Arvin smiled to himself. Using the silent speech, he could have described, moment by moment, exactly what was happening as he manifested his power. Bathe didn’t want anyone to know he was Guild… ex-Guild. “I’ll raise my hand,” he said.
As he prepared to manifest his power, Glisena caught his hand. Startled, Arvin looked down at her. She was straining to speak, her eyes imploring him. Concerned, he moved to the side of the bed and leaned over to hear what she was saying.
“Where did it go?” she whispered.
“Where did what go?” Arvin asked.
Glisena glanced warily at her father then continued to whisper in Arvin’s ear. Her breath was fever-hot. “My baby,” she said. “Naneth had to take my baby out before she put the demon in. She had to put her somewhere. Find my baby for me. Promise you will. Please?”
Arvin blinked. It hadn’t occurred to him, until now, to wonder what had happened to the child Glisena had been carrying. He’d assumed it had died or been subsumed when Naneth summoned the demon into Glisena’s womb. Either that, or teleported elsewhere—the Abyss, perhaps—and had died a swift death outside the womb.
But what if it had been teleported into another womb?
If it had, Glisena’s unborn child might still be alive. And Naneth would have an extra playing piece to haggle with.
An extra playing piece she had offered to trade for Glisena earlier, when she thought Arvin was Lord Wianar’s man.
Foesmasher leaned forward, stiff with tension. “What is Glisena saying?”
Arvin straightened, shaking his head. “She’s delirious,” he said, trying to ease his hand out of Glisena’s. She clung to it with a grip tight as death. Her eyes begged a silent question of him.
He nodded. “I’ll do it,” he promised her.
Glisena’s hands relaxed.
“Do what?” the baron growled.
Arvin didn’t answer.
Glisena sighed and released his hand, closing her eyes. When she opened them again, she nodded at High Watcher Davinu. “I’m ready,” she announced in a faint whisper. Then, in a stronger voice, she said, “You may begin.”
Arvin smiled. Despite Glisena’s faults, she was her father’s daughter.
As Davinu prepared to cast his spell, Arvin sent his awareness down into the power points at the middle of his forehead and base of his scalp. Linking them, he manifested his power. Sparkles of silver erupted from his eyes and drifted gently down toward Glisena’s stomach; as they settled there, vanishing, the thoughts of those in the room swam into his mind. Marasa was relieved that Arvin was finally here, and praying for Helm’s mercy on the innocent Glisena. High Watcher Davinu was concentrating on the spell he was about to cast. He would channel Helm’s glorious might into a single word so powerful that it would snuff out even a demon’s life. The other clerics were focused on their prayers.
And the demon—dark, malevolent, seething, and gloating. Soon, it thought, the words reverberating like the growls of a dragon in its cave. I will be free soon. The bindings … fade.
Arvin shuddered. He raised his hand and signaled for Davinu to begin.
Davinu raised one gauntleted hand above his head. Praying now—evoking Helm in a low chant as the other clerics whispered their own prayers in the background—he slowly closed his hand into a fist. He caught Marasa’s eye—she nodded—and that of the baron. Foesmasher squeezed Glisena’s hand. His free hand was clenched in a white-knuckled fist and trembling.
Soon, the demon thought, its voice an evil chuckle. “Do it,” Foesmasher croaked.
Davinu’s hand swept down toward Glisena’s stomach, creating a sound like that of a sword sweeping through the air. “Moritas!” he cried.
Glisena’s eyes flew open. She gasped, arching her back.
Foesmasher’s eyes squeezed shut; his lips moved rapidly in silent prayer.
Soon, the demon whispered. I will be—
Arvin heard a wet thud—a sound like a blade striking flesh. For the space of a heartbeat, everyone in the room was silent, their minds blank with suspense. Even the demon was still. Arvin searched desperately for its mind, hope bubbling through him.
He found only silence. He closed his eyes in relief.
Stupid mortal, the demon suddenly roared. You thought you could kill me? Its mind erupted with laughter: a sound like thick, hot, bubbling blood.
Arvin opened his eyes. Davinu, Marasa, and Foesmasher were staring at him expectantly, their faces filled with cautious hope.
“It’s… not dead,” he croaked.
Their faces crumpled into despair.
I hear you, the demon growled into Arvin’s mind. I will remember your voice. It gave a mental shove… and the manifestation ended.
Arvin sagged.
Marasa caught his arm, steadying him. “Did you overhear anything?” she asked. “Anything that might help?”
“The demon is bound,” Arvin said. “But the bindings that hold it are fading. It thinks it will be free. ‘Soon’ was the word it used.”
Marasa looked grim. She stared at Glisena’s distended stomach. “Does that mean it will be born?” she asked softly. “Or….”
Foesmasher dropped his daughter’s hand and rose to his feet. “Abyss take you!” he gritted at Davinu, his fists balled. “And you,” he said, pointing at Marasa. “You assured me the prayer would work.”
“I don’t understand why it didn’t, my lord,” Davinu protested, backing away. “Something so small… yet so powerful? We expected a minor demon—a quasit, given the size—but it appears we were wrong. Naneth seems to have reduced a larger demon—many times over—without diminishing its vital energies in the slightest.”
Marasa stood her ground before the baron’s verbal onslaught. “Thuragar,” she said, her voice dangerously low. “If Helm has forsaken your daughter, you have only yourself to blame.”
Foesmasher glared. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword.
Marasa glared back.
The other clerics glanced warily between baron and cleric, waiting for the storm to break.
When it did, it came as a flood of tears. They spilled down Foesmasher’s cheeks as he stared at his daughter. His hand fell away from his sword. He turned away, his shoulders trembling with silent sobs.
Davinu turned to Marasa. “What now?” he asked in a weary voice.
Marasa sighed. She looked ready to collapse herself. One hand touched Glisena’s forehead. “We wait,” she announced at last, “until it is born. And banish it then.”
“The birth will be… difficult,” Davinu said, his voice a mere whisper.
Marasa’s eyes glistened with anguish. “Yes.”
Arvin shuffled his feet nervously.
Marasa turned to him. “Go,” she said in a flat voice. “Rest and meditate—but do not leave the palace. We may have need of your mind magic later.”
Arvin nodded. He wanted to wish Marasa and the other clerics luck, but if Helm had forsaken Glisena, so too might Tymora. His heart was heavy—could he do nothing to stop Sibyl’s foul machinations? Giving Glisena one last sorrowful glance, he left the bed chamber and walked wearily down the corridor, back to the reception hall where he’d left Karrell.
She wasn’t there.
Arvin turned to the soldiers. “The woman I came here with,” he said. “Where did she go?”
The soldiers exchanged uncomfortable looks. “What?” Arvin snapped.
“She left a message for you,” one of them answered at last. “She said she had to talk to someone, and for you to stay here, at the palace. She’ll return when she was done.”
Arvin felt his face grow pale. “Did she mention a name?”
The second soldier chuckled. “Looks like he’s been stood up,” he whispered to his companion.
The first soldier nodded then answered. “It was Zeliar… or Zelias. Something like that.”
Arvin barely heard him. A chasm seemed to have opened at his feet. Nodding his thanks for the message, he stumbled from the room.
Zelia.