choice if he’d been infected with lycanthropy.
“But what about Rosebud?” he said, looking at her in concern. “It clawed her. I don’t know if it bit her. Can donkeys become werewolves? Or … or weredonkeys?”
Rosebud whickered at him, and he scratched her ears reassuringly.
“No,” said the priest, his voice shaking as he looked at the dead werewolves. “Only the human-shaped can catch the curse.”
Lusk was circling the area, bow at the ready, making sure no more werewolves lurked in the darkness. Once he looked at Lakini, then shot an inquiring look at Jonhan, lifting a ready arrow. She shook her head at him.
Jonhan ascertained that Rosebud’s wounds were more scratches than gouges, and led her home. Lakini stood guard at the gate all night after the moon had set, beneath the cold starlight.
In the morning they burned the bodies of the werewolves, and the thick, greasy smoke of the burning rose straight in the air like a beacon and a warning. The priest who tended the small chapel of Chauntea, after hastily consulting books and scrolls he hadn’t touched in years, began to reconstruct the north gate wards.
In her room at Shadrun, Lakini blew out her meditation candle impatiently and leaned against the rough wall, the plaster surface pulling at the thick, slick fabric of her robe. She didn’t like to remember Wolfhelm. What had possessed Lusk to remind her of it, so many years later?
Should she have shown mercy to Jonhan Smith, later, when the time came?
Or was her crime in even considering it?
She tried to sleep, although devas rarely slept. It was a way of forgetting the despairing cry of the barghest, the glazed eyes of the murdered halfling, the mournful bleat of a donkey.
Lakini had no sleep that night. She wondered if Lusk had even bothered to try.
And when she closed her eyes, she saw geometric forms glowing purple on the walls, although none were scrawled within her chamber.
The next morning, Lakini packed her gear in a worn leather pack and sought out Lusk.
“I’m going away for a time,
He opened his mouth, and for a second she thought he would assent, take a few minutes to grab the bare necessities, and measure his stride against hers on the road into the wide world. But he paused, and the gray eyes looking down at her had a clouded look.
He closed his lips and shook his head.
“No, my dagger-mate,” he said. “One of us must stay to protect this place. One day you will see the truth of that and return.”
She knew him too well to argue. She left Shadrun without a word, although as she passed the stables, she almost turned aside to bid farewell to Bithesi. But as she paused, she felt that tickle in her mind of that voice telling she should stay, must stay, must not leave Lusk alone. Any longer here and she wouldn’t be able to ignore it, so she struck out on the road, passing a cluster of grimy, white-clad pilgrims and a saffron-robed, prosperous-looking woman on a donkey. As she turned the corner at the sentry rock, the voice faded and she walked faster and faster, Faerun spread like a map before her.
Chapter Ten
NONTHAL, TURMISH
1600 DR-THE YEAR OF UNSEEN ENEMIES
The small study in the headquarters of House Beguine had changed little over the years, its fine carpet and tapestries still intact, although a little faded with time. The man behind the elaborately carved Mulhorand desk, looked up from an age-yellowed, closely written sheet of paper, and frowned.
“Let me get straight to the point. My niece is in danger, and I need your help to protect her.”
Sanwar Beguine steepled his fingers together and contemplated the man who had served the House as captain of the guard for the past fifteen years, ever since the mysterious raid on the party that brought Kestrel Beguine to meet her future husband at Shadrun-of-the-Snows. There was more white in Kaarl vor Beguine’s beard now, and gray streaked Sanwar’s hair as well.
Kaarl stood on the other side of the desk, in the relaxed stance of an old soldier, and frowned. “I don’t understand. Is Mistress Ciari …?”
After Ciari had wed Vidor Druit, half a year after her younger sister’s alliance with House Jadaren, the family home in Nonthal had been enlarged with the purchase of the shops of a grocer and a wine merchant to make room for an additional wing for Ciari, Vidor, and their growing brood of children. The Beguine-Druit clan was under the protection of the Beguine House guard, and Kaarl should have known about any threat against her.
“No, no,” said Sanwar, leaning back. “That girl is perfectly capable of taking care of herself. I mean Kestrel.”
“Kestrel!” The astonishment on the old soldier’s face was plain. “But surely … Jadaren Hold is impregnable, everybody knows that. What possible danger-”
“The danger doesn’t come from outside the Hold, but from within,” said Sanwar. He held his right hand spread over the yellowed paper, hovering just above it as if it were a source of heat.
“I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” he continued. “It’s no secret I opposed the alliance. But I hoped I was wrong about the Jadarens, and all this time it seemed I was.”
Taking the edge of the paper carefully between the tip of his forefinger and thumb, he lifted it slightly from the surface of the table.
“Now I fear for my niece, more than I ever did. I wish I could have obtained proof like this before my poor brother’s passing.”
In the months after the alliance was negotiated, Nicol Beguine had sickened, although on the voyage to Jadaren Hold for Kestrel’s wedding, his appearance and strength had improved. Some months afterward, however, he fell into a decline, and the physicians suspected one of the mysterious wasting diseases that sometimes struck down seemingly healthy people with no outside indication of what could be ailing them. He grew weaker and weaker, and Sanwar took branches of the business under his management so his brother could rest. Finally, the winter after Ciari’s wedding, Nicol died in his bed, with Vorsha holding his hand.
Business continued with barely a ripple-Sanwar already controlled so much of House Beguine’s dealings that transitioning power from his brother to himself was an easy task. After a decent interlude, he married Nicol’s widow, a decision that engendered some enjoyable gossip amid the more prominent families of Nonthal but was in the main considered good business sense.
The Beguine girls kept any opinion they held of their uncle’s marriage to their mother, good or bad, to themselves.
Sanwar still held the edge of the paper gingerly. “What do you know about the history of House Jadaren?”
Kaarl’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “I know something of the routes they’ve forged over the years. And the feud, of course. But the history of the merchant families isn’t chronicled the way that of the noble families is, of course-although it’s my opinion they influence the course of history just as much, if not more.”
Sanwar smiled faintly. “That a man of war is wiser than a chronicler doesn’t surprise me.”
He frowned down at the paper. It was of a curiously thick texture, and the writing on it was strange to Kaarl-all slanted, angular lines, rather like dwarf runes.
“The feud,” he continued. “This vendetta we pretend is finished. It’s old news to the merchants we deal with, both those that aligned themselves one way or another and those that managed to stay neutral. But does anyone know why it started?”
Kaarl shrugged. “Ivor Beguine partnered with a man named Jadaren, long before the Spellplague. I’d heard they had a shipping business, and one cheated the other.”
Sanwar nodded. “My father told me Gareth Jadaren cheated Ivor Beguine out of a contract to deliver cedar to Waterdeep. My grandfather claimed a Jadaren poisoned a Beguine when they were rivals in love. I never cared why.
