Rise of the Seventh Moon: Heirs of Ash, Book 3

by Wulf, Rich

  “Of course I remember old Ash,” Petra said, smiling. “I was proud to assist him during his brief stay at Dalannan. You were the one who referred him to us, as I recall, during the brief period you were writing for the Chronicle.”

  “Yes,” Norra replied.

  “Ah, yes,” Petra said. “I remember now.”

  “He was looking for information on the Draconic Prophecy,” Norra said. “I knew Morgrave had a large archive. Could you show me some of the books he researched while he was here?”

  Petra looked at her archly. His usual scatterbrained nervousness was gone. He sat straight and composed, his eyes showing the slightest hint of insult. “My records are entirely complete, Norra,” he said. “I can show you every book Ashrem read.”

  “Every one?” Norra asked, impressed. “After all these years?”

  Petra nodded. He finished his cup of wine and stooped down in his chair, pulling a stocky filing cabinet out from under his desk. He thumbed through the contents for several moments before drawing out a thick book labeled with the year in question. Every page was covered with small, cramped handwriting.

  “That can’t possibly be a record of every volume withdrawn from the library,” Norra said.

  Petra looked at her frankly. “Well, that would be useless, wouldn’t it?” he asked. “Most of our volumes are extremely valuable references. They can’t be withdrawn from the library. This is a record of every book read, by every attendant, for any length of time, for the last fifteen years—the duration of my service here.”

  “How can that be?” she asked.

  “You ask me for my help, and then declare my help impossible?” Petra asked, hurt. “Suffice it to say, while not as talented as yourself, I do have some skill with wards and artifice. Magic can do more than make a tower fly or hurl a bolt of lightning, you know.”

  Norra laughed. “How is it possible you’re still a junior librarian?” she asked.

  “I spend too much time trifling over records and not enough time playing university politics,” he said. He looked back at his book. “Now, do you remember roughly what month and day Ashrem arrived in Sharn?”

  FIVE

  As the cell’s stone ceiling slowly came into focus, Zed Arthen concluded that he had acted rashly.

  He sat up on his wooden pallet, rubbing the back of his skull and looking around the cell with bleary eyes. What had gone wrong? He was a good judge of character, typically. He had carefully observed those three knights the other day. When he saw them coming to introduce themselves to Eraina, he quietly withdrew and watched from a safe distance. He had no quarrels with the Knights of Thrane. He just knew from experience that it was better to avoid them. If they saw his sword, they would ask questions. He preferred not to relive that part of his past for the sake of nosy strangers. It would be even worse if they recognized his name.

  They hadn’t spoken to Eraina very long, but nonetheless he thought he had a pretty good gauge of them. Knights of Thrane were a little better trained than the average soldier, but they were the same as any young soldiers. They usually fell into one of three categories—those who fought, those who panicked, and those who waited. Arthen thought he’d had them pegged.

  Aden, the one he had hit with the bottle, was a typical hothead. He’d entered the knighthood for the thrill. He was ready and eager for violence. He had probably never seen any fighting during the Last War. Predictably, Aden drew his sword first so Arthen had taken him out quickly with as little violence as possible before the situation escalated.

  Knocking out Aden had the added benefit of throwing Nialin, the youngest of the three knights, into a state of panic. When Aden went down Nialin didn’t even think to defend himself; instead he fell back to make sure his friend wasn’t seriously injured.

  That left only Rane, the leader. He had faced Zed calmly, waiting for him to make a mistake. Zed had planned to finish out his drunken tantrum and stagger into an alley, ranting against the knights and the Last War. Zed figured Rane would let him go, expecting he could quickly catch up to an exhausted drunk. Then, once out of sight, Zed would have discarded the charade and ran for it.

  Zed realized too late that Rane wasn’t watching him at all, and the mistake he was waiting for had already been made. Rane’s eyes were locked on something behind Zed. When the inquisitive peered over his shoulder to see what was happening, he saw several members of the watch moving up quickly with their cudgels drawn. One struck him hard across the face. Then another. Darkness swam over his vision, and he woke up in this cell.

