lingering worry still nagged at him.
They passed the practice hall where servants were busy oiling and cleaning the equipment, and several rooms in which still more servants cleaned fireplaces, swept the floors, and dusted furniture. Arvin was amazed to see life at the palace apparently carrying on as if nothing untoward was happening. Only the clerics, it seemed, knew of the life-and-death struggle Glisena was facing.
They passed the council chamber where Arvin had first spoken to Foesmasher, following his arrival in Ormpetarr. Arvin glanced inside and saw two women polishing the many shields that hung on the wall. One of them caught his eye at once: a middle-aged woman with graying hair. It took Arvin a moment to remember where he had seen her before, but when he did, he halted abruptly.
The woman had been at Naneth’s house, the night Foesmasher had burst into it, searching for the midwife—she’d been the one the soldiers had taken away for questioning. It seemed just a little coincidental that she should turn out to be one of th
e palace servants.
“I need to speak to someone,” Arvin told the soldier. “It won’t take long—no more than a moment.”
The soldier grabbed Arvin’s elbow. “There’s no time. Lord Foesmasher—”
“Will want to hear what I’m about to find out,” Arvin finished for him. “That servant,” he said, nodding into the room, “is somehow involved in what’s happened to Glisena. I intend to find out what she knows.”
The soldier stared at him a moment, indecision in his eyes. Then his hand fell away. “Just be quick,” he said.
“I will.”
Arvin entered the council chamber and walked to the far end of the room, pretending to be admiring the model ships that stood on the table. As he passed the two servants, he manifested the power that would let him listen in on their thoughts. Silver sparkles erupted from his forehead, vanishing even as the woman with the graying hair turned around. Her eyes had a distant expression, as if she were listening to some half-heard sound. When they focused on Arvin, she nodded and bobbed a curtsey.
The other servant—a girl in her teens, glanced over her shoulder then continued with her work. Her thoughts were superficial: musings about one of the stable hands—how handsome he was—and a slight irritation that the baron’s guest had trod on her clean floor. Arvin focused instead on the thoughts of the older woman, the one he suspected of being Naneth’s spy. She was worried about something, but not clearly articulating her fears.
Arvin would help her along.
He gestured for her to approach. She did, holding a rag that smelled of beeswax. So far, her thoughts were a mix of annoyance at having been interrupted and puzzlement about what Arvin could possibly want. She didn’t remember him.
He leaned toward her and spoke in a low voice. “I know who you serve,” he said.
The woman frowned. Of course he did, she thought. She served the baron. What did this man really want with her?
Arvin was impressed. If the servant was a spy, she was a good one. “I know why you were at Naneth’s home, the other night,” he continued. “About your … arrangement with her.”
That made her eyes widen. And her thoughts begin to flow. Who was this man, and how did he know about Naneth? Would he tell her husband? She prayed to Helm that he wouldn’t. Ewainn was so proud—he would crumble if he knew the fault had been his, all along. She’d thought he’d find out, when she’d been hauled before the Eyes for questioning four nights ago, but all they’d wanted to know, it turned out, was where the midwife was. And just as well, that Naneth had disappeared. Now she wouldn’t have to pay the midwife—coin Ewainn would notice was missing, sooner or later. If he’d pressed her, she might have had to explain to Ewainn that he wasn’t the one who quickened a child in her—that the midwife had used magic to do it.
Arvin struggled to keep his expression neutral. This woman was pregnant? He’d assumed, when he’d overheard her protest to the baron’s soldiers that she was just one of Naneth’s customers, that she had gone to the midwife’s home to arrange for Naneth to deliver a daughter’s child. With her graying hair, he’d taken her to be a pending grandmother.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, my lord,” she choked out at last.
“Yes, you do,” Arvin said, more gently, this time. He glanced pointedly down at her stomach; it had a slight but unmistakable bulge. “When did Naneth cast the spell?”
Her hands twisted the rag. “A tenday and a hand ago.”
Arvin glanced once more at her stomach. She was three months along, at least. “What date?” he asked.
“The fifth.”
Arvin nodded. The same night the demon had been bound into Glisena’s womb. The night Glisena, thinking her pregnancy merely hastened along, had fled the palace.
Arvin stared at the servant, thinking furiously. Should he tell her that the child in her womb was really that of Glisena and Dmetrio? Seven days from now, Naneth would be as good as dead. No one except Arvin would ever know the baby wasn’t the serving woman’s.
Until the first time it turned into a serpent.
How would the woman’s husband react to that, Arvin wondered.
In the doorway, the soldier cleared his throat impatiently. “‘At once,’ the baron said. Not a tenday from now.”
Arvin touched the servant’s hand. “Your name?” he asked gently.
Why does he want to know? she thought in a panicky voice. But she answered obediently, as her years of servitude dictated. “Belinna.”
