A thought suddenly occurred to Arvin-one that sent a shiver through him. He caught the wizard’s eye. “You called the potion something else, a ‘compulsive enchantment,’ ” he said. “What does that mean?”
“A compulsive enchantment allows a wizard to dominate his victim,” Hazzan answered.
Gonthril was quickest to catch on. “That bastard,” he gritted. “He doesn’t just want to turn us into serpent folk. He wants to turn us into his slaves.”
Chorl’s grip on his staff tightened. “This man might already be in Osran’s power,” he said, gesturing at Arvin. “All the more reason to-”
Gonthril silenced him with an angry glare. As Chorl flushed suddenly, Arvin realized what had just happened. In his anger, Chorl had let slip something he shouldn’t have-the name of the yuan-ti who had been seen meeting with the Pox.
Osran Extaminos, youngest brother of Lady Dediana.
Arvin pretended not to have noticed the slip. “Can you dispel the potion’s magic?” he asked Hazzan. He curled the fingers of his gloved hand, readying it for his dagger, as he waited for the wizard’s reply. If the answer was no, he’d have to fight his way out.
Hazzan stroked his beard. “Possibly.”
Gonthril took a deep breath. “For the sake of Hlondeth’s true people, Talona grant it be so,” he whispered. Then, to the wizard, he said, “Try.”
Hazzan rolled up his sleeves then extended his right hand toward Arvin, pointing. Staring intently into Arvin’s eyes, he began casting a spell. The incantation took only a moment; the final word was a shout. As it erupted from his wizard’s lips Hazzan flicked his forefinger and Arvin felt a wave of magical energy punch into his chest. It coursed through his body like an electric shock, making his fingers and toes tingle and the hair rise on the back of his neck. Then it was gone.
Gonthril peered at Arvin. “Did it work?”
“Let’s find out.” Hazzan picked up the chalice and tipped the potion out of it, pouring it into the mortar. Then he pulled a scrap of cloth out of a pocket and wiped the inside of the chalice clean. He then held out a hand. “Give me your hand,” he told Arvin, picking up the scissors.
Arvin drew back, unpleasant memories of the Guild filling his thoughts. “What are you going to do?”
“He needs a sample of your blood,” Gonthril told Arvin. “To see if the potion is still in it.”
“All right.” Arvin answered reluctantly, placing his hand in Hazzan’s. “As long as it doesn’t cost me another fingertip.”
Gonthril chuckled.
“A small incision should do,” Hazzan reassured him. “I just need a few drops of blood, enough to cover the bottom of the chalice.”
He winced as Hazzan sliced into his finger with the blade of the scissors-deliberate cuts always hurt more, it seemed, than those inflicted in a fight-but kept his hand steady over the chalice. A few drops of blood leaked into it, splattering against the clear glass.
“That’s enough,” Hazzan said.
Arvin pressed against the cut in his finger, staunching the blood. He sat back down and stared at the bowl of the chalice. Strangely, though the blood had been red as it had dripped into the bowl, now it looked clear as water-so clear that for a moment he thought the blood had disappeared. He leaned forward, peering down into the mouth of the chalice again, and saw that it was indeed drizzled with bright red blood. Surprised, he started to let out an involuntary hiss-and saw Chorl’s frown deepen.
Hazzan-once again peering through the side of the chalice at the lantern-nodded. “The spell worked,” he told Gonthril. “The potion has been neutralized.”
Chorl stared at Arvin. “Why’s he still hissing, then?”
Gonthril stared at Arvin thoughtfully. “I don’t know.”
Arvin did. It was the mind seed. Zelia hadn’t been bluffing, after all.
“I still say we should get rid of him,” Chorl urged.
The rebel leader shook his head. “Arvin will stay with us, for the time being. There may be ways in which he can aid our cause. But keep a close eye on him, Chorl, and let me know if he does anything suspicious. If he takes any hostile action against us, or attempts to escape, I leave his punishment to your discretion.”
