The three of them turned to see Count Wilhelm standing in the open doorway, still in the clothes he’d worn the night before. From the dark circles around his red-rimmed eyes, it was clear that he hadn’t slept.
“Have you told her yet what I said, Elix?”
Elix’s smile disappeared completely.
“Father—” Elix began, his voice holding a tone of warning Sabira had never heard him use with the older man before. Wilhelm continued on, either oblivious or uncaring.
“I said ‘no.’ ” The unveiled disgust in the Count’s words was like a slap in the face, and even though Sabira had her own doubts about her worthiness to be Elix’s wife, hearing his father give voice to that same sentiment so contemptuously made her hackles rise. Who was he to tell her she wasn’t good enough?
Only the man to whom she’d said those exact words when she’d tried—futilely—to apologize for not being able to save Ned.
Wilhelm continued, oblivious to both her anger, and her guilt.
“No to having that scum Khellin under my roof, no to having his traitorous line linked to mine and no to having you one day bear the title of Countess of the Wood Gate.”
Vulyar had three entrances. There was the Iron Gate in the northeast, which led to Irontown and the Mror Holds; the Sand Gate in the south, which since the Day of Mourning had led only to Fort Bones and Gatherhold in the Talenta Plains; and the Wood Gate in the northwest, which led to the rest of the Five Nations and was named for the several forests that awaited travelers who took that road out of the city—the Nightwood, Shadowmount Forest, and of course, Karrnwood. Each gate served one of the city’s major wards, each of which encompassed several minor wards and was governed by a titled member of House Deneith. Wood Gate was by far the most populous of the three major wards, though Iron Gate was understandably the most prosperous, since all the lightning rail shipments from the mines in the Ironroots came through there.
Sabira hadn’t even considered the fact that accepting Elix’s still unvoiced proposal would also mean eventually accepting a role in the politics of Vulyar. It wasn’t a thought that particularly thrilled her. Then again, neither was the fact that Wilhelm clearly didn’t think she was suited for the position—even if she did agree with him.
“I told him that d’Sark girl would have been a much better choice for the family.”
Elix stiffened beside her, but Sabira couldn’t look at him. She’d never been more grateful for a chair in her life; she might well have fallen otherwise, the blow was so sharp, so unexpected.
Tabeth d’Sark had trained under Elix for a year back in ’93. She’d been a Marshal at the Vulyar outpost after that, and Elix had known her well enough to take her on a dangerous mission into the Blade Desert—a mission from which she had not returned. Elix still carried the weapon that had killed her in his traveling chest.
Though Sabira had never met the other woman, she had met Tabeth’s twin, Tobin, a Defender with curly brown hair, sculpted features, and eyes nearly as gray as her own. She remembered feeling a pang of jealousy thinking how beautiful his sister must have been, but at the time she’d pushed it aside, deeming the emotion silly and unwarranted.
Apparently, she’d been wrong.
“Saba, I—” Elix began, but his father wasn’t finished yet.
“But I may have misjudged you, Sabira. You bring my niece back to me, and I’ll withdraw every objection I ever had to your marrying my son. I’ll even step down as Count and leave Wood Gate to the two of you as a wedding gift, if that’s what you want.” His eyes blazed as his gaze bored into hers. “Just bring her back, Sabira. After Ned, you owe me that much.”
What could she say to that?
“I will.”
An uncomfortable silence settled over the room after Wilhelm left. Sabira stared at her plate where the velvet box had sat the night before, unwilling to look over at Elix. Not wanting to see the truth of his father’s words there.
Logically, she knew she had no right to be angry, or even hurt. She was the one who’d left him behind, fleeing his arms in the wake of Ned’s death, ignoring his letters, rebuffing his every attempt to reach out to her. How could she blame him for turning to someone else for comfort, when she’d given him no reason to believe he’d ever find it with her?
But logic was a tepid brew that did nothing to ease either the cold taste of betrayal from her tongue, or the hot pain lancing through her heart.
