The Doom of Kings_ Legacy of Dhakaan - Don Bassingthwaite [14]
Sometimes Ashi couldn’t call it anything except a curse. It was the reason she was here, wasn’t it? When the wizard-swordsman Singe had first opened her eyes to the corruption of the Bonetree and the possibility that another clan waited for her beyond the Shadow Marches, she’d actually been afraid that House Deneith might not accept her. All she’d had to prove kinship had been a sword inherited from her grandfather, an outclanner captured and brought into the Bonetree to sire new children. Then she, Singe, Ekhaas, and her other new friends had faced Dah’mir the dragon, and she had, without thinking, reached out with all the force of her will to deny Dah’mir a hold over the kalashtar Dandra’s mind—and succeeded. Dandra had been shielded from Dah’mir’s influence. In the same moment, the dragonmark had drawn itself across Ashi’s skin in a flash of color, undeniable proof that she belonged to Deneith.
But was the mark really a curse? Her anger ebbing, Ashi let her arms fall. The power that the mark granted her to shield a mind from magical influence had not only protected Dandra, it had made the defeat of Dah’mir possible. Even indirectly the mark was a blessing: Deneith’s desire to bring her within its fold had been so strong that she’d been able to barter her willing surrender in return for the use of mercenaries from Deneith’s Blademarks Guild to stop one of Dah’mir’s mad schemes. The fighting men bought by her freedom had saved lives.
And if she had to admit it, there was a lot about House Deneith that fascinated her. The House was like nothing—no clan, no home, no life—she’d ever known. In the eight months since she’d left her friends and been taken away to Karrlakton, she’d discovered so many new things. Strange customs. New people and sights. A sense of history that was sometimes frightening—Sentinel Tower was, at its core, many centuries old, and the lore of Deneith contained even older tales of those who had borne the Mark of Sentinel. She’d had the chance to train with the masters of a martial house. She’d witnessed the awe-inspiring advance of the Darguuls and very nearly performed for them. Who among the Bonetree or even among her friends could claim the same?
Ashi turned around. A tall mirror hung on the wall of her bedchamber, and she looked at herself—at the reflection of a strong woman marked by a rare power. She drew herself up straight. The dragonmark was no curse. In fact, if any curse had been visited on her, it was—
The outer door of her chambers creaked open. “Ashi!” called Vounn. Footsteps in the sitting room said that the lady seneschal had not waited for a response or an invitation.
Ashi’s jaw tightened again. Most members of Deneith were brought up within the House, surrounded by its traditions and by the trappings of civilization. To have a savage of the Shadow Marches wielding the greatest power of the House had been too much for many of them. The lords of Deneith had welcomed her to Sentinel Tower, then had given her into the care of a mentor. Someone who could shape a rough savage into a proper lady of Deneith, a true asset to the House.
To the world, Vounn d’Deneith was a consummate diplomat, gently guiding the relationships between Deneith and the nobles of the nations of Khorvaire, maintaining good relations at the highest levels. In private there was nothing gentle about her. Charm and grace became an unyielding, single-minded focus on her goals with no mercy for anyone who got in her way. One of those goals was shaping Ashi.
The lady seneschal appeared in the doorway of the bedchamber. Her lined face was hard. “Ashi, you left the reception before—” Her voice stopped as she took in the discarded robe, the impaled gown, and Ashi’s face. Her lips pressed