by James Wyatt
“A friend,” the man said, but his tone was not convincing. “Gaven in there?”
Rienne’s eyes darted back to the building that held Krathas’s office, and that was apparently the only answer the dwarf needed. He turned and ran back the way he’d come.
CHAPTER 23
She’s going to turn us in, you know,” Senya said. “We need to get out of here.”
“In a moment.” Gaven had set the adamantine box on the desk and was on his knees in front of it, carefully manipulating a set of dials set in the front. For twenty-six years he had clung to these numbers, the key to unlocking the one thing he still owned in the world outside Dreadhold. They were the numbers of the Prophecy, and as he set the dials to open the box the Draconic verses danced through his mind: the land of thirteen dragons, three ages of the world, sixteen gods. Then five beasts at war, three shards of three dragons for nine, and another thirteen-thirteen moons. He stared at the numbers before opening the box. “And the Storm Dragon emerges after twice thirteen years,” he whispered. Then he shook his head and opened the box.
Senya gasped, and Gaven felt a chill wash over him. It had been haunting his dreams, but he had not seen it in so many years. Cradled in black velvet, the clear crystal glowed with a purple-black light from a writhing vein of color at its heart. It mesmerized him as it had when he had first found it, and he stretched out a hand to it without consciously willing it. His hand brushed against Senya’s as they both touched its surface, which seemed to jolt them both out of a trance.
“A nightshard?” Senya said, drawing a hand across her eyes. “What’s this all about?”
“It’s called the Heart of Khyber,” Gaven said quietly, “sort of a dark twin to the Eye of Siberys. It-” He stopped, listening. Yes, there were footsteps in the hall, slow and heavy. “They’re here. Come on.”
Gaven shut the adamantine box and spun the dials. Senya moved to the door, still open from Rienne’s departure, and quickly jumped back, taking cover behind the jamb.
“Stay where you are!” a gruff voice shouted from the hallway. “Gaven the excoriate, surrender yourself to the Ghorad’din!”
“Dwarves,” Senya whispered as Gaven leaped to cover on the other side of the open door and slammed it shut. “House Kundarak.”
“Elite dwarf soldiers, no less,” Gaven muttered. “How many?”
“I saw two, but they were just coming around the corner. Might be more.”
The footsteps were right outside. “Open this door!” the same voice yelled.
“Surrender? Open the door?” Gaven’s tone was mocking. “Just like dwarves to expect someone else to do all your work for you.” He slid his sword out of its sheath, holding it in one hand and the box in the other.
The words were barely out of his mouth when a body slammed hard into the door on the other side. The door was strong, but not strong enough to withstand an angry dwarf. It slammed open toward Senya, who knocked it back into the dwarf charging through. The dwarf stumbled, and Gaven brought the hilt of his sword down to ring on the man’s helmet, sending him staggering backward into his companions.
That moment of confusion provided Gaven a chance to size up his foes. Three of them, all dwarves, two women. They all wore the manticore sigil of House Kundarak, the Mark of Warding, but Gaven didn’t see a dragonmark on any of them. The man and one of the women were dressed to fit in to the slum where Krathas’s office was located, which suggested that they had been here for a while, ready for him. Gaven silently cursed both Rienne and Krathas for this new betrayal. The third dwarf, evidently the leader, was a handsome noblewoman wearing a silk shirt of a rich red that complemented her marble-black skin. House Kundarak didn’t send inexperienced warriors far from their mountainous home in the east-these would be elite warriors, a real challenge.
I’m going to need both hands, Gaven thought. He tossed the adamantine box behind him, where it landed with a heavy thud on Krathas’s desk.
Senya stepped out from behind the door to face the dwarves, the tip of her sword pointing at the face of the nearest foe. The dwarf glowered at her, evidently incensed at having had the door pushed in his face. He hefted his spiked mace and charged. Senya smiled, shifting her sword ever so slightly.
