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

by Wulf, Rich

  “Hope you’ll settle for a handshake from me,” Ijaac said, smiling broadly up at the warforged.

  Omax nodded silently and shook the dwarf’s hand.

  “Good to have you back,” Ijaac said. “I was afraid they’d start making me do all the heavy lifting.”

  “Extraordinary,” Dalan said, staring at Omax in awe. “How did you accomplish this, Tristam?”

  “I’m not entirely sure,” Tristam said. “I have some theories, but I want to study Karia Naille’s core a bit more before I’ll be certain.”

  “Omax,” Gerith said, looking up at the warforged.

  Omax gazed down at his halfling friend.

  The little scout patted his colorful jacket and leggings frantically, emitted a small yelp, and fled the courtyard.

  “What was that about?” Ijaac asked.

  “I hope we never know,” Dalan replied blandly, tucking his book into his pocket. He faced Tristam again. “Did Master Frauk give you any trouble for using his workshop?”

  “He was his usual self, but at least he didn’t try to kill us this time,” Tristam said. “He did give me a post from Norra …” Tristam took the envelope from his pocket and studied its contents. A softly whispered word caused Norra’s code to reform into legible characters under Tristam’s scrutiny.

  “What does it say?” Dalan asked.

  “She says she’s made a breakthrough in her research,” Tristam said, looking up at Dalan urgently. “She asks that we come to Sharn immediately and contact her through a university librarian named Petra Ghein.”

  “That’s all?” Dalan said. “Nothing more?”

  “You expected Norra to just give information away?” Ijaac said dryly.

  Dalan sighed. “She’ll have to wait,” he said. “Nathyrr is our next destination.”

  “What if she’s in danger?” Seren asked.

  “Then she’s in danger on the far side of the continent,” Dalan said. “Zed and Eraina aren’t even a quarter the distance away. They’re just as likely to need our aid.”

  “More likely, if they’ve found Marth,” Tristam said.

  “Indeed,” Dalan said. “In either case our business here is done. Return to the Mourning Dawn. We depart for Nathyrr as soon as possible. I have some paperwork to attend, but I should follow you presently.”

  Tristam remained behind as the others filed out of the garden. Dalan gave him a questioning look and returned to his seat, drawing his book out of his jacket.

  “Did you have something else you wished to discuss, Tristam?” Dalan asked.

  “Back in Metrol you said you had no illusions about who commands this quest,” Tristam said, “but since we landed at Gatherhold you’ve done nothing but give orders. Were you only passing me responsibility to see if I would fail?”

  Dalan looked at Tristam over the top of his book. “No,” he said, then returned to reading.

  “Then why?” Tristam demanded, growing annoyed at Dalan’s indifference.

  “Because you had just failed to prevent your most deadly rival from escaping,” Dalan said. “Because your arrogance had nearly cost your closest friend his life. Because we were in the most hostile environment imaginable. I gave you command so that you would not have time to dwell on how horrible the situation had become. We needed you to survive, Tristam.”

  “And now?” Tristam asked.

  Dalan closed his book and sighed. “You are a brilliant man, Tristam. Your skill at artifice may exceed that of Ashrem himself one day, and should you clash with Marth again on even terms I have no doubt who will prevail. But you are no leader. You hesitate. You vacillate. You agonize over mistakes that are no fault of your own. You do not compromise. You are unprepared to make sacrifices. I will value your counsel, Tristam, but you must realize that no other member of this crew is as suited to command as I am.”

  “Even though no one trusts you?” Tristam said.

  “I do not care if they trust me,” Dalan said. “I do not care if they like me. All that matters is that they obey me.”

  “You haven’t changed, Dalan,” Tristam said.

  “How sad that you think so,” Dalan said. He opened his book again.

  “I thought you had work to do,” Tristam said.

  “I do,” he said. “I am waiting for Baron Zorlan’s scribe to return and notarize the final draft.”

  “Of what?” Tristam asked.

  “My sponsorship for your initiation to the House of Making,” Dalan said. “I submitted the initial application shortly before we left Korth the last time. I assumed you were still interested.”

