Dawnbringer

“I’m so sorry, Uncle,” she said. “Captain Nimor was always kind to me, and I know he was your friend.”

He stood and took her hand, drawing her into an embrace against him. He could try persuading her against the wedding again, but instinct told him the effort would be wasted.

Later the voice within him whispered to him, setting a clear path in his mind. Let my daughter marry him, he thought then, remembering the weight of her head on his shoulder. She will be my agent, unknowing. If I can’t prevent her from joining with the Jadarens, I’ll use her to destroy them from within.

Fifteen years he had waited, and now it was almost time. He must set his chess pieces carefully.

Carefully, agreed the inner voice that he’d first noticed at Shadrun-of-the-Snows; the voice that sounded within him infrequently but was always insistent when it did come.

“They corrupted Nimor,” he told Kaarl. “But that was nothing to what will happen to Kestrel if we don’t stop them.”

He leaned back and fixed Kaarl with his glittering gaze. “They intend to sacrifice her, and likely her children as well. They’re willing to do anything to maintain their precious wards. Oh yes,” he said, as Kaarl shook his head in incomprehension. “They’ve done it before. It’s all here.

“In a way, it was about a woman. But it was a woman Ivor loved. And to Gareth, she was just a tool; a means to an end.

“She must have been a mage, and a highly skilled one, Ivor’s ladylove. Ivor and Gareth must have been friends at that time, because the mage agreed to set the wards that would make a desolate chunk of rock a Hold. And she did it. She wrought magic that stands to this day.

“And to thank her? Gareth Jadaren killed her.”

“What? Why?”

“To bind the wards more closely to him, and to ensure she couldn’t undo what she had done, or do it for anyone else. He cut out her heart under an oak-a tree that still stands outside Jadaren Hold. They still call it Jandi’s Oak. I’m sure Gareth and all that followed him-Bron and Arna among them-find it amusing to call it by the name of the woman who died by Gareth’s hand.”

“And Kestrel?”

“With time, the wardings fade. To renew them, they must shed the blood of a woman bound to them by marriage and more. They have Kestrel. They have her eldest child, Brioni, who mingles the blood of both families within her.”

“I don’t believe Arna Jadaren would hurt Kestrel, much less his daughter.”

Sanwar waved a dismissive hand. “Perhaps not. Perhaps I malign the boy. But his uncle has a shrewd eye and a heart of stone when it comes to business. And maintaining the wards, to him, is simply good business sense.”

Kaarl frowned and was about to object. And then a tiny voice that must have come from somewhere within him whispered, small in his ear, He’s right.

“What should we do?” Kaarl stifled an urge to shake his head, as if dislodging an insect from his ear. Nothing was there. It was simply his common sense.

Look at the evidence. He’s right.

“I simply want a contingent of you and some of your picked men to have a presence in the woods beside the Hold. I don’t want you to attack it without provocation. But be ready, in case Kestrel has need of you.”

“We can do that,” said the captain. “We can. But it would be easier if we knew the lay of the land better.”

“I think we can ally ourselves with some natives of the place,” said Sanwar. “Those who can find an opportunity in the downfall of House Jadaren.”

Fifteen years the alliance and his inability to stop it had gnawed at him from the inside like a gall worm- fifteen years that would soon be over.

Fifteen years, thought Fandour. What is that? Less than an instant in my prison. How impatient the creatures of this world are, but then, how short their lives. It seems incredible that beings with the span and experience of gnats can help, hurt, or hinder me at all. It’s because of the Rhythanko, of course-that part of my soul within their world. But it’s been so long, it’s forgotten me. It thinks it’s a thing apart. I must bring it to the Vector so it can remember me, and recall its purpose, and free me.

As if fifteen years meant anything at all.

AT THE NORTH BORDER OF THE PLAINS OF PURPLE DUST

1600 DR-THE YEAR OF UNSEEN ENEMIES

The messenger found Lakini before she could vanish into the desert west of High Imaskar. The deva was alone at a greasy table in a tavern of dubious repute in a scrubby little oasis at the lip of the sands. Others clustered in the inn, and fearsome and scarred folk among them, but they avoided the tall, strangely marked woman in the corner.

The messenger was a young woman with pale red hair tied neatly back and a forest green cloak. Around her sleeve was a tan band, inscribed with a simple sigil not unlike some of the figures scrawled about the sanctuary. Unperturbed by the insalubrious locale or company, she stood by Lakini’s table until she raised her mark-marred face to acknowledge her.

“The Vashtun asks that you return, my lady Lakini,” she said, without preamble.

Lakini pushed the chair opposite her out from the table with her foot.

“Sit,” she told the messenger.

The messenger paused.

Lakini sighed. “Even should I decide to oblige the Vashtun, I am sure he can hardly expect me to venture forth by night in this area. And you have come nonstop. I see the red clay of the east-fork hills still on your boots. And you are covered with the dust of travel. Sit and keep me company.”

Somewhat reluctantly, the messenger girl perched herself on the battered chair. Lakini nodded at the geometrical figure about her arm.

“So Shadrun has a crest now?” she asked. “I remember when the sanctuary was not of this world, but apart from it.”

The red-headed girl looked puzzled. “Many come to Shadrun to seek the advice of the holy man,” she said, as if such a thing were natural. “The Vashtun helps keep peace in a troubled region, and the roads safe for all travelers.”

Lakini waved her hand. “Yes, yes. Well I know it. And the safety of those who came to Shadrun was ever our duty.”

One of the men leaning on the bar with his fellows, a great ruffian in leathers with what looked like an impractical number of knives sheathed about his belt and diagonally across his body looked over his shoulder at the deva’s table and grinned ingratiatingly. Lakini narrowed her eyes at him and he turned back to his companions. He said something under his breath, and crude laughter rang out.

“Will you come?” said the messenger. She had a faraway look, and although her jaw was firm and she held herself alert and poised, as if at a summons from the Vashtun she would dart halfway across Faerun, her face was white and drawn with exhaustion.

“You must be tired,” said Lakini. “Here.”

A big brass key was looped around her wrist on a worn length of leather. She handed the key to the messenger, jerking her head toward the hallway that led into the darkness of the inn behind her.

“Third door to the left is my room. Take my bed and sleep. You’re in no condition to go back to Shadrun, whatever my answer.”

The girl held the key in fingers that shook slightly from weariness, and made no move to obey her.

Lakini sighed. “You serve the Vashtun best by resting. No need to kill yourself on this quest. I will not need sleep this night, and I will consider my course of action. In the morning, I will either leave with you or send you back with my answer.”

The girl nodded and made her way to Lakini’s room. The brute with the excessive knives rose and stepped toward the hallway as if to follow her. Lakini caught his eye and shoved the table aside, exposing her hand on the