Flight of the Dying Sun (Heirs of Ash book 2

by Rich Wulf

  “Weak?” Tristam said. “You said the prince organized the Cyran refugees and led them to a new home in Breland.”

  “And from a certain perspective, that was weakness,” Dalan said. “Better to die Cyran than to live under Breland’s skirt.” He sipped deeply from his goblet.

  “Do you think the prince is weak?” Tristam asked.

  “Compromise is not weakness,” Dalan said. “In adapting, we survive. I admire Prince Oargev greatly for doing what he must to preserve the remnants of my homeland.” He looked at Tristam shrewdly. “Speaking of compromise, tell me what deal you made with Norra Cais to ensure her cooperation.”

  “There was no deal,” Tristam said. “I convinced her that we do not intend to rebuild the Legacy. I promised that I would do all I could to stop Marth. She believed she could offer more help by returning to Morgrave University.”

  “A strangely trusting outlook, given her brusque treatment of you in the past,” Dalan said. “I wish I would have had a chance to speak with her before she left the ship.”

  “So you could have convinced her to stay?” Tristam asked.

  Dalan smiled. The steady whine of the ship’s elemental ring changed tone, becoming a bass hum. The airship banked slightly, forcing Dalan to steady his cup with one hand.

  “I think we shall be landing soon,” the guild master said. “You should remain aboard the ship while I go speak with Devyn Marcho’s mother.”

  “No,” Tristam said. “I’m coming with you.”

  Dalan gave Tristam a long, unflinching look. “With a Thuranni assassin still stalking you?” he asked. “I do not think that is wise. You will be much safer aboard the ship.”

  “I’ll bring Seren with me,” he said. “She stopped him before.”

  Dalan laughed.

  “Why do you find that funny?” Tristam asked. “She nearly died protecting me from him.”

  “Oh, I don’t doubt Miss Morisse at all,” Dalan said with a pleasant smile. “I was planning to take her with me anyway. I was merely reflecting on how quickly we have come to rely upon her. If you feel that her protection is sufficient, then I will take your word. She has certainly proven herself capable.”

  Tristam nodded. He felt there was something more to Dalan’s reaction, but then that was to be expected. Even now, when he was being friendly and agreeable, Dalan was hiding things.

  “Tristam,” said Seren’s soft voice. She opened the door, the morning sun shining through her dark hair as she stood framed in the doorway. “We’re almost in New Cyre.”

  “Excellent,” Dalan said. He quickly polished off the remainder of his meal and rose, swallowing his drink in one gulp. Gunther emerged from beneath the bed, wagging his tail expectantly. Dalan dropped his platter on the floor beside several others like it. The dog eagerly began cleaning the dish.

  Gerith waited for them just outside the cabin. He handed Dalan a brown wrapped package with a conspiratorial grin. Dalan accepted it with humble gratitude.

  “What is that?” Tristam asked, looking at the package now tucked under Dalan’s arm.

  “An edge for our negotiations,” Dalan replied.

  “Master d’Cannith, I know your opinion of the New Cyran leadership,” Pherris said from the helm. “Regardless of your optimism, you do realize that we are flying directly toward a town known to house our enemy’s kin? I think perhaps it would be wise not to land within the town limits.”

  “Agreed,” Dalan said. “Just outside the walls should be fine. We’ll have ample cover to mask our arrival.”

  “Everyone else, remain on the ship,” Tristam said. “We shouldn’t be long, and if things go sour we may have to leave quickly. I don’t want to leave anyone behind.”

  Tristam noticed Dalan grinning at him silently.

  “What?” Tristam asked.

  “I was about to say much the same thing,” Dalan said.

  Tristam wasn’t sure if the idea that he and Dalan were thinking more alike was reassuring or disturbing.

  The ship descended swiftly, the elemental ring humming in its steady rhythm. The rolling hills of Breland spread out beneath them. New Cyre sat nestled at the base of a small range of rugged cliffs. The eastern sky churned a greasy, unsettling gray.

  “I expected the city to be bigger,” Seren said.

  “It’s a fair-sized town,” Dalan replied.

  “Maybe,” Tristam said, “but for the home of Cyre’s survivors, it’s smaller than Vulyar.”

  “Not all the survivors have accepted it as their new home,” Dalan said. “Not that there were many of us to start.”