Predictably, it was Aggar who spoke first, clearing his throat apologetically.
“I can’t go with you, Saba—I got word late last night that Father needs me back in the Holds—but I think I know someone in Sharn who may be able to help you. He’s been looking to get out of Khorvaire for a while, anyway. I’ll go make some inquiries.” She heard the beads in his beard clack as he pushed back from the table and crossed over to her seat, but she didn’t look up or acknowledge him. He gave her shoulder a tight squeeze with one hand, then paused for a moment by Elix’s chair, presumably offering him the same gesture. Then he walked quickly from the room, making sure to close the door behind him.
She expected Elix to say something, to offer an apology, or excuse, or anything. What she didn’t expect was him for him to push her plate out of the way and slam the bracelet box down angrily on the table in front of her.
“Open it.”
She hesitated, her hand hovering over the black velvet, not quite touching the embroidered copper hearth that was the sign of Boldrei, the Sovereign invoked to bless marriages.
“Saba. Please.”
Inside was a mithral disk set at the center of a thick-linked chain. The circle bore a crest that Sabira didn’t recognize at first, but as she lifted the bracelet out of the box to examine it more closely, she gasped.
Two weapons were crossed on a field of thin mourngold, a violet-blue metal made from gold alloyed with mournlode mined from within the heart of the Mournland, what had once been Cyre, beneath the Field of Ruins. Many claimed the mottled iron ore could be used to turn undead, but the dwarves—and this bracelet was undoubtedly of dwarven make—seldom used it for that purpose, preferring instead to combine it with other metals to yield an incredible variety of colors. The mourngold plating was probably worth more than the rest of the bracelet combined.
Even more impressive than the alloy, though, were the weapons themselves. One was a simple broadsword, its pommel a closed fist, identical to the one Elix usually wore. The other was a tiny replica of her own shard axe, perfect in every detail, down to the sliver of a Siberys dragonshard at its tip.
In addition to the miniature weapons, detailed etchings graced each quarter of the circle. Above the crossed haft and blade was the Deneith chimera; below, the wolf of Karrnath. To the left was the mark of Wood Gate, three trees with sword blades for trunks. The etching on the right looked slightly different from the others, and it took Sabira a moment to realize that an older carving had been painstakingly filled in and then replaced by a newer one—the Tordannon crest.
“Turn it over.”
Sabira did. On the back was an inscription, with a date.
It was the final couplet from Theodon Dorn’s popular poem, “The Marshal and the Maiden.” Every Deneith knew it, and could recite it by heart, especially the last two stanzas:
The Marshal saw that time had fled
And though she pleaded and implored
Tears cutting worse than any sword
“Farewell, my heart,” was all he said
She knew then in her deepest core
He was Deneith, trueborn and bred
And even if they one day wed
He’d always love his duty more
But Sabira saw that some of the words had been changed, and they altered the meaning considerably:
He swore that if they one day wed
He’d never love his duty more
Below the two lines had been inscribed a month and a year. Aryth, 991 YK. The same month Ned’s remembrance service had been held, i
n this very house. Where Sabira had embarrassed herself by getting very, very drunk and Elix had taken her to his rooms so she could sleep it off before she could do something she’d wind up regretting. Only she’d wound up in his bed with him instead, and had fled Karrnath the next morning, unable to face either Ned’s death or Elix’s need.
He’d likely commissioned the betrothal bracelet that very day, not realizing she wouldn’t be coming back for another seven long years. In ’91—two years before he even met Tabeth.
She raised her eyes up to his and the fear she saw there nearly choked her.
“Tabeth was beautiful and strong, a credit to the Marshals, and I will admit I was attracted to her—but only because she reminded me of you. I almost kissed her, once, at some function we had here. That’s what my father was talking about—he saw that part. He didn’t see what happened after I called her by your name.”
Sabira snorted, amused in spite of herself.
“You couldn’t walk for a week?”
“Or see out of my left eye,” he said ruefully.
