Arvin manifested his dagger into his gloved hand and passed it to Tanglemane. “When I tell you to,” he instructed, “use this to prick the palm of your hand.”
Tanglemane hesitated for only a heartbeat then took the dagger. Arvin, meanwhile, spoke to White Muzzle while Karrell translated.
“I have just cast a spell,” he told the pack leader. “Whatever happens to the centaur will also happen to you. If the centaur is wounded, you will suffer the same injury.” He nodded at Tanglemane, cueing him, and the centaur poked the dagger into his palm.
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.
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.”