Something stroked her hair-the marilith's claw-tipped fingers. "A copper for your thoughts," it hissed.
Karrell pressed her lips grimly shut. Inside her belly, her children kicked. They could feel her tension, her anxiety. Forcing herself to remain calm, she placed a hand on her stomach.
The demon stared thoughtfully at it. "Is it your time?" it asked. "Has it begun?"
One of the dretches rose from its feast and sniffed Karrell, its blood-smeared nostrils twitching. Karrell smacked its hand away.
"Not yet," she told the demon, meeting its eye.
It was a lie. Karrell's water had just broken; she could feel its warmth trickling down her legs. Her stomach cramped-a hint of the contractions that would follow.
She smiled up at the demon, hiding her fear behind a mask. "Don't worry," she told the marilith. "When my labor does begin, you'll feel it."
As she spoke, she sent out a silent plea. Arvin, she thought, if you're listening, come quickly. I'm running out of time.
Arvin eased his head out of the cave and stared down. He'd had the net ready to throw, but lowered it again. It wasn't Sibyl who had returned to the cave, but Ts'ikil.
The couatl sat coiled on a ledge beside the river at the bottom of the bluff, her head drooping with exhaustion. Her body was badly burned in several places. Scorched feathers stood stiffly out from seared red flesh. Sibyl's black cloud had left oozing brown patches elsewhere along the couatl's length. Her remaining feathers had lost their rainbow luster and her wings were tattered. She held one wing at an awkward angle, as if it were broken.
Arvin opened his mouth to call out to her then hesitated. Maybe he should just sneak away while his invisibility lasted, strike out on his own and try to find the Dmetrio-seed. Unfortunately, even though Arvin had learned his psionics from HI ondeth's best tracker, he didn't have any powers that would allow him to hunt the seed down. He'd concentrated, instead, on learning powers that would help him infiltrate Sibyl's lair.
For what must have been the hundredth time, Arvin wished he hadn't broken the dorje Tanju had given him the winter before. It would have pointed, like a lodestone, directly at the Dmetrio-seed. What Arvin needed was a power that could do the same thing or-he glanced at Pakal's still form-a spell. Pakal had been able to track down the upper half of the Circled Serpent back in Sibyl's lair. Perhaps he could do the same with the seed.
The trouble was, he'd probably continue to insist on destroying the artifact.
Ts'ikil, on the other hand, had at least seemed sympathetic to Karrell's plight. Perhaps she might yet be persuaded.
Arvin negated his invisibility. "Ts'ikil!" he called. "Up here!"
It took several more shouts before the couatl raised her head. Either the cascade of the river below was drowning out Arvin's voice, or she was as far gone as Pakal was.
Arvin! Her voice was faint, weak. What has happened?
"Pakal is badly wounded," Arvin shouted. "Dmetrio has taken the Circled Serpent. He has both halves."
Arvin knew he was taking a huge gamble. If Ts'ikil_ had magic that could locate the Dmetrioseed, she might go after him and leave Arvin behind, assuming she could still fly.
He felt Ts'ikil's mind slide deep into his awareness. Her mental intrusion was a mere tickle-far gentler than the pummeling Zelia had given him in her rooftop garden as she rifled through his thoughts. Momories flickered past in reverse order: the psychic impressions Arvin had picked up from the cavern, his encounter with the dog-man, Pakal's battle with the shadow asps.
"He looks bad," Arvin told her. He spoke in a normal voice, certain she was still listening in on his thoughts. "He's… alive, but his skin's turning black. Can you help him?"
I will try. Can you lower him to me?
"Yes."
That said, he uncoiled his trollgut rope. He repositioned Pakal's belt across his chest, just under the arms, and made sure it was securely buckled. He attached his rope to it, passing a loop under each
of the dwarf's legs to turn it into a sling. He carried Pakal to the mouth of the cave, eased him over the edge, and stood holding the end of the trollgut rope. "Augesto," he commanded. It lengthened, slowly lowering Pakal to the ledge below.
When the rope went slack, Arvin tossed the other end of it down. He stowed the magical net back inside his pack and slipped the pack on, then activated his bracelet. By the time he climbed down to the ledge, Ts'ikil was bending over Pakal, touching his wounds with a wingtip. She hissed softly as her feathers brushed across the puncture marks. In full daylight, Arvin got a better look at the blackness that surrounded each of the wounds. He'd assumed it to be bruising, but it was something much worse. The darkened areas on Pakal's legs seemed somehow insubstantial-shadows that clung to him, even in the full glare of direct sunlight. As Ts'ikil's wingtip touched them, it sank into nothingness.
"That's not good, is it?" Arvin said. Despite the wound in his shoulder, he bore the dwarf no ill will. Pakal had only been doing what he felt he must just as Arvin had been.
For several moments, Ts'ikil said nothing. The river surged past them, a pace or two away, sounding like one long, constant sigh. From somewhere in the distant jungle came a faint scream: a monkey's cry. The stone of the ledge felt hot, even through the soles of Arvin's boots. He wondered if they shouldn't be moving Pakal into the shade.
No, Ts'ikil said. Sunlight will hasten the cure. She gave Pakal's wounds one last touch, trilled aloud-a melody as beautiful and haunting as that of a songbird-then sank back into a loose coil. There. I have done all I can.
"When will he regain consciousness?" Arvin asked.
A day. Perhaps two.
Arvin frowned. "That's too long. We need him to find Dmetrio now." He glanced up at Ts'ikil. "Can you-" No. Pakal and Karrell were my eyes.
"Aren't there others you can call upon?"
None close by.
Arvin closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. "So that's it, thon. The Dmetrio-seed has gotten away." We will find him.
"How? You said-"
He will go to the door.
"Yes-but there's just one problem," Arvin said. "We don't know where the door is." He paused. "Do we?" No mortal does.
Her choice of words gave him a surge of hope. "What about the gods?" he asked. "Can they tell us where it is?"
We have petitioned both Ubtao and Thard Harr. They do not know its location.
"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.