9

Dawn Over New Tristram

"The Unknown is nothing to fear. It is what we have seen already that truly haunts us."

- Li Xia

The steady beat of a distant forging hammer marked the rhythm of Iona's shifting dream world. She leaned against the barricade outside the city gate, wrapped lightly in sleep, one hand draped over her knife belt. With ever fewer bodies to burn, the fires around her were low and rosy, and a playful breeze stole under her hood to kiss her skin with sweet scents from gladder places. The delicate hairs on the back of her neck rose beneath that cool touch, her lips parted, and she lifted her face to the sky for more, her hood falling away, firelight in her hair. The slaughter in her mind faded and gave way to something much stronger, a memory carried to her on the wind.

Neila Chandler sat beside her daughters' bed, tucking the rather threadbare blankets around their little bodies with expert care. She wore a loose cotton shift, and Iona could see the sachet of jasmine hanging between her mother's breasts as she leaned over to plant a kiss on each girl's brow. She closed her eyes and breathed in its familiar perfume. She had smelled it all her life. Her mother had never been one to try new things; her taste never changed, and neither did her mind, once she had made it up. She was as steady as the earth, as predictable as the seasons. Iona realized that she loved her fiercely for that, and very suddenly, she knew she didn't want her to leave the room.

"Please," she said, fixing her enormous dark eyes on her mother's, "please don't go yet."

"We're not sleepy," Isla added beside her, covering her mouth.

"…she said with a great big yawn," Neila laughed. It was a good sound.

"Can't we have a story first?" Iona pled.

"Please?" chimed Isla.

"Just a short one?"

"Just till we're quite sleepy?"

Neila shook her head and smiled. "You're like a pair of baby birds, do you know that?" She ruffled their black hair. "Starlings, that's what you are. I ought to be feeding you bugs from the garden."

The girls stared at each other with identical expressions of horror and disgust.

"Yes, I think that may solve a few problems. You're starving-hungry every hour, just like starling babies are. Imagine! Your father and I could just set you two out in the yard and let you feast! The tomatoes would be ever so grateful, and so would my poor, aching back." She smiled beatifically down at her daughters. "What do you think, girls?"

It was clear that Isla and Iona didn't think much of this idea, at all. They squealed and pulled the blanket over their heads. Neila laughed harder and tickled the wriggling forms under the covers until the girls' heads popped out again for air.

"I'm only joking," she said, hugging them.

"Word of honor?" Iona asked dubiously.

"I swear on your father's good name not to make you eat bugs. What you two do on your own, however, is out of my hands." Neila let them go and smoothed their hair away from their foreheads. "Now I've gone and gotten you both too excited for sleep, so I suppose I owe you a story. What would you like it to be about?"

"Princesses," the twins chirped together.

"Angels," Isla amended. "I love angels."

"True love," Iona put in, tugging the covers over the lower part of her face to hide her blush. She was thinking of a boy named Jayke Fisher, the boy, the only boy in the world as far as she and Isla were concerned. He was older—he had to be at least ten—and he was tall and he had gray eyes and he could run faster than anyone. He had even caught a rainbow fish as long as his arm a week ago with his father, and that was when Iona and Isla had decided that they were definitely going to marry him.

Neila had been nodding wisely as they gave her their requests. She knew all about the Fisher boy, of course. She had heard her six-year-old daughters giggling together every night about him for the past month. She pretended to think hard, but she already knew the story she would tell them. It was one her mother had told her when she was their age, and her mother's mother before her. She remembered the tight knot of warmth in her chest as she had listened to the bittersweet tale. It was her favorite story. And it had a princess, an angel, and love, as ordered.

Neila folded her hands in her lap, gazing at a point in the wall that was not really wall anymore but a window into the past, a window she alone could see, and her mother's words filled her.

