Forgotten Realms - House of Serpents 1 - Venom's Taste Read online

  “Capturing them will only solve part of the problem,” Zelia said. “The cultists are just one playing piece in a much larger game. I still need to find out who is behind them.”

  Arvin frowned. “If you stop them, will it matter?”

  “Someone wants to upset the balance of power,” Zelia said. “My job is to discover who. Find that out—and you’ll earn your freedom. And all that I promised you earlier.”

  Arvin nodded. He’d expected her to say that. Why remove the mind seed when it was such an effective tool? “I have an idea that might help me to infiltrate the Pox—once we find them,” he told her. “The cultist who died today in my warehouse used magic to alter his appearance, but I got a good look at his face after he dropped the spell. If I described him to you, perhaps you could use your psionics to alter my appearance. I could pass myself off as him and—”

  “You would never be able to carry it off,” Zelia said. “One false gesture or word, and the Pox would use their magic to see you as you truly are. You will have to present yourself as you are—or rather, as how they want to see you: someone who survived their draught of plague and now wants to join their cult.”

  Arvin grimaced. He’d been afraid she’d say that. “Won’t they also have magic that will allow them to see through my lies?” he asked, thinking back to the spells the clerics at the orphanage had used.

  “If you choose your words carefully, you won’t have to lie,” Zelia told him. “A cleverly worded half-truth—plus a little charm—will carry you a long way.”

  Arvin nodded. That much, at least, was true. “Have you been able to locate the chamber I told you about?”

  “I think so,” Zelia told him. “Or at least, I’ve located a chamber in the sewers that matches the description you gave.”

  Arvin wet his lips nervously. Finally he would be able to find out whether Naulg was alive—or dead. “Did you see my friend there, or ... his body?”

  “The chamber was empty. But the cultists may return to it at Middark, the time they seem to prefer for their sacrifices.”

  Arvin nodded. “Where is it?”

  Zelia ignored his question. “Until then, you will wait here with me. As Middark approaches, I will begin observing the chamber. As soon as I see any activity, you can set out.”

  Arvin chafed, wishing he could just get this over with—but he could see that Zelia wasn’t going to tell him where the chamber was until she was good and ready. In the meantime, he needed to prepare. He hadn’t exactly gone to the Solarium ready for an excursion into the sewers. If he was going to confront the Pox, he’d need to equip himself.

  “There’re some items I’ll need,” he told Zelia. “If I promise to meet you back here at Sunset, can I go and get them?”

  Zelia stared at him for several long moments, hissing softly to herself. Silver flashed in her eyes as they caught the sun. “Go,” she told him, unlocking the gate. “Purchase your potions, but don’t be late.”

  Arvin was halfway down the ramp before what she’d just said sank in.

  He hadn’t told her he intended to buy potions ...

  Not out loud, anyway.

  23 Kythorn, Sunset

  Arvin sat cross-legged in the rooftop garden, watching Zelia exercise. She was naked, with her hair bound in a loose knot at the back of her neck, but she didn’t seem to mind him watching her; yuan-ti didn’t have the same concept of modesty that humans did. He’d never seen anything quite like the convolutions she was putting her body through—a series of poses that bent her torso, arms, and legs into positions he was certain no human could ever achieve. She held each pose for several moments, muscles quivering from the strain and sweat beading at her temples, then suddenly her body flowed into the next position in one smooth and supple motion. One moment her ankles were wrapped around her neck tighter than a knot as she balanced on her palms, seemingly sitting in midair, the next she was in a handstand, her body straight as an arrow. Down she swept to hover at the horizontal a palm’s width above the ground, balancing her rigid body on her hands, then up went her head and feet to meet in an arch over her back.

  Arvin expected her to be exhausted when she finished, but instead she seemed invigorated. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were flushed a healthy pink, enhanced by the light of the setting sun.

  “Those exercises,” Arvin said. “They remind me of an acrobat I saw once—though he was nowhere near as graceful.”

  “They’re called asanas,” Zelia answered.

  “Do you do them every day?”

  “At Sunset, without fail,” Zelia said, slipping on her dress. “They focus the mind.”

