by Rich Wulf
“What is it, Tristam?” Omax asked, looking at him with concern.
“Nothing,” Tristam said. “Still shaking off the effects of those spirits, I guess.” He hated himself for the lie.
An explosion resounded from around the corner of the building. Tristam ducked behind the foundation of a large conductor stone, gesturing for the others to follow. A seething mass of red flame oozed around the corner of the building. It spread over the street, leaving sizzling cobblestones in its wake. Tendrils of swaying fire tasted the air like antennae. It rolled aimlessly, pausing in front of the rail station doors, waiting.
“That’s one of the things I told you about, Tristam,” Gerith whispered. “The living spells.”
Tristam gestured for the halfling to be quiet. The fireball bumped against the doors of the rail station. The field of pure white energy flickered over the doors. The spell forced itself against the doors a second time, but the shield held. A pinpoint of brighter energy pulsed deep within the flaming mass. It unleashed violent gouts of flame in an explosive display. The shield shuddered as white energy crackled around the entire substation. Tristam flinched, ducking back behind the corner of the conductor stone. The living spell shrieked and rolled away from the door, veins of white magic tearing through its form. It tumbled aimlessly away from the building, roaring in mindless agony.
“The door is warded,” Seren said.
“But who warded it?” Tristam asked, running quickly toward the station doors. He whispered softly as he traced one hand around door frame. A web of magical energy came to life, surrounding the door. He could see similar shields covering the rest of the building as far as he could see.
“It’s not just this door,” he said in amazement. “Every door. Every window. There’s no way to get inside without triggering the shields.”
“Can you dispel them?” Seren asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. He leaned close to the door handles, studying the protective weave of energy. “It’s very powerful and complex. I’ve rarely seen anything like this. If I hadn’t seen that living spell get repelled, I wouldn’t even be able to say for sure what the ward does.”
“Old Orien wards?” Omax asked.
“Doubtful,” Tristam said. “The Orien wouldn’t waste this kind of magic locking up a public building. This looks recent and well maintained.”
“Someone is inside,” Seren said.
“Marth?” Ijaac asked.
“This doesn’t look like Marth’s magic,” Tristam said. “It’s difficult to explain but it’s too … orderly.”
“If anyone’s in there, they’ve either been in there for a while or there’s another exit,” Gerith said. “The only tracks I see other than our own are the burn marks that spell left.”
“Then at least we got here before Marth did,” Tristam said. “Everyone get back a bit. I don’t want you to be close if something goes wrong opening these doors.”
The others nodded and backed away, though Seren hesitated. She kissed his cheek impulsively and wished him luck before withdrawing. He gave her an encouraging smile and returned his attention to the door.
Judging from the way the ward had reacted to the living spell, Tristam knew that the magic was only dangerous if he attempted to force entry. Touching the building would do no harm. He removed his gloves and placed them on the surface of the door, hoping to get a better feel for the enchantment before attempting to remove it.
The magical field immediately faded and the doors parted with a metal click.
“Wow, that was fast, Tristam,” Gerith said. He clapped his little hands, greatly impressed.
“I didn’t even do anything,” Tristam said, replacing his gloves and looking back at them in bewilderment. “It just opened.”
“Good enough for me,” Ijaac said, stomping past him and holding out his morningstar to light the way. “Let’s see what we’ve found.”
Tristam followed the dwarf inside. A small vestibule opened into a large, grand chamber. As it happened, the dwarf’s light was unnecessary. Enchanted stones shone in the torch sconces, casting a radiance that reflected in the stained glass dome that served as a roof. The floor was covered in shining marble tile, as clean and flawless as if the Day of Mourning had never been. Velvet ropes marked the course intended for prospective passengers. Tristam gasped as a group of travelers walked directly toward them and passed through like phantoms, oblivious to their presence.
The walls on each side of the station had once been exposed to the open air, but were now blocked by thick gates of sculpted iron. Three lines of conductor stones passed through the chamber, entering through the east gate and departing through the west. Three silver coaches stood ready, hovering several feet above the rail. A shimmering circle of lightning encircled the head of each coach and sparked through the stones mounted on the base of the vehicle.
