“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.” He 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.