  “My mother meditated each morning at sunrise,” Arvin said. “These—asanas—are for the same purpose, aren’t they? To aid your psionic powers?”

  “They restore my ability to manifest my powers,” Zelia answered, “much like a cleric praying or a wizard reading his spellbooks.”

  “I see,” Arvin said. During her routine, Zelia had gone through a lot of different poses. She must have had quite a number of psionic powers at her disposal. If he wanted to learn how to master his psionics—to do more than merely charm and distract people—Zelia would be an invaluable instructor. “You said you’d teach me to use my talent,” he reminded her. “Do you think you could teach me one of those asanas?”

  Zelia untied the thong that had held back her hair and shook out her long red tresses. “It takes years of practice to learn to do them properly,” she answered. “You need to master not only the movements of the asana itself, but also the mental focus that goes with each pose. You might be able to crudely mimic one of the simpler asanas, but—”

  “Will you teach me a simple one, then?” Arvin asked. He rubbed his temples. It hadn’t been his imagination, earlier; his head was throbbing. He really could feel the mind seed putting in roots. “At the very least, it’ll give me something to ... distract me.”

  Zelia stared back at him, and for a moment Arvin wondered if she was going to dismiss his request as ridiculous and impossible. Then her lips twitched into a smile. “Why not?” she said at last. “It might prove amusing. An interesting test of your potential. I’ll teach you the bhujanga asana. Take off your clothes.”

  Arvin blushed. “It that absolutely necessary?”

  Zelia’s eyes narrowed. “Do you want to learn—or are you wasting my time?”

  “I want to learn,” Arvin hurriedly assured her. “But my bracelet and amulet stay on.”

  Zelia raised an eyebrow. “Everyone draws the line somewhere,” she said. “But your glove must come off.”

  Arvin fumbled at the buttons of his shirt then peeled it over his head. He unfastened the belt that held his sheathed dagger and set the weapon to the side then sat and pulled off his boots and his glove. Finally he unfastened the laces of his trousers, let them fall in a heap at his feet, and stepped out of them. He stood with hands cupped in front of himself, hiding his nakedness. Zelia seemed oblivious to it, however. Her eyes never strayed from his.

  “Lie down,” she instructed, “on your stomach.”

  Arvin did, gratefully. The stone of the rooftop was warm against his bare skin.

  “Place your hands, palms down, under your shoulders,” Zelia continued.

  Arvin did. Zelia walked behind him and nudged one of his ankles, adjusting his legs. Arvin’s ankle tingled where her bare foot had touched it. “Feet together, and point your toes,” Zelia said. “Now arch your back—slowly—and tilt your head back until you are looking straight up at the sky.”

  Arvin did as he was instructed, arching until his stomach and throat were taut. He stared up at the rapidly darkening sky, wondering how long he’d have to maintain this position.

  “Continue to hold the pose,” Zelia said.

  Arvin did. Above him, the first glimmers of starlight became visible as Sunset slid into Evening. Slowly the sky darkened, changing from purple to a velvety black. Arvin held the pose, expecting further instruction, but Zelia merel
y strode around him, adjusting his pose with a nudge here, a pressing down of her palm there. Each time she touched him he felt a flush go through his body, making it difficult to concentrate on the pose. His mind wandered to the stories he’d heard about the delights and terrors of sleeping with yuan-ti women. About their sensual, twining embraces, their reputed ability to coax a man on past his limits—and their rumored tendency to, in the heat of passion, inflict a fatal bite. Legend had it that, in the convulsions of death, the man experienced a release unlike anything he’d ever—

  “Concentrate on the pose,” Zelia hissed. “Keep your mind in the present.”

  Obediently, Arvin tore his mind away from fantasy.

  Zelia stood, arms folded, staring down at him in silence.

  As the evening continued to lengthen, Arvin began to wonder if Zelia was toying with him. Was she ever going to tell him what to do next, or just leave him frozen in this pose until he collapsed? The muscles in Arvin’s lower back were starting to bunch with strain and his stiffly extended arms had begun to tremble. The human body wasn’t built to hold a pose like this for so long. But at least it took his mind off the throbbing in his head that had been pestering him most of the day. Compared to this new pain, the headache was inconsequential.

