She looked as if about to say something more, then shook her head and returned to brushing the horse. The animal nickered in contentment, eyes half-closed.
The little woman shook her head. “Cryptic and poetical is overrated,” she remarked, hurrying back to her chickens.
The Vashtun sat cross-legged in his chamber, meditating. The flat cushion he sat on was the only furnishing. Across the chamber a shallow trench had been cut, then lined with green glass pebbles. Water flowed in it, a diversion from the main geothermal spring. By the time the water flow reached the Vashtun’s chamber, it had cooled, and it made a pleasant sound in the near-empty room.
No portrait, landscape, or tapestry hung on the walls, but their smooth plaster was decorated on all four sides with abstract patterns that integrated fractured circles and angled lines. These designs were the work of previous Vashtuns, beginning with the second, and had been centuries in the making. Much of the pattern was laid in by the second Vashtun and the two that followed him, but each of their successors left his mark. Here a bisected arc; there a triangle of odd proportions was added, and made part of the whole. It was as if a master pattern existed, invisible, beneath the surface of the innocuous white plaster, and those who painted the strange geometries were discovering it rather than creating their own.
It was the custom of the holy man to meditate upon these designs, and often his apprentice-successor would meditate with him. The chamber was private more by custom than law, and any who sincerely desired to contemplate the inner mysteries of the sanctuary were welcome to enter. It was not unusual for a servant of the sanctuary or a visiting pilgrim to stare at a certain coil, or series of fractured lines, and find that many minutes or hours had passed without his being aware of it, and to take away the memory of a conversation that could not have occurred. If one sat in the middle of the chamber, facing any wall, and was very quiet, an insistent whispering would seem to rise like an invisible tide.
Not everyone could stand it. Many of the inhabitants and visitors to Shadrun-of-the-Snows avoided the Vashtun’s chamber, never approaching or entering it without great reluctance.
“It’s like a voice in your head that won’t go away,” one would-be pilgrim had told another after paying his respects to the holy man. “Like someone saying things you can’t quite hear, so you listen closely. But when the words start to distinguish themselves—you don’t want to hear them. Even though you don’t understand what they mean.”
The Vashtun stared at one particular pattern on the wall, and his forehead furrowed. Without looking, he reached out and grasped one of the sticks that lay near at hand—thin, long, and burned at the tips. Rising from his cross-legged position, he stepped over the rivulet of water and approached the pattern—a circle bisected from left to right by a slanting line. He stood before it a long moment, and then with sure strokes sketched three short parallel lines in the lower left half of the circle. That done, he let his hand gripping the charred stick drop to his side.
“That’s better,” he muttered, studying his handiwork. “That’s much better.”
Fandour concentrated. The Nexus was engaging the Vector, and he must use the opportunity to strengthen his connections to the Rogue Plane. With luck, the Nexus would add another element to the Vector, giving Fandour a fraction more access.
Fractions added into integers, and integers multiplied into larger and larger numbers. It was a process that had taken centuries, as this plane reckoned time, and it was not yet finished. But each alteration of the Vector increased his Power. Each mind to which he connected acted as both lens and prism, concentrating his Power within this plane, and at the same time scattering the light of his awareness across more mind prisms.
And now he sensed that other entities, not just the Nexus, were adding to the Vector in different places and that each allowed him to cling ever more persistently to the plane where the Rhythanko, which kept Fandour imprisoned, was kept.
For a long time Fandour simply concentrated on remaining still, meditating within the confines of his prison, until he could control the waves of panic that threatened to send him pounding helplessly at the iron walls the gith had constructed so well.
He wondered sometimes if nothing existed but himself if the oubliette was the universe and he its only inhabitant. But sometimes Fandour could remember, and he clutched at the memory until he could always remember, that there was something that lay beyond the confines of its world—the Rhythanko; the artifact that was the key to his imprisonment. If the fabrication that held it tight lay without, then there was a without, a world apart from Fandour’s iron eggshell.
He would never be free until he could control the artifact. He almost had, when the Rhythanko was new and not completely forged. And then that odd race, the gith, had come to possess it, and sealed him in tighter than before. And then, just as he had a hope of gaining control of it again, there was a presence that had mastery of key and lock, and had wrested the Rhythanko from his touch and bound it to an alien blood. Fandour still remembered, vividly, the pain as the red-hot walls of the oubliette seared him.