Arvin matched glares with Chorl, and for a moment actually considered summoning his dagger into his hand and plunging it into the man’s heart. But this done, the odds of Arvin being the next one to die would be very high indeed. Mortin held his sword at the ready, the wizard could blast him with magic, and the gods only knew what the rings on Gonthril’s fingers were capable of doing.
No, there were other, better ways to deal with the situation. Arvin relaxed his grimace into a smile and tried to summon up the familiar prickle of psionic energy. None came. And for good reason, he suddenly realized. He was exhausted, on the verge of collapsing on his feet. Only rarely had he been able to charm anyone under these conditions.
No matter. He could always do it later, when the odds of escape were better.
“Don’t worry,” he assured Gonthril. “I’ll behave.”
“Do I have your word you won’t try to escape?” Gonthril asked.
Arvin smiled to himself; he wasn’t bound by the ring any longer. “You have my word,” he said solemnly.
CHAPTER 10
24 Kythorn, Sunset
In his dream, Arvin moved through a crowd of laughing people who stood in a vineyard outside the city, their faces painted a ruddy orange by a bonfire that sent sparks spinning up into the night. Some stood and watched, tipping back bottles of wine, while others danced, arms linked as they moved in giddy circles around the bonfire. Several held small rectangles of wood, painted red and inscribed with a single word: “Chondath.” These they threw into the fire, together with spoiled fruits and limp, moldy vegetables. The air was filled with smoke, sparks, and the hissing noise of food being blackened by flame.
The humans called it the Rotting Dance. It was a celebration of the defeat of Chondath in the Rotting War of 902, of the rise of the city-states of the Vilhon Reach. Hlondeth had gained its independence nearly three centuries before necromantic magic laid waste to the empire’s armies on the Fields of Nun, and its people had suffered the aftermath of that battle-a plague that spread through the Vilhon Reach, afflicting those it touched with a disease that caused even the smallest of cuts to turn gangrenous. But its citizens celebrated the Rotting Dance just the same. Humans needed very little excuse for frivolity. Emotion was just one of their many weaknesses.
Arvin weaved his way through the humans, his tongue flickering in and out of his mouth as he tasted the excitement that laced the night air. Whenever he saw a man that caught his eye-one who was strong and well muscled, with lean hips and a glint in his eye that showed he was of a better stock than the average human-he worked his magic on him. “Come,” he whispered, staring intently into the man’s eyes. “Mate with me.”
One of the men Arvin selected already had a mate picked out for the evening-a human a few years older than Arvin, and prettier, by human standards. No matter. When she protested, Arvin merely stared at her. She began to tremble then, with a small shriek, dropped the man’s arm, surrendering him to Arvin, and fled into the night.
A part of Arvin’s mind, observing the dream from a distance, recoiled at the thought of propositioning men. But to his dreaming mind, the act felt as natural as his own skin. He swayed through the crowd, the five men he had chosen trailing in his wake, each of them yearning to stroke his scales, to touch his newly budding breasts, and to press themselves against his curved hips. Flicking his tongue, tasting their desire, he felt a surge of power. He might be just fourteen years old and in his first flush of sexuality, but he was in control. He owned these men, as surely as a master owns slaves.
He led the men to a secluded spot in a nearby field and, as they converged on him, unfastened the pin at his throat and let his dress fall around his ankles, shedding it like an old skin. As the men stepped forward eagerly, pressing themselves against him and tearing at their clothes, he drew a curtain of darkness around them. Then he pulled the men to the ground, where they formed a mating ball with Arvin at its center. A hard body pressed against his and was wrenched away, only to be replaced by another-and another-as the men wrestled with each other in an attempt to mate with Arvin. The smell of their sweat and of crushed grapes and torn earth filled Arvin’s nostrils as he slithered through the tangle of bodies, coiling around first one man, then another, taking each of them in turn. Acidic sweat erupted on his own body, soaking his hair and lubricating his scales-and burning the thin, sensitive skin of the humans who twined and fought and thrust against him. As ecstasy surged through Arvin again… and again… and again… he gave vent to his passion, screaming and throwing his head back then lashing forward to sink his fangs into throats and thighs and chests. One by one the men coiled around him abruptly gasped, stiffened, and fell limp as poison usurped passion.