Dawnbringer: A Forgotten Realms Novel

by Henderson, Samantha

  NONTHAL, TURMISH

  1584 DR—THE YEAR OF THE SKIRLING PIPES

  “Ridiculous!” Sanwar Beguine, overcome by anger, paced the modest confines of his brother’s study.

  Unperturbed and ensconced behind the sturdy and ancient desk his great-great-grandfather had brought back from a then-extant Mulhorand, Nicol Beguine watched Sanwar measure the length of the thin, finely made carpet, its ancient, intricately knotted patterns supposedly spellcast with good luck.

  “Reasonable, rather,” he said mildly, as Sanwar frowned at him. “A fit conclusion to a feud that has spanned generations, hurting both our Houses. A feud I consider, to use your own word, ridiculous.”

  Sanwar ceased his pacing and turned on his brother. “Their treachery, their sabotage, that is nothing to you? I’ve devoted my time and what talent I possess in magic to protecting our caravans, trade routes, merchandise, employees and partners, from their machinations. If we lower our guard … they could very well wipe us off the face of Toril.”

  Nicol sighed and wove his fingers together before him on the surface of the desk—a gesture familiar to those who did business with him. It meant he was prepared for a long round of negotiations and would not leave the table until a deal was struck.

  “We have taken advantage of them in our turn, whenever possible. And just like you, I’ve had legends of the great feud dished into my ears since I was a babe. The villainy of the Jadarens is endless, I’ve been told, and we can never be at peace. Well, I’m weary of this so-called vendetta. Over what trifle, so many generations ago, did it start? No one remembers. And no one cares. And yet, the harm resulting from it has been immeasurable.”

  “The Jadarens were born of a pirate, and they are still pirates at the core,” Sanwar spat. “However they may hide beneath a veil of respectability. Wed one of our own to their ill-bred spawn, and you pollute our House.”

  Nicol let an expression of impatience pass across his features. “Really, Sanwar. We’re not the ruling family of Cormyr. Surely we don’t need to pretend that our bloodlines have anything of the sacred about them.”

  “They might,” returned his brother. “They might, if you could bother to pay attention to such things.”

  “What? Are we to breed ourselves like a pack of yuan-ti? Do calm yourself, Brother. Both our businesses will benefit from this bargain.”

  “And what does Kestrel say to your proposal? What if she doesn’t want to become bound to a pirate’s spawn? Will you give her a choice in the matter?”

  “Sanwar, what kind of a tyrant do you think I am? Of course, ultimately it’s her decision—and that of the Jadaren boy, this Arna.” Sanwar winced, as if the given name of a Jadaren scion could wound him. Nicol did his best to ignore his brother’s melodramatics. “But Kestrel is a sensible girl. I’m sure she’ll see the benefit to both our Houses.”

  “I pray she’ll see reason, and that you’ll come to your senses, Brother,” said Sanwar, sweeping out of the chamber and slamming the door behind him.

  Before he did, however, he glanced at the tapestries behind Nicol’s chair, which hid a small arras where the private papers of the Beguine family were kept. A ripple in the fabric betrayed where someone hid, and he would bet the entirety of the latest caravan’s profits that it was his niece. He hoped she had taken his words to heart and would take the path of sanity, and not sacrifice herself to his brother’s insane desire to treat with the Jadarens.

  And if she proved as mad as her father, well—there were precautions he was prepared to take. And any bad situation could, in the end, be made into an opportunity.

  Sanwar’s heavily booted footsteps had faded down the hall outside the chamber door before the tapestries were pulled aside and a small girl with chestnut hair to her waist stepped out. She wore a simple dress, well made but worn at the cuffs and hem, for Kestrel Beguine was a practical girl. As was customary for the women of her House, she worked diligently at the accounting and record keeping necessary for a merchant family to prosper, as well as taking her turn with kitchen and housekeeping work. Knowing she was there, Nicol didn’t look around, but she touched her father on the shoulder as she passed his desk, and he glanced up at her and smiled.

