Skein of Shadows

by Rockwell, Marsheila

  As the kitchen staff erupted into movement to try and douse the blue and orange flames, Sabira looked over the conflagration at Thecla, who was effectively trapped, unless he decided Arach’s bounty was worth burning for. Olladra knew, for a hundred platinum dragons, she’d consider it.

  But Thecla apparently valued his appearance more than that and made no move to cross the flames, instead standing on the other side and glaring, his good hand clenched into a white, quivering fist.

  When she saw he was giving up, Sabira flashed him a smug smile and raised her hand in a quick wave. Then she and Greddark darted out the door and into the alleyway, the smell of burnt alcohol fading away behind them as they made their way out into the street and hailed a coach.

  As they climbed in, Sabira looked over at the inquisitive.

  “Clever. I just hope Breven’s letter of credit will cover my half of the bill.”

  Greddark’s lips twisted in an amused smile.

  “Better hope it covers the whole thing.”

  “And why is that?” she asked warily.

  The dwarf laughed.

  “You don’t honestly think I gave them my real name, do you?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Sar, Lharvion 28, 998 YK

  Sharn, Breland.

  The last of the seven bells was just echoing off the high towers of Upper Central Plateau when Sabira pulled the rope outside the door of the Wayfinder Foundation offices in Korran-Thiven. A deeper note sounded from somewhere within the thin minaret attached to the tower that housed Riak’s Fine Imports. The main tower boasted massive darkwood doors and an intricate carved facade of scenes from inner Xen’drik—quite accurate, from what Sabira could see, though she’d only been there once herself. In contrast, the Wayfinder spire was plain and unremarkable, the only thing differentiating it from a thousand other similar pinnacles throughout the district was a small gold-plated placard next to the pull embossed with a simple “W. F.”

  There was no answer for several long moments, and the armed guards in front of Riak’s started giving them unfriendly looks. Of course, in a financial district more obsessed with hoarding wealth than acquiring it, neither the guards nor their demeanor were that unusual. Still, Sabira didn’t particularly want to have to flash her brooch at them to get them to mind their own business—the fewer people who knew she was here, the better, especially if Greddark decided he needed to dabble in arson again.

  Finally, a middle-aged woman in silvercloth pants and a matching brocaded jacket opened door.

  “You’re late,” she said, looking down her nose disdainfully at Sabira’s glitter-spangled hair. Sabira resisted the urge to brush the sparkling dust off her shoulders and returned the other woman’s irate look with one of her own. After all, she wasn’t the one who’d taken a quarter bell to answer the door. But Sabira had dealt with that aristocratic arrogance more times in her career than she could count, and she knew bringing that fact to the other woman’s attention would be pointless—among the rarified circles of Sharn’s upper city, the truth was always secondary to the balance in your House Kundarak account.

  “And getting later the longer we stand here,” she rejoined pointedly, “so if you’d like to let us by …?”

  The woman harrumphed, but stepped aside and waved them in.

  “Lord ir’Dayne is feeling particularly unwell this evening, so this meeting will be kept short.”

  The meeting would last however long it took to make sure Sabira got what she needed, and if the snooty woman in silver didn’t like it, she’d gag her and chain her to a chair. But Sabira decided to keep that to herself for now, since she needed the other woman to guide her to ir’Dayne. The halfling head of the Wayfinder Foundation was widely rumored to be more than a bit paranoid, and Sabira didn’t doubt the office was full of nasty surprises for unwelcome visitors.

  Though the small tower was nothing compared to the foundation’s Fairhaven Conclave, it still contained its fair share of oddities and wonders. The short entry hall was filled with Aerenal tapestries, a bookshelf heavy with Dhakaani pottery and trinkets from places as far away as Sarlona and Argonnessen, and various stuffed figures, including the biggest owlbear Sabira had ever seen. A glass case lit by a floating golden everbright globe featured the claws and stinger of a scorrow from Xen’drik, each one easily twice the size of Sabira’s head. The scorrow, a horrible centaurlike hybrid of drow and scorpion, was one of the most feared predators in both Xen’drik’s deserts and her jungles and the foundation had a standing offer for any who were brought in to one of its outposts alive for study. This one, which a placard identified as Menezthadazz, sire of Mendexethazz, hadn’t been that lucky. Then again, considering how the foundation might choose to “study” such a creature, maybe he had.

  As the woman led them up several flights of stairs, Sabira was struck by the office’s air of disuse. While the foundation’s headquarters in Fairhaven was always humming with activity, whether it be visitors to the vast two-story museum, students attending lectures, or adventurers getting ready to leave on or returning from foundation-sponsored expeditions, the stillness of the Sharn office was more akin to that of a library. Or a tomb.

  Maybe that’s what it was, Sabira thought. Ever since Boroman had returned from his last foray into Xen’drik, he’d been slowly wasting away, the victim of some curse for which even the greatest healers and wizards in Khorvaire could find no cure. Though the halfling tried to remain