“It’s not the satyrs I’m worried about,” Arvin said. “I keep wondering where Naneth is—why she hasn’t teleported back to squeeze more information out of me.”
“She would have to find us first.”
Arvin jerked a thumb in the direction of the dark shapes flitting through the forest. “Easily done. She just has to ask them where we are.”
“Perhaps,” Karrell said in a low voice, “that is what she is doing. She must hope we will lead her to Glisena.”
Arvin nodded. It made sense for Naneth to allow them to think they had escaped. While the satyrs kept an eye on them, she could check up on the story Arvin had told her. But for all Naneth knew, Arvin might have teleportation magic—magic he’d used to spirit Glisena away. She was taking a big risk—for all she knew, Arvin might just vanish from the forest.
He paused to rub his forehead; his wound was itching again. The lapis lazuli was still in place; he’d used it just after they left the satyr camp to let Tanju know that Glisena had been found, that there was a demon inside her—and that Sibyl’s plans had been thwarted. Tanju had commended Arvin for a job well done. After speaking to his mentor, Arvin had left the lapis lazuli where it was; removing it would have meant tearing open the scab that had already formed over it. Now he wondered if that had been wise. On two other occasions during their flight through the forest he’d felt a peculiar sensation behind the stone, deep in his “third eye”—a soft fluttering, like an eyelid rapidly blinking. He felt it again now. It was almost as if his third eye were trying to focus on something it couldn’t quite see.
Along with it came an uncomfortable sensation of being watched. Arvin had assumed this was because the satyrs were following them, but now he began to wonder if there was something more to it. Was someone trying to manifest a sending?
No, that wasn’t quite right. A sending created, in the recipient’s mind, a mental image of the person dispatching the image. A failed sending produced no sensation at all. It simply… failed. This was somewhere between the two. It was almost as if someone had manifested the link that made a sending possible… without conveying any message.
Suddenly, Arvin realized the cause: Naneth was using her crystal ball to spy on them.
A chill ran through him as he wondered what he’d already given away. Had he said anything that would indicate the baron had teleported Glisena back to Ormpetarr while Naneth had been scrying on them? He hoped not.
Karrell was staring at Arvin, her brow creased. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“The satyrs,” Arvin told her in a low voice—one just loud enough for Naneth to also hear. “They’re listening. Say nothing, or Wianar will have our heads. And keep up the pretense in front of the centaur. Pretend that we’re headed for Ormpetarr; if the satyr lives, he’ll help throw Foesmasher off the scent.”
Karrell’s frown deepened, and for a moment Arvin worried that she was going to blurt out something that would give the game away. Then she nodded—though there was still a hint of confusion in her eyes.
A moment later, Arvin felt the fluttering in his forehead fade away. He waited, making certain it was gone, then whispered urgently to Karrell. “Naneth was just scrying on us. I can sense when she’s doing it. If it happens again, I’ll signal you. If 1 do this”—he formed a V with the first two fingers of his right hand and touched his shoulder: the sign, in silent speech, that someone was spying—”it means Naneth is listening. Be careful what you say.”
“I will.”
Behind them, Tanglemane gave a loud groan and tried to rise to his feet. Arvin and Karrell hurried to his side.
“What’s wrong?” Arvin asked.
Tanglemane’s nostrils flared. “Giant,” he gasped. “Coming this way.”
Arvin’s jaw clenched. That was all they needed—another hostile creature to contend with. No wonder humans avoided these woods. Already he could feel the ground trembling and hear the snap of branches.
He caught Karrell’s eye. “Shift form,” he urged her. “Hide.”
Her dark eyes bored into his. “And you?” she asked. She gestured at Tanglemane. “And him?”
Arvin drew his dagger. “Tanglemane doesn’t have that option—and I can’t just leave him. Fortunately, a little of my psionic energy remains.” He grinned. “Perhaps the giant will find me… charming.”
“Be careful,” Karrell urged. She shifted into snake form and slithered under a bush.
Arvin, meanwhile, laid a hand on Tanglemane’s shoulder, steadying him, and turned toward the direction the crashing sounds were coming from.
A moment later he spotted the giant lumbering through the woods. The giant was more than twice the height of a man and had skin as gray and pitted as stone. His head was nearly level with the tops of the trees, which he parted with massive hands as he shouldered his way through the forest. He wore a tunic that had been crudely stitched together from the skins of a dozen different animals, and a wide belt into which was tucked an enormous stone club. His bare feet crushed bushes and snapped deadfall branches with each step.
Arvin watched nervously. That club looked heavy enough to crush him with a single blow.
The giant spotted Arvin and Tanglemane and came to an abrupt halt.
“Hello!” Arvin called, waving up at him. Swiftly, he manifested a charm. “It’s good to see you, friend.”
The giant cocked his head. “Baron Foesmasher told you I was coming?” he asked.
Arvin’s eyebrows rose. “The baron sent you?”
The giant shrugged. “One of his clerics sent word to find you. She said you might be having trouble with the satyrs, and by the smell of it, she was right.” He glanced down at Tanglemane then rested massive fists on his hips. “What can I do to help?”
Karrell reassumed human form and rose to her feet, clothing in hand. She gestured at Tanglemane. “Can you carry him?” she asked. “Gently?”
The giant grinned, revealing teeth that glinted like quartz. “I can, snake-lady.” He dropped to his knees, and the earth trembled. Slipping broad hands under Tanglemane, he lifted the centaur as easily—and gently—as a man lifting a kitten. “Where to?”
“Fort Arran,” Tanglemane gasped. “There are healers there.”
Arvin stared at the centaur and whispered a prayer that Tanglemane would be able to hold on that long.
The fate link wore off just after darkness fell, as they were leaving the woods. Tanglemane gasped as his chest suddenly started to bleed again, and the giant lowered him to the ground. Arvin stripped off what remained of his shirt and tore it into pieces, tying a fresh bandage against the wound to staunch the bleeding and Karrell cast a healing spell that partially closed the wound. Then the giant picked the centaur up once more.
Before following, Arvin summoned the pan pipes into his gloved hand. The satyrs had kept their side of the bargain by not attacking—though the giant’s presence probably had a lot to do with that decision—and now Arvin would keep his. He set the pipes down on a rock, where they would be easy to spot.
They walked toward the bridge that spanned the river, Arvin and Karrell leading, followed by the giant. Arvin kept looking nervously around, hoping the centaur herd wouldn’t return. He didn’t want to face the centaur-seed a second time. Even in proxy, Zelia was formidable.
Karrell took his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Stop worrying,” she said. “We are nearly there.”
They walked on, holding hands. The air had turned colder as night fell; here and there puddles of water had developed a thin skin of ice that crunched underfoot. Moonlight glinted off the broken shards, making them sparkle like a scattering of diamonds. “I had heard about ice before I came north,” Karrell said. “But I never knew it could be so beautiful.”
Arvin nodded. He snuck a glance at Karrell, remembering the serpent form that lay beneath her human skin, then fixed his eyes on the far shore. In the distance he could see a wagon setting out from Fort Arran. It was moving across the bridge; the two horses drawing it were running at a good clip. The giant cradled Tanglemane in the crook of one arm and waved at it. Figures in the wagon waved back.