The dwarf threw his weight sideways and crashed into Gaven, knocking him to the floor and sending his sword clattering to the floor. Gaven barely had time to roll to the side before the mace crashed down where his chest had been. He rolled with his momentum and came up on his feet, but his sword was on the other side of the angry dwarf.
He glanced at Senya as she parried the other soldier’s short sword. “Come to think of it,” he said, “I like your plan. Let’s get out of here.”
The leader of the dwarves planted herself in the doorway in response, her grim smile seeming to indicate that she looked forward to Gaven’s attempt to get past her. Gaven spat a few arcane words, sheathed his body in crackling blue flame, then lunged toward the dwarf who had knocked him down.
“That’s right, knock into me now,” he said with a grin.
As he had hoped, the dwarf avoided his lunge, which provided Gaven the opening he needed to reach his sword. He lifted the blade and swept it in a wide arc that forced the dwarf back another couple of steps. That gave Gaven room to reach the desk and pick up the box with the Heart of Khyber in it.
He glanced at Senya, who was still on the defensive, warding off a flurry of cuts and jabs. “Come on,” he said. He jumped onto the desk and threw himself at the window.
Heavy shutters splintered around him, and he fell. Another syllable of a spell brought his fall under control, and he floated gently from the second-story window to the street below. He looked up just in time to see Senya hurtle out the window, somersaulting in the air and landing hard on her feet nearby.
A crossbow bolt bit into Gaven’s shoulder, and he glanced around. He hadn’t seen a crossbow on any of the dwarves upstairs, which meant there was at least one more waiting here on the street. He heard one of the dwarves follow Senya out the window, and he knew the others wouldn’t be far behind. Shaking his head, he broke into a run.
Rain hissed into steam as it made contact with the flames wrapping his body, and he laughed as he ran. He felt the wind at his back, and he willed it to carry Senya along with him, and it obeyed his will. His feet barely touched the ground-he felt the cobblestones brushing the soles of his boots as he ran. Then the cobblestones ended, and it was rocks and grass that kissed his feet as he ran along the river out of the city. He let the fire wash off his body and felt the rain splatter on his face and drench his clothes. No more thought of pursuit entered his mind. He was the wind, carrying Senya as he blew-he was the rain, dancing in the wind and pattering on the ground. He was the storm.
When he finally stopped running, he stood with his face to the rain, his arms outstretched, and laughed. Senya collapsed on the ground at his feet, and still he laughed.
Rienne watched the dwarf approach through the rain, and she knew that Gaven had escaped. The dwarf’s scarlet shirt stuck to her skin, revealing the outline of her dragonmark beneath it. Her shoulders were hunched, and she walked slowly despite the downpour.
She came close to the doorway where Rienne stood out of the rain and gave a small bow. “I am Ossa d’Kundarak,” she said. “You should have come to us first.”
“I know.” It was an effort to speak. “You followed me?”
“You were followed from Stormhome, yes. We had a suspicion that you might try to contact him.”
“What happened?”
Ossa shook her head, as if she weren’t at all sure what had happened. “We found him, of course, in Krathas’s office, with the elf woman. They refused to surrender, drew arms against us, and then jumped out the window. They got away,” she added, quite unnecessarily.
“You had someone on the street, surely.”
“Kerra hit both of them with her crossbow. She thinks the woman must be pretty badly wounded. But it didn’t slow them.
” She shook her head again, bewildered. “They ran fast. Impossibly fast. And when we ran after, it was like-” She looked away, into the sky where lightning danced among the dark clouds. “Clearly, he used magic to impede us. The wind blew in our faces, slowed us down. Thadar was struck by lightning.”
“Is he badly hurt?”
“He’s at the House of Healing now, but he’ll be fine. Thank you.”
“It’s quite a storm,” Rienne said, turning her eyes to the sky as well.
“Unnatural, surely. Must be related to his dragonmark.”
“I suppose. I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’ve worked with House Lyrandar most of my life.”
“Let me say again, Lady Alastra, you should have come to us. He’s clearly dangerous.”
Rienne nodded.
