by Rich Wulf
“I’m not sure,” Tristam said. “I don’t remember saying anything.”
“I would think the answer was obvious,” rumbled a deep voice from the depths of the cavern.
What had appeared to be an icy boulder moments before now shifted. A slender neck detached itself from its heart, tapering to a blunt head crowned with a sharp crest. Its scales, so dense and white that they had appeared to be pure ice, now shimmered in the light. A thick, powerfully muscled forearm emerged, grinding the stone beneath its claws. Two broad wings unfurled, casting a gentle wind over Tristam and Ijaac. The creature stretched lazily as it emerged from its slumber. A throbbing blue flame burned on the floor at the center of where it had lain. Tristam recognized it from his vision—the Dragon’s Eye—though it seemed smaller than before.
“The human spoke my language,” the dragon said. “The human spoke Draconic.”
EIGHTEEN
Dalan grunted uncomfortably as he climbed up the stairs. His feet ached terribly, and his back was sore. His vision blurred from hours of poring over heraldic manuscripts. He was no longer a young man and had never been a fit man. He detested walking and had done far too much of it in the past few days. Since the Legacy had released its power over Stormhome, the city had been a mess. Coach services were entirely disrupted. Most horses had been committed to help with hauling debris from the sections of the city where the damage had been most severe. Dalan was not quite loose enough with his money to meet the exorbitant fees the few remaining hostlers required.
Dalan paused at a window to look out at the city. It was amazing how rapidly the Lyrandar had recovered from Marth’s unprovoked attack. The burning rings of airships hovered over the city again, and the streets were crowded once more. The differences were subtle but significant. Squads of armored Aundairian soldiers now patrolled at every street corner. At least one wizard or artificer accompanied every group, alert for any signs of suspicious magic. Though the Lyrandar wished to portray the image that their business would continue unhindered, they had not forgiven the injury done to them.
Memories of the night still weighed heavily on Dalan’s mind. He had known that Marth was a wicked man, a murderer who imagined himself a patriot. Even this seemed beyond him. To cause so much destruction, to kill so many simply to hinder an enemy, it was unthinkable.
Worse, it was sloppy. Marth’s gambit had failed. It was the first obvious mistake the changeling had made, and an enemy’s failure always smelled of opportunity.
Stormhome flew an Aundairian flag, but Aundair did not rule here. Stormhome was a House Lyrandar city, and Dalan knew how the dragonmarked houses operated. Their pride was of utmost importance. If other houses and nations did not respect them, conduction business across the lands of Eberron would become impossible. Having restored order to their city, maintaining face would be House Lyrandar’s primary concern. They would be seeking retribution against the enemy who had wounded Stormhome.
Given his standing in House Cannith, Dalan could easily arrange an audience with the Lyrandar matriarch. From there, it was only a matter of revealing just enough to drive a Lyrandar thorn into Marth’s side without interfering with his own search for the Legacy. Already he had overturned a few interesting names and locations. A bit more research and he would have all the information he would require. So long as Karia Naille returned safely from the Frostfell, Marth’s act of thoughtless violence may well result in his losing substantial ground.
Such meddling would have to wait. There was a good possibility that Marth was still within the city, waiting and watching. Without the security of the Karia Naille, Dalan was forced to move cautiously, using one of several well-cultivated aliases. Once Xain had returned, he could begin to pull the strings once again. Dalan allowed himself a self-congratulatory chuckle as he opened the door to his rented apartment. His pleasure faded quickly. He saw Gunther’s eyes shining in the darkness underneath his bed. Usually it was all he could do to keep from being knocked prone by his pet upon returning home. Something was wrong.
“Hello, Dalan,” said a mellow voice from inside. “Please, come in. You know me well enough not to run.”
Dalan tucked his key into his pocket and sighed. He stepped into the tiny room, closing the door behind him. A small, blond man in an elegant black suit lounged in a chair near the window. His keen blue eyes watched Dalan carefully over the rim of a crystal goblet.
