It was autumn, with leaves blazing scarlet and a chill in the air, when Lusk returned. The gray horse was tethered to the roan he had ridden back, and there was no sign of the messenger. Bithesi took the horses back to the stables and found them reasonably fit, but their hooves showed signs of wear, and she would have to send word to the farrier.
When the attendant offered Lusk the travelers’ libation, he pushed her hand aside and withdrew into his austere quarters. Lakini was patrolling the slopes above the sanctuary. When she returned, she went straight to Lusk’s door, knowing he was there, and stood outside it a long time, not knocking but simply listening to the absolute silence within. Hours she stood there in her still way, leaving only at the bell that summoned all to the common meal. She took a mouthful to sustain her and returned, laying her palm against the rough grain of the wooden door.
In the morning, Lusk found her sitting cross-legged, her back straight against the semismooth stone blocks of the wall, her eyes closed. He squatted beside her, and she opened her eyes, instantly aware.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” she said.
He shrugged. “Bondaru,” he said. “It took place in another life and is sealed from us now.” Lakini knew there was no possible answer to that.
They sat in companionable silence. Lakini stared at the wall opposite. Someone had sketched a figure on the plaster, carefully limning in straight lines and precise angles to form an odd asymmetrical figure, something like a star. Lately she had seen variations of basic geometrical shapes appear on the walls of the sanctuary, drawn in various pigments and by various people-both pilgrims and folk of the sanctuary-and always with great care. The Vashtun didn’t seem to mind it, and the Diamar, his second, tried to tell her they were a means of meditation much like the great wheels some of the holy people of the eastern lands made out of colored sand.
But she didn’t like them. There was something about how their angles were jointed together that seemed unnatural, like the three-legged frogs one found sometimes in spring ponds, swimming ungracefully with their two-legged brethren. There was simply a sense of wrongness, and when she looked at one of them too long, a humming would grow in her head and start to sound like whispers before she jerked her gaze away. She didn’t like the way the whispers began to break apart into coherent words, words that made sense at first but that she couldn’t remember when she disengaged.
She and Lusk sat against the wall a long time, the adepts of the sanctuary passing them from time to time, intent on their business and occasionally glancing at them in curiosity.
“Will you go again?” she asked, as the shadows shifted around them.
He rubbed his striped forehead before he answered.
“No,” he said. There was a long pause before he continued. “They’re all dead, you see.”
She nodded, glancing at the mathematical figure opposite, feeling the conversational buzz rising in her mind, and looking away again.
“They all die,” she said, thinking of Bithesi, her grace with animals, her limited lifespan. She rose and held out a hand to him. He took it and pulled himself to his feet.
“The Diamar has asked to consult with us,” she said. “Two of the merchant Houses seek an alliance and ask that Shadrun midwife the negotiations.”
Lusk frowned. “Shadrun is a holy place. What has a sanctuary to do with commerce? And we are warriors and guardians, not diplomats.”
“The sanctuary is like us, Lusk. We might not be of the world, but we must function within it. Shadrun guards the roads, and while we serve Shadrun, we do likewise. And for better or worse, merchants use the roads.”
She smiled at him. “We become responsible for what we protect.”
Lusk stared at her so intently, her smile faltered. He didn’t appear to see her at all but seemed to be looking through her, as if she were transparent, to some distant scene behind her. If she had the ability to probe his mind’s eye, Lakini wondered, would she see his gathered dead ones looking back at him reproachfully?
Then his gaze shifted, and he was aware of her again. He relaxed a fraction and smiled back.
“It used to be simpler,” he said. “Back when we were newly born. Which Houses are we to wet-nurse?”
“Jadaren and Beguine, Beguine of Turmish,” said Lakini, relieved that his dark mood was lessening. “There is a blood feud between them, going back through their generations, that is rooted in some imagined wrong. Now they seek to marry two children of their Houses and end the dispute.”
If Lakini hadn’t turned away, she would have seen the tiny shiver that passed over Lusk’s frame at the name Jadaren, or the way his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, as if trying to puzzle out a riddle.
“I don’t know the name Beguine, and Jadaren only in passing,” he said, his voice level. “And their bickering means nothing to me.”
As Lusk turned to follow Lakini through Shadrun’s passages, his gaze fell on the askew star shape. He, too, felt a voice murmur in his head, but when he looked away, the voice stayed, just below the level of consciousness.
Unlike Lakini, he didn’t mind the voice. It echoed back his own thoughts, multiplying the words that drifted there until they took on the nature of a chant: Jadaren, and blood feud, and revenge, and over and over again, the dead, the dead, the dead.
NONTHAL, TURMISH
1585 DR-THE YEAR OF THE BLOODIED MANACLES
Sanwar Beguine stood in the library, in the circle of light cast by the sun shining through the round window embedded in the center of the roof. The library was not large, but it was a pleasant room, with clean lines, plenty of light, a high ceiling, and shelves lined with a respectable selection of books and scrolls collected over several generations, to which he had added not a few. Here were histories, ancient and modern, of the land of Faerun in many languages, as well as popular tales and entertainments. Here also were more arcane volumes, spellbooks, as well as atlases of not only strange lands, but of strange planes, to which most people never thought of journeying.
It was these, of all the volumes the Beguine family held, that appealed most to Sanwar’s sensibilities. Let his brother deal with the practicalities of trade; he would protect the House with the magic arts.
He knew their enemies did. It tormented him-the knowledge that no matter how he studied the arcane arts, no matter how he tried to advance the interests of House Beguine with magic, the Jadarens possessed something with Powers he could only dream of-something that warded that monstrosity of a Hold they hunkered down in; something that kept them from being destroyed.
He would find a way to best it. He would find a way in.
There was a rustle of silks and the scent of roses threaded the air, but Sanwar didn’t turn around until a soft hand touched his shoulder. He glanced down into the wide brown eyes of his sister-in-law.
“Does Kestrel still cleave to my brother’s plan?” he asked. “Or by some miracle has she come to her senses?”
Vorsha shook her head. “She’s like her father. She looks favorably on the idea of an alliance between the families, whatever her personal feelings in the matter.”
“ ‘Like her father,’ ” Sanwar said. “If she’d been mine, Vorsha, her temper would have been different. I wish she were mine. She could have been.”
A hot blush burned across Vorsha’s neck and face, and she turned away. She could feel the heat of his bulk as he bent over her.
Sanwar’s lips were almost touching Vorsha’s ear. She felt his warm breath on her skin and closed her eyes.
“Vorsha, do me this favor,” he said, softly.
“Anything,” she whispered.
“It destroys me to think of that little girl trapped in that den of serpents. I can’t stop her from going-not without a miracle-but I can try to protect her in my small way. I need your help to do it.”