Dawnbringer: A Forgotten Realms Novel

by Henderson, Samantha

  He was staring at the wall. One of the luxurious tapestries had been torn down and lay rumpled in a corner. On the bare wall, which was just a skim of plaster over thick and solid brick, a geometrical figure had been sketched in chalk. Purple light flickered across it, in stark contrast to the white chalk.

  Sanwar had a single hair, the chestnut, honey-highlighted hair of a woman, wrapped so tightly around his finger that it cut into his flesh, making the pinched skin turn purple.

  Someone tapped at the other side of the door.

  “Sanwar?” Vorsha’s voice was puzzled, afraid. “Sanwar, dear, is everything all right?”

  Sanwar didn’t stir at the sound of his wife’s voice. There was a scraping sound as she tried to open the door and failed.

  Go. He didn’t turn to the door but projected that voice that now lived always within him at it. Go away, and leave me be.

  The tapping stopped, and, after a pause, he heard Vorsha’s feet padding down the corridor.

  He flexed his finger, tightening the wind of the hair around his finger. Fine as a wire, it started to bite into him, and a small wound split apart on his skin. It gaped up at him like a tiny, eager mouth.

  Sanwar smiled at the sensation. A small drop of blood welled from the cut and ran down his finger.

  Now, he thought. This is the time. Now.

  Miles away, deep in the bowels of the labyrinthine monolith, Kestrel lay sleeping beside her husband in their private chamber. She lay on her back, her hair tumbled about her, and Arna slept on his side facing her, one arm draped across her body. The bead around her neck suddenly flared with a deep purple light. Brighter and brighter it grew, then faded until it glowed like a strangely colored ember against her breast.

  Kestrel’s eyes snapped open and stared at the ceiling. Her eyes were completely black, with no white or iris, as if her pupils had swallowed everything up.

  A faint green haze was gathering in the room, like mist on a cool evening. The green particles, each so faint that singly they couldn’t be seen by the human eye, swirled around one another and coalesced until they became a transparent ribbon. The ribbon reached for Kestrel where she lay, eyes still open.

  It hovered over her face, and an end of it paused over the glowing charm. The ribbon reached for the charm as if to touch it, then reared back, like a startled snake.

  The green ribbon floated a moment, sinuous as a flag in the wind, as if deciding what to do. It thinned out until it was simply a mass of green specks again. The particles retreated to the walls and soaked through as if the stone were porous.

  Kestrel rose and pushed back the covers, not bothering to put on her slippers, but going straight to the little table where she kept her cosmetics and little trinkets. Here were her comb and the brush she used to untangle her daughter’s hair, as her mother had before, and a little woven box containing a chunk of dirty-white quartz that her husband had given her on her wedding night.

  There was a box there, a beautifully inlaid piece made of a curious wood. It was a present from her uncle, sent on her birthday this past year. The note said it was a puzzle box, with a prize inside, and challenged her to open it without breaking it apart.

  She had fiddled with it almost nightly, but the solution eluded her. Sometimes she was tempted to take the lazy man’s way, and pry the end off.

  She pressed the lid of the box, and it popped open with no effort at all. Inside was a knife with a long, thin blade and a grip that fit all the curves of her hand as if it were cast for it. Kestrel looked at her own hand and opened and shut it reflexively.

  In the bed, Arna muttered to himself and rolled onto his back, snoring faintly with his hand dangling over the side.

  She took the knife and walked around the bed to Arna’s side. Her bare feet made no sound on the cold stone floor. With her left hand she stroked his hair, all that black, silky hair he had. She ran her fingers through it, and cupped the back of his head. He opened his eyes and smiled sleepily up at her.

  She took a handful of his hair, pulled his head back, and slit his throat. The knife was so sharp, it cut right to the bone. He died still looking at her.

  It was only a few steps to the nursery, where little Bron was sleeping. The nurse had a bed beside the crib. She woke when she saw the shadow at the door and rose to see what her mistress wanted. She was a short woman, and the top of her head barely reached Kestrel’s shoulder. All Kestrel had to do was swing the knife up, under her jaw, through the top of her mouth, and into her brain.