“Time has not diminished your exquisite sense of taste, Dalan,” the elf said, nodding at the wine bottle on the table. “Let the fools argue the merits of Aundairian wine. Darguun hides hidden treasures of the vine that the Five Nations will never grasp. Rhukaan Taash bloodwine is divinity given form. I suspect it is the sole reason that the Sovereign Host tolerates the existence of a goblin nation.” He closed his eyes and sipped, a rapturous expression overcoming his handsome features.
“Did you break into my room just to steal my liquor, Shaimin?” Dalan asked, sitting across from the assassin. Gunther crawled timidly out from under the bed, hiding behind his master. Dalan scratched the old dog’s ears gently.
Shaimin sneered. “Please, Dalan,” he said. “The security in this hovel is so lax that you may as well have left the door unlocked. Besides, would you not have shared your drink with me if you knew I was visiting?”
“That depends,” Dalan said. “Did you come to kill me?”
“Not today,” Shaimin said.
“Then, by all means, let us drink,” Dalan said. He took a small cup from his nightstand and poured the wine into it, then held it up toward the elf.
“A toast?” Shaimin asked with a light laugh. “To what are we drinking?”
“To my uncle, Ashrem,” Dalan said. “To his brilliant legacy.”
The elf’s eyes narrowed, and then he smiled. “To Old Ash, then,” he said, lifting his glass and letting it clink faintly against Dalan’s cup. The two men drank silently for a moment.
“How did you find me?” Dalan asked.
“I was watching when Karia Naille took off,” he said. “I saw you remain behind. I have been following you ever since, save for the occasional intermission to enjoy the local theatre. Even in the wake of recent events, the play schedules remain unaltered. Don’t you find that extraordinary?”
“If you intend to use me as a hostage,” Dalan said, ignoring Shaimin’s tangent, “then you overestimate my value. Tristam Xain would not risk his life for me.”
Dalan watched the elf carefully, weighing his reaction. If Shaimin knew Dalan’s words were a lie, then the assassin had been working with Marth all along and knew about the Seventh Moon’s crash on the plains. If not, then he had only recently entered to the game. The difference was subtle, but significant.
Shaimin shrugged. “I never presumed Tristam would save you,” he said. “No offense, my friend, but you aren’t the sort of man for whom others would risk themselves.”
Dalan smiled bitterly. “No,” he said. “I suppose that I am not. What do you want, Shaimin?”
“To renew the relationship that benefited us both so greatly all those years ago,” Shaimin said with a bemused grin. “An equal exchange of information.”
“Equal?” Dalan asked. “You don’t have anything information I want—at least nothing you would volunteer. The only questions I have regard Captain Marth, and I know you won’t betray an employer.”
“Betrayal is a strong word,” the elf replied. “I return the faith that is placed in me. Captain Marth has offered me very little.”
“What do you mean?” Dalan asked, intrigued.
“I know that our mutual associate was responsible for the chaos in Stormhome last week,” Shaimin said. “He issued me a warning only a few hours previous so that I might move to safety.” The elf’s handsome face twisted in a scowl. “The captain was quite upset that your vessel was somehow unaffected by the Legacy, but my sympathy was limited. I do not appreciate being commissioned for a task and then not being trusted to complete it unaided. Marth should ha
ve left it to me. Had his rash act not expedited your ship’s departure from Stormhome, Xain would be dead now.”
Dalan scoffed.
“You doubt me?” Shaimin asked. “Your paladin, the Marshal, was quite the creature of habit. She left Karia Naille every day at dusk to pray at Boldrei’s shrine near the northern docks. She would have been alone and unprepared. Most of her divine power would have expended tending to the wounded girl, because you have no other healers on your ship. When Eraina did not return, Tristam would have become nervous, desperate, and set out to find her. That would have been all the opportunity I required. The inquisitive, the halfling, the warforged, none of them could act quickly enough to stop me from striking a single killing blow.”
“Oh?” Dalan asked. “Seren did. Twice.”
The elf’s face darkened. “Which brings me to the purpose of this conversation,” Dalan said. “Seren. Who is she?”
