Dawnbringer: A Forgotten Realms Novel (11 page)

“I take my chance with whatever’s out here, even if it is Helgre,” spat Ivor. “I prefer the company of beasts to yours.”

“What will you do?”

“I’ll bury my dead. Under the oak. She loved it. And then—I have my platinum; you have yours. You can’t say you didn’t do well in the bargain.”

Gareth laid the pair of quail on the grass, near the fire pit.

“I’ll help you,” he said.

“Get away from us.” Ivor’s voice was dangerously soft.

The donkey whickered softly. Automatically Gareth reached out to pat its side. Ivor quickly strode over and struck his arm up.

“I’m keeping the donkey. I don’t trust you with any living creature.”

Gareth backed away, his hands spread wide. “In the morning.”

Ivor turned his back on Gareth and his shoulders slumped. “In the morning I’ll be gone. Go to your folly. Jadaren’s Folly.”

Ivor laughed, a short, humorless bark. “I was righter than I knew.”

Ivor didn’t move until Gareth’s footsteps faded in the distance. When all was silent, he kneeled by Jandi’s body. The trunk of the old oak was in reach. He stretched out a hand and placed a palm on the rough surface.

In a single smooth motion, he pulled his arm back and struck the trunk with a balled fist, splitting the skin across his fingers on the bark.

Feeling nothing, he leaned on the tree as the hot tears came.

A
tall figure stood on the flat-topped Watcher’s Rock. Below, the crook of the road led to the hollow where the Sanctuary of Shadrun-of-the-Snows provided shelter. The figure, her form obviously that of a woman, set her feet shoulder-width apart and crossed her arms, her stance relaxed but watchful. A sword was strapped diagonally across her back, the hilt just behind her left ear where she could draw it either one- or two-handed at need. Thrust crosswise through her belt was a dagger in its sheath, larger than average with a simple but well-wrought hilt. The pommel of the hilt had a single, smooth, rounded ruby. The dark leather of the sheath was decorated with an elaborate pattern of intertwined snakes. Smaller stones, wine-dark like the pommel, made their eyes.

From a distance it looked as if she wore a mask: a wide strip of pale fabric across her eyes. Closer, it was clear the stripe was part of her natural coloring. Her hair was braided in rows away from her face, and the braids that touched her mask were the same pale color.

She stood still, surveying the view of the road that switched back and forth down the mountain and met the main road in the valley below. Occasionally a plume of road dust betrayed where travelers passed, some with trade goods strapped onto animals or in wagons, and some on foot, looking for adventure or simply a place to stay. Sometimes a lone figure was silhouetted in the distance, and only then did the woman stiffen slightly and narrow her eyes, watching them closely, relaxing when she determined they weren’t those for whom she waited.

Although she faced the road, she was acutely aware of the thick woods behind her and heard every rustle that the small animals of the forest made in going about their daily business. She was aware, as well, of the two pilgrims descending the path from the sanctuary, their visit at an end. By sound alone she marked each turn they took, hearing their sandals kicking up small stones, and knew exactly when they would emerge from behind the trees and pass the Watcher’s Rock. She heard them emerge from behind the trees and hesitate when they saw her, then continue again, their voices hushed. They were the two women from Turmish, she thought, from the sound of their footfalls and the few words she caught.

As they passed in front of the rock where she stood, she saw she was right. Almost shyly the pilgrims raised their hands in greeting, and she nodded in return. One looked as if she would like to stop and talk, but the other pulled her away, and they hurried down the path to the base of the mountain.

Lakini spotted them as they emerged on the road. She hoped they had the sense to ask to accompany a caravan,
or at least to join with other pilgrims. Unless they had more command of defensive spellcraft or protective rituals than she suspected, they would be vulnerable once they were out of sight of one of the devas that protected Shadrun-of-the-Snows.

Her gaze ranged the road before them and froze as she saw the lone figure that passed the pilgrims, turning onto the road that led past her sentry post. The women gave him a wide berth as they went by, although he didn’t acknowledge them.

Lakini frowned. Lusk was still too far away for her to see the expression on his face, but she knew what it looked like. The mouth grimly set, the eyes that showed no trace of pity but stared through people as if they were made of glass.

She didn’t go to greet him but waited until he came to her. He strode quickly, making little sound nevertheless on the roadway. When he saw her standing on the Watcher’s Rock, he paused, then came to its base, staring up at her with the same near-unblinking stillness she possessed.

He had left the sanctuary four tendays since, and only this morning had the rising sun told her that this day he would return.