  “You heard all, I trust?”

  Calmly, Kestrel paced the same length of carpet that her uncle had before her.

  “Of course. Uncle Sanwar’s not shy about his opinion of the Jadarens.”

  “You should know there are many who share his views and would be equally shocked—although perhaps not as personally offended—at the idea of your wedding Arna Jadaren. And there are those within his House who despise the Beguine family deeply. We have done much injury to each other over the generations. I disagree with your uncle, but I would have you consider all the disadvantages as well as the benefits of this bargain.”

  Kestrel clasped her hands behind in unconscious imitation of one of her father’s habitual poses, and faced Nicol across the desk.

  “I have, Father. By my reckoning, we stand to lose two profitable alliances if I marry Arna Jadaren. House Andula’s matriarch has cared little for Bron Jadaren since she thought he cheated her out of a shipment of cedars ten years ago, and the Spicer’s Guild helped us in that little matter in the Year of the Wicked Jailor and will not look kindly upon a reversal of our loyalties.”

  “Well reasoned. The question is whether the advantages of the match make the price worth it. And if so, is it worth it to you, personally, to sacrifice yourself in such a way?”

  Kestrel smiled. “I’m sure House Jadaren considers it as much a sacrifice. I’m sure Arna has an uncle Sanwar of his own, shouting his outrage at the idea of polluting their sacred halls with my unworthy presence.”

  Her expression grew serious. “I am of a mind with you, Father, in this matter. It’s time this feud and the hurts it inflicts ended. I will consent to the match, on one condition.”

  “Only the one? Name it.”

  Kestrel looked at the woven patterns of the rug and blushed. “On the condition that I like the boy.”

  In his elegant and simple chambers, Sanwar fumed, furious at Nicol’s dismissal of the consequences of a Jadaren alliance and at his seeming incomprehension of the harm it would do. He was furious at his willingness to unite the proud name of Beguine with the despised name of Jadaren, and furious at his eagerness to sell a Beguine daughter as he would a whore.

  He was furious most of all at Nicol’s ignoring his arguments against the scheme. In his heart of hearts, that was what smarted the most. His objection should be enough to overcome any kind of argument for the mad plan.

  Sanwar had dedicated his life to the family business his brother headed, never demanding the trappings of leadership himself. He took a fierce pride in the Beguine legacy, and for the chief of the House to dismiss his concerns was like a slap in the face. And it hurt. This was his blood, his brother. Raised together, they had learned their numbers and the intricacies of the merchant trade together. It hurt to be ignored.

  His pacing took him past the door of his chambers. A solid panel of oak, it was unadorned, save by a small and beautifully carved eye in the exact center. Beside the door he paused, frowning, and listened intently.

  For years he had studied the arts of sorcery, independent and alone, knowing most of his House frowned upon the study of dark magic and resentful of the fact that his father—and Nicol’s—had forbidden him to travel to such a place as Netheril to study them properly. Despite his application and his ever-growing library of arcane books and scrolls, his skills were nowhere near where he’d like them to be.

  He was not yet a master of magic, but his senses had been honed by study, and he was aware that someone lingered on the other side of the door, someone who either hesitated to make him- or herself known or who intended to lie in wait for him to emerge.

  Sanwar held out his left hand, palm up and fingers spread, and murmured the first few words of a spell. Heat prickled down his fingers and began to gather in the h
ollow of his palm. But before he could engage the graven eye and before the spyspell worked upon it, before he could see who lurked on the other side, there came a gentle tap at his door.

  Still holding his left hand out in readiness, he jerked the door open abruptly. With a muffled gasp, Vorsha Beguine, his sister-in-law, stumbled into the room amid a flurry of embroidered silks.

  With a quick flick of his wrist, Sanwar dismissed the defensive spell gathering in his left hand and caught Vorsha by the elbow with the right. He quickly pushed the door shut, muttering a short silencing cantrip as he did so. It would not do for some curious servant to spy out what he and Vorsha got up to in his chambers.

