by Rich Wulf
“Who was that?” Tristam groaned. “What was that?”
“He’s gone now, Tristam,” Seren whispered, her eyes scanning the streets to make sure that was true. “Just hold on.”
Tristam fumbled in his coat, but his hand refused to obey, too wracked with pain to move normally. A pouch tumbled out of his pocket onto the street. “That bag,” he said. “I have potions. They’ll numb the pain till we can find a healer.”
“You actually brought useful potions this time?” Seren asked in a gently mocking tone, though her voice quavered with worry. She opened up the pouch and found a small pouch of crystal vials. They contained a thick, bubbly purple liquid. She uncorked one and offered it to Tristam. The artificer drank desperately, some of the potion dribbling down his chin and mixing with the blood. He tensed as the effects took hold, then ceased trembling. His dark eyes became slightly glazed. He smiled faintly and leaned back against her. She cradled his head as his rapid breathing became more even.
“What was in that?” Seren asked suspiciously.
“Just a … healing draught,” Tristam said with a chuckle. “But … you have to mix it with whiskey … or it clots in the bottle.”
Seren sniffed the empty vial. To her nose, it seemed as if there was more whiskey than potion, but she wasn’t one to tell an artificer how to do his craft.
She heard heavy boots approaching and looked up. A group of armed guards approached them. Some were White Lions, the Korth City Watch. Seren recognized the guards from the nearby House of Making as well. Other curious bystanders appeared as well, watching from windows and doorways. Seren deftly tucked her dagger into its hiding place in the back of her belt before the guards noticed it, along with Tristam’s wand.
“What’s going on here?” demanded one of the watchmen, glancing sharply from the injured artificer to the roof of the building across the street, now smoking in the rain.
“He’s been stabbed,” Seren said. “We need a healer.”
“Out of the way!” shouted an imperious voice. “This man is under the protection of House Cannith.”
The watchman turned, his expression annoyed as a group of Cannith guardsman approached. Dalan himself led the group.
“I represent the House of Making,” Dalan said, flashing his signet ring at the guard. “Please stand aside. This boy has pending membership in the Fabricator’s Guild. His welfare is my responsibility.”
“Wait,” the guard said, stunned. “What happened here? What was that explosion? Why is that roof on fire?”
Dalan held out one hand, cupping the rain as it fell. “In Wroat we often have thunderstorms,” he said. “They are frightening events, to be sure, but our City Watch has long since ceased trying to arrest them.”
The watchman gaped. Dalan pressed his advantage, sending two of the guards to help Tristam to his feet and carry him back to the House of Making. The dumfounded watchman opened his mouth to speak again, but Dalan interrupted.
“If you need to question the boy further, simply report to the Cannith house and inquire my name,” Dalan said.
“Whatever is happening here, Baron Zorlan will answer for this, d’Cannith,” the guardsman promised.
“I’m sure he will,” Dalan said. He patted the guard on the shoulder and hurried off.
Seren followed. “You never gave him your name.”
“I know,” Dalan said. “The White Lions are altogether too curious and vigilant to give them that sort of useful information. So what happened? More Cyrans or just Tristam being Tristam?”
“It was an elf,” Seren said. “He appeared from nowhere, then vanished into a cloud of darkness when Tristam’s lightning alerted the guards.”
“An elf?” Dalan said, eyes widening. “You say he ran into the darkness?”
“No,” Seren said. “He summoned shadows and stepped into them. It was magic.”
Dalan looked around nervously and quickened his pace. “Let’s waste no time, gentlemen,” he shouted to the guards. “The night is unfriendly.”
“What’s going on, Dalan?” she asked.
“You’ve described a Thuranni,” he said. “A dragonmarked assassin.”
“I thought the Thuranni were dancers and artists,” Seren said.
“Of course they are,” Dalan said with a humorless laugh. “And I’m just a humble merchant. Now let’s hurry inside before he returns to dance for us again.”