“An illusion,” Tristam said, putting his hand through a passing phantom.
The vision of the rail station flickered and faded, replaced by the reality of an empty, discarded ruin. The floor was littered with corpses, untouched by decay due to the bizarre magic that suffused this place. There were no living people, no light save the twilight glow that filtered through the shattered skylight. One of the lightning coaches still hovered over the tracks, the stones beneath it still crackling with faint. The second coach had fallen from the stone rail and now lay crippled on its side. The third was a demolished heap, having surrendered to years of neglect and corrosion. At the far side of the enormous chamber, the massive bulk of an airship lay among the ruins of the rail station. Its elemental ring was long doused. Tristam recognized it immediately.
“Dying Sun,” the artificer whispered, awed that it was still intact.
The illusion of the living rail station resumed, phantom travelers passing through them in each direction. Gerith moved out of their path, his glidewing hopping nervously beside him.
“How did the Sun get here?” Seren asked, staring at the ship in wonder. “What is this place?”
“Doesn’t look like she crashed,” Tristam said, studying the ship as illusion and reality alternated before his eyes. “Her structure seems to be in good condition.”
“Ashrem built his ships to last,” Omax said, impressed.
“Who speaks my name?” asked a hollow voice from the shadows of a ticket booth.
Tristam drew his wand immediately, and whirled to face the voice. A tall man stepped out of the darkness, his limbs crackling with a nimbus of shimmering magic. Tristam’s wand tumbled from his numb fingers and bounced noisily on the marble floor.
“Who is that?” Ijaac asked, looking at Tristam urgently. “Friend or foe?”
Tristam could not speak, so it was Omax that answered.
“That is Ashrem d’Cannith,” the warforged said.
“No,” Tristam said, collecting his wits and stepping toward the spectral figure. “It’s not.”
“A ghost?” Gerith asked, drawing his crossbow.
“I hate ghosts,” Ijaac grumbled. “Always coming back from the dead and complicating things.”
“It’s not a ghost,” Tristam said. He snatched up his wand and circled the figure of Ashrem, looking at it curiously. “Not exactly.” Ashrem looked back at Tristam, his expression calm. Tristam put his hand through Ashrem’s chest. A burst of sparking orange light surrounded his fingers. Ashrem looked down at the arm piercing his body, unconcerned. The phantom extended his own hand toward Tristam. His arm dissipated in a swirling cloud of energy as it touched the artificer’s chest.
“Pure magic,” Ashrem said. “Wild magic. I am a memory of what was, like the figments in this train station.” Ashrem gestured at the bustling crowd around them. “I am an echo of Ashrem d’Cannith. I am a memory of who he was on the Day of Mourning.”
“Like the living spells outside,” Seren said. “Carrying out their last command forever.”
“Precisely,” Ashrem said. The phantom smiled.
Tristam
drew his hand back, staring at his fingertips as motes of light danced around them. “A figment that knows it’s real?” Tristam said, amazed. “Are these others aware as well?”
“No,” Ashrem said. He pulled his hand away from Tristam. It instantly reformed as it had been. The phantom looked at the tips of his fingers thoughtfully. “Unlike these others, I retain enough of Ashrem’s logic and arcane knowledge to recognize what I am and accept it. I am a magical construct, formed from rampant energies of illusion and abjuration, fused in this phantasmal form. Trapped here, knowing that I cannot exist beyond the magical phenomenon that has suffused this station, has been difficult. My memories are complete in many ways, but fragmented and bare in others. Ashrem d’Cannith’s strength of character has given me the strength to abide, but I am not … real. I must say that it is good to meet you at last, Tristam.”
“An abjuration,” Tristam said. “So you’re you the one that warded the station?”
“I am,” Ashrem said. “I keep out the living spells, mournful undead, and curious grave robbers. My purpose is to fulfill Ashrem d’Cannith’s will.”
“So Ashrem d’Cannith is dead?” Omax asked gravely.