“Do I detect wounded elf pride?” Dalan asked, tossing back the rest of his wine and pouring himself another cup. He held the bottle toward Shaimin and lifted an eyebrow curiously.
Shaimin smiled gratefully and tipped his empty goblet under the bottle to be refilled. “Perhaps you do,” the assassin admitted. “I am not a man who is well accustomed to failure, and this assignment has been curiously difficult from the beginning. I like to fancy that I am a flexible sort of fellow, quite able to rapidly adapt to a variety of situations. To be deflected by such a … such a nothing … is quite galling.”
“Believe me, I sympathize,” Dalan said, setting the bottle down. “Seren Morisse is a great deal more complex than she appears. She is Roland’s student.”
Shaimin’s eyes widened. “She was trained by Jamus Roland?”
“She was something of an apprentice to him,” Dalan said, frowning into his cup. “Until Marth murdered Roland several weeks ago. Marth hired Roland to perform a task on his behalf. Roland did not perform to Marth’s expectations, so Marth killed him.”
Shaimin said nothing. His blue eyes were lost in memory. The corner of his mouth twitched in an uncomfortable frown. “You know the danger Xain is in,” Shaimin said. “You would say anything to leverage my emotions, to try to save him.”
“Indeed,” Dalan agreed, “but that does not change the fact that Marth did kill Roland.”
“If you mean to imply that I will suffer the same fate as Roland, you underestimate me,” Shaimin said.
“Nothing of the sort,” Dalan replied. “I remember when you were Roland’s comrade, as I was. I should think you would not appreciate his murder.”
“That depends if what you say is true,” Shaimin said, “and it does not alter my obligations. Once my debt is repaid, I shall have words with the former Captain Thardis. Until then, Tristam Xain’s death is merely a matter of time.”
“Isn’t everyone’s?” Dalan asked.
Shaimin chuckled. “I have missed your cold pragmatism, Dalan,” he said. “No other man in Eberron could sit and drink with me while I calmly discussed murdering his friend, well aware and unperturbed that there was nothing you could do to stop me.”
“Or perhaps I am confident that there is no need to stop you,” Dalan said. “What ties you to Marth, Shaimin? Did he save your life?”
Shaimin laughed. “My life?” the elf asked. “I would not grant my services in return for my life. My life is not worth so much.”
“Then what?” Dalan asked. “You offered an exchange of information, but you have given me nothing.”
“I would have thought that simply asking you for help would be treasure enough, d’Cannith,” Shaimin said. “You were always a man who learned a great deal more than was said to him.”
“Not always,” Dalan replied. “You have always been difficult to read, thus I have learned little. So tell me this.”
“If you wish,” Shaimin said, setting his glass down carefully on the table. “Years ago, I was working in the embassy of the Cyran ambassador to Breland, acting as a private political adjutant for certain anonymous Thrane interests.”
“A spy,” Dalan said.
“How crude,” Shaimin said, frowning. “Please, don’t interrupt.”
“My apologies,” Dalan said.
“At any rate, my primary contact was exposed without my knowledge,” Shaimin continued. “To save his own life, he sold my identity to a particularly brutal Brelish constable. I was captured, tortured, and interrogated at length.” Shaimin drummed his fingers gently on the table as he dwelled upon the dark memory. “Marth—Orren Thardis at the time—delivered me from my imprisonment. After I had wrought vengeance upon the good constable, Captain Thardis offered me safe haven among the crew of Albena Tors until such a time as the Brelish authorities abandoned their search for me.”
“I thought you said Marth didn’t save your life,” Dalan said.
“An irrelevant side effect,” Shaimin said. “Marth salvaged my reputation—that which endures long after we are gone, the name which I borrow from my ancestors and must return upon my death. Revenge is very important to my House, d’Cannith. No slight can go unpunished. I told Marth that I owed him a life, and after all this time he has come to call in his debt.”
“I see,” Dalan said.
“So surely you can see why Seren’s interference is so perplexing,” Shaimin said. “I feel now as I did back in Breland—as if forces outside my control have rendered my skills inadequate for the task to which I have directed myself.”
