Arvin had joked that he still hadn’t found his true path—that he kept fumbling his way from one near-disaster to the next. Karrell had just smiled and told him he would find it, one day, by following his heart.
Arvin sighed. He had followed his heart—to Karrell—only to lose her.
On the day she disappeared—and every day after that—he’d tried to contact her with his lapis lazuli, but she’d never answered.
She was dead. And it was his fault.
He touched the chunk of crystal at his throat, wishing the gods had taken him instead. “Nine lives,” he muttered.
He’d never thought of his continued survival as a curse before.
He watched as Mimph sank from sight, its lights seemingly extinguished by the cold waters of the Vilhon Reach. In distant Ormpetarr, a grieving Foesmasher would be mourning the loss of his daughter. Marasa had tried to summon Glisena’s soul back to her dead body—that was what had taken Marasa so long to reach the chapel—but her attempt to resurrect the baron’s daughter had been in vain. Glisena’s death had been magical in nature, and irreversible—the contingency that allowed the binding to end and the demon to assume its full size.
At least Foesmasher still had his grandchild. He’d reacted amazingly well to the news that Belinna was carrying it. Instead of denouncing the “serpent,” he’d begun to weep. “It’s all I have left of her now,” he’d moaned. Then, wiping away his tears, he’d summoned Belinna to his council chamber. Belinna, forewarned by Arvin that the child in her womb was not only half yuan-ti, but of royal blood, had responded hesitantly to the summons. That hesitancy had turned to amazement and joy when the baron announced she would be elevated to the position of royal nursemaid. That her child would, from the moment it was born, have everything it needed—as would she and her husband.
Despite his daughter’s death, Foesmasher had also been generous to Arvin—very generous. With his coin pouch filled with gems and coins, Arvin would have no difficulty making a new life for himself anywhere he chose. But that could wait. For the moment, there were more pressing matters he had to attend to.
As for Naneth, there had been no sign of the midwife, despite the baron’s soldiers having searched every corner of Ormpetarr. Arvin wondered where she was. Or rather, where the mind seed was that, even now, would be taking over her body. The seed would, no doubt, soon be on its way to infiltrate Sibyl’s lair. There, Arvin was certain, it would face an unpleasant reception from Sibyl, who must by now have known that her plan to assassinate Dediana Extaminos had failed.
Nor had the baron’s men been able to locate Zelia. Would she follow Dmetrio and the mind seed back to Hlondeth? If so, Arvin would have to tread carefully, starting the moment his ship docked there. Tymora willing, he would spot Zelia before she spotted him.
The ship rose and fell, its rigging creaked, and tie-lines fluttered against the taut canvas above. Arvin could no longer see Mimph; the gloom had swallowed it. “Farewell, Sespech,” he said. “I doubt I’ll see you again.”
Then he turned to stare across the water at the dark line that was the north shore of the Vilhon Reach—at the faint green glow on the horizon that was Hlondeth. Somewhere beneath its streets, Sibyl was laired in an ancient temple, with her half of the Circled Serpent.
Somewhere in the city above, Dmetrio had his half. Somehow, Arvin would have to find one or the other, before the two halves were joined.