  Sanwar and his brother shared more than Nicol knew or suspected.

  Vorsha Beguine was a wide-eyed wisp of a woman, with the thick chestnut hair that her daughter had inherited and a timid manner that Kestrel had not. Sanwar had found, however, that despite her shy manner and diffident nature, she was completely different in bed—passionate and sometimes surprisingly inventive.

  Vorsha tried to be a good wife, if not a faithful one. She had remained true to Nicol during the first few years of their married life, but he was distracted much of the time conducting the business of one of the most far-reaching merchant enterprises in Faerûn. It was the custom for the Beguine women to learn and to manage the accounts of the House, and such work wasn’t to Vorsha’s taste. Her talent was for the small domestic arts that most ignored yet, unknowingly, took great comfort from. She couldn’t discuss trade routes or profit margins with her husband, but she could make his House a home. Fortunately, her children—her two daughters and a son now absent in the service of House affairs—had favored their father in their business acumen.

  If Nicol was disappointed that his wife didn’t share his interest in the intricacies of trade, he never showed it. He was kind to her, always, and had been since their wedding night.

  But over the years, they had begun to grow apart. And to her great shame, for Vorsha had been raised a virtuous woman, even in the beginning of their marriage Nicol couldn’t excite her as his brother could.

  For a long time she’d known Sanwar looked at her with desire. She felt the heat of his gaze as she passed him in the halls, or from across the rooms where he lurked apart while company gathered. For a while, to an inexperienced young wife, it was exciting enough to feel his longing touch her like questing fingers.

  And then, finally, he touched her. In a dark corridor in the family quarters of the House, she had turned to find him behind her, his eyes hot on her body. He had pushed her into a secluded corner, almost roughly, and she didn’t resist. No—she seized him and pulled his hard maleness against her. The step of a servant down the hallway made them spring apart, both breathing heavily, lips parted and eyes shining.

  She had sworn it wouldn’t happen again, but it did. Then she had sworn that she would never go to his bed.

  But she did. Again, and again, until she finally reconciled herself to leading two lives in House Beguine—as virtuous wife to the master and as wanton mistress to the master’s brother.

  Today she came to find out for herself the extent of the argument between her husband and her lover, and had sworn to herself—as she did before almost every encounter with her brother-in-law—that she would only talk to him, and resist tumbling into his bed. But it was no use—enflamed by his conflict with Nicol, Sanwar pushed her against the wall, pressing his body against hers with an urgency that could not be denied.

  “Stop,” Vorsha managed, feeling her limbs melt beneath her and clinging to Sanwar’s shoulders in response. “We must stop this madness. It can only hurt us, and hurt the House.”

  In answer, he cupped her breast with one hand and felt her nipple harden against his palm in response. “Do you really want me to stop, Vorsha?” he whispered, his breath hot on the curve between her neck and shoulder. “Tell me to stop again, Vorsha, and I’ll do it.”

  He pulled away from her a fraction, still leaning against the wall. She snaked a hand around his neck and pulled him against her. “No, please don’t,” she managed. “Don’t stop.”

  He scooped her up by her thighs and, when she wrapped her legs around his waist, he carried her to the bedchamber with no more preliminaries. Let Nicol have the last word in business matters. Let him hold his brother’s wishes of no account. Here in the bedroom he was in control, and he could make his brother’s wife respond in ways Nicol had never imagined.

  SHADRUN-OF-THE-SNOWS

  1585 DR—THE YEAR OF THE BLOODIED MANACLES

  It was early spring, with the pale green buds of mountain flowers fighting through a stubborn crust of snow, when the messenger came for Lusk. The runner, a long, lanky human, almost fell from his foam-flecked horse and staggered exhausted into the gathering hall at Shadrun-of-the-Snows. An attendant ran to him and called for refreshment. The messenger refused to rest, and with his remaining breath begged to see the “tiger-striped deva.”