“Then you were wise to seek my aid, Shaimin,” Dalan said.
Shaimin looked surprised. “What is this, d’Cannith?” he asked. “I sense trickery.”
“Not at all,” Dalan replied. “To my own surprise, I agree with you. We are both rational men. We like things simple. Complexity has polluted our lives. I believe we can help one another.”
“My help is expensive,” Shaimin said.
“Fortunately I have money,” Dalan said.
“Interesting,” Shaimin said. “Tell me what you have in mind.”
NINETEEN
Tristam had never seen a true dragon before. The creature radiated power and majesty. He towered over them as he advanced from the darkness, gazing down with detached curiosity. He moved with sinuous grace, pacing in a wide circle around them, eyes fixed upon the two intruders. The creature’s body rippled with muscle, sheathed in scales of pure white. A crown of short horns curled from the brow of his large, blunt head. Piercing eyes of sparkling silver bored down at them as his lip curled to reveal rows of small, sharp teeth. His short, thick tail stood straight behind him, serving as a balance for the dragon’s long neck. A pair of leathery wings gently fanned the air as he stretched lazily.
Tristam tried to will himself to move, to run, to use his wand against the dragon, anything, but could not. Fear suffused him, pinning him in place. Ijaac’s morningstar shook in his hands. Fear had paralyzed the old dwarf paralyzed.
“What is your name, human?” the dragon demanded.
Tristam’s mind raced. There was no hope of fighting such a creature physically. Fortunately, the dragon appeared curious and hesitant to kill him. For the moment, it seemed he had a chance. He remembered the vision he had experienced upon his arrival, and a mad idea came to him.
“I am Tristam Xain,” he said. “I am the conqueror as foretold in the Prophecy.”
The dragon considered his words for a long, agonizing moment.
“Welcome, Master Xain,” he said, taking a step towards him. His claws tore gouges in the hard ice floor. “Zamiel told me you would come one day.”
Tristam wasn’t sure whether the dragon’s reaction was relieving or even more terrifying. Marth had mentioned the name Zamiel when they faced each other on Seventh Moon.
“Where is the prophet?” the dragon asked. His voice was smooth and sibilant, reverberating through the caverns in and endless stir of echoes. “I find it odd that he would leave you to wander the ruins alone.”
“Though no man can rise without guidance, the con
queror must ultimately find his path alone,” Tristam said, lifting his chin and meeting the dragon’s gaze. It sounded like something Omax would say.
The creature tilted his head and drummed one claw on the stone. “Quite so,” he said. “Or so Zamiel tells me.” His eyes moved to the dwarf. “But why did you bring this thing with you?”
“An insignificant servant,” Tristam said, shrugging. “His destiny is too small to hinder mine.”
Ijaac looked at Tristam blankly, then at the dragon. “Aye, servant, that I am!” the dwarf said, nodding eagerly as he dove into the lie. “Been with Master Xain for years now. Ask me? Couldn’t have picked a finer conqueror. With Xain, consider it conquered, and that’s that.”
The dragon’s mouth twitched in irritation, revealing the tip of one long fang. “Do I know you, dwarf?”
“That will do, Ijaac,” Tristam said, looking down at the dwarf.
“Aye,” Ijaac said contritely. “Forgive me, Master,” he added for good measure.
“Xain,” the dragon said, the word resounding through the caverns. “I am Mercheldethast, guardian and steward of Zul’nadn. You are welcome here, as your predecessors were, so long as you remember your place. Know that the Draconic Prophecy has destroyed conquerors who have failed to meet their destiny. I have seen many like you fall without ever meeting their potential.”
“Many?” Tristam asked. “How long have you been here?”
The dragon regarded him suspiciously. “It has been our eternal duty to safeguard this place,” he said. “I have admitted no mortal into the presence of the Prophecy or the Eye without the prophet Zamiel’s sanction. Only he determines who will rise.”
“No mortal?” Tristam asked.
“None,” Mercheldethast answered. “Though many were not aware of their destiny, or of my presence. How little has Zamiel told you? I thought he already learned the lesson of ill-guided conquerors.”