But the grind of years passing loosened all bonds eventually. In cold darkness and across cold time, mind by mind, Fandour wove himself a presence within the Rogue Plane.
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 Faerûn 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.”
Vorsha did open her eyes then and looked up at Sanwar guilelessly. “I’ll help however I can.”
“I can make her an amulet—something that will give her warning when danger is near, and can turn aside a stealthy blow or curse. It’s not a guarantee she’ll be safe, but if someone wishes her harm, at least she’ll have a fighting chance. But I need something from her to craft it. I don’t want to upset her by asking her myself, but you could get it for me without anyone knowing.”
“What do you need?”
He smiled and put his finger under her chin, tipping up her face to the warm sunlight streaming through the circular window. He brushed his lips lightly against her neck and felt her shiver with anticipation.
“Nothing of any significance. Five hairs from her brush—five long, unbroken hairs. No more and no less.”
She looked into his eyes, and unexpectedly, her eyes narrowed. “For a protective amulet, you say? No more, no less?”
He looked hurt. “Do you think I’d harm her?”
“Not intentionally,” she said, considering.
He withdrew, and all warmth and life seemed to go with him, leaving her cold and alone.
“I only want to shield her, Vorsha. It seems I might be the only one who objects to throwing your daughter to the Jadaren wolves. But if you truly distrust me …” He turned from her.
“No!” She flung herself into his arms, and, to her inexpressible relief, he scooped her up, embracing her. She felt she could bathe in his warmth. She buried her face in his chest and fought back tears.
“Of course I’ll get them for you, of course.”
“Good girl,” he said, stroking her hair and looking over her head at the rows of books, leather-bound, hidebound, hinged in steel and locked in silver. The books would tell him what to do.
Kestrel had a big slant-topped writing desk in her chambers. Her mother found her with an accounts book spread wide on top of it. She was sitting at a stool before it, holding a short ivory pointer in her hand and running it down a column of figures. Vorsha had entered when there was no answer to her soft knock, and it didn’t surprise her to find her daughter engrossed in numbers. Kestrel had caught her lower lip up between her teeth, and to Vorsha she looked very much like the child she had been seventeen years before, learning her figures and the marvelous written tools of commerce at her father’s knee.
At Vorsha’s light step, Kestrel looked up from the cream-colored pages, startled, and smiled.
“What are you reading, love?” asked Vorsha, crossing behind the desk and stool to Kestrel’s dressing table. There were a few cosmetics scattered across the wooden surface of this other fine piece of imported furniture inlaid with fanciful figures, men riding horses, and small dragons, in brass and silver. She straightened the items, capping a perfume bottle that leaked the smell of summer flowers, and gathered some we
ll-used pens into an alabaster cup. Smiling, she rubbed at an ink blot that marred the tail of a mounted dragon. She knew nothing save sanding that would get it out, and she knew no amount of scolding would stop Kestrel from scribbling at figures anywhere it struck her.
“The accounts from the spice trade two years ago,” said Kestrel, lifting the tip of her ivory stick from one column to another. “Ciari told me the price of saffron has jumped extraordinarily, and the Testra clan is claiming the flowers were damaged by hail. But at this time two years ago there were similar storms, and the increase was not nearly so great. They have a new proctor, and we suspect he’s taking the opportunity to set a new bar.”
Vorsha fingered the carved wooden handle of a brush, examining the bristles for strands of hair, but Kestrel must have cleaned it.
“You can hardly blame the man. You’d do the same thing.” She took the brush and went to Kestrel, standing behind her and gathering her thick brown hair behind her shoulders. Kestrel sat straight, as she had as a child when her mother brushed her hair to dry it before the fire.
“I would, but I wouldn’t attract attention by tripling the price. A ten or fifteen percent increase would pass by unnoticed or excused. Three hundred percent is simply greedy.”
“What do you propose to do?”
“In this case, merely to get my figures in order. Then I’ll pass them to Ciari, and she’ll have a chat with the Testra proctor.”
Vorsha couldn’t help laughing. “Poor man.”
“She’ll scold him up and down the guildhall. Then they’ll work out a fair price and drink on it. He’s a man of business and a big boy—he can take it.”
In answer, Vorsha brushed her hair, with long strong strokes from the hairline all the way to the tips. Kestrel sighed and tilted her head back a little, closing her eyes in pleasure.
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