  The weight of the woman falling pulled the knife from her hand. She walked to the side of little Bron’s crib. The boy was sleeping on his back, his arms spread-eagled in that utter sleep they are capable of at that age. She took the blanket from the foot of the crib, wadded it up, and covered his face.

  When the baby was still, she left him covered. She pulled the knife out of the nurse’s jaw and shoved her inside the nursery door, so the alarm would not be raised right away. Then she went to Brioni’s room, next to the nursery.

  Brioni was so proud when she was old enough, just that past year, to have her own room. But her covers were cast aside, her bed empty. Kestrel waited awhile, but Brioni didn’t return to her room. So she went on to the boys’ room—to Geb and Shev. Geb was fast asleep, and a quick blow finished him, just like his father. But though she could swear she made no sound, Shev was awake when she went to his bed. He stirred, and she saw his eyes glitter up at her, puzzled. She grasped his jaw before he could make a sound and put the point under his ear. Like his father, he was still looking up at her when he died.

  Miles away, poised at the rocky edge of the cliff with the wind roaring through her hair, Lakini felt something twist in her stomach.

  Something is wrong at the Hold.

  She had sworn to serve and protect them, and then she had run away, and now the Hold and everyone in it was in danger.

  She turned from the wind and the view and ran, surefooted over the rocks and the places where the path disappeared.

  Lusk needs you, sounded the familiar voice from the sanctuary. He needs you, and you’ve left him behind.

  Jadaren Hold was stone and should never have burned; yet from the basalt mass beneath her, a haze of smoke emanated. She ran faster, almost flying over the ground as she let pure instinct take over where she put her feet.

  There was fighting, and knots of people were at the top of the Hold. Before her eyes, a couple ventured close to the edge and a body, attacker or defender, fell twisting to the ground below.

  The wards, she thought. The wards have been broken.

  An image of Lusk burning with green fire flared in her mind, and she forced herself to run faster.

  “Lusk, Lusk, I am coming for you,” she whispered to herself as she ran, as if he could hear her. And yes, I am waiting for you, she heard, as if he bent again to speak roughly in her ear.

  Almost there. Something rushed her from the side, and she ducked and drew back, letting her assailant’s weight unbalance him.

  There was an angry snarl, and a set of razor-sharp claws slashed in the air over her head. Lakini drew her sword overhead in a single smooth motion and lunged at whatever it was.

  A werewolf, here at the Hold—how was that possible?

  There was no time to wonder. A single thrust and her sword pierced the slavering creature’s throat.

  Reaching the Hold, she paused before a body sprawled across the threshold of one of the doorways carved out of the black rock. The face was turned up to the sky, the eyes open and expressionless. One hand was flung upon, palm up, as if in his last extremity the owner had appealed for mercy to some passing god.

  The face was Ansel Chuit’s.

  She stepped over him, into a mass of fighters, some in the sage green of House Jadaren, some in the blue of House Beguine. What was happening? Had some outlaw element of House Jadaren turned against Kestrel, and House Beguine come to rescue her?

  She must find Kestrel and the children.

 
; She pushed and fought her way past clusters of fighters, horrified to see that werewolves fought there as well. Servants and family members, confused and terrified, ran back and forth, and everywhere there was a choking haze of smoke.

  Where was Lusk?

  Finally she shouldered her way into Kestrel and Arna’s private quarters, with the chamber where their children slept adjoining. Their door was slightly ajar. Had they hid inside?

  She shoved open the door. Kestrel was not there. There was a bed, with a pale cover streaked thickly with red. Under the cover, his calm eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling, was Arna Jadaren, his throat slit open like a second mouth.

  “Lakini.”

  She whirled, bloodstained sword upraised, to see Kestrel, standing in her nightclothes. She was barefoot and her skirt was stained with blood. She held a small knife, clotted to the hilt, in her right hand. In her left, she held a dull silver bracelet with three red stones.

  Lakini appraised her quickly. She was pale and her eyes were cloudy, but she didn’t appear injured.

  “Come,” said the deva. “We’ll get the children, find Lusk, and get you to safety.” First things first—she could tell her of Arna’s death later.