The guards deposited Tristam in a small guest bedroom near the entrance. Dalan posted two men at the door and sent another to find a healer. Tristam lay on the bed, sweat beading on his face. Seren sat beside him, clutching his hand with a worried face.
“What if he’s poisoned?” she asked.
“If a Thuranni poisoned him, he’d already be dead,” Dalan said. “Fortunately, many of their agents don’t use poison—it’s too easily traceable. Better to just strike accurately and leave the target dead than pump him full of chemicals that an inquisitive could use to track you down.” Dalan frowned. “The entire existence of the House is something of an oddity. I consider them to be the worst kept secret in Khorvaire. I imagine it must be difficult to pretend your house is a band of entertainers and sculptors when you kill people for money—how’s anyone supposed to hire you if they don’t know what you really do? Anyone of questionable morality who possesses the financial means to dispose of his enemies will inevitably ‘discover’ the truth of the Thuranni’s existence. It’s amazing how many wealthy nobles believe they are the only ones who know the truth.” Dalan laughed dryly.
“Why would he attack us?” Tristam asked. “Are they enemies of the Canniths?”
“No,” Dalan said. “They are neutral. Professional killers who will take any contract. Presumably Marth has discarded subtlety and now simply seeks to remove the threat Tristam poses. Quite a clever move, in my opinion. Tristam, do you realize that you are the only member of the Karia Naille’s crew, including myself, who is indispensable? Without you to maintain the ship and decipher Ashrem’s clues, we would be lost. We are all fortunate that you survived.”
Tristam didn’t speak for a time. “You told the guards I had pending guild membership. Was that just a lie so they would get out of their way?”
“Yes,” Dalan said, “though only because I’ve not yet had a chance to speak with the Baron and officially sponsor you. If you are still interested, I think the House of Making could benefit a great deal from your presence. You bear a mix of talent and wisdom that has been sorely lacking since my uncle’s death.”
“Thank you, Dalan,” Tristam said, shocked.
“No need to thank me,” Dalan said. “Bringing such a brilliant talent into the house will boost my own standing as well. Now just try to stay alive so that you can accept the sponsorship when this is all done.”
“Will Tristam be all right?” Seren asked.
“Oh, I’m not worried for his wounds,” Dalan said, “He’s safe enough here. Once the healers arrive he will be fine. Especially if we can find Eraina. She has a talent for patching us back together. I only worry for future attacks.” Dalan looked at her intently. “As should you, Miss Morisse.”
“Me?” she asked.
Dalan pointed at the cuts on Seren’s hip and leg. She had forgotten her own injuries completely. “You fought a Thuranni assassin and survived,” Dalan said. “Not only did you survive, but you denied him his target. I smell bruised elf pride, Miss Morisse.” Dalan smirked. “I commend you for your feat, but you must be more cautious now.”
“This is serious, Dalan,” Seren said. “There’s an assassin hunting us.”
“And only days ago an army of assassins hunted us,” Dalan said, shrugging. He rose and moved to the door. “We’re alive, Seren. Exult in it. Mock your enemies while you retain the breath to do so.”
The door opened and two halfling women in the livery of House Jorasco healers entered. One carried a small basin of fresh water. The other carried a leather satchel. They smelled distinctly of the fragrant herbs
they used in their medicines.
“Your patients, Doctors,” Dalan said, gesturing at Seren and Tristam. “Please forward the bill to Baron Zorlan d’Cannith.”
The halflings pushed past Dalan with a mumbled acknowledgment, more concerned with their work than payment for the time being.
“Just remain vigilant, Miss Morisse,” Dalan said as he closed the door. “You have made a powerful enemy.”
Seren stared at the closed door for some time. The halflings quietly asked her about their injuries and what sort of medicine Tristam had already used, all while conscientiously avoiding any questions about her attacker. Seren wondered how frequently the Jorasco healers had to deal with such suspicious injuries. She supposed in their place she would learn to be incurious as well. After cleaning and bandaging Seren’s relatively minor wounds, the elder healer politely shooed Seren from the room. She stopped only long enough to set Tristam’s wand atop his discarded coat, then slipped out into the hall.