  Karia Naille swooped down in a broad arc, circling well around the city and settling among the southern cliffs. Dalan, Seren, and Tristam climbed down the boarding ladder and hiked down to the main road. Tristam looked at Seren curiously. She wore a short dress of fine white silk under a long black coat, with black velvet boots.

  “Why are you dressed like that, Seren?” Tristam asked.

  “I’m pretending to be Dalan’s niece,” she said, looking at him earnestly. “I look foolish in this, don’t I?”

  “No,” he said quickly, obviously a little dumfounded. “Not at all.”

  Seren grinned.

  “I felt Seren would make the best bodyguard in New Cyre,” Dalan explained. “She provides adequate protection without standing out as much as Omax or Zed would.”

  “I feel underdressed,” Tristam said, shifting his baggy coat over his shoulders.

  “You’re fine,” Dalan said as he headed off toward the road. “Just pretend you’re my shabbily dressed bodyguard, or something.”

  Tristam shared an exhausted look with Seren, then followed.

  They were almost immediately met by a farmer and his sons on the way to town with a bushel of fresh fruit. The man greeted them amiably, tossing each of them an apple before continuing on his way. A pair of bored soldiers sat at the gates, playing a game of dice. One greeted Seren with a low whistle and a friendly grin, but they seemed otherwise unconcerned. The streets were clean, straight and uncluttered. The roofs of the houses were painted in a rainbow of colors, giving the entire town a welcome, cheerful appearance.

  “This certainly isn’t what I expected,” Tristam said.

  Dalan had been watching Tristam with an expectant grin. “And what did you expect?”

  “It’s …” Tristam searched for the right word. “Cheerful? It’s strange to me, after everything the Cyrans lost.”

  “They have one another,” Seren said.

  “Phrased with beautiful simplicity,” Dalan said. “You live in a beautiful world, Miss Morisse, but I’m not sure that I agree with your assessment. Cyre was the gem of Khorvaire. As a nation, we prided ourselves on craftsmanship, brotherhood, and beauty. The prince has gone to great lengths to ensure that the vision of Cyre is maintained. So long as New Cyre stands as a reflection of the Cyre that was, the people can perhaps believe, for a time, that Cyre has not perished. The illusion of Cyre gives them a sense of hope. Some tragedies can only be addressed by pretending that they never happened. Thus the forced cheer and mask of friendly hospitality.”

  “I like Seren’s explanation better,” Tristam said.

  “Then believe it,” Dalan said, shrugging. “I am a pessimist. But enough sightseeing, we have work to do here. Follow me. I have the address we require.”

  They passed through the streets, pausing occasionally to ask directions. Tristam studied the people carefully as they went about their daily lives. They looked normal, happy, and cheerful, but there was a certain edge. A hesitation before laughter. A moment of regret after a smile. Families walked with a space between them, as if leaving room for someone absent. Solitary figures huddled alone where they hoped none would see, sobbing quietly. New Cyre was a town of hope—but it was a fragile hope. Tristam sighed. Was he really starting to see the world the same way Dalan did?

  “This is the one,” Dalan said. The small house stood adjacent to a schoolhouse. A pack of child
ren ran and played in the yard outside, under the watchful eye of an elderly schoolmarm. Dalan approached the door and knocked briskly.

  “Can I help you, strangers?” said a thin voice. The old schoolmarm had risen and walked over to meet them. She looked at each of them warily, casting extra suspicion at Seren’s short skirt and leather surcoat.

  “Taria Marcho?” Dalan asked, smiling brightly.

  “I am she,” the old woman said.

  “Is Devyn your son?” Dalan asked.

  Taria’s face paled. One hand moved unconsciously to cover her mouth. “Has Devyn come to harm?” he asked.

  “My apologies,” Dalan said with a reassuring laugh. “I did not mean to alarm you. Devyn is quite well. I saw him only a few weeks ago. I am a friend of his.” He proffered the brown package. “I was merely in town and felt it proper to bring his sweet mother a gift. Fresh-baked cookies. Devyn sends his regards.”

  The old woman relaxed, her suspicion replaced with a friendly smile. “Thank you,” she said, accepting the package gratefully. “I worry about him so.”