“We’ll talk again, Belinna. Later. In private. There’s something about your child that you need to know. In the meantime, your secret is safe with me.” Ending his manifestation, he strode back to the soldier.
As he once more followed the soldier down the hall, he wondered whether he should tell Glisena he’d located her child. It would certainly bolster her for the ordeal she was about to face, but it would result in anguish for Belinna when Glisena reclaimed her child. Belinna had already come to regard the infant inside her as her own, to love it. That much Arvin had seen in her eyes and heard in her thoughts.
But would she love it still when it turned out to be half serpent?
They reached Glisena’s chamber, and the soldier rapped on the door. Magical energy sparkled around the lock. It was opened a moment later by a haggard-looking Foesmasher. He ushered Arvin into the room then closed the door.
Glisena no longer lay on her bed; now she was seated on a birthing chair. Davinu and the other clerics still stood in a circle around her, praying with voices that were nearly hoarse; Arvin wondered how long they could continue without sleep. The shields still floated in a circle, surrounding them, but they were moving more slowly. Every now and then one would bob toward the ground like the head of a horse that had run too far and too long then rise again.
Marasa sat on a stool next to the birthing chair, holding Glisena’s hand. A knife lay on a low, cloth-draped table beside her. To cut the cord once the demon was born, Arvin supposed. The room smelled of blood; rags under the birthing chair were stained a bright red.
The baron began to pace back and forth behind them, thumping a fist against his thigh. Each time his daughter groaned, his jaw clenched. “Can’t you do something for her pain?” he growled at Marasa.
“I already have,” the cleric said in an exhausted voice.
As Glisena bore down, panting, Marasa’s face grew pale. Her free hand pressed against her own stomach, and she shuddered. Arvin, watching, realized that she must have cast a spell that allowed her to draw Glisena’s hurts into her own body. There was a psionic power that did something similar—it operated on the same principles as the fate link that Tanju had taught Arvin, except that the damage and pain could only be channeled to the psion, himself. Arvin had declined it as something he didn’t really want to learn. At the time, he couldn’t think of anyone he cared enough about to want to inflict that kind of pain on himself.
Marasa exhaled through clenched teeth then gestured at one of the clerics. He stepped out of the circle and held his left hand out, palm toward her. Magical energy crackled faintly in the air as he cast a spell. Marasa shook her head, like a dog shaking off water. Her shoulders straightened, and her face resumed its natural color.
The baron continued pacing.
Davinu turned as Arvin approached. “The demon is a breach birth,” he said. “We will need to cut it free. But before we begin, I need to know what it’s thinking. Use your mind magic.”
Glisena groaned, and Marasa shuddered. Another cleric stepped forward and healed her. As Glisena panted, blood trickled down onto the rags beneath the birthing chair. She looked up at Arvin, her face glistening with sweat. There was terror in her eyes—she was afraid of dying—but also something more: a question.
Arvin squatted beside her. The words came unbidden to his lips. “I found the person you asked me about,” he said quietly. “She—or he—is safe.”
The lines of strain on Glisena’s face eased, just a little. “
She,” she panted, a mother’s certainty burning in her eyes. “Take … care of … her.”
“No need,” Arvin whispered fiercely. “You’ll make it through this.”
Glisena shook her head. “Promise. That you’ll … take care …” she gasped.
Arvin touched her shoulder. “I promise.”
The clerics gently lifted Glisena onto the bed, reforming their circle there. Marasa pulled her stool up next to the bed. Davinu opened Glisena’s night robe, exposing her stomach. The lines Naneth had drawn on it were almost gone; only the faintest traces of white remained. Davinu picked up the knife. It was silver, the blade inlaid with gold in the shape of a staring eye: Helm’s symbol. Davinu held the knife out, and one of the clerics poured water over it from a silver chalice that also bore a stylized eye. Then he held it ready, waiting.
Arvin manifested his power. Sparkles of silver erupted from his third eye and drifted down onto Glisena. The thoughts of those in the room crowded in on him: Glisena’s relief that Arvin had located her child, Marasa’s fierce love for Glisena and grim determination to bear her pain, Davinu steeling himself for the surgery he was about to perform, and the other clerics’ fervent prayers, all overlaid with a tight clench of fear. Davinu had given them careful instructions about what was to happen; the moment the blood cord was severed, he would banish the demon. Arvin expected to hear Foesmasher’s thoughts as well—his anguish at seeing his “little dove” in such pain was clear for all to see—but something was shielding his thoughts. Was it a magical item, like Karrell’s ring? Briefly, Arvin wondered where Karrell was—he hoped far from this part of the palace—then turned his mind back to the task at hand. Blotting out the overlapping babble of mental voices, he sent his consciousness deeper, and found the voice he’d dreaded hearing.
