Arvin manifested his dagger into his gloved hand and passed it to Tanglemane. “When I tell you to,” he instructed, “use this to prick the palm of your hand.”
Tanglemane hesitated for only a heartbeat then took the dagger. Arvin, meanwhile, spoke to White Muzzle while Karrell translated.
“I have just cast a spell,” he told the pack leader. “Whatever happens to the centaur will also happen to you. If the centaur is wounded, you will suffer the same injury.” He nodded at Tanglemane, cueing him, and the centaur poked the dagger into his palm.
White Muzzle yelped and started to lift a paw. The other wolves tensed, and she immediately lowered it again. She growled at them, her legs firmly braced to meet any challenge.
“If the centaur dies, then you will die,” Arvin continued, taking his dagger back from Tanglemane. “Tell your pack to stand aside and let us enter the satyr camp. After we’ve finished our business there, you’ll get your meat. As promised.”
White Muzzle’s eyes narrowed as she heard this, but she quickly turned and spoke to her pack in a series of threatening growls. One or two growled back at her, but when she bared her teeth, they parted, letting Arvin, Karrell, and Tanglemane through. For several paces, Arvin walked with tense shoulders, expecting an attack to come at any moment—but none did. By the time the three of them had reached the edge of the brambles, the wolves had melted away into the forest.
“Well done,” Karrell said.
Arvin nodded his acknowledgement. His eyes were on the brambles; they formed a near-impenetrable mass. Clumps of mushy berries, blackened by the earlier frost, hung from a tangle of vines studded with finger-long thorns.
“What now?” Arvin asked.
“There will be a path through them, somewhere,” Tanglemane answered. “Let’s circle around.”
Before long, Arvin spotted hoofprints in the snow. Squatting down, he saw a tunnel leading into the heart of the tangled vines.
“This must be the way in,” he said. He glanced up at Tanglemane then down again at the hole. He and Karrell could follow the path on their hands and knees, but Tanglemane would never be able to fit.
Tanglemane nodded, as if hearing his thoughts. “I will have to wait here.”
“What about the wolves?” Karrell asked. Tanglemane held up his bloody palm. “I’ll have to trust in Arvin’s magic to hold them back.”
“The fate link will last at least until sunset,” Arvin said. “Tymora willing, we’ll be back before then—with some meat for the wolves. And the baron can teleport us all away.”
He turned to Karrell. “The next part is up to you,” he told her. “We need to make sure Glisena is here—and that Naneth isn’t. In your serpent form, you could slip in and out without being seen. Will you do it?”
Karrell nodded and started removing her shirt.
“Be careful,” Arvin added. “I don’t want to lose you.”
Karrell dropped her shirt to the ground, gave Arvin a kiss that sent a rush of warmth through him, and shifted. She slithered away into the brambles.
Arvin waited. While Tanglemane kept a wary eye on the forest, watching for wolves, Arvin stared at the brambles. After what seemed like an eternity, Karrell returned. Still in her serpent form, she coiled her body at his feet and lifted her head. “Glisena is there,” she said. Her tongue flickered in and out of her mouth, which was curved into a smile. “She is in one of the huts. There is no sign of Naneth.”
Relief washed through Arvin. He touched the brooch that was still pinned to the inside of his shirt. “I need to get close to Glisena,” he announced. “Close enough that Foesmasher can teleport in. I’m going to go openly into the camp; I’ll charm the first satyr I meet and tell him that Naneth sent me. If that doesn’t work, I might need a distraction.” He stared down at Karrell. “Follow me, but stay out of sight. If I run into trouble, I’ll use my stone to call you. Use your own judgment about whether to intervene.”
He turned to the centaur. “Stand fast, Tanglemane. Don’t let the wolves spook you.”
Then he dropped to his hands and knees. As he crawled into the brambles, keeping low to avoid snagging his pack, he saw Karrell slither off to the right.
The tunnel through the brambles twisted this way and that, branching several times and coming back together again. Wary of getting lost in what was obviously a maze, Arvin consistently chose the left fork, hoping this would eventually lead him to the center of the tangle. Every now and then he saw what was probably a satyr’s hoofprint in the slush, but the wet ground was too soft to hold a firm outline. There was no way to tell which direction the satyr had been traveling in. A thorn plucked at his cloak, snagging it and preventing him from going forward until he yanked it free. Other thorns jabbed at him through the fabric of his clothes. Soon his arms and legs were covered in tiny scratches. He crawled on, ignoring these pinpricks of pain.