  “If you’re trying to bribe my loyalty—”

  “A bribe you aren’t even aware of?” Dalan asked. “That would be cryptic, even for me. Does it surprise you that I am capable of giving a friend credit where it is due?”

  “I’m surprised you consider me a friend,” Tristam said.

  “You know it is not a term I use lightly,” Dalan said, “but yes. I do.”

  A young woman in the livery of a Cannith servant entered the courtyard carrying a stack of papers. Dalan set his book aside and waved her over while Tristam quietly excused himself. The artificer made his way through the halls of the Cannith estates, hands tucked deep in the pockets of his coat.

  There was a time when membership in House Cannith was his fondest desire. When Ashrem had denied it, he abandoned his master and set out on his own. Now he was not so certain. It would be an incredible opportunity, to be certain. He would have a chance to work beside the brightest minds in the field of artifice. The resources he would have to conduct his research would be nearly unlimited. But would they manipulate him as Dalan did? Would they ostracize him as they had Ashrem?

  Would he be forced to leave the Mourning Dawn behind?

  Tristam stepped onto the streets of Korth. The others were waiting for him there. Seren smiled at him, pushing away his bleak thoughts. She took his hand as they made their way back toward the airship.

  Captain Gerriman stood at the ship’s helm, absorbed in his charts. Aeven sat in the bow, letting the wind spill through her long blond hair. The hatch of Dalan’s cabin opened a creak and the guildmaster’s shaggy dog, Gunther, waddled out to greet Seren. The dog whined softly as Omax emerged from the hold, shying away from the unfamiliar stranger.

  “Omax?” Pherris said, looking at the warforged in astonishment.

  Aeven opened her eyes for a brief moment and looked at Omax. The warforged knelt and extended one hand to the dog. Gunther cocked his head and eased forward, sniffing Omax’s hand. The old dog eased onto its haunches as Omax gently scratched the animal’s ears.

  The leathery flap of wings sounded above them. Gerith’s glidewing swooped gracefully around them and perched on the deck, halfling mounted on its back.

  “I found it,” Gerith said proudly. He leapt out of the saddle and marched up to Omax.

  The warforged peered at Gerith as he rose. “Found what?” he asked.

  The halfling reached into his vest and drew out a lump of dusty cloth. He proudly offered it to the warforged. Omax hesitated before accepting gently with both hands. He stared at the gift for a long moment before setting his shapeless woolen hat back upon his head.

  “Thank you,” the warforged said.

  Gerith beamed.

  “Gerith, where did you find that?” Tristam asked.

  “Metrol,” Gerith said. “I went back while you were in Gatherhold.”

  Ijaac gaped at the halfling. “You flew back into the Mournland alone to find a hat?”

  “He always wears it,” Gerith said.

  “It was just a hat,” the warforged said.

  “Oh,” Gerith answered, his shoulders slumping. “I thought it was special for some reason.”

  “It is now,” Omax said.

  TEN

  Lady Kairen?” Petra called out. “Lady Kairen, please wait up.”

  Norra glared over one shoulder as she marched down the university stairs. Petra stopped, surp
rised at her angry look.

  “It’s Kairel,” Norra said, looking around quickly to make certain they were not overheard. “Not Kairen. I don’t know how you remember every book ever borrowed from your library but you can’t keep my name straight.”

  “Sorry,” Petra said sheepishly. “I actually have a horrible memory. That’s why I write everything down.”

  “I don’t care,” Norra snapped. “What did you want, Petra? Just use my real name. No one is here to overhear.”

  “Those men came again, Norra,” he said. “They were asking about you. They have begun visiting me directly.”

  Norra’s face paled, though the enchanted cap that masked her features did not show it. Her face was wrapped in the illusion of a young university student, dark-haired with fair skin and the slightly pointed ears of a half-elf. “Did you tell them anything?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he insisted.

  “Are you certain? You are the only person who knows I’ve returned to Sharn.”

  “Norra, please,” Petra pleaded. “You know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. If I did, why would I warn you?”

