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 hilt of her dagger.
The brute paused, as if considering his options. His hand wandered across the weapons strapped to his buckler. Lakini leaned forward and rose just a little, balancing on the balls of her feet. The brute’s companions, becoming aware of the tension in the room, quieted their chatter and turned to see what entertainment would result.
The man shrugged and, laughing as if it were all a good joke, returned to the bar. Lakini relaxed and sat back down, glad to avoid a fight this night. She placed her back square against the rough wood wall, slitted her eyes, drew up her legs in a meditative pose, and did not stir until morning.
SANCTUARY OF SHADRUN-OF-THE-SNOWS
1600 DR-THE YEAR OF UNSEEN ENEMIES
“The Vashtun is concerned about the stability of the Beguine-Jadaren alliance,” said Diamar, or the person who had taken the name of Diamar, different from the last one she’d seen. This Diamar was a woman, with the elongated ears and smooth features of a half-elf, and something about her eyes made Lakini deduce her human parent was an easterner. Lakini shifted uneasily next to Lusk, and eyed the familiar pillars of the Great Hall. Once smooth columns of unmarred stone, they were now incised with rows of figures that, from a distance, looked like lettering, and, close up, were revealed to be geometric sigils of the same kind as the messenger’s armband had sported.
The Second continued. “Shadrun did its best to assist the joining of these two great families, because the conflicts between their Houses fostered unlawfulness in many of the lands they do business in. A scion of one of the Houses has expressed concern that despite the current harmony, there is a danger to Kestrel Beguine within Jadaren Hold.”
A figure behind Diamar moved out of the shadows, and Lakini felt a thrill of recognition. It was Sanwar Beguine, whom she and Lusk had suspected of engineering the attack on his own niece to disrupt the wedding negotiations.
The man was wearing a rich red traveling cloak, and, in the few years since she had last seen him, his dark hair had started to streak gray.
She glanced at Lusk, wondering if he found Sanwar’s presence as disconcerting as she did. But she could not read his face. He had stayed at Shadrun while she had wandered. Perhaps he was aware of the politics of the situation.
Why had she returned, after all? Perhaps because she missed Lusk, and the years of their companionship. Perhaps because of the red-haired girl’s mute appeal after she had delivered the Vashtun’s request. Perhaps because of a feeling of loyalty to Shadrun and the safe haven it sought to become. Perhaps because at the sight of the messenger, and the sign on her arm, the persistent voice had begun in her mind again, faintly, as if it didn’t want to be invasive. We need you, Lakini, it had said. We need you home.
At first she had pushed the thought away. Devas didn’t have homes, not in a physical sense. They had causes, loyalties, companions. It was ridiculous to call a place in the world “home” when one wasn’t of the world.
And yet … How was it she longed for home?
Maybe the voice was a god, recalling her to duty.
Sanwar’s voice interrupted her pondering. “My niece and her father were determined upon the alliance,” he said. “I’ve cause not to trust the Jadarens, but for the good of the House I consented.”
Only after a handful of rogues and your own sworn man were dead, thought Lakini. And one killed by sorcery by your own hand.
Sanwar’s eyes shifted to her and he frowned, as if he’d heard her thoughts. She felt Lusk shift closer to her.
“I did take some precautions,” continued Sanwar. “For one, I crafted a charm to protect her from a treacherous attack. It’s not as infallible as I’d like, but it’s a modicum of protection. Second, I have a source inside Jadaren Hold who informs me that a rogue element of the House seeks to harm not only Kestrel, but her family-her husband and children.”
“For what purpose? Why harm a scion of their own House, after all this time?” Lakini asked.
“To empower themselves in the absence of the heir, and to take advantage of the chaos that would ensue,” he returned. “Great Families are like nations in a way, and their conflicts are like wars, and there is always a profit to be made in wartime.”
As you would well know, thought Lakini. You could school them well on that. And I thought the wards of Jadaren Hold were impregnable to spies.
“It’s the Vashtun’s wish that the two of you go to Jadaren Hold and offer your services on Shadrun’s behalf to protect the family,” said Diamar. “You are not bound to obey him, of course. No one here is. But the sanctuary would count it a great favor if you assist it in this manner, and enter House Jadaren’s service for a time.”