  Footsteps paced the stone floor outside, slowly approaching. A key clanked in the heavy iron lock. The door creaked open, admitting a tall man in the gleaming armor emblazoned with symbols of the Silver Flame. A heavy sword, identical to Zed’s blade, hung behind one shoulder. The knight’s face was stern, weathered by the years, framed by a thin blond beard. His gray eyes glared down at Zed with an unforgiving gaze.

  “I knew you would do something stupid the moment you entered my town, Arthen,” the knight said.

  “Well, that explains how those novices caught me,” Zed said. His heart sank. He had hoped he could leave Nathyrr without anyone recognizing him. This would make things a lot more complicated than they needed to be. “How have you been, Sergeant Draikus?”

  “Captain Draikus now,” he said. “And I’ve been joyous. I am always joyous during times of miracles. I had heard you were dead, but here you are, restored to flesh.”

  “Praise be to the Flame!” Zed said wryly.

  “Blasphemy,” the knight said, folding his arms across his chest and glaring down at Zed. “Charming.”

  “It’s only blasphemy if the gods are offended, Draikus,” Zed said. “The Silver Flame stopped listening to anything I say a long time ago.”

  “I am saddened that you appear to believe that,” Draikus replied. “The Flame never abandons its children, Arthen. The Flame watches over all of us—even a failure like you.”

  “You had better hope that isn’t true, Draikus,” Zed said. “If it’s seen the things you’ve done in its name, you’re going to have a lot of explaining to do.”

  Draikus lunged forward, shoving Zed against the wall, pinning him there with an armored gauntlet against his throat. His eyes seethed with hatred, daring Zed to push him further. Zed gave a weak grin.

  “What we did in Vathirond was cruel, but it was necessary,” Draikus said. “The war with Breland had gone too far. Commander Kalaven didn’t deserve what you did to her.”

  “Those priests didn’t deserve what we did to them,” Zed replied.

  Draikus’s voice shook with fury. “If you doubted her honor, you should have faced her with courage and decried her to her face, not dispatched your Cannith politician to blacken her name. She was a hero.”

  “I had nothing to do with what Dalan d’Cannith did,” Zed said, “but I wish I had. There were no heroes at the Battle of Vathirond, least of all Therese Kalaven. The Brelish offered a hand of friendship to us. When she saw they were weak, she turned on them. You remember, Draikus.”

  “I should kill you, Arthen,” Draikus said, tightening his free hand into a metal fist.

  “Killing a defenseless prisoner?” Zed asked. “Well done, Draikus. Therese would have approved.”

  The knight’s lips pressed into a white line. He closed his eyes and looked away, lowering his hand. He stepped back, releasing his grip on Zed’s throat. “Why, Arthen?” he said, his voice choked. “Commander Kalaven was ruthless, yes, but war made her that way. She only desired to end the fighting. She did what she had to do. What use is mercy against enemies who see mercy as weakness?”

  “Draikus, I know all of that,” Zed said. “I was closer to her than you were. After seeing what she did, I’ll choose idealism over betrayal and murder any day.”

  Draikus chuckled. “Judge Commander Kalaven if you will,” he said, “but she carried the Flame’s blessings till the day she was executed. How long has it been since you heard it
s whispers? That is all the proof I need of her righteousness.”

  Zed frowned but gave no other reaction.

  “I don’t understand you, Arthen,” Draikus said. “I’ve been monitoring you, as much as I have been able. You walk into Nathyrr with a Sentinel Marshal. You vanish into the Harrowcrowns for hours at a time. Then you show up alone, wearing some feeble disguise, ranting about a dead brother you never had, and assault one of my officers. What in Khyber are you up to?”

  “Do you really want to know?” Zed asked. “Or do you just want me out of your town?”

  “I tire of this,” Draikus said. “If you will not cooperate, then you may as well leave. Your fines have been paid in full, Arthen. Get out. Cause trouble again and you won’t find me as reasonable.”

  Zed’s brow furrowed as he rose, but he tried not to show undue surprise. Who would have paid his fine? Eraina certainly would not. She would have demanded his release or, embarrassed by his stupidity, left him to serve his time.