"Once upon a time…"

As the temperature shifted in preparation for the dawn, the first stars began to fade and Iona's eyes opened. The dream was falling apart, but she did not mind. She had loved the old story as a child, but now, thinking of it made her feel a queer hollowness in her chest. She stood, swept the grass from her cloak, and walked back into the town. The forge was quiet, now, but she spotted Haedrig as the big man splashed water from a pail over his face and shook his head like a mastiff, massaging his closed eyes with the fingers and thumb of one hand.

"No rest for the wicked, eh lass?" he called out to her as he wiped the rest of the water from his eyes.

Iona raised a hand and joined him beside the glowing forge. Its heat sank into her chill-stiffened joints like a rich, warm oil. "For the likes of us?" She smiled. "There will be time enough for sleep when we are dead, I think. In the meantime, there is no shortage of bloody work ahead. This town could use a strong man like you to take up arms in its defense."

Haedrig shook his head. "That's not for me and you know it. I'm tired of making spades and pickaxes, yes, but my trade is all I've got left. My grandfather may have been chancellor to a king, but I'm a smith and that's what I'll always be. But…"

Iona waited, flexing her fingers in the welcome warmth.

He scratched his head. "But I can still help you, Iona. If you'll have me." He drew himself up. "I'll make you the finest weapons this side of the High Heavens, and that's my modesty talking. You've got that arse of a man set on following you now, and there's naught left here for me, so…when this is all over…I've a mind to follow you, myself…be of use. I've seen what you can do. And I have this feeling—I know I'm meant to go. Mira would have been able to explain it better, she was always the clever half of this marriage. And I can't stay here without her. I can't. What do you say, lass?"

Haedrig's simple earnestness touched a well-protected part of the demon hunter's heart, a place raw enough that her hand moved of its own accord to her chest. What was more, she truly believed that he would live up to his word. She knew enough about the care and crafting of her own weapons and devices to keep them in good condition, but she had nowhere near this man's skill at a forge, and not half his physical strength. And most of all…she felt the same calling that Haedrig claimed—a sense that they were meant to journey onward together. Like it or not, her isolation was at an end. As Leah had prophesied, she seemed to be collecting new talismans.

Friends.

She took his huge, calloused hand and grasped it tightly. "I have had some ideas for new devices, but no time to draft them. If I draw plans and find you the materials you need in order to help me craft them, we can both strike harder at those who have taken our loved ones from us—and prevent them from doing so to others."

"I like the sound of that. I like it very much." He paused, bent, and produced a crossbow from a shelf. "This belongs to our Kingsport friend. It's in good working order, not much wrong with it to begin with, really. A few parts needed replacing, that's all. You've given me too much gold for it. Keep an eye on him, lass. I'm not ungrateful for what he did for Mira, but I still wouldn't trust the bastard anywhere near as far as I could throw him."

Iona examined Lyndon's crossbow and shook her head. "You won't need to. He'll never survive equipped with this if he really is intent on following me." She closed her eyes and sighed. "Haedrig, I know you must be weary, but there is something more I need from you before I give that back to him. The rest of the gold…and this…should cover your expenses." She handed him a glowing stone, several small vials, and a sheaf of papers. Before she spoke again, she made certain that she had his full attention. "These drawings are…something of a secret. Only trained demon hunters can fight effectively with the weapons I wield, but what I have here is all you need to turn Lyndon's weapon into something similar to what our novices use. We train with all sorts of ranged weapons, and crossbows are an essential part of our arsenal. Those vials contain magical powders, demonic essences, and other precious substances which I collected on my way from the Dreadlands to this place. The plans I gave you will show you how to use them. Then we will see if Lyndon truly has the mettle to match his mouth. I will have done all that I can for him."

Haedrig examined the items with great care, holding each up to the faint morning light. He stared hard at the plans, then nodded. "Aye…I can do it, Iona. It's not my first time working on something this…special. You get all sorts of outlandish folk in Tristram, you know. It won't take long, either. Give me an hour, and I'll have it ready for you." His face darkened, then, and he took her hands in his and placed something cold and heavy over them. "This is finished. As good as the day it was placed on the Black King's head. It should take you where you need to go."