“Did you talk to him at all?”
“A little, yes.”
“Did he say anything important? Anything that might suggest where he is going, what he’s up to?”
“He said precious little. I was hoping for some kind of explanation, anything that would help me understand what happened to him. I got nothing.”
“What was he doing here?”
Rienne was not ready to betray him again. She answered as vaguely as she could. “Looking for Krathas.”
“Do you know why?”
She shrugged. “Krathas was his only friend left after his trial. I think he was looking for someone he could trust.”
“What about the woman? What’s she doing with him?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Her stomach tightened, and she felt a bit light-headed.
“I suppose it is. You look pale. Are you unwell?”
“It’s been a trying evening. I think I’d better get inside, warm up, get some rest.”
“I understand.” Ossa bowed again and started to turn away. She stopped and looked back over her shoulder at Rienne. “You will contact us if you should run into him again?”
“I will.” As she said it, some part of her thought she actually might. The idea saddened her more than her encounter with Gaven had.
“Good night, Lady Alastra.”
“Good night.”
CHAPTER 24
The wind blew itself out in cyclonic eddies once Gaven stopped running. Lightning blasted the ground near where he stood, and his laughter died with the winds. He looked around at the river, the fields of grain on either side, and the city in the distance. Only then did he notice the small pool of blood spreading from Senya’s body, and he fell to his knees beside her.
Several crossbow bolts had hit her as they ran from the dwarves. Some had fallen out, but three penetrated deeply enough that they remained firmly lodged-one in her lower back, one in her shoulder, one in her thigh. The one in her leg had gone deepest, and Gaven couldn’t imagine how she had continued running so far. Her breathing was shallow, her skin bone-white, and her eyes wide and staring. Murmuring a prayer to Olladra, the goddess of good fortune who watched over healers, he set to work extracting the bolts.
It was grim work. Senya had lost a good deal of blood, and she barely had strength to groan as he pulled the first one out. Fortunately, the bolts were little more than sharpened sticks with fletching, so they didn’t take more flesh with them as he pulled them out. By the time he got the second one out, her eyes were closed.
“You shouldn’t have left Haldren,” he whispered as he set to work on the third. “Darraun would have had you closed up and back on your feet in no time.”
To his surprise, Senya managed a weak smile, and her eyes fluttered open. Her lips moved a bit, but no sound came out.
“I know,” Gaven said. “If you were still with Haldren, you probably wouldn’t have been hurt. I told you it was dangerous to come with me. I’m surprised you made it this long.”
He suddenly felt very alone. He missed Darraun’s conversation, even his prying questions. He worried that Senya might not recover from these wounds. And he had driven Rienne away.
He took off his shirt and tore it up to make bandages, binding Senya’s wounds to the best of his ability. He pulled a blanket from her pack, spread it over her, and sat beside her, watching the sun’s last glow fade from the western clouds. When it was dark, he opened his adamantine box and turned the Heart of Khyber over and over in his hands, watching the vibrant coil of purple-black twist and pulse in the crystal’s depths.
The night was well into the fourth watch, and part of Gaven’s mind reasoned that he was hallucinating. Even so, the inky coil of color in the heart of the nightshard seemed to have taken on a draconic face, and he had the distinct sense that it listened to him and might answer. So he asked the question that had haunted his mind for most of thirty years.
“Why have you done this to me?”
“You were the one who found me,” the dragon said, though Gaven’s lips moved as it spoke.
Gaven remembered stretching his broken hand out, despite the pain, to touch the perfect nightshard. The Heart of Khyber.
“You’ve ruined my life.”
“I’ve given your life purpose.” Its voice was Gaven’s, but lower.
“I don’t want that purpose,” he spat. Chasing the Prophecy, manipulating history so that he-Gaven! — could become a god.
“Then choose a new one. But you can’t carry on without one.”
“Who are you?” Another memory-a draconic face reflected back at him in the swirling waters of a dark pool.
“Who do you think I am?”