“Truth be told, I don’t know,” the phantom admitted, surprised by the question. “I don’t remember dying. I remember Albena Tors crashing through the skylight. I remember Marth leaping down through the skylight, challenging me … demanding that I stop.”
“Stop what?” Tristam asked.
“Stop the future,” Ashrem said. “I came to stop the future.” His gaze was unfocused as he remembered. His voice was distant. “I was told the Day of Mourning was approaching. The War would end. All that I needed to do was stand aside, do nothing … but Cyre would die.”
“Told by who?” Tristam asked.
“Zamiel,” Ashrem said. “Do not trust him, Tristam. Do not aid him.”
“Aid him?” Tristam asked. “Why would I aid him?”
“He showed me a grand vision of the Draconic Prophecy,” Ashrem said. “A mortal conqueror brought everlasting peace through use of the Legacy. In my arrogance I thought I could rise above the darker visions of the prophecy—but fate would not be denied. I tried to step away from the conqueror’s destiny. I dismantled the Legacy and tried to turn my back on Zamiel. This was his vengeance. Those who will not abide by the Prophecy’s demands will be ground beneath it.”
“What does Marth have to do with this?” Tristam asked, looking at Dying Sun’s dark hulk. “Why did he follow you to Cyre?”
“For Kiris,” Ashrem said. “Marth loved her. She wished to stand beside me, even at the end.”
“Then why did you come here if you knew that Cyre would die?” Tristam demanded.
“I do not know,” Ashrem said. “There is not enough of Ashrem left within me to remember that. Perhaps I had some plan to stop the Day of Mourning and it failed? Perhaps I had no plan and wished only to die beside my countrymen? Perhaps the true Ashrem lives and his true plan has yet to unfold.”
“What is your purpose?” Tristam pressed. “You say you exist to fulfill Ashrem’s will, but you didn’t say what that will was.”
“To protect Dying Sun until the heir of Ash arrives,” the figment said. “I was waiting for you, Tristam.”
“Me?” Tristam said, shocked. “But Ashrem cast me out. Why would he want me to have his ship?”
“I cannot say,” the vision said. “I know only that he thought of you often. As the mists swallowed Cyre, he thought of you. The last thing I remember before I became what I am is the certainty that you would put things right.”
Tristam looked at the corner of the rail station. The illusions flickered again, revealing the shadowed mass of Dying Sun. The ship was constructed much differently from the Mourning Dawn. Only two struts supported the elemental ring, projecting from the sides. This granted the ship greater durability but less maneuverability. It also meant that the ship had survived all of these years sitting on its hull without snapping her struts. If the elemental was still bound to the ship’s core, Dying Sun might well fly again. Possibilities formed in Tristam’s head. He knew how durable Ashrem’s airships were, how a skilled artificer could restore them from even the most grievous damage. What if he could repair the Sun? Tristam could have a ship of his own, a vessel that could fly free of Dalan’s manipulations and machinations.
“Tristam?” Seren asked. She looked at him, worried. “Tristam, say something.”
“I’m sorry, Ashrem,” Tristam said, shaking his head to clear it. “I didn’t come to claim Dying Sun. I came to destroy her so that the Legacy will never be completed.”
Ashrem frowned. “Stopping Zamiel’s plans is not so easy, Tristam,” the figment said. “If destroying Dying Sun would avert the prophecy, Ashrem would have done so himself. The Sun was profoundly changed when Ashrem mingled her energies with the Dragon’s Eye. You should not destroy her. She can help you find the truth.”
“How?” Tristam demanded. “What are you talking about?”
“The elemental that sleeps within the ship,” Ashrem’s vision said. “It speaks to me, Tristam. There are other sources of power, like the Dragon’s Eye. It can sense them. It can lead you to them. If you truly wish to end the threat the Legacy represents, then they, too, must be extinguished.”
The illusory station flickered and vanished again, leaving them in darkness. Tristam scowled at the phantom in silent frustration.
“What do we do, Tristam?” Gerith asked in a quiet voice. “Are we still destroying the ship?”