His hand lay on his own dagger, which, like Lakini’s, was secured crosswise in his belt. The gesture wasn’t either threatening or combative, but was that of a fighter who would touch his weapons to make sure they were in place and to seek reassurance. The sheath where his dagger rested was plain, but what was visible of the hilt was inscribed with flowing scrollwork and inset with sapphire cabochons. Instead of a greatsword, he had
a longbow almost as tall as himself secured across his back, and a quiver full of arrows fletched with feathers so black, they gave no answering gleam to the sun that shone bright above them, reflecting on the snow that clung to the upper slopes of Shadrun’s mountain. His mouth was indeed grim, and the stripes across his face made him look the fiercer.

“Cserhelm
,” said Lakini, placing her hand on her breast and inclining her head.

Lusk stood, regarding her a long minute before his lips curved upward in a small smile, and he did likewise.

“Cserhelm
,” he replied.

Lakini jumped from the flat-topped rock to stand beside Lusk. She didn’t have to ask him to know that his journey had not given him the peace he sought.

And she wouldn’t ask. She and Lusk had been companions for much of her present lifetime, which now spanned almost two centuries. She knew they had traveled together in other lifetimes, before their current incarnations. Devas remembered very little of their previous existences, born innocent of what they were before—although in extremity devas could call upon their previous manifestations to guide or protect them. Still, Lakini sometimes had dreamlike glimpses of previous lifetimes, and visions of an entity she identified as Lusk. She knew he had like memories. Many decades ago they had met, recognized each other, and exchanged daggers—she giving him the sapphire-studded weapon and he giving her the dagger with the snake-inscribed sheath.

Since then they had ventured together, parting sometimes for days or months or years as their respective
destinies took them. Their paths had always met again. Lakini knew what a rare gift this was, and that most creatures of her kind never had the privilege of meeting another deva, fated as they were to live only with the mortal folk of Faerûn.

But, bonded by forces beyond their understanding, each deva held a solitude deep in his or her heart, a secret place no one else, not even a dagger-mate, could touch. Sometimes that solitude would cry out to one or the other of them, and cause them to step aside from the path they walked together, to quest alone, although they would eventually return to the same path.

There were places in a deva’s heart deep and sacred as the sea. Lakini would not ask after Lusk’s discontentment.

“The crofters say there’s a nest of gnolls denning near Rophile’s Crevasse,” she said at last. “Shall we go rout them out?”

Lusk grinned. “Nothing would delight me more.”

Rophile’s Crevasse was a deep slice in the side of the mountain where the ground had cracked open once, exposing the dark gray rock of the mountain’s substance. Jagged teeth of layered basalt and granite jutted over a chasm few had ventured far into, and precarious, little-traveled paths wound down, clinging to the sides of the cleft. Sun struck down the slopes only a few hours at midday, and moss and small ferns grew deep. Venturesome folk said one could hear water trickling below.

Rophile was not the name of the discoverer of the crevasse or of an adventurer who braved its depths, but of a sheep that had wandered in one day, never to be seen again. The crofter quickly gave up the errant Rophile as lost, but stories were told of a feral, incredibly tough breed of sheep that roamed the interior.

Lakini had heard, and dismissed, theories that the crevasse had no bottom; that it was a passage to the Underdark and its horrors. She didn’t fear attacks by the drow and their allies, not here. But it was an attractive hiding place for the dangerous creatures, sentient or not, that preyed on the merchants, travelers, and pilgrims who braved the road and the wilderness to come to Shadrun. Local rangers, hunters, farmers and crofters, let the sanctuary’s guardians know when something more than fairy tales and mythical monster sheep took refuge in the slash in the mountainside. Lakini had picked up a rumor three days ago that a passerby had barely escaped the fang-spike club of a gnoll.

As it turned out, rumor was wrong in this case. There were no gnolls in Rophile’s Crevasse.

Lakini kneeled on a boulder that overlooked the drop-off. She breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the air and scents of the wilderness. There was the clean, balsamic smell of the pines, as well as a musky smell from the moss that grew on the cliffside’s damp walls and from the leaves rotting on the forest floor. A dank scent rose from the maw of the rift, and she spared a thought for the mass of the bones of clumsy men and animals, ancient and new, that were probably tumbled together at the bottom together with fallen branches and vines. There
was nothing unusual here, there being none of the carrion stench of a gnoll pack. She opened her eyes and felt for the lines and letters carved over the top of the boulder—it wasn’t uncommon for the area youth to come here to impress their friends, bleat in an attempt to call the flock of legendary feral sheep, and carve their signs or initials in the rock to prove they’d done it.

She sniffed again, catching just a trace of something strange. It was not like an animal, or the charnel smell of gnolls, but something almost like the reagents a mage would use, a whiff of an alchemical process. There was just a hint of it in the air, and then it was gone.