Iona gazed down at the jagged crown cradled in her hands. Its shine was cold, even in the light of the forge.

One hour, she thought uneasily. I suppose that is not so long a delay…

But the waiting burned. The crater was calling to her, and so was the King.

Eat, her mother's voice whispered from among the threads of the dream that still clung to her mind. Thin as a willow wand, you always were, Iona… I know you don't feel well, my starling, but that is precisely why you must eat, all the same. You need your strength.

She did. There was bloody work ahead with an unwanted stranger at her back. She would need all the strength she could get.

The Slaughtered Calf was dark; it had been a long time since any of the citizens of New Tristram had been allowed a full night's sleep. After weeks of horror, relative safety was enough for them.

But not for me, she thought, lighting the lantern at its entrance. She was pleased to know that warriors and wives alike were finally beginning to rest easily, but she knew that the stillness around them was an illusion. If she did not succeed here, that stillness could be ripped away from them as swiftly and easily as a blanket.

Lyndon was sitting at a table near the door, his feet on the table, a near-empty tankard in his lap. He smiled at her surprise and stretched languidly, concerned neither by the angle at which his chair leaned nor by its creaking.

"I figured you for an early riser," he said, standing and draining his mug. "You really have no conception of luxury. It's not healthy."

Iona pressed her lips into a tight line before she could gape at him. "You've been awake all night?"

"Ha! Hardly." Lyndon moved behind the barkeep's counter and filled another tankard in addition to his own, expertly scraping the excess froth away with a flat stick, rapping it clean against the side, and adding another pull from the tap to each cup until a perfect head of foam bubbled a finger's width over the top. "I'm quite refreshed." He returned to the table and handed one of the mugs to Iona. "I always make the most of my evenings," he continued with a wicked smile. "My technique is a secret…but I could be convinced to share it." He eyed her suggestively and raised his tankard. "You look marvelously spruce this morning. The dew glittering on your skin is enough to make a man very thirsty, indeed. Cheers, Iona. Baths do wonders for you. You ought to consider making a habit of them."

Iona did her best to ignore the heat rising in her face and met his gaze steadily. Instead of dignifying his inane words with a reply, she inclined her head gracefully over the rim of her mug and drank. Warmth spread through her body, easing the stiffness in her limbs and her back, blooming hot in her chest in a way that reminded her of the comfort of her bath. It was good to be clean again. Even her weapons and armor gleamed in the lamplight. She had washed her clothes in Leah's room and spent hours cleaning, oiling, or repairing all of the other things she owned while they dried. For the first time in weeks, the symbol of her order stood out visibly against the gray fabric of her mantle—an ornamental design in black that always seemed to shift into something new when one was not looking. It bore the rudimentary elements of a demonic skull, but that face was as changeable as the creatures it represented. She knew very well that there was a lesson in that.

Lyndon finished his own ale with apparent relish and took her empty cup from her, managing to take her hand as well in the process. His eyes held her whole as he put the tankards on the table.

"I hope you intend to pay the innkeeper," Iona said, breaking the too-warm silence. "This town is still wounded by the siege."

"I was getting to that," he murmured. "All things in their time, Iona. Let's have another, shall we?"

"No, thank you. I will pay for another for you, however, if you like." It had occurred to her that this might be an excellent opportunity to rid herself of him. If the man was too inebriated to see straight, she reasoned, he could hardly follow her. She could make for the Cathedral immediately instead of waiting for the bloody crossbow.

He chuckled. "I don't need your money, Iona. The cards were very good to me last night. I'll have another ale—but only if you do, as well."

She frowned and snatched her hand back. He smiled down at her, completely unfazed.