  “The mother of a hero,” Dalan said. “You must be quite proud. Well, I shall take up no more of your time …” He tipped his hat and turned to walk away. Tristam looked at him, confused.

  “Wait, no,” Taria said. “Please, wait a moment.” She turned toward the schoolyard. “Rathen?”

  One of the older boys playing looked up at the sound of his name.

  “Keep an eye on the children, please,” she told him firmly. “I’m going inside for a bit to speak with my son’s friends. Children, listen to Rathen.”

  Rathen nodded obediently and stood up, immediately assuming the aura of cocky authority that children do when given command of other children. He gave Taria a little salute. She smiled at him and stepped into the house, gesturing for them to follow.

  “I apologize for appearing so unexpectedly,” Dalan said as he followed her inside. “I travel a great deal and am never sure where the road will take me.”

  “Of course,” she said sweetly. “My Devyn is the same way. His friends are welcome any time. Would you like tea? What did you say your name was again?”

  “I am Tomas,” he replied, taking a seat next to a small table when offered. “This is my niece, Arielle, and my bodyguard, Gorbus.”

  Tristam smiled stiffly at the sound of his new alias. He and Seren sat to eachside of Dalan. Tristam felt slightly dazed. As frustrating as Dalan’s manipulations could be when caught amid them, it was amazing to watch them from the other side. The old schoolmarm busied herself readying a pot of tea for her guests, singing happily to herself, her mood greatly cheered by news of her son’s well-being.

  “Gorbus?” Tristam whispered when Taria’s attention was elsewhere. “What kind of name is that?”

  Dalan chuckled. “I must confess this is something of a homecoming for my friend Gorbus,” Dalan said loudly, looking at the artificer with a wicked grin. “He is a lad eager to prove himself. My old war stories seem to have inspired him. He greatly admires Devyn.”

  Tristam raised an eyebrow at Dalan. Dalan nodded in encouragement.

  “A hero,” Tristam said. “I hope to one day prove to be as great, so that I may win the heart of winsome Arielle.”

  Seren giggled. Dalan frowned. Tristam could barely keep himself from laughing.

  Taria returned to the table, smiling fondly at each of them as she poured tea into four cups and arranged the cookies. “You fought beside my Devyn, Tomas?” she asked.

  “Indeed,” Dalan lied as he sipped his tea and selected a large cookie. “Though the injuries I sustained at Vathirond required that I retire from active service.” He patted his right leg and winced. “My only regret is that I do not continue to serve Cyre as Devyn does.”

  “Devyn only does as his prince commands,” Taria said with obvious pride. She sat down across from them, clutching her teacup in her small hands.

  Dalan looked at Tristam meaningfully. “The prince?” Tristam asked. “I didn’t know that Cyre still maintained an army.”

  Taria looked suddenly uncomfortable.

  “It’s all right,” Dalan said. “Gorbus is half Lhazaarite, hence his revolting name. His father was a mercenary who made Cyre his home, but his mother was a dear friend. He is Cyran, born and raised.”

  The old woman nodded and leaned forward in her chair, a conspiratorial grin twisting her features. “It’s nothing official,” she said, “but Devyn told me that the prince has been keeping an eye out for patriots—soldiers who haven’t forgotten what it means to be Cyran. I was worried after the Day of Mourning. Devyn didn’t know what to do with himself. We were …” She sipped her tea quietly and swallowed. “We were the only ones left, but it was like he just kept fighting.” Her distant frown was replaced with a cheerful smile. “Now he’s on a secret mission for the prince. I’m so proud.”

  “As well you should be,” Dalan said. “It was mere chance that I encountered him. Of course I can’t say where, for reasons of security.”

  “Of course,” Taria said, happy to be part of the conspiracy.

  “It must be very difficult for you, Taria,” Seren said. “Has your son kept in touch with you at all?”

  “He writes whenever he can,” she said. She rose from her chair, returning to the kitchen and taking a small wooden box from atop the cupboard. “He isn’t supposed to, of course, but since his brothers and father died he’s tried so hard to stay close.” The box was filled with dozens of speaker posts, all neatly stacked.

  “He hasn’t mentioned anything about his missions, has he?” Dalan asked.

  “Oh, no,” Taria said. “Of course not. Nothing like that. It’s mostly poetry. He’s such a sweet boy. Read some, if you like.”