  He didn’t have to wait long. Lusk was listening to the messenger’s tidings with his head bent close, so that no one else overheard, and an expression that brooked no interference from anybody.

  Taking the time only to pack a few traveling essentials and to check that his weapons were in full working order, Lusk requested and was granted the use of two of the sanctuary horses. Yet again, as she had a year ago, Lakini stood on the flat-topped Watcher’s Rock that marked the turn from the road to the sanctuary path to watch him go.

  Bithesi watched with her. She was a slight, shy-seeming woman who had charge of Shadrun’s animals and directed the merchants how to shelter and pasture their beasts. Lakini liked her for her hidden strength, her unobtrusive toughness, and the way she could both appear inconsequential and calm a panicked ox seemingly with sheer willpower.

  “What does he seek?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Lakini. “It’s a place in his heart where I don’t wander, and the doors are closed to me.”

  Together they watched as the tall deva, his robes rippling around his roan’s flanks, and the messenger, almost falling off his gray in sheer exhaustion, disappeared around a bend in the road.

  “Ashonithi, my dagger-mate,” Lakini murmured to the spring breeze freshening through the delicate redbud branches. “Until we meet again.”

  Bithesi looked up at her curiously. “ ‘Ashonithi.’ What does that mean?”

  Lakini considered before answering. She’d never had to translate the phrase before.

  “Simply put, ‘in this life or the next one.’ ” Lakini hopped off the flat rock and automatically surveyed the road and the fringe of trees bordering it before she turned back to the sanctuary. Bithesi trotted along at her heels, studying in her turn every bird that hopped beside the path or in the redbud, and noting that the squirrels were thinner than usual coming out of the cold season. It had been a harsh winter on Shadrun’s mountain.

  “It didn’t sound like a simple word,” Bithesi remarked, pausing to examine some tracks by the side of the road, where a patch of snow remained. If foxes were about and hungry from the cold season, she would need to doublecheck the poultry’s pens for weakness. If it was something bigger, she’d need to ask an adept for a warding.

  Lakini chuckled. “It isn’t. You have sharp ears. I can’t convey the meaning entirely in Common—best I can do is ‘as we have met in other lands and times and lifetimes, and as we have crossed snow and sand to exchange daggers, so we will certainly be together again before or after this world tears our bodies apart.’ ”

  Bithesi laughed. “That’s not very poetic, is it? I liked plain cryptic Ashonithi better.”

  “That’s what you get for asking for a translation. Next time let the mystery stand.”

  Bithesi went to find an adept to charm the cages, leaving Lakini to search for the grooming brush in the stable. The deva found the simple labor of tending the horse, whether worn beast of burden or magnificent war charger, soothing, and a good workout for her
arms. Having secured the poultry to her satisfaction, Bithesi returned to the stables and watched her tall, mask-marked friend brush the glossy hide of a delicate-footed lady’s mount, polishing it to a shine.

  “Lakini, forgive me my prying,” she said eventually, as the deva lifted a forehoof to examine it. The horse mumbled at Lakini’s braids where the pale hair that branched off her mask blended with the dark. “But what you were telling me—the unpoetical part. About meeting in other lifetimes, and the world tearing you apart. I’ve heard that kind of sentiment before, from bards and books. But there’s something about you—and something about Lusk—that makes me suspect it’s not some pretty phrasemaker’s conceit. And it makes me wonder …”

  “What do you wonder?”

  “What are you?”

  There was a long pause, punctuated by the delighted chuckle of a chicken finding a beetle, and the squabble of the other fowl claiming the prize.

  What do I tell her? thought Lakini. That such as Lusk and I fall from incarnation to incarnation, like water from a celestial sea poured from one stone jar into another? That we exist, transparent, like crystals in a glass of oil?

  Lakini smiled and put the hoof down, gently pushing the beast on the shoulder so she stood square. “Why, Bithesi,” she said, “I am nothing of this world.”