I’m with Glisena, he told her. I’m inside her hut. Slip in through the back, where the brambles touch the wall. I’ll contact Foesmasher.
Karrell stared back at him, tongue flickering in and out of her mouth. Arvin couldn’t read her expression—it was impossible, with that unblinking stare—but he could hear the concern in her voice as she stared at his forehead. You are wounded! I am sorry; I fell to a magical slumber. I will come. Her mouth parted in what might have been a smile. At once.
Her image faded from his mind.
Immediately, Arvin concentrated on the baron’s face. When it solidified in his mind, Foesmasher was talking to someone, emphasizing his words with a pointing fork; Arvin must have interrupted his midday meal. From the scowl on his face, he was issuing a reprimand, or arguing with Marasa again. He halted abruptly in mid-sentence as he recognized Arvin.
I found Glisena, Arvin told him.
Relief washed across the baron’s face. His eyes closed a moment; when he opened them, he blinked rapidly, as if clearing away tears. He whispered something Arvin couldn’t hear; probably a prayer of thanksgiving.
Arvin chose his next words carefully. Even with the brooch for Foesmasher to home in on, Arvin needed to pack as much information as possible into the brief message the lapis lazuli would allow. I’m with her inside a hut. Satyrs armed with bows are outside. And wolves. Bring—
I’m on my way, the baron said.
Arvin silently cursed. Now that Foesmasher had replied, there was no way for Arvin to interrupt, to tell him to bring meat for the wolves. Foesmasher continued speaking as he yanked on his helmet and drew his sword. Tell Glisena I’ll be there at .
“… once,” said a low voice from Arvin’s immediate left.
Arvin couldn’t help but be startled, even though he’d been expecting the baron. He raised a finger to his lips. “Quietly, Lord Foesmasher,” he cautioned. “The satyrs are just outside.”
The baron immediately fell to his knees beside his daughter. “Glisena,” he said in a choked voice. “Father’s here. My little dove, I’m so sorry. May Helm forgive me for what I’ve done.”
The thing inside Glisena kicked, bulging her stomach. She screwed her eyes shut and groaned.
“What’s wrong?” the baron asked, looking up at Arvin. “Is the child coming?”
“It’s… not a child,” Arvin said. Quickly, he told the baron his suspicions. He expected the baron’s face to blanch, but Foesmasher proved to have more mettle than that. “Why would Naneth do such a thing?” he asked in a pained voice.
Arvin didn’t answer.
The baron stared at his daughter. “Marasa will tend to it,” he said firmly. “Whatever it is.”
Arvin nodded, relieved.
Outside, the satyrs had resolved their argument. One of the combatants lay unconscious on the ground; the others stared at him, shaking their heads disdainfully. One, however, was staring suspiciously at the hut, his ears perked forward, listening. He turned to the others and said something to them. Arvin, watching, tightened his grip on his dagger.
Foesmasher must have seen Arvin tense. He sheathed his sword, lifted Glisena into his arms, and stood. He gestured for Arvin to come closer.
Arvin was still staring outside. He’d spotted a movement across the clearing in the brambles, well behind the satyrs: a snake, slithering along the ground.
Karrell was circling around the clearing to reach the hut.
“Wait,” Arvin said. “Karrell’s coming. I don’t want to leave her behind.”
“I can teleport no more than three people at a time,” the baron whispered back. “Myself, Glisena… and one other.”
Arvin’s jaw clenched. Foesmasher had neglected to tell him this important detail. “Teleport us just outside the brambles, then,” Arvin whispered back. “There’s a centaur waiting there for us: Tanglemane.”
The baron’s eyebrows rose at the name.
“He and I can watch over Glisena while you come back for Karrell,” Arvin continued.
The baron shook his head. “I am also limited to teleporting no more than three times per day. If I return for you, it will be a day before I can get back to Ormpetarr.” He nodded at Glisena. “My daughter needs me.”
Arvin’s eyes narrowed as he realized what Foesmasher was saying. “You won’t be back.”
“No.”
“Send someone else then,” Arvin insisted. “One of your clerics. I know they have teleportation magic; I’ve seen them use it.”
“Only the most powerful of them can teleport without the gauntlets to aid them—and Glisena will need their prayers.” He held out his hand. “Come with me—or stay. Choose.”
Arvin folded his arms across his chest. There really was no choice. Arvin couldn’t just abandon Karrell, or Tanglemane. “I’m staying.”
“I’ll send help as soon as I can,” Foesmasher promised. “In the meantime, Helm be with you.” Then he teleported away.
The other satyrs had started walking toward the hut. One of them called out—to Theyron, Arvin presumed—and nocked an arrow when he received no reply. The others did the same, fanning out and training their arrows on the doorway. Arvin, trapped inside a but with only one exit, tried feverishly to decide what to do. There were too many satyrs for him to charm. And it would only take one arrow to kill him.
What was keeping Karrell?
Arvin moved to the side of the doorway, readying his dagger.
A hairy hand gripped the door flap. It started to open.
A new voice sounded outside the hut: a woman, speaking the satyr tongue. She barked what sounded like an angry question at the satyrs—one they answered with a babble of voices.
Arvin peeked outside. As he saw who the newcomer was, his mouth went dry.
Naneth!
12
Arvin’s heart pounded as he stared out of the satyr but at Naneth. For the moment, the satyrs were busy talking to her—which was bad. They’d be telling her about the human who claimed to be her assistant. Arvin had to act quickly. Energy awakened at the base of his neck, sending a prickling through his scalp as he manifested a charm. The midwife, however, didn’t cock her head; the power seemed to have had no effect on her.
She turned toward the hut and gestured.
The inside of the hut filled with an explosion of color. Arvin was still staring at Naneth and saw the swirling colors only in his peripheral vision, but his eyes were drawn to them like moths to a flame. He turned to watch the rainbows that danced and rippled in the air then took a step closer. It was like standing inside the crisscrossing rays cast by a thousand prisms. “Beautiful,” he whispered, reaching up to touch one of the rainbows. It twisted away through the air like a snake, leaving a blur of red-violet-blue in its wake. “So beautiful,” he breathed.
Dimly, he was aware of the door flap opening and Naneth stepping inside. She glanced around the hut—at Theyron’s body, the empty sheepskin where Glisena had lain, and Arvin—and her lips pressed together in a thin line that made her mouth all but disappear in her heavy jowls. Fear flickered in her eyes. It was clear what she was thinking: she’d lost Glisena, and now would have to face Sibyl’s wrath. Whatever punishment Sibyl dreamed up would probably make the suffering Naulg had gone through look trivial.
A distant part of Arvin’s mind screamed at him that this was the moment to throw the knife he held loosely at his side, to manifest a different psionic power, to run, but the colors held him. His gaze drifted back and forth, watching the rainbows.
Naneth ignored the shifting lights. Above and behind her, Arvin saw a snake peering in through a gap in the rear wall of the hut. It, too, was staring at the beautiful lights, tongue flickering in and out of its mouth as if it hoped to taste them. For some reason, that concerned Arvin, but only briefly. The lights were fascinating, scintillating, and beautiful.
More beautiful than any snake.