"I'm not a fool, dear. The little trick you intend to play on me is one I've used myself countless times when I've needed to make an escape. And I do not intent to let you slip away just yet. Not when I'm making such progress."

"Exactly what progress do you imagine you've made?"

The scoundrel nodded to the empty tankards. "You drank with me, didn't you? According to your scruples, that means we aren't strangers to each other anymore. You don't drink with strange men, after all. I wonder at your background. You seem quite a lady, aside from all the slaying and such. Why don't you tell me about yourself?"

Iona felt prickles of anger and dismay in the muscles of her jaw and carefully contained them, assuming a purely neutral expression. She put a coin on the table beside her cup. "I have work to do, Lyndon. You will have to excuse me."

But he leaned lazily against the doorway, blocking her way. "I won't, because you don't," he said. "You have the crown, but if I were you, I would not leave without consulting Deckard Cain about just what to do with it once we've passed into the crypt. How does one reanimate an incorporeal being? Rather hard to kill him while we can still see through him, I should think. Haedrig has only just started work on new fitments for Sophie—and I could not be more touched, Iona, really, you are as generous as you are dour. You've bathed, washed your clothing, and cared for your accoutrements admirably. What else could you possibly do with your time that would better serve you than to stay with me and wait for Cain? I am to be your traveling companion, after all. You ought to try to learn as much about me as you can."

To her intense chagrin, Iona found herself in the merciless grip of indecision for perhaps the first time in ten years. Her earlier thoughts of camaraderie were beginning to feel like a severe error. Haedrig was one matter—he would not be in the thick if the fighting; he would supply weapons, making camp wherever the Star took her, not following her into battle. Even Leah, who would almost certainly demand to fight beside her, was acceptable. She had vowed to help Leah however she could, and there would be no separating her from her uncle, which could prove very useful to Iona. The Star was her guide to truth, her truth, Li Xia had told her that, and Deckard Cain had spent his life studying such phenomena. He knew more of the dangers of the road now than Iona might learn in a lifetime. He was prepared for whatever the Star might herald. It was as much a part of his destiny as hers.

But Lyndon…he was an anomaly. He did not belong the way the others seemed to. The brigands he had drawn to the Old Mill with his careless greed were on her mind, the men she had first injured and then killed, and it was making her sick. When one hunted alone, such complications did not often occur. They could be avoided.

"Lyndon…" Iona closed her eyes for a moment, then gazed levelly at the man, speaking with as much calmness as she could muster. "I have repaid my debt to you for my act of assault. I have done all that I can to keep you safe. I've told you that if you follow me, you will almost certainly die." A muscle jumped in her jaw. "Now please, get out of my way, or I will be forced to make you, and I do not want to do that."

Lyndon crossed his arms over his chest. "There, you see? Now we come to the heart of your troubles. You don't want to harm me—or anyone, really—and that is why you don't want me to come along with you. It's really rather sweet of you. But you must admit that you are forgetting to factor in the very obvious truth that I can take care of myself. I escaped the worst siege in Khanduras in twenty years, as you said, without a functioning weapon. I obtained Leoric's crown before you could. I can help you, Iona. You may not need me, but you would do well to accept my aid. All I want is a share of the spoils. Make a deal with me, and I vow to make it worth your while."

"You are indeed a skilled fighter," she allowed, "but I cannot travel with a man I cannot fully trust. Now, step aside, please. I will not ask again."

"I know you won't," he said smugly. "Look here, my lady. You took me by surprise during our last tussle, but you won't do it again. I'm on to you, you know. I imagine I've got more of your measure than almost anyone ever has. I'm rather fond of you, but I won't let you knock me down again, and I won't move until I am confidant you've accepted our arrangement. If you will be civil and take a seat and have another drink, things will go along much more smoothly, but either way we go about this, I fully intend to prove my worth to you." He spread his hands. "Make your choice, Iona. I've made mine."