  “Hold the asana,” Zelia droned. “Feel the energy in your lower back—in your muladhara. That’s where the energy lies, coiled tight like a serpent.”

  Arvin concentrated on his lower back but could feel only the tension in his muscles, which were starting to burn. It wasn’t working. Already it must be halfway between Sunset and Middark—surely this had gone on long enough. He let his arms bend, just a little, to ease the strain.

  “Maintain the pose!” Zelia snapped, her voice like a whip.

  Arvin straightened his arms at once. He could do this, he told himself. It was just like climbing a wall—a very high wall. You climbed so far, until your muscles were burning and you thought you couldn’t support yourself a moment longer; then you looked down and realized how far you’d fall if you let go. And you kept going.

  He refused to give up. He could do this. He had to. He was physically stronger than Zelia and determined to succeed. He wasn’t about to fail at something she’d made look so easy.

  More time passed. His arms began to tremble. His muscles had gone beyond burning, to the point where they felt like water.

  “Move through the pain—send your mind to a place beyond it,” Zelia instructed. “Send it deep, to the base of your spine. Search there for your muladhara. Find it.”

  Gritting his teeth, Arvin did as he was told. Rallying his flagging will, he blotted out the agony of his muscles and turned his mind inward. He sent his awareness sliding down his spine, to a place in the small of his back and concentrated on it, refusing to acknowledge anything else. He pushed himself through the pain ... and suddenly was beyond it.

  There. Was that it? He felt, in the small of his back, a hot, tight sensation that reminded him of the prickling he felt in his scalp when he manifested his charm. It was coiled around the base of his spine, a focused energy waiting to be unleashed.

  “You’ve found your muladhara?” Zelia asked. “Good. Now let the energy uncoil.”

  Arvin continued to stare up at the sky, which blurred as his vision became unfocused. Then suddenly, the knot of energy that was coiled at the base of his spine sprang open. A wave of energy surged through his body like a flash of wildfire. It was a feeling that came close to sexual release—except that the energy stayed within his body, tingling deep within every pore and hair.

  Arvin laughed out loud, delighted. “I’ve done it!”

  Zelia let out a slow, surprised hiss as Arvin sat up. “With a single asana,” she said softly. “Incredible.”

  “Teach me more,” Arvin said, flush with the energy that was coursing through his body.

  “Very well,” Zelia said, sounding edgy. It was as if Arvin’s success had irritated her somehow. “Let’s see if you can learn one of the simpler powers—the Far Hand. Hold the position and send the energy you’ve summoned to a point on your forehead, between your eyes.”

  Arvin did as instructed, mentally guiding the energy up his spine. It seemed to find a resting point all on its own, coiling just inside his forehead, between his eyes.

  Zelia stepped in front of him, holding something: his magical glove. Seeing it in her hand, he nearly lost his concentration.

  “Maintain your focus!” Zelia snapped. “Keep the energy tightly coiled, until it’s time to use it.”

  Realizing that she had chosen a valuable possession deliberately, to test him, Arvin gritted his teeth and found his focus again.

  “Good. Now reach out with the energy; direct its energy with your gaze. Take the glove from my hand.”

  Arvin tried but could not. “I ... don’t think I can,” he gasped.

  Zelia’s lips curved into a tight smile.

  Prodded by anger—she didn’t want him to succeed—Arvin tried harder and felt the energy in his forehead loosen ... just a little.

  Zelia backed away from him, retreating until she was up against the vine-covered rail that surrounded the rooftop. She continued to hold the glove in front of her. “Give up?” she smirked.

  Arvin shook his head and continued to concentrate. Once again, the energy loosened—but not enough. The glove in Zelia’s hands twitched then lay still.

  Zelia’s eyes widened. “Try again,” she said, serious once more. “Send the energy out all at once ... now!” As she spoke, she tossed the glove over the edge of the rooftop.

  “No,” Arvin gasped.

  The energy that had been spiraling between his eyes suddenly rushed out through them. He saw a bright streak of silver flash out toward the glove. His vision filled with sparkling light. When it cleared, the line of light was gone. The glove, however, was hovering above the rail. Tentatively, with slow jerks, he drew the invisible energy back toward him, reeling it back into his mind. The glove was tugged along with it and moved through the air toward him with short, choppy movements then fell onto the ground in front of him.