  “I’m sorry, Petra,” Norra said. She closed her eyes and rubbed her face with one hand, trying to think. “I feel like such a fool for letting this happen, though I cannot help but think it’s no less than I deserve.” She sat down heavily on the steps, watching the airships as they soared across the skyline.

  Petra gave her a quizzical look. He sat down beside her, gingerly arranging his cloak around his ankles. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “I told you I didn’t intend to return from the Frostfell,” she said. “I didn’t tell you what happened afterward. I led my crew to their deaths, Petra. I knew they would die … and I didn’t care.”

  Petra blinked at her, eyes wide. “How did you escape?”

  “Good fortune,” she said. “Or perhaps the gods whose existence I’ve always denied weren’t quite through with me yet. I ran into an old colleague in pursuit of the same goal, though he was better prepared. He saved my life, helped me complete my quest, and returned me to Khorvaire.”

  “What were you doing out there?” Petra asked.

  “Believe me, you’re better off not knowing,” Norra said sadly. “This quest has taken everything from me. I think all that is left for me to do is to leave Tristam Xain and the Mourning Dawn whatever information I can before they finally catch up to me.”

  “Radcul’s thugs?” Petra asked.

  “No,” Norra said, smiling bitterly. “The ghosts of the men and women who died following me. Radcul’s thugs are just the instrument of their vengeance. I can’t keep hiding forever.”

  “I can help,” Petra said. He clasped her hand. “Let me help, Norra.”

  Norra pulled her hand away and stood, turning her back to him. “No, Petra,” she said. “Go back to your library. Treasure your boring life and forget you helped me. You won’t see me again. I won’t have them trying to get at me through you.”

  “No,” Petra said plaintively. “No …”

  Norra felt a quiet sense of pity for the lonely librarian. As rudely as she treated him, he had always been patient and kind. Perhaps if things had been different … she remembered the touch of his hand. She had never had time for men; her research had always kept her too busy.

  She looked back at Petra, allowing the illusion that concealed her face to fade. “Farewell, Petra,” she said softly. “When Tristam comes, give him Markhelm’s journal.”

  “I will, Norra,” Petra said, his voice cracking. A tear seemed to escape the corner of his eye. He quickly covered his face with a handkerchief and pretended to blow his nose. “May Boldrei carry you home.”

  Norra smiled at him and whispered a word of command, summoning her disguise again. She continued down the stairs, into the streets surrounding Dalannan Tower, heading for work. She had taken a job cleaning dishes in one of the seedy restaurants that clung to the university. It was a horrible job that barely paid enough to survive, but they didn’t ask any inconvenient questions.

  She considered skipping work altogether. If Radcul’s henchmen knew about Petra, it wouldn’t be long until they discovered her. She might be safer exercising discretion and fleeing the city while she could. She could always find Tristam later and tell her what she had learned.

  No. Not yet. There was still much to learn at Morgrave and Tristam did not know the library like she did. She had to stay as long as she could. She had to learn more. If what she already knew was true, then their entire conflict with Marth might be a moot point. A much greater danger waited to consume them all.

  The sound of glass breaking in an alley to her left drew her attention. Just as Norra glanced in that direction, a cloaked figure leaped out of the shadows to her right, tackling her to the street. She cried out for help, but an oily gag was looped over her head and drawn tight. Her arms were twisted roughly behind her back and bound with cord. Rough hands seized her by the shoulders and dragged her into the alley, propping her against the wall by her throat.

  Norra saw two men. The one that held her was lean and hairy, dressed in oily black leather armor. The other man was tall and thin. He dressed in dark blue silken robes and wore his hair in a finely styled ponytail. From the many reagent pouches that dangled from his belt, Norra guessed he was a wizard of some sort. The wizard studied a scrap of parchment, then looked at Norra’s face with a sour expression.

  “It isn’t her, Morg,” he said.

  “It is,” the other man said. He leaned close to her. His breath was warm upon her cheek and stank like rancid meat. He touched her face with his free hand, tracing jagged nails gently over her skin. Then he moved suddenly, tearing the cap from her head and removing her illusory disguise.