  Draikus cleared his throat as Zed reached the cell door, causing him to look back. The knight’s eyes were grim. “You may be pardoned in Flamekeep, but you are not welcome in Nathyrr,” he said. “Finish your business and be on your way. My knights and the watch will be instructed to show you no mercy.”

  Zed nodded. “No mercy,” he said. “Very important to maintain the order’s traditions.” He stepped out of the cell.

  The other knights were gathered in the main hall, beyond the block of cells. They watched Zed with open suspicion. Of course they would. Draikus would have told them what happened in Vathirond, the version where Commander Kalaven was a hero and Zed Arthen betrayed her to an opportunistic war tribunal. He ignored them. He didn’t care what they thought. They weren’t his concern. He stepped out onto the streets of Nathyrr, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the light.

  “Sir Arthen,” said a voice to his right.

  Zed glared at the speaker, a thin man in a finely trimmed back coat. His face was pale and thin, the sort of man who spent far too little time in the sun. “It’s Master Arthen,” he said tersely. “Not ‘Sir.’ ”

  “Of course,” the man said, spreading his hands wide in a gesture of apology. He spoke in a distinctly Cyran accent. “My name is Niam Kenrickson. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Are you the one who paid my fines?” Zed asked.

  “Not I alone.” He offered a thin smile. “My associates and I are veterans of the Last War who have found difficulty adjusting to a world at peace. We are once-respected warriors now struggling to find our place in a world that sees us as extraneous. Much like yourself.”

  “I see,” Zed said, trying to buy time to think. He hadn’t intended for things to happen this way. He had hoped to cause a little trouble in a public place, gambling that Eraina would notice someone who was a little too interested in the antics of a bitter, violent war veteran. He had hoped, at best, that they would find a lead. He wasn’t prepared for this. Zed cursed Draikus for recognizing him. This would be easier if Kenrickson didn’t know his real name. If Marth found out that Zed was here in the Harrowcrowns … that would make his life a great deal more complicated.

  “Thank you,” Zed said, realizing Kenrickson might be growing impatient at his silence. He smiled politely.

  “Quite welcome,” Niam said with a pleased grin. “Pardon me for disturbing what might be a difficult memory, but when you attacked those men earlier, did you say you fought at Vathirond?”

  “I did,” Zed said.

  “And you had brothers who died there?” Niam pressed.

  “Not brothers in blood,” he said, “but men I considered brothers.”

  “I was stationed far from Vathirond, but I have cousins who fought there,” Niam said. “I have heard it described as one of the bloodiest engagements of the last two decades. A true test of loyalties. Thrane, Cyre, and Breland in a battle for survival. Did you know many Cyran soldiers?”

  “Some,” Zed said. “Vathirond isn’t something I like to think about.”

  “Of course,” Niam said. “The Five Nations have become difficult for men such as you and I. It is difficult to find a place. The quest for new purpose in a world at peace can be elusive. My associates and I specialize in helping former soldiers renew their purpose.”

  “Are you mercenaries?” Zed asked.

  “A coarse term,” Niam said. “Mercenaries fight for profit. Our goals are greater. Most of us are former Cyrans, but there are a few like yourself—brothers in arms from distant nations.”

  “Sounds interesting,” Zed said.

  Niam glanced around, blinking rapidly as he spoke. “I can say little more,” he said. “In these times the Five Nations become nervous when they hear of Cyrans taking up arms. I pray only that you do not discount my offer for its clandestine nature. My brethren and I have learned that men without a nation must value caution. Even so, I assure you our cause is a noble one.”

  “Of course,” Zed said. “As I said, it sounds interesting.”

  “If you are interested in employment, you should visit my offices,” Niam said

  “We could go now, if you like,” Zed said, hoping to put Niam off-balance so that he might reveal something.

  “That isn’t necessary,” Niam replied, wrinkling his nose. “You are quite obviously exhausted after your night in prison. You should rest. You can meet with us this afternoon, after you’ve cleaned yourself. Our offices are on the corner of Carver Street and Oak Lane.”

  Zed nodded. He realized, with some embarrassment, that he still stank of rum.