“No,” Tristam said. “Take Blizzard and go back to the Karia Naille. Tell Pherris to keep a safe altitude and wait there. And bring me my tools.”
TWENTY-SIX
The Vathirond dock officials were taking their time, checking each traveler’s documentation one by one. Eraina and Zed had been waiting patiently in the line to board the ferry for nearly an hour. Ahead of them in line, a fat man struggled vainly to keep his two bored little boys from fighting over a bag of candy. Behind them, a happy woman clutched what appeared to be a wicker cage containing a live chicken. Zed had spent his idle time studying each of the other passengers. Without speaking a word to any of them he knew where each of them had come from and where each was headed. He was bored and mildly disappointed that nothing would surprise him on this trip.
“Something is bothering you,” Eraina said, interrupting his daydreaming.
Zed looked at Eraina, trying to keep his face as blank as he could. “Why do you say that?” he said, glancing back at the front of the line.
“You haven’t complained the entire time we’ve been here,” she said. “Not even about this interminable wait. That’s peculiar for you. What’s more, you haven’t contaminated the air with that foul pipeweed since we landed.”
“Black Pit Blend isn’t foul,” he countered. “It’s downright terrible. It’s the worst tobacco in all of Khorvaire.”
“Then why do you smoke it?” she asked.
Zed shrugged, shifting his shoulders in his baggy cloak. “I’m trying to quit smoking,” he said. “I figured if I made the experience as unpleasant as possible, it’d be easier to stop. Hasn’t worked out so far.”
“Amusing,” Eraina said with a faint grin. “Your attempt to change the subject has been noted, Arthen.”
“I’m not trying to change the subject,” Zed replied. “You asked me why I smoke.” He looked around carefully, trying not to meet her eyes.
“You know I can tell when you lie,” she said. “You should just try not answering the question. It works much better for you.”
“Looks like we’re up,” Zed said as the guards waved them forward.
Eraina sighed in irritation and stepped forward.
“State your name and business,” a bored guard asked.
“Sentinel Marshal Eraina d’Deneith,” she said, displaying her badge and papers. “I am traveling to Nathyrr on official business on behalf of my house.”
The guard glanced at he
r papers for a moment, then waved her through, gesturing to Zed. “State your name and business,” he said.
Zed handed the man a crumpled sheaf of papers. The guard looked at the documents curiously and handed them back.
“What’s the reason for this trip, Master Arthen?” the guard asked.
“Don’t give me any trouble, boy,” Zed growled. “I just need to go home.”
The guard frowned and looked at his older partner. The other guard’s expression shifted from bored to irritated.
“It’s no trouble, Master Arthen,” the other guard said. “If you don’t want to answer our questions, you can wait until you’re feeling more agreeable and get back in line. Next.”
“Just a damned second,” Arthen said. “I’m not getting in the back of that line again.”
The younger guard’s hand moved to his sword. Zed gave the boy an appraising look and smiled dangerously.
“This man is my deputy,” Eraina said, glaring at Zed as she stepped back through the guard post. “Forgive the idiot glee he takes in making others’ lives difficult. He is from Thrane. They breed their asses stubborn there.”
The guards nodded in understanding and waved Zed through.
Zed blinked in amazement. “Did you just say what I thought you said?” he asked as he followed her onto the ferry.
“I called you nothing less than you deserved,” she said, descending the stairs to the boat’s passenger cabins. “Those guards were only doing their job, and we have no reason to call attention to ourselves.”
“Oh, no, I’m not arguing with that,” he said. He glanced in one of the cabins and, finding it empty, stepped inside and sat down. She sat down across from him. “I’m just a little amazed that you lied.”
“Lied?” Eraina asked, sounding a bit offended. “I do not lie.”
“You told those men that I was your deputy,” he said.
“It is within the power of a Sentinel Marshal, in time of crisis, to deputize worthy men-at-arms to aid her, both in the investigation of a crime and in the arrest of a dangerous suspect,” she said. “As you are already aiding me in just such a task, you may consider yourself deputized, Arthen.”