  “The children are taken care of. They’re safe now,” said Kestrel, in a voice strange and unlike her own. “You needn’t worry about the children. Except Brioni. Have you seen her?” She reached to touch the charm at her throat with the hand that held the bracelet.

  “Kestrel,” said Lakini firmly. The girl must be in shock. “We must go.”

  Kestrel’s unfocused gaze sharpened. She suddenly seemed to recognize the deva. Urgently, she held out the strange bracelet.

  “Lakini,” she said. “Take this, and get it far away from here. It’s what they’re after, and they mustn’t have it.”

  “Later.” Lakini shifted her sword to the right hand and reached for Kestrel’s arm with the left. Shouts and screams were echoing down the corridor. “You can tell me about it after we get clear of this.”

  “No!” Kestrel grabbed her hand and shoved the bracelet into it. At the touch of the cold metal, an alien whisper passed over Lakini’s mind. “You swore to serve my family.”

  “I swore to protect your family,” said Lakini gently.

  It was as if the woman didn’t hear her. “I order you to take it away. Don’t let them get it.”

  Lakini hesitated, nonplussed. Kestrel’s eyes went back out of focus, and she walked past the deva into the bedroom, still holding her bloody knife.

  The metal in Lakini’s hand felt strange, like the hint of lightning in the air, and it seemed to be vibrating. She tucked the bracelet inside her tunic.

  “Give it to me.” Lakini looked up, and her hand tightened again on the sword. Lusk stood there, a stained short sword in his hand, his bow gone. He was staring at Kestrel.

  Lusk. She should be relieved to see him.

  But his voice, hate-filled and gloating, was the voice he used when talking about the halflings he’d killed.

  “No,” said Kestrel. I’ve hidden it where you’ll never find it.”

  He snarled and advanced on her. Lakini stepped between them.

  Lusk’s eyes narrowed. He tilted his head, very like a big cat. Then he smiled. “Why do we argue, Cserhelm?” he said in his normal voice. “She has a bracelet. Just a little thing, but it doesn’t belong to her. There’s a lot of Power in that bracelet, Lakini. Get it from her, and we’ll go. We’ll take the children and go.”

  She said nothing, and once more his face changed, and he lunged at her.

  She was ready and beat his blade up. She should have struck him then, under his guard where his side was exposed, but she hesitated too long. He smiled at her mockingly and slashed back, and then it was feint, parry, and thrust, down the halls of sundered Jadaren Hold.

  It was like a training exercise gone terribly wrong, with death, instead of merely a sharp rap from one’s opponent, being the consequence of inattention. First Lusk, then Lakini, were shoved up against rough walls, smooth walls, and once Lakini nearly stumbled into a room lined completely with razor-sharp crystal. Sometimes she could glimpse the fighting that didn’t concern her directly, and saw more lycanthropes, and some shambling horror that looked like a ghoul.

  An infection in the body of the world.

  A fresh breeze stirred her braids. A passage leading to the top of the monolith loomed near. Lakini turned sharply to go inside and ran for the roof, hoping Lusk was not so far gone as to stab her in the back.

  On the top of the Hold they faced each other. She lunged. He hopped back, avoiding the sweep of her blade with a sinuous twist of his torso. Recovering quickly, he slashed his weapon down, but she’d seen that trick a thousand times and slipped backward, out of reach of his long arms.

  They both knew with a dull certainty that one of them must die. The paraffin lantern, hanging on an abandoned watchman’s pole, flickered and spurted a gout of strong-smelling smoke. Up the passage echoed the voices of people shouting in desperation, anger, and grief, and there was the sharp staccato sound of a woman sobbing.

  Lusk swung again, and she lifted her blade sideways, catching his weapon on her hilt. She pushed as hard as she could. He had the advantage of weight and height, but she was more stable, closer to the ground. The force of her thrust flung him up, and he staggered against the rock wall. Taking advantage, she charged, her sword aimed at his midsection. He regained his footing and jumped sideways, bringing the hilt of his sword down hard on her back. She cried out in pain and slashed at his ribs, slicing through his tunic. They circled each other, breathing heavily. A slow flow of blood stained the edges of his damaged clothing.