  “Thank you,” Seren said. She smiled sweetly and took the box, leafing through the crisp pages.

  “Ah, curse my clumsy fingers,” Dalan muttered as his cup tumbled from his fingers, spilling tea onto the floor. He drew a broad handkerchief from his vest with a flourish and knelt awkwardly to clean up the mess. “Terribly sorry.”

  “No, no, it’s all right,” Taria said soothingly. “You sit, I’ll get that.” She rose and walked back into the kitchen, searching for a wash rag.

  Seren waited a moment to make sure she was gone and deftly snatched a few of the letters from the stack, folding them and tucking them into her shirt. She continued reading innocently as Taria returned.

  “Let me get that,” Tristam offered gallantly, taking the wet rags from her. The old woman smiled gratefully as Tristam began cleaning up the mess.

  “These are quite good,” Seren observed as she read. “Simple verse structure, but very visceral. Devyn has a talent.”

  “You like poetry?” Tristam asked, surprised.

  “I do,” Seren said, seeming slightly offended by the question.

  “All women do,” Dalan said. “Don’t be an idiot, Gorbus.”

  Tristam blinked in dumb silence. Seren gave him an impish grin and kept reading.

  “Odd that Devyn never struck me as the poetic sort,” Dalan said. “Amazing, what you can learn about someone. We all have such depths.”

  “He really only started writing on the Day of Mourning,” Taria said. “Petik, my oldest, was the writer. His plays were performed in the Grand Globe of Metrol. I think Devyn feels he should take up where Petik left off.”

  “The souls who faded on the Day of Mourning never truly left us,” Dalan said, finishing his cookie.

  Taria began to reply, but a the sound of a mailed fist beating urgently on the door interrupted. She looked up with an irritated frown, stood, and moved toward the door. It burst open before she arrived. The old woman drew back with a startled shriek. Six Cyran guardsmen stood at the door, weapons drawn. Their eyes searched the room urgently before settling on Tristam.

  “Tristam Xain,” the leader said. “In the name of King Boranel, you are under arrest for the murder of Dalan d’Cannith.”

  “Well, this i
s ironic,” Dalan said dryly.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The iron door closed with a reverberating clang. The cell was cramped and dark, with a low ceiling and only one small window to admit the light. Dalan seated himself with a long groan. Tristam ignored him, listening at the door until the guards’ footsteps had receded. When they were gone, he rattled the cell door experimentally and leaned against the bars.

  “Seren, can you hear me?” he called out. “Are you there?”

  “I’m here,” she answered from an unseen cell further down the hall. “I’m fine.”

  Tristam knelt and studied the lock. He patted himself down, searching for any tool he could use to probe at the door, but found nothing. His wand, coat, and tools had been taken from him, leaving him in just a loose tunic and breeches. All he had remaining was a pack of tindertwigs. He struck one against the wall, sparking a small flame as he searched the floor for anything he could use.

  “Relax, Tristam,” Dalan said, leaning back against the wall. “This really is not the time for heroics.”

  “I thought you would criticize me for not fighting the guards,” Tristam asked.

  “That was understandable,” Dalan said. “We were outnumbered. Though I do not enjoy being imprisoned, I think you acted wisely.”

  Tristam looked at Dalan. “But if we weren’t outnumbered, it would have been acceptable to blast them with lightning? With all those children playing twenty feet away?” He cursed as the tindertwig’s flame bit his fingers. He shook it out and threw it aside, lighting another.

  “Why must you be so belligerent, Tristam?” Dalan said, sighing. “There are any number of reasons fighting would have been foolish. Do not presume that yours are superior to mine. If you truly wish to take the moral high ground, consider that those guards are not Marth’s soldiers. They were only doing their duty. Remember that you are still wanted for murder and have done nothing to clear your name.”

  “You’re the one they think I murdered!” Tristam said, exasperated. “Why don’t you tell them who you are and get us out of this?”

  “Because it would serve no purpose,” Dalan said. “Even if I told them the truth, we would be detained here until that truth could be verified. Consider our situation, Tristam. Wroat is over a thousand miles from here. No one knows me in New Cyre. Why would they have arrested you so quickly for a crime committed so far away? Those guards were spurred to action.”