With a laugh, Sabira leaned over and kissed him full on the lips, a familiar and welcome warmth spreading through her as his arms wrapped around her, pulling her close.
“That’s nothing compared to what I would have done to you,” she murmured after a moment.
“Promises, promises.”
“Ahem.”
Sabira pulled back reluctantly and turned to look over at the doorway where Wilhelm’s steward stood, looking decidedly embarrassed.
“Your pardon, Captain, Marshal, but there’s a coach here waiting to take Sabira to the docking tower.”
Breven certainly hadn’t wasted any time.
“Tell them I’ll be right out.”
She turned back to Elix.
“You be careful in Thrane. To them, you’ll always be a Karrn first and a Marshal second. And we all know how much they hate anything Karrnathi.” Which made his being summoned there by the Keeper of the Flame—the head of the Church of the Silver Flame herself—all the more unusual, and all the harder to refuse. Though he’d tried, when he’d learned of Breven’s plans for her. He’d wanted to cancel the trip and go with her to Xen’drik instead, but the Baron had expressly forbidden him to do so. The needs of the House came first. As always.
“You, as well.”
Sabira carefully replaced the mithral bracelet back in its box and handed it Elix, who took it reluctantly, the question he wasn’t willing to voice plain in his gaze.
“Keep that safe for me, won’t you?”
His relief was almost palpable, and his smile could have outshone the sun.
“Always.”
CHAPTER THREE
Sar, Lharvion 28, 998 YK
Sharn, Breland.
Sabira reached the City of Towers four days later. Normally, the journey from Vulyar didn’t take that long by air, but the crew of the Cantrip had refused to fly over the dead gray mists of the Mournland, opting instead to follow along its northern edge until they reached Thronehold, then bearing southwest from there. Irritating as the delay was, the annoyance was somewhat counterbalanced by the knowledge that even Breven couldn’t compete with the power of superstition.
It was late afternoon when she arrived, but she’d already been able to see the lights of the city for miles. Located in the middle of a manifest zone linked to the plane of Syrania, the Azure Sky, which enhanced magic related to flying and levitation, the city grew to impossible heights, reaching from the Cogs deep underground to the floating island district of Skyway, home to the wealthy and powerful. And every level was lit up by everbright lanterns that had been twisted into fantastical shapes to advertise both business and pleasure, the riotous colors making the city look like a crystal sparkling in the sunlight. Either that, or a floating oil slick. Sabira could never quite decide.
Sharn was situated on a series of five plateaus bounded on two sides by rivers and on the other two sides by cliffs. It was divided into districts not only by plateau, but also by height. Sabira was supposed to meet Lord Boroman ir’Dayne, the head of the Wayfinder Foundation, at the foundation’s office in Korran-Thiven, one of the many financial districts in Upper Central Plateau. The Cantrip docked nearby, in Highest Towers, and Sabira disembarked, trying to orient herself amidst the tall buildings. Before she’d done more than identify north, a gnomish boy came running up to her, envelope in hand.
“You the Shard Axe?”
Host. Could she escape that name nowhere?
At her short nod, the boy handed the envelope over, then stood by expectantly, obviously waiting for a tip. Sabira dug in her pouch, found a copper crown based on feel alone, and flipped it to him. From the boy’s frown, it was clear he was used to more from customers in the wealthy upper city, but a glare sent him scurrying without complaint. Considering the Sivis message station was just around the corner, he was lucky she hadn’t sent him scurrying with a boot to his rear.
She opened the envelope and read the short message.
Saba,
I found you a partner for your expedition. Meet him at the Glitterdust around the sixth bell. He’ll be the one fleecing the customers at the card table. Try to make sure you’re not one of them.
—Agg
Wonderful. After having most of Arach d’Kundarak’s men arrested for drug smuggling on her way from Stormreach to the Mror Holds, the last place in Sharn she wanted to go was the Glitterdust, where members of the dwarf’s crew often spent their shore leave. While she was sure most of the crew of the Dust Dancer were still in custody, Arach was a member of the Aurum’s Gold Concord. He had the resources to replace men faster than they could be apprehended. He probably already had a new airship and a new supply of dreamlily to peddle. And a bounty on Sabira’s head worth twice what he paid for both.