There was a bald earnestness in his eyes that struck her as jarringly incongruous with his behavior. It was no act. She realized with some surprise that it was quite possible that it was the only real glimpse of the man she had ever seen. She knew that many people wore one sort of second skin or another, just as she did, but she had believed that the Scoundrel's charm was the skin and his greed the flesh beneath. Now she wondered. Looking at him now, she saw signs of terrible grief etched into his face, hiding among the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Grief, fear, and shame.

And, a soft murmur that might have been Isla's observed, if he is such an able thief, where do his spoils go? Look at his clothes, his crossbow… He is very nearly destitute despite his skill. He ought to be living like a king. He is fit and healthy, he only gambles until he has won enough to move on…

"What do you intend to do with the treasure you expect to find with me?" she asked softly. "You do not seem to have any crippling vices to support. Where does your gold go?"

He smiled tightly. "Oh, Iona, I am a man of many vices, I assure you, and it shouldn't take you very long to find them out. Only one of them is anything I would consider crippling, however."

"A debt?"

"You might say that. Yes." The reluctance in his voice was almost painful, but his face went smooth again and shutters seemed to close behind his eyes. To slam shut.

Let it rest, she told herself. For now, this was enough.

She took a breath and let it out slowly. "Will it interfere with my work?"

"Not at all," he said brightly. "You never need know a thing. No one is chasing me. Well. There are probably several dozen outraged fathers and bridegrooms who would no doubt love to see me hang, but I am not wanted by the law, despite what you might think." His eyes were more like dark walls than ever, now. "I swear to you, Iona—I am not a wanted man. And if I follow you, I'm not likely to become one."

A fair point. Iona held out her hand. "All right. Your life is your own to risk."

When Lyndon took it with a grin, she tightened her grip and pulled him close to her. "But the moment you become a liability," she whispered against his ear, "I will leave you at the nearest town. Is that quite clear?"

"As crystal."

"Good. Now, let's find some breakfast. And no more drinking. We have a dead king to bury."

Iona and Lyndon made excellent time through the bowels of the Cathedral. She had to admit to herself that having a comrade in arms—even one as maddeningly noisy as the scoundrel—was, for the moment, more efficient than traveling alone. It even made a certain poetic sense. This was not a normal hunt. Her immediate quarry was of the world, not the Burning Hells, and so it was with Lyndon. He was many things, it was true, but above all, he was a man of the world.

With this in mind, she could not help glancing sidelong at him as they stood before the great door to the lower levels. "You must find this sort of place disturbing."

He snorted. "Nonsense. I'm far more comfortable in a cursed church than in a holy one. And you?"

"Decay is part of the nature of life, particularly in these times. I am no stranger to this sort of corruption."

"You're just a right ray of sunshine, aren't you?"

She shot him a predatory grin. "Oh, yes." She winked, drawing Leoric's Crown from her satchel. "For now. But you may want to avert your pretty little eyes later, when we meet with the King."

"You think my eyes pretty, do you?"

"I did get a rather good look at them when I was beating you in the mud. But it was raining, so I might have been mistaken."

"You hit me once!" Lyndon cried indignantly. "In the bollocks. The rest was mostly sitting, I'm sure you'll recall."

"Ahh," Iona mused, fitting the crown into a shallow depression in the ornate door. "I confess I had forgotten that you went down after a single blow from a woman."

"In the bollocks," he repeated. His pride was wounded. "That is hardly fair."

She looked over her shoulder at him as the door began to glow. "And you are a champion of fair play, how could I forget? Do you miss the farmer's daughter at all, Lyndon?"

"I miss all the farmers' daughters. Shall we?"

Iona retrieved the Crown, stowed it, and watched the massive doors rumble and grind their way open. A cold breeze ruffled her hair as she peered into the darkness beyond them.

"Yes," she said softly. All humor had fled from her, leaving her face pale and her eyes bright. "It's time we paid tribute to my mother's liege lord."