  “I’ll be there,” he said.

  “Excellent,” Niam said. “I shall inform my associates of your impending arrival.” He tipped his wide-brimmed hat. “Good day.”

  Zed tapped his temple in informal salute as the thin man strode off down the street. He scanned the streets as Kenrickson left. Where was Eraina? She would have come to help him by now, or at least to gloat over his arrest. He found her sitting at a table outside a small restaurant with a view of the prison. She sipped from a small cup as she watched him approach. He saw that his sword was leaning against the table, near the seat across from her.

  “Good morning,” she said as he took the seat. “You smell terrible. Like you’ve been doused in alcohol.”

  “I have been,” he said.

  “I thought you didn’t drink,” she said.

  “I don’t,” Zed said, pouring himself a cup of water. “Just doused myself in it. Literally. I spilled some rum on my hair and my shirt before I attacked the knights. I figured they would be a less likely to kill me if they just thought I was an angry drunk.”

  “Convincing disguise,” she said.

  “I’ve had a lot of practice,” he answered, taking a deep drink of the icy water. He had to get out of these clothes. The smell reminded him too much of years better off forgotten. “How long have you been here, Eraina?”

  “A little while,” she said. “I followed the undertaker.”

  “Were you going to leave me in prison?” he asked.

  “You asked me not to interfere,” she said, smiling softly. “So I didn’t. I assumed everything that happened was exactly as you planned.”

  Zed grunted sourly and set his cup back on the table. “Not exactly,” he said. “I’m surprised you went along with it.”

  “I treasure my vow of honesty,” she said, “but I have come to recognize that allies not similarly bound can operate with a greater degree of flexibility. If you had told me what you planned to do, I might have stopped you.”

  “Well, thank you for trusting me, Eraina,” Zed said. “That means a lot.”

  She flushed slightly, returning her gaze to her cup. “The results don’t change the fact that your plan was ridiculous,” she said. She set her cup aside and leaned back in her seat. “You were very lucky. You had no guarantee that your performance was going to provoke any sort of useful reaction.”

  “We were out of leads,” he said. “
It was worth a try. The town square is busiest that time of day. I had the greatest chance of being seen by someone connected to Marth.”

  “If those guards had been a bit more zealous, they might have killed you,” Zed said.

  “Might have,” Zed admitted. “I brought up Vathirond for a reason. That was a day that blackened the image of the knights for a lot of people. I thought mentioning it so loudly in front of so many witnesses would have made things a little less likely to get bloody.”

  “It was still a gamble,” she said.

  “I’m alive,” Zed said, shrugging. “I admit, I wouldn’t have tried it if I knew Draikus was their commanding officer. I think he had the town watch standing ready, waiting for me to do something stupid.”

  “Your reputation precedes you?” Eraina asked, chuckling.

  “I’m serious, Eraina,” Zed said, annoyed. “You know being recognized doesn’t help us at all. Marth knows who we are. Draikus knows I’m working with you. If Niam knows I came here with a Sentinel Marshal, especially one that’s hunting Marth on a murder charge, we’re going to have a lot of trouble. We might have a lead, but it turned out messier than I would have liked. Pursuing this is going to be tricky.”

  “We knew this would be dangerous,” Eraina said.

  “I wish the others were here,” Zed said. “As comfortable as I am working alone, it’s been good having them to back me up.”

  “Agreed,” Eraina said.

  “So what did you find out while I was in jail?” he asked.

  “The Kenricksons have a wagon full of coffins outside their office,” Eraina said. “They’re loaded with dry rations and other supplies.”

  “Coffins?” Zed said. “Smart way to sneak a lot of supplies out of the city without drawing any attention. Nobody is going to search a load of corpses.”

  “I’m amazed no one would notice,” Eraina said. “The Kenricksons have to be moving out a lot more coffins than there are people dying in Nathyrr.”

  “I think after the Last War, most people are perfectly happy not counting the dead,” Zed said. “Especially this close to the Mournland. Incidentally, Niam Kenrickson is a Cyran veteran. He was interested that I fought at Vathirond.”