Senya stirred in her sleep. Gaven thought she looked better.
“You’re me,” he muttered. “And you’re a dragon who’s been dead for five hundred years. With your dying will, you stored your memories in this damned nightshard-you gave them to me. Without having any idea what you were doing to me.”
Choose a new one, he thought. He turned the Heart of Khyber over in his hands, thinking of its bright twin.
Senya emerged from unconsciousness to the sensation of warmth spreading through her shoulder-a warmth that brought chills in its wake, like the kisses of a lover. Her eyes fluttered open, and she saw a halfling man crouched beside her on the ground, smiling at her. His hand was the source of the warmth, and the dragonmark visible on his bare upper arm confirmed her first guess: he was a healer of House Jorasco. She returned the smile briefly, then looked around in a panic.
“Where’s Gaven?”
The healer’s smile flickered but didn’t die. “Good afternoon, Senya,” he said. “You’re safe now. Don’t worry.”
A couple of other halflings busied themselves around a wagon nearby, but there was no sign of Gaven.
“What happened?” she said. “How did you find me?”
“You were attacked by bandits,” the halfling said, a look of concern on his face. He put a hand on her forehead, checking for fever, but seemed satisfied. “You suffered some serious wounds, but you’re going to be fine now. Your traveling companion, Keven d’Lyrandar, summoned us and paid for our services. I expect he’ll be waiting for you at the House of Healing in town.” He watched her reaction carefully.
“I understand,” she said. “Thank you.”
He shifted his attention to the wound in her leg, effectively hiding his face from her view. “You mentioned someone named Gaven?”
“It wasn’t bandits that attacked us,” Senya said. “It was Keven’s cousin, an excoriate of his house named Gaven.”
“I see,” the healer said. Senya could only see the back of his head. “And he loosed the crossbow that wounded you?”
Senya’s pulse quickened, and she was suddenly sure the halfling saw through her lie. “No, he wasn’t alone. There was an old man, a sorcerer I think, and a warforged, and another human with a crossbow. He’s the one that wounded me.”
“I see,” the halfling repeated. Senya felt the warmth spreading through her leg, unknotting the muscles and washing away the ache.
The healer smiled and pulled his hands away. “I think you’re ready to be moved.” H
e looked up and signaled to the other halflings, still avoiding Senya’s eyes. The others brought a stretcher over and gently rolled Senya onto it, then carried her over to the wagon. When they had loaded her in and carefully strapped her down, they clambered aboard, and the wagon started rolling.
Senya watched the clouds drift across the sky and wondered where Gaven was. She knew that the chance he lingered in Vathirond’s House of Healing was next to none.
Gaven crouched on the horse’s back, thrilling to the feel of its muscles as it galloped along the road. He hadn’t ridden in more years than he could remember, and it had taken a while to get his body into the rhythm of the horse’s stride. Once he did that, though, he felt like he was running, his muscles moving in perfect synchronization with his mount’s. The wind blew his hair back from his face and cooled the sweat from his skin. Best of all, his mind was completely submerged in the pounding hooves and flexing muscles, the rush of speed and wind. Any time his thoughts began to stray toward Rienne or Senya, he forced them back to the horse and the run.
Hours and miles sped by under the mare’s stride. Vathirond-along with Rienne and Senya-fell farther and farther behind him, and he thought as little as he could about what lay ahead. He lost himself so completely in his flight that he nearly fell from the saddle when his mount abruptly slowed.
They had reached the Mournland. A wall of gray mist hung in the air like a funeral shroud, swallowing the road ahead, and the horse would not get any closer.
“It’s all right, lady,” he murmured as he dismounted. “You’ve done well. You see if you can find your way back to the barn I stole you from, huh?”
He lifted a bag from the mare’s saddle and slung it over his shoulder. It held the scant supplies that would sustain him in the Mournland-journeybread that would keep him nourished and full, and a magic waterskin that would never run dry. He regretted the theft, but there would be enough threats to his life in the Mournland without adding the worries of starvation or thirst.