It wasn’t yuan-ti, either.
Naneth had changed the unborn child in Glisena’s womb into something… else.
The thought sickened Arvin to the point where he felt physically ill. This was even more monstrous than what Zelia had done to him. This time, the victim had been an innocent babe. But it was an innocent babe no longer.
“Something’s… wrong, isn’t it?” Glisena asked in a trembling voice.
Belatedly, Arvin composed his expression. “I don’t know yet,” he said. Then, acting on a hunch, he added, “I’ll need to take a look.”
Easing Glisena’s hands aside, he unfastened the lacings of her dress nearest her stomach. Even without opening her dress, he could feel the heat radiating from her belly. He lifted the fabric to glance at her stomach and saw something that disturbed him: a series of crisscrossing lines. They looked like the faint whitish scratches fingernails would leave on skin. Remembering his glimpse of Naneth casting her spell on Glisena, Arvin was certain that the midwife had drawn them. That certainty solidified when he recognized the symbol the lines formed. It was the same one he’d spotted on the egg that one of Naneth’s pet serpents had been sitting on.
Arvin had no idea what the symbol signified. But he was certain it wasn’t good.
He refastened the lacings of Glisena’s dress and took her hand. “Something is wrong,” he told her. “But I’m here to help.”
Theyron tapped a hoof impatiently. “Well? Can you heal her?”
Still squatting beside Glisena, holding her hand, Arvin brought his gloved hand up to scratch his head—a gesture a man would make when thinking. “The fever has held her in its grip for many days,” he said. “It won’t be easy to break its hold.” As he spoke, the power he was manifesting filled the air with a low droning noise: its secondary display. Theyron didn’t notice it, however; he had already turned to stare at the distraction Arvin had just manifested. His eyebrows pulled into an even tighter V as he frowned, trying to figure out what had just caught his attention.
With a whisper, Arvin summoned the dagger from within his glove. It appeared in his hand as he had been holding it when he’d vanished it: point between his fingers, ready to throw. His hand whipped forward. At the last instant, Theyron turned his head back and tried to blow into his pipes, but before he could exhale, the dagger buried itself in his throat.
Arvin leaped to his feet, manifesting a second power. A glowing line of silver energy shot out of his forehead, wrapped itself around the pan pipes, and yanked. The pipes flew out of Theyron’s hands. Arvin caught them in his gloved hand and vanished them into his glove. He spoke the word that sent the magical dagger back to his other hand then rushed forward, plunging the weapon to the hilt in the satyr’s chest. Slowly, with a faint gurgling noise, Theyron slumped to the floor, pulling free of the dagger.
Arvin felt a twinge of remorse at having taken Theyron’s life but shook it off; if the playing board had been turned, the satyr would have killed him without a moment’s pity. He peeked outside the flap that covered the doorway. The other satyrs stood a few paces away. Some were staring at the hut, but they didn’t seem to have heard anything. Two were rummaging through his pack. When one pulled out a piece of the broken dorje, the other made a grab for it. An argument broke out. The first satyr wrenched it out of the second one’s hand and bellowed a challenge. The other satyr glared back and said something. The first nodded, and placed the broken dorje back in Arvin’s pack. Then, slowly, each backed away from the other. Suddenly they charged forward, horns lowered. Their foreheads slammed together with a loud crack. Each staggered back then lowered his head a second time, like duelists bowing at each other, ready to repeat the charge. As the combatants pawed the earth with their cloven feet, the other satyrs cheered in anticipation.
Arvin breathed a sigh of relief. That should keep them busy for a while.
When he turned around, Glisena had forced herself up off the sheepskin. Eyes wide and terrified, she held herself in a seated position with trembling arms. As Arvin took a step toward her, she bleated and tried to crawl back, but only managed to collapse. She opened her mouth to scream.
Arvin leaped forward to clamp a hand against her mouth. “Don’t,” he said. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’ve come to rescue you.”
Glisena’s lips moved under Arvin’s palm. Cautioning her with a look, he lifted them slightly, allowing her to speak.
“From what?” she gasped.
“Naneth tricked you,” Arvin said. “Her spell didn’t just hasten your pregnancy along. It affected the child inside you in other ways. The child was transformed into something… else.”
“No,” Glisena whispered.
Arvin couldn’t tell if she was hearing his terrible news—and denying it—or simply reacting with horror to his words. “I’m afraid so,” he said. As he spoke, he plucked the stone that was circling her head from the air. It resisted him for a moment, straining to free itself from his palm. Then it went still.
“Naneth wouldn’t—”
“Yes she would,” Arvin said, tossing the stone aside. “Naneth isn’t just a midwife. She’s an agent of a powerful yuan-ti who is an enemy of House Extaminos. Naneth used you; she only pretended to help you after your father asked her to—”
“To kill my child,” she said in a flat voice. Her hands cradled her belly.
“Yes.”
She stared at her stomach a moment, groaned as the thing within kicked, and gave Arvin a defiant look. “I won’t let him hurt my baby.”
Arvin sighed. She was forcing him to be blunt. “Whatever’s inside you isn’t your baby anymore. We need to get you back to Ormpetarr. Someone there will know what to do.”
Glisena’s jaw tightened. “I won’t go back.” Exhausted as she was, with dark circles under her eyes, she had the determination—and stubbornness—of her father. “Dmetrio—”
“Isn’t coming,” Arvin said, finishing the sentence for her. “He’s leaving for Hlondeth. Without you.”
“That’s not true,” she whispered again. “He loves me. He’ll take me with him.”
“He won’t.”
“He will.” The determination was still in her eyes, but something else had joined it: exhaustion. Fresh beads of sweat broke out on her forehead. She sank back onto the sheepskin, trembling. “My father sent you… didn’t he? You’re lying. About Naneth. And Dmetrio. So I’ll… go back.”
“I’m telling you the truth,” Arvin insisted. “Much as I hate to do it.”
Glisena turned away, not listening to him. Even when she was down, she wouldn’t admit to defeat. Arvin had to admire that.
He’d been naive, to think that he could convince Glisena of the truth. It was simply too much, too hard. He peeked outside again—the satyrs were still butting heads, Tymora be praised—then turned his attention to the dead satyr’s belt pouch. Opening it, he found his mother’s crystal inside. He tied it around his neck with a whispered, “Nine lives,” then recovered his lapis lazuli, which still had a jagged, coin-sized flap of his skin clinging to it. He spoke the stone’s command word, and the skin fell away. Then he touched the stone to the raw wound on his forehead and spoke the command a second time. The lapis lazuli sank into the wound, attaching itself to the lacerated flesh. Fresh blood trickled from the wound; he wiped it away from his eye.
Not knowing how much time he had before the satyrs ended their contest, he decided to manifest a sending. He started to imagine the baron’s face then changed his mind. Instead he pictured Karrell.
Nothing happened.
Arvin’s heart thudded in his chest. He could visualize Karrell’s face clearly, but he couldn’t contact her. Was she dead?
Then he realized what was wrong. He was visualizing her human face. He shifted his mental picture of her, imagining her snake form instead. Instantly, the image solidified.