Still, unlike Tilde, she wasn’t going to be able to go into Tarath Marad with a contingent of hand-picked Blademarks—not that it had done the sorceress any good. If she knew Breven, she wasn’t going to be able to rely on anyone from Deneith at all; the Baron wouldn’t want to risk Greigur’s involvement. Which meant Sabira was going to need all the help she could get, and she couldn’t afford to be too picky about details like who they were or where they came from. Or where they wanted to meet.
By her reckoning, that gave her about an hour to get down to Deathsgate, an unremarkable adventurer’s quarter in Middle Tavick’s Landing. Unremarkable, save for the Glitterdust, nestled under the massive Bridge of Giants that connected the district to the necropolis of Haldren’s Tomb. Though the rest of the quarter served the lower class inhabitants of the district, the Glitterdust catered exclusively to those with far heavier pouches. She could only hope Aggar or the mysterious unnamed partner had thought to put her on the guest list, since she didn’t have enough coin on her to bribe her way in, and the Glitterdust didn’t take letters of credit.
She hailed a skycoach, one of Sharn’s graceful boatlike vessels that sailed through the city’s airways, lit from within and without by glowing blue everbright globes. She gave the driver her destination, ignoring the skeptical look he gave her in return. Sabira knew she was hardly dressed for the place, but she had a fashion accessory he didn’t know about, if it came down to that.
As they descended into the city, the ubiquitous rain began again. It wasn’t actual precipitation, of course—only Skyway and the upper city ever got that. No, the rain experienced in the middle and lower levels of Sharn was actually runoff from the upper wards—brackish water that flowed down daily when the streets of the wealthy were cleaned, dousing those below so that those above wouldn’t have to risk dirtying their expensive shoes. Sabira knew there were other, architectural reasons for the false rain, but she wasn’t an architect, so she didn’t really care to learn them. She was just grateful for the charm that kept the inside of the skycoach dry and warm and somewhat free of the urban cacophony as the vessel threaded its way between other coaches and lifts, thin gaps between towers, and even the
occasional gargoyle or griffin.
Residents of the City of Towers often joked that it took about an hour to get wherever you were going in the city, regardless of whether it was from one district to its neighbor or from Skyway to the Cogs. The truth of the matter was, of course, that it took however long the coach drivers decided it was going to take, and an hour was about what most people were willing to pay for before they started getting unruly.
Sure enough, the sixth bell was sounding throughout the city as the driver pulled up near the Bridge of Giants. Having lived in Xen’drik, which had once been the home to actual giants, Sabira always found the grandiose title of the massive stone edifice amusing. It might be large by human standards, but it would have been dwarfed beside a true relic of the Age of Giants, like the statue of the Emperor that stood guard over the Stormreach harbor.
Digging out gold from her pouch this time, Sabira stepped off the coach and was immediately enveloped in a fine mist that smelled vaguely of feet. She hurried over to the spiral wrought-iron staircase under the bridge and wound her way down, the wail of shardhorns and the scent of Thunderherder bacon rising up to greet her before she’d made it halfway.
The door to the club was guarded by hobgoblins in ornate armor, but the blades at their sides were practical enough, and Sabira found one pointed at the middle of her chest before she could so much as open her mouth.
“Name?”
She knew from experience that this wasn’t the greeting most of the club’s clientele got, but then most of them didn’t look like they’d gotten lost on their way down to the slums of Lower Dura, either.
“Sabira Lyet d’Deneith.”
The hobgoblin who’d kept his sword sheathed made a show of looking at the list he held in one clawed hand, but it was clear he had no intention of letting her in, whether her name was on it or not.
“Sorry. Better luck next time.”
Sabira gave the green-skinned oaf her most provocative smile.
Skein of Shadows Page 4