Seren walked aimlessly through the halls of the House of Making. Her mind wandered over past events, and how much her life had changed of late. She opened a door and stepped out into a large, well-appointed courtyard. The drizzly rain had finally begun to die away, leaving the garden coated in a fine mist. Seren breathed deeply and sat on a stone bench near a bubbling fountain across from a weathered statue. She laughed at her own distraction when she saw the statue move, looking at her with shining blue eyes.
“Omax,” she said, smiling at the warforged. “Do you feel any better?”
“I have not burdened the House artificers yet,” he said. His head tilted and his eyes pulsed, radiating concern. “You are injured. What has happened?”
“Tristam and I were attacked in the streets,” she said.
Omax rose, fists clenching with a metal clang. “Where is he?” the warforged demanded.
“He’s fine now,” Seren said in a soothing voice. “He was badly injured, but the healers have him now.”
Omax’s hands opened. He looked at his reflection in the water. “Our lives are much more dangerous than they once were, Seren,” he said. “I fear it will only grow worse.”
Seren frowned. “Omax, if you’re going to try to talk me into leaving, it’s too late for that.”
“Leave?” Omax looked up at her intently. He looked at everything intently. “That was the furthest idea from my mind, Seren. I was going to thank you for staying.”
“Oh,” she said, uncertain what to say.
“We have been given a great gift, Seren,” the warforged said.
Seren’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Do you remember the War, Seren?” he said. “Truly remember it?”
“I never saw any battles,” she said. “I was too young. But I remember the look in my father’s eyes when he would come home to visit. He was a little sadder, and a little more tired each time.” Her voice became choked. “And I remember the day the messenger came with the black envelope for my mother, and my father stopped coming home.”
Omax nodded. “Then you understand. The Last War was the greatest evil this world has ever known. It devoured nations, ruined lives great and small, and scarred the land more deeply than any other tragedy manufactured by mortals. The War is not over, Seren.” The warforged sat, folding his arms across his lap.
“What do you mean?” she asked. “The War has been over for years. The Treaty of Thronehold—”
“Is nothing,” Omax said. “The warforged do not sleep, Seren, and we do not dream. Yet, when all is still and the world is quiet … my mind wanders. I feel the pulse of magic in the earth. I feel the song of battle in my soul. I feel the soul of war, deep within the earth. War may slumber, Seren, but it never dies. The Last War has not passed from this world. It only waits.”
The warforged removed the woolen cap from his head, twisting it between his rough-hewn hands. He slumped, shoulders sagging from an invisible burden. Seren watched him silently.
“I believe the Mourning Dawn exists for a purpose, Seren,” he said. “Think upon it. Every soul in its crew has been touched by war, darkened by it.”
“Even Gerith?” Seren asked. “He seems so happy.”
“Gerith has wandered for longer than you think,” Omax said. “For each joyful tale he tells, he carries ten tragedies. It is to his credit that he does not allow his memories to burden him. He is part of Ashrem’s legacy.”
“What do you mean?” Seren asked.
“Not Ashrem’s terrible invention,” Omax said. “His true legacy. His desire to preserve peace.” Omax placed the hat back on his domed skull. “I believe we are that legacy, Seren. A band of scattered souls who have been injured by war, driven to solitude. We are now family.” He looked up at her again. “The war stirs, Seren. It will send its servants to divide and destroy us. Now, more than ever, we must remain strong. Remain together.”
Seren looked away, staring back into the fountain.
“Is something wrong, Seren?” he asked.
“I was thinking about Dalan,” she said.
Omax chuckled. “Dalan needs the rest of us more than anyone,” he said. “It was a noble thing that Tristam did, to rescue him from Marth.”
“Maybe too noble,” Seren said. “He’s as deceitful as he ever was.”
Omax cocked his head in surprise. “Would you have abandoned him?”