  “A hat of disguise,” the wizard said. “Impressive.”

  “I’m keeping this,” Morg said with a pleased growl. He tucked the cap into his belt and cackled in Norra’s face. She groaned through her gag and turned away, nauseated by the stench. Norra noticed that Morg’s ears and canines both came to sharp points. A shifter—savage humanoids who traced their lineage to werewolves and other such beasts. So that was how Radcul’s men had found her. While she used magic to disguise her appearance, they tracked her by scent. What a fool she had been.

  “Miss Cais, please calm yourself,” the wizard said. “If you had not gone to such great lengths to avoid me, I would not have been forced to arrange such an abrupt appointment. My name is Silas Radcul. I believe you owe my uncle some money.”

  Norra glared at him. Behind her, she could feel the ropes loosen, if only slightly. The wards woven into her vest were, bit by bit, causing her bonds to come undone.

  “Good,” Silas said, as if she had answered him. “Now please hold still while I remove the rest of your magical trinkets.” He whispered a spell and began to concentrate. He took the pouch from her belt, where she kept her potions. He stooped and drew the magic dagger from her boot. He plucked an enchanted earring and then reached into her pocket, frowning curiously as he studied a small tree figurine. “I wonder what this could do.”

  Morg looked over curiously, his grip loosening for a moment. Norra seized her chance, pulling her wrists free of the ropes. The two men looked up in surprise. She pulled a bead from her necklace and hurled it into Morg’s chest. It erupted with a fiery explosion, throwing her attackers against the far wall. The shifter struck the bricks hard and fell to the cobbles, his body wreathed in flames.

  Silas gasped and shrieked at the dead shifter. Realizing his robes were on fire as well, he flailed about in an attempt to extinguish himself. Norra calmly plucked the tree figurine from the ground, and dropped it on the wizard.

  “Tree,” she said.

  The tiny tree erupted with sudden growth, its roots burrowing into solid stone. Silas grunted in pain as the full-grown tree’s trunk settled atop his chest, his arms pinned among the still-growing roots.

  “You can’t run from us forever,” he said, whe
ezing.

  “Maybe I can,” Norra said, kneeling beside him and leaning close. “Let me make you a deal. I’ll leave town tonight. I’ll make another disguise and I’ll disappear. You’ll never see me again. Tell your uncle you killed me. No one can ever prove otherwise.”

  Silas looked up at her, still wincing from the pain of the tree on his chest. “What do I get out of this?” he asked.

  “Simple,” Norra said. “I won’t kill you like I killed your friend.” She reached into her vest and drew out another tiny tree figurine. She dangled it between two fingers, holding it over Silas’s head. “Do we have a deal?”

  “Yes, yes!” Silas wailed fearfully. “Just let me live.”

  Norra smiled, stood, and tucked the token into her pocket. She walked back out of the alley, stepping over the dead shifter with a disgusted grimace and stopping to collect her scattered possessions.

  “Wait!” Silas called out. “How am I supposed to get this tree off my chest?”

  “Figure something out,” Norra said, and kept walking.

  Norra allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. She was not a violent person, but that had been intensely satisfying. It didn’t really matter if Silas upheld his end of the bargain or not. She would be gone from Sharn by the time he recovered. That was, of course, assuming that he ever figured out a way to untangle himself from the tree.

  She changed her course, walking instead toward her hovel of an apartment. It was in the poorest section of the plateau, amid the housing where even the poorest students refused to dwell. It suited her well enough. She had nothing of value, so she didn’t fear being robbed. Her wards kept the place safe enough while she slept.

  But where would she go next? Perhaps Wroat. Dalan might return to his home there eventually. Assuming Tristam didn’t find the clues she had left for him at Morgrave, she could explain everything to them there.

  An uneasy feeling came over her as she reached her apartment door. She traced the doorway and studied the wooden grain. Though the door was unharmed, all of her mystical protections had been removed. She backed away. Who could have found her home and unraveled every one of her wards? None of her meager possessions were worth finding out. She turned to run, to flee far from Sharn before her pursuers found her.