Lisa Smedman - Viper's Kiss

That this was a scheme of opportunity, Arvin had no doubt. There was no way for Sibyl to have known that Glisena was pregnant by Dmetrio, or that the baron would summon a midwife to the palace to end that pregnancy. That it had been Naneth the baron had chosen had been mere ill fortune.

Unless—and here was a chilling thought—Dmetrio was somehow involved. Had he gotten the baron’s daughter pregnant on purpose?

Another talk with Ambassador Extaminos was in order. It would have to be a very private talk, one in which Arvin would listen both to what was said—and what wasn’t being said.

In the meantime, he needed to send a warning. He stepped out into the hallway, pulled the lapis lazuli from his pocket, held it to his forehead, and spoke the command word. He concentrated, and the face of his mentor became clear in his mind—a deeply lined face framed by short gray hair, the eyes with a curious fold to the eyelid that marked Tanju as coming from the East.

Tanju blinked in surprise as the sending connected them then turned to listen to what Arvin had to say.

“Glisena is pregnant with Dmetrio’s child,” Arvin told him. “A midwife named Naneth helped Glisena hide. Naneth serves Sibyl. Sibyl hopes to use the child.”

Tanju nodded thoughtfully. He ran a hand through his hair as he composed his reply. “Learn what Sibyl intends. I will warn Lady Dediana.”

The connection faded. “Atmiya,” Arvin said, letting the lapis lazuli fall into his palm. He tucked it carefully back into his pocket and turned toward the stairs. Just as he was about to descend, he heard a creaking noise from below: the front door opening. Then a male voice called out. “Naneth?” The voice sounded hesitant, uncertain. Something moved in the hallway downstairs. It sounded like the clomping of a horse, though softer, like the footsteps of a foal.

Remaining motionless, Arvin peered down the stairs. A short, slender man wearing a forest-green hooded cloak stood in the hallway, staring nervously into the kitchen. At first Arvin took him to be an elf, but then he realized that those weren’t goat’s-fleece trousers but the fellow’s own thickly furred legs. Each ended in a black cloven hoof. As the man turned, Arvin saw his face. It was narrow and had pointed ears, like those of an elf, but a black horn curled from each temple. The chin was sharp and covered in a tuft of black hair.

A satyr.

What was a satyr doing in a city, far from any forest?

“Naneth?” the fellow called again. “Come now, woman, are you here?” He spoke with a high, soft voice, with a lilt that made it sound as if he were reciting poetry.

Was the satyr also one of Sibyl’s servants? There was one way to find out—by probing his thoughts. Slowly, Arvin drew back from the staircase, intending to manifest the power from hiding, but the satyr’s senses were keen. His eyes darted to the spot where Arvin stood. He bleated in surprise then bolted.

He was out the door before Arvin could react. Cursing, Arvin pounded down the stairs and out the front door himself. He glanced right, left… and saw the satyr disappearing around a corner. Arvin charged after him, elbowing his way through the people on the street and summoning his dagger from his glove as he ran. If need be, he would use it, but only as a threat—he had less lethal ways of bringing the satyr down.

The satyr sprinted up the street, darting nervous glances behind himself as he ran. His hood had fallen away from his head, revealing his ram-like horns and dark, flowing hair. He skidded around a corner, slipping a little on the snow, and Arvin narrowed the gap between them. Arvin pelted around the corner.

A hoof lashed out, narrowly missing his groin. Pain shot through Arvin’s thigh as the hoof gouged into it—and the satyr was off and running again, this time down an alley.

Biting his lip against the throbbing of his thigh, Arvin stumbled after him. He shoved his ungloved hand into his pocket and pulled from it a fist-sized knot. He skidded to a stop and threw the monkey’s fist at the satyr, shouting the command word that activated its magic.

The ensorcelled knot unraveled in flight, splitting into four trailing strands. The main part of the monkey’s fist struck the satyr in the side as he rounded another corner, and immediately two of the strands of twine wrapped around his waist. The others encircled his legs. The twine yanked his legs together, immobilizing them, and he tumbled to the ground.

Arvin approached cautiously, dagger in hand. He halted just outside the flailing arc of the satyr’s bound legs. He glared down at the fellow, manifesting the power that would allow him to listen in on the satyr’s thoughts. “Who… are you?” he panted, a spray of silver sparkles erupting from his forehead as the power manifested. He turned his dagger so that its blade caught the light. “Do you serve Sibyl?”

The satyr’s ears twitched. He tossed his head. “Leave me be, thief. I carry no gems—not a single sparkle.” Behind the words was a faint, panicky echo: his thoughts. They were in his own language, but Arvin heard them as if they’d been spoken in the common tongue. What has he done to Naneth? If he has caused her harm… .

“Sibyl,” Arvin repeated sternly. “The abomination. Do you serve Sibyl?”

Who? The satyr struggled against the twine and tried to rise to his feet, but tripped and fell backward. His thoughts tumbled over one another. What game does he play? What does he want of me?

Arvin sighed and vanished the dagger back into his glove. “I made a mistake, it seems,” he told the satyr. “I thought you were the thief.”

The satyr paused in his struggles. “You were not the mischief-maker who trampled Naneth’s home?” Who is he, then?

Arvin shook his head. “I came to consult Naneth,” he said, answering the unspoken question. “I found her door open, her home disrupted.”

“Ah.” The satyr relaxed. That is why he was there. His woman is with child.

Arvin knelt beside the satyr and grasped the monkey’s fist firmly. He repeated the command and the twine instantly unwound from the satyr’s limbs and re-knotted itself back into a monkey’s fist.

A sorcerer, the satyr thought. They are thick as brambles here.

“Was that why you came to Naneth’s house?” Arvin asked, extending a hand to help the satyr up. “Is your woman also pregnant?”

A troubled look crept into the satyr’s eyes. The female, he thought. She is unwell. If Naneth does not attend her, she may lose her child. “Yes,” he answered aloud.

Arvin barely masked his startle. The satyr was thinking in his own language, but the power Arvin was manifesting allowed him to understand the subtle nuances of each word. “Female,” he’d said, not “woman.” He wasn’t referring to one of his own kind—he was talking about a woman of some other race.

Glisena?

“Is the birth not going well?” Arvin probed. “Is that why you came to fetch Naneth?”

The satyr nodded.

“Perhaps I could help. When my first child was born, I assisted the midwife. I know some healing spells—I used them to help my wife.” He paused, pretending to think of something. “Of course, my wife is human…”

Might he help? the satyr wondered. He may have a spell that will banish fewer from human folk.

Arvin felt his heart quicken. The satyr was talking about Glisena. He was certain of it.

The satyr considered, for the briefest of moments, accepting Arvin’s offer—then decided against it. “The midwife would be more suited,” he said. “Do you know where she might be?”

“I wish I did,” Arvin answered truthfully. He paused. “If I do see Naneth, where should I send her? Where is the woman who needs help?”

A brief thought flickered through the satyr’s mind—a mental picture of a but made from a mud-plastered lattice of woven branches, its bark-slab roof draped with brambles. It stood at the base of a tree in a snow-dappled forest.