  “You can relax now.”

  Arvin sagged onto the ground and let the tension flow from his muscles. Sitting up, he tilted his head to stretch his neck. “I did it,” he said. “I learned a new power.”

  “Yes.” Zelia stared at him with a thoughtful expression, as if his success had surprised her. “That’s enough for one night,” she said curtly. “It’s almost Middark. I must see if the cultists have returned to the chamber.”

  Arvin nodded, suddenly exhausted. Trembling slightly, he pulled his clothes back on. He’d expected the invigorating rush of energy to continue, but all he wanted to do was sleep. He hoped the headache would let him. When he’d finished dressing, he sat again, his back against one of the potted plants. He found himself fighting to keep his eyes open. Even his curiosity about what Zelia was doing—sinking into a cross-legged position with the soles of her feet uppermost, just as his mother had done when she meditated—couldn’t keep him awake.

  As Zelia stared off into the night sky, hissing as she summoned up the psionic power that would let her peer into the sewer chamber, he fell asleep ...

  And into the strangest dream.

  CHAPTER 7

  23 Kythorn, Middark

  Arvin lay on his side, knees drawn up to his chest and arms coiled around his legs. He was midway between sleep and wakefulness—aware that he lay on a rooftop, his breaths slow and even as they hissed in and out of his mouth, yet with his mind entangled in the strands of a dream. It was a strange sensation, almost as if he were awake and observing the dream from a distance—a dream that was as vivid as waking.

  In the dream he was a child—a serpent child. He was slithering down a corridor as fast as he could, contractions rippling through his body as he pushed with his scales against the smooth green stone of the floor. Behind him loomed a human child of about five years of age—two years younger than Arvin—with braided ha
ir and a slave brand on her cheek. She was laughing as she chased Arvin into a carpeted dining hall, her eyes glittering with excitement. Arvin, hissing with delight at having eluded the lumbering human, heaved the front half of his torso upright and began to slither up onto a table. Too late. The slave girl bent down and yanked the carpet, sending Arvin tumbling. Then she leaped forward and slapped his tail with her palm.

  “Tag the tail!” she shrilled. “Tag the tail and you’re it!”

  Arvin felt rage course through him. No. It wasn’t fair—the slave had cheated. She hadn’t given him enough of a start. His body drew back into a coil; then he lashed out. His fangs sank into the girl’s arm, and he tasted the sweet, hot tang of blood.

  The slave girl gave a strangled gasp and staggered backward, staring at the twin beads of blood on her forearm, then collapsed onto the floor. “I thought ...” she gasped, her tongue already thickening in her mouth. “We ... friends ...” Then her eyes glazed.

  Arvin’s tongue flickered in and out of his mouth. The slave girl lay still on the floor, no longer breathing. Dead.

  Regret trickled through him. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so hasty. Who was he going to play with, now?

  Arvin shifted, turning over in his sleep. The night air was growing cooler, less muggy. He squirmed over to a section of rooftop that retained a little of the day’s warmth; his body drank it in. A part of him realized that he had moved like a snake, undulating hips and shoulders in order to shift himself. ...

  The dream shifted. Now Arvin was kneeling on a low stone platform in the middle of a room richer than any he had ever seen. It had a high, domed ceiling held up by gilded columns, windows draped with silk curtains that fluttered in the evening breeze, and walls painted with Origin frescos—a series of images showing the “World Serpent looking down upon the snakes, lizards, and other reptilian races issuing from Her cloaca.

  Arvin was weary with the exhaustion that follows an intense rage. His hands were raw from having pounded his fists repeatedly against his sleeping platform, and his skin was moist and itching from the acidic sweat that had oozed out between his scales. He’d hissed until his jaw ached, thrown his dinner against the door—splatters of egg and shell clung to its polished wood—and still his mother hadn’t relented. He was not going to be given another slave with whom to play. Not until he learned to coil his temper. Until he learned to master his emotions. Until he stopped acting so human.