Venom's Taste - Lisa Smedman [115]
“You want Gonthril to rush everyone out to some field,” Chorl guessed. “Tonight.”
Arvin nodded. “It will be your one chance to stop the cultists,” he said then quickly added, “and to stop the yuan-ti who are really behind this.”
“And you, of course, will lead us to this field.”
“No. All I promised was information-which I’ve just delivered-in return for a… healing from Nicco. Saving Hlondeth-preventing its humans from being transformed into yuan-ti-is in the Secession’s hands now.”
Chorl scowled. “You yuan-ti,” he growled. “You think you’re so superior. Did you really think we’d fall for-”
Seeing what was coming, Arvin attacked-not with his dagger, but with the power stone. Linking with it was a matter of mere thought; manifesting the power he wanted came almost as swiftly. Even as Chorl thrust his staff at Arvin’s chest, a rush of energy filled Arvin’s third eye. He caught the head of the staff with his bare palm just before it struck his chest and heard it begin to sizzle. The staffs magical energies flared-then were snuffed out as the acid in Arvin’s palm ate away at the staff. The wood crumbled back like a candle being melted by a blast of flame.
Shoving what remained of the staff-a mere stub that Chorl held in one hand-Arvin sent the rebel staggering backward. Arvin followed him, sending a stinging flick of acid at Chorl from his dripping hand. The rebel winced as it struck his cheek.
“Be thankful I chose to dissolve your staff,” Arvin hissed angrily. “I could have chosen your hand-or your face.”
Chorl gaped at the stub he held in his hand then threw it aside. “I knew you were a yuan-ti,” he snarled.
Too late, Arvin realized he’d manifested a power that “proved,” in Chorl’s mind, that Arvin was a yuan-ti. As Chorl drew a dagger and moved forward, holding it low and ready, Arvin manifested his own dagger into his glove. He heard the scrape of stone-the hidden door behind him was opening. So filled with fury was he, that he ignored it. Hissing with rage, he drew back his arm for a throw at Chorl’s throat even as Chorl tensed for a charge.
“Peace!” a man’s voice shouted.
Calm flowed into Arvin, filling him with a warm, slow languor. Part of his mind recognized it as a magical effect, but he couldn’t seem to find the energy to fight it. As his anger drained away, he lowered his dagger. His free hand rubbed his temple and he stared at Chorl, who stood, staring at his own weapon. Why had Arvin wanted to hurt the rebel? Oh yes, because they were fighting. He’d been angry about… something.
Nicco stepped forward, plucked the dagger from Arvin’s hand, and shoved it into the sheath on Arvin’s belt. “Arvin,” he said, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “I’ve been looking for you. Come with me.” He turned. “You too, Chorl.”
Feeling relaxed and content, Arvin walked with the cleric through the hidden door-not even caring that his back was to Chorl-and down a short corridor. It led to a wine cellar. Enormous barrels, split with age, lined the walls. A staircase that used to lead up to ground level was nearly buried under rubble from the Nesting Tower’s construction. A dozen or so rebels were in the cellar, some sitting and conversing in low tones, others drowsing on blankets spread on the floor. They turned to stare at Nicco and Arvin as they entered the room. Several leaped to their feet, drawing swords. One of them-Gonthril-held up a hand, halting them. His intense blue eyes took Arvin’s measure for a long time before he spoke.
“Four rebels are dead,” he said, toying with one of the rings he wore. “Explain to me why we should let you live.”
Wetting his lips nervously, Arvin glanced at Nicco. The cleric gave a nod that Arvin hoped was meant to be encouragement.
“Osran wasn’t the only yuan-ti involved with the Pox,” Arvin began.