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 from which they had hauled out Arvin. 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. Her long hair damp with sweat, given 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 life-pulse; 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 but 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.