“I still don’t trust him,” Seren said. “Since we learned he was in league with Marth, he’s been going out of his way to flatter and compliment us. It’s like he’s trying to distract us from something.”
“Or he has realized his former arrogance serves no purpose,” Omax said. “We should rejoice in the change. To ingratiate himself with others is his nature.”
“I’m not sure that’s entirely it,” she said. She reached into her cloak and drew out an envelope, affixed with a broken Cannith seal.
“What is that?” Omax asked.
“The letter he asked me to give Kiris Overwood if she refused to help,” Seren said. “It forced her to come with us. If not for this letter, she never would have come to the Ghost Talon village. Marth wouldn’t have killed her.”
“What does it say?” Omax said.
“I don’t know,” Seren said, standing and looking around the courtyard. “Kiris burned it, but I gathered the ashes before we escaped. If there’s any place to fix it, it’s here.”
“Do you require my aid, Seren?” Omax asked.
“Not for this, Omax,” she said, smiling at him. “I should be fine.”
The warforged bowed his head, returning to his meditation.
Seren walked back into the main estate, stopping the first servant she passed. The servant directed her to an office deeper in the house. There, a tired old Cannith clerk looked up at her blearily. From the collar of his robe she could see his dragonmark, the mirror image of Dalan’s own, crawling up the side of his neck. He took the envelope from her, glancing at its contents briefly before returning it with a frown.
“I am sorry,” he said. “My meager talents can do nothing to repair this. The damage is too great for magic to repair.”
Seren felt her heart sink. She nodded at the old man and mumbled soft thanks for his aid, then discarded the envelope in his fireplace. She walked back out into the hall.
A servant met her, offering to escort her to the chambers that had been prepared for her stay. She nodded her thanks and followed. She was shown to a small bed chamber, identical to the one where Tristam was still recovering. Seren removed her cloak and let it drop heavily on the floor.
One hand moved to her dagger when she felt eyes on her from the doorway. She turned to see Dalan standing there, his broad face expressionless.
“If you wished to know what my letter said,” he said, “you could have asked me.”
“Are you spying on me?” she asked.
Dalan laughed. “You are allowed to be suspicious of me, but the reverse is some dreadful sin? Hypocrisy. I wish to be honest, and all
you do is insult me.” Dalan smirked. “I cannot say I do not deserve such treatment. You and the others have risked much to aid me, and I have been ungrateful.”
“Then tell me what you told Kiris to change her mind,” Seren said, a hint of anger in her voice.
Dalan reached into his pocket and produced a white envelope, affixed with a fresh seal identical to the broken one that marked the old envelope. “I have a keen memory, and remember my words precisely,” Dalan said. “Read it, if you must.”
“How do I know you aren’t lying again?” she said.
“You do not,” he replied, setting the letter on the small table beside the door. “However, I believe the contents will leave little room for doubt.”
Seren took the envelope cautiously, as if it were some dangerous thing. She broke the seal and drew out the letter.
Miss Overwood
You remember me from the days of the Last War, when you served my uncle in his doomed quest for peace. You may recall that I am not a man given to empty threats, so look well to my words.
You followed Ashrem d’Cannith into ruin. What motivated you to offer your life for him, I cannot say. Now my uncle is dead, and you labor in the service of a madman.
I know Marth. I know the depths of his insanity. What’s more, many of the channels I used to contact him when we were allies remain open. As you serve his quest and interfere with mine, reflect upon this—it would be all too easy for me to convince him that you have turned against him.
If you have spent any length of time in his presence, you must know how that will end.
It is your choice. I cannot promise you safety among the crew of the Mourning Dawn, but I can promise you death if you deny me your aid.
The choice is yours.
Destroy this letter.
Dalan d’Cannith
Seren looked up at Dalan coldly.
“At the time, it still served my purposes to conceal my history with Marth,” Dalan said. “Thus I wished for her to destroy the letter. Now that we all know that uncomfortable truth, hiding the truth serves no further purpose. Do you believe what you have read is a lie?”