  Dull pain pulsed where he’d hit her. Something was injured inside, muscle torn and bleeding internally. She didn’t have time to worry about that now. Without lowering her guard, she inhaled, forcing the pain into a place down and away. That she would deal with later, if she lived.

  Again he struck and again she parried, and she struck in her turn, until both their arms trembled with the strain. Then he snarled and struck fast, blows like the strike of an axe, faster than she could return them. Her grip weakened and with a final blow her sword clattered to the ground. She leaped back while he paused, too exhausted by the effort to push his advantage.

  “Lakini!”

  The deva spared a quick glance behind her. The slight figure of Brioni Jadaren was framed in front of the flickering light of the torches that still ranged around the perimeter of the roof. Her skirt was kirtled almost to her waist, and she clutched a pole inexpertly in her hands, as if she’d been using it as a staff.

  There wasn’t time to apologize for not teaching her sword play, as Lakini had promised.

  Brioni turned and shouted, and figures assembled behind her, dressed in sage green. She’d managed to rally some of the guards.

  Brioni pointed at her. Lusk shouted something, and two of the guards started toward them, bloodied weapons raised.

  Lakini turned to look at Lusk. There was her opportunity—he was distracted by the guards and his shoulder was open. Lakini feinted left, then right, then lunged at him, dagger in hand.

  But at the last instant, her knife turned in her hand. She struck him in the shoulder with the fist that was wrapped around the hilt. She felt him stagger.

  They grappled at the edge and wrestled their way back. Breathless, she drew back and saw that he didn’t realize how close to the edge he was. Finding a second wind, she shoved against him again, and Lusk began to topple.

  He wrapped his arms around her as he went backward, pulling her against his chest in a deadly embrace. She felt a sting in the back of her shoulder. There was a despairing shout behind her, from Brioni or one of the guards.

  As they went over the edge together, it occurred to Lakini that never, never in this incarnation had she ever been so close to him, flesh to blood-slicked flesh, the hard muscles in his arms locked around her, the curves of her body fitting so intimately
against his. They would both die, clasped breast to breast.

  Then Lusk uttered something in a language she hadn’t heard for years, but recognized—Astral, the tongue they had known with every rebirth.

  Something that burned with a cold flame surrounded them as they fell—wings, enormous wings of ice-cold flame, feathers that burned faint yellow. Their velocity slowed.

  They had no soft landing. Both were stunned with the impact. Lakini was on top, but Lusk beneath her took the brunt of the landing. Still, the air was driven from her lungs and she gasped, trying to suck it back in. She was aware of two of her ribs cracking like dry sticks; pain blossomed white-hot in her side.

  She drew back, gasping, stumbling away from him while she still could. He lay prone on the ground. Again she could have killed him. Again she did not.

  Staggering like a ghoul, she limped away from him, clutching her dagger in her blood-wet hand, fire in her side and shoulder. She headed over the road to the woods, where she had a chance of hiding from him. It took a thousand years to walk that mile. She was doubled over when she passed the wide-spreading branches of Jandi’s Oak and the fringe of the shadowy forest.

  NEAR JADAREN HOLD

  1600 DR—THE YEAR OF UNSEEN ENEMIES

  Lakini leaned against the trunk of a tree and tore a strip of fabric from her tunic. Folding it into a pad, she pushed it against the wound in her shoulder. The dull, pulsing pain grew sharper and deeper. She steeled herself and pushed it harder against her flesh, fighting the urge to cry out. The pain was ferocious, but she couldn’t risk the wound’s bleeding any more and leaving a trail to follow. The tracks she’s left behind her were obvious enough. No matter how she tried to focus, her injuries distracted her and she stepped clumsily, breaking twigs and disturbing leaf-fall to show where she had passed.

  She wondered why Lusk hadn’t tracked her down yet. Perhaps he was hurt as badly as she was.

  She felt the prickle of fallen pine needles beneath her, and she smelled the balsam as her weight crushed them. She should tear apart more fabric to tie the improvised bandage to her shoulder, but she didn’t have the strength to do anything but hold it in place.