Dawnbringer: A Forgotten Realms Novel (34 page)

“Lakini!”

The deva spared a quick glance behind her. The slight figure of Brioni Jadaren was framed in front of the flickering light of the torches that still ranged around the perimeter of the roof. Her skirt was kirtled almost to her waist, and she clutched a pole inexpertly in her hands, as if she’d been using it as a staff.

There wasn’t time to apologize for not teaching her sword play, as Lakini had promised.

Brioni turned and shouted, and figures assembled behind her, dressed in sage green. She’d managed to rally some of the guards.

Brioni pointed at her. Lusk shouted something, and two of the guards started toward them, bloodied weapons raised.

Lakini turned to look at Lusk. There was her opportunity—he was distracted by the guards and his shoulder was open. Lakini feinted left, then right, then lunged at him, dagger in hand.

But at the last instant, her knife turned in her hand. She struck him in the shoulder with the fist that was wrapped around the hilt. She felt him stagger.

They grappled at the edge and wrestled their way back. Breathless, she drew back and saw that he didn’t realize how close to the edge he was. Finding a second wind, she shoved against him again, and Lusk began to topple.

He wrapped his arms around her as he went backward, pulling her against his chest in a deadly embrace. She felt a sting in the back of her shoulder. There was a despairing shout behind her, from Brioni or one of the guards.

As they went over the edge together, it occurred to Lakini that never, never in this incarnation had she ever been so close to him, flesh to blood-slicked flesh, the hard muscles in his arms locked around her, the curves of her body fitting so intimately against his. They would both die, clasped breast to breast.

Then Lusk uttered something in a language she hadn’t heard for years, but recognized—Astral, the tongue they had known with every rebirth.

Something that burned with a cold flame surrounded them as they fell—wings, enormous wings of ice-cold flame, feathers that burned faint yellow. Their velocity slowed.

They had no soft landing. Both were stunned with the impact. Lakini was on top, but Lusk beneath her took the brunt of the landing. Still, the air was driven from her lungs and she gasped, trying to suck it back in. She was aware of two of her ribs cracking like dry sticks; pain blossomed white-hot in her side.

She drew back, gasping, stumbling away from him while she still could. He lay prone on the ground. Again she could have killed him. Again she did not.

Staggering like a ghoul, she limped away from him, clutching her dagger in her blood-wet hand, fire in her side and shoulder. She headed over the road to the woods, where she had a chance of hiding from him. It took a
thousand years to walk that mile. She was doubled over when she passed the wide-spreading branches of Jandi’s Oak and the fringe of the shadowy forest.

L
akini leaned against the trunk of a tree and tore a strip of fabric from her tunic. Folding it into a pad, she pushed it against the wound in her shoulder. The dull, pulsing pain grew sharper and deeper. She steeled herself and pushed it harder against her flesh, fighting the urge to cry out. The pain was ferocious, but she couldn’t risk the wound’s bleeding any more and leaving a trail to follow. The tracks she’s left behind her were obvious enough. No matter how she tried to focus, her injuries distracted her and she stepped clumsily, breaking twigs and disturbing leaf-fall to show where she had passed.

She wondered why Lusk hadn’t tracked her down yet. Perhaps he was hurt as badly as she was.

She felt the prickle of fallen pine needles beneath her, and she smelled the balsam as her weight crushed them. She should tear apart more fabric to tie the improvised bandage to her shoulder, but she didn’t have the strength to do anything but hold it in place.

Her head fell back against the bark, and she looked up through the branches at the night sky. Pockets of black, spangled with distant stars, peeked between the dark gray of the close-twined tree limbs. Her vision blurred, and the dim specks of light shifted. She blinked in a futile attempt to focus.

She felt something stir within her tunic against the skin of her unwounded shoulder, something sinuous and cold. A snake, she thought, with a dull flare of alarm that soon faded into indifference. A snake has crawled beneath my clothes, seeking warmth. Poor worm. Soon I’ll be as cold as it is.

As if thinking about the cold had summoned it, an icy chill gripped her legs and passed up through her body, through her leg bones, her gut, her torso. The broken places inside her sparked with pain as the cold passed through them. The skin of her shoulders and neck prickled as if in response to the winter wind on Shadrun’s mountain. She breathed as deeply as she could, half expecting to smell the sharp scent of new-fallen snow, but instead she smelled the mingled scents of decaying leaf mold, crushed pine, and the dull copper of her own blood.

There were the stars, then nothing, then the stars, then an ever-greater nothing as her eyes closed and didn’t open.

She woke to a deeper night and a dull pain that penetrated every inch of her flesh. Her arm was locked into place across her body, still clutching the wad of fabric to
her shoulder. As she became able to distinguish one sensation from another, she realized her improvised bandage was completely drenched, and that a small, steady trickle pulsed from beneath it with the rhythm of her heart.

Lakini let her right hand fall away, and the sodden fabric fell. There was something around her wrist, something metallic that glinted in the faint light of the stars that still shone down from between the tangle of branches.

Her arm seemed to weigh a ton. With great effort she shifted it, blinking at the object that coiled there. It was a bracelet, wound round her wrist several times, made of small flat links.

She didn’t have the strength to be curious about it.

She needed to find more cloth, find a way to stop the bleeding, find help and healing. She needed to regain her strength, get back to Jadaren Hold, and stop Lusk from his mad descent.

He would destroy two families, if she couldn’t prevent it. And he would destroy his own soul, if any remained to wreck.

There was no one here to help her. She couldn’t even help herself. She tried to meditate, to find the inner core of peace and strength from which she could summon and enforce her own healing, and push back the black tide that was rising to engulf her. But the ability eluded her.

She felt very light now. Although her shoulder still throbbed and her side ached where her ribs had snapped, the pain seemed almost a distant thing, something belonging to a body of flesh and feeling that was increasingly not part of her.

I am dying now, she thought. She wondered why it had taken her so long to realize that. Surely, after so many centuries, after taking so many bodily forms and shedding them like a tattered cloak at the end of the day, she should recognize death when it came for her.

This husk is finally fading now, she thought without terror. I will go on and forget my life as Lakini.

The throbbing pain radiating from her shoulder slowed and stilled, replaced by a gentle warmth that gradually suffused her entire body. The ache of her cracked ribs faded as well. She felt weak as a newborn kitten. Any number of dangerous beasts or beings, Lusk included, might be on her trail, but she felt no need to move. She knew it didn’t matter now.

Now she was ending, and soon enough she would begin again, and all this would be nothing but a faint memory.

She looked across the copse at the mazelike tangle of tree limbs opposite. It seemed that as her body faded, her sight grew ever sharper, even in the darkness, until she could see every vein in every budding leaf, each tiny insect that crawled across the twigs, the very sap as it pulsed beneath the bark. She could see faces in the mosaic the brambles made, female and male both. Faces that watched her, witnessing what was happening. Faced with markings across them, none exactly like hers or like Lusk’s, but unmistakably similar—each a sigil the Astral Sea crafted upon its own children.

Faces that were hers in previous lives, each shed like a snake’s skin when it grew dull, revealing the new patterns of a new life beneath it.

Devas rarely remembered, except in extremity, the lives they shed. Lakini could remember the drifts and the currents of the Astral Sea that had birthed her, millennia ago, better than the life and body she inhabited before this one. But now, on the cusp of death, staring at her own past faces witnessing her passing, she remembered. Images flickered through her consciousness, as if someone showed her the illuminated pages of a book depicting animate scenes from history—her own history.

She watched, impassive, as fire and melted rock poured down a mountainside, and man-size, serpentine creatures frolicked joyously in the lava. One turned to her and stretched out its arms covered in scales, imploring and mocking her at the same time.

She remembered the taste of wine made from grapes that grew and froze on an ice-bound rock that floated over isolated reaches of ocean, and the onyx-carved cup she drank it from, and the cruel, beautiful smile of the creature that had poured it out for her.

She ran with another, an incarnation of the deva who in this time had become Lusk, ran full pelt at the edge of the cliff rimmed in pale green grass and tiny white flowers, the dirt and rocks beneath their feet crumbling and falling into the sea far below. They were at the point of falling themselves but ran too fast for gravity to catch them, and the sunlight winked diamond-bright on the waves for miles before them.

She stood on a beach, on golden sand lapped by silver water, and bowed her head as she kneeled to an immense winged beast. She bore no weapon, and her body was very new. The beast’s warm breath stirred the hair at the
base of her neck. She raised her head and saw the beast’s clawed hand holding out a sheathed sword. The sheath was white leather with a repeating leaf pattern stitched in gold, and the hilt and pommel were silver and gold worked together to form waves like the liquid fire in the heart of a mountain. The beast spoke, and in her memory she couldn’t hear the word it uttered, but she knew what it meant.

Dawnbringer
.

It was both a naming and a benediction.

It was her first incarnation as a creature of the mortal plane, never remembered until now. Dawnbringer—her purpose to bring hope and justice, like the new sun spilling light at the edge of a darkened world.

Lakini could name her faces. Lakini. The one who had no name but was known as the Lady of the Sparrows. One of her rare male incarnations. Pashia the Golden.

Dawnbringer
.

A thick mist clouded the edge of her vision, bright and shot through with silver. She blinked, but the mist didn’t go away, spreading instead and obscuring the faces so that one by one they faded away.

There was a great weight on her chest—not on, not exactly, but inside it, pressing against her heart. Beat by beat the flow of blood through her veins slowed. The pressure would have been painful if not for the warmth and lassitude that served as a drug, numbing all sensation.

She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath, knowing that as she exhaled, the mortal components of her body would dissolve, each tiny particle returning to the bosom of the land she’d wandered for so long. Like all
things living and unliving beneath the sun and moon of Faerûn, she was composed of star-stuff, and as a dying star she would scatter for a time before being remade as something, someone else.

Everything changes. Everything dies. She had been an instrument of that cycle of killing and dying often enough to know. Dying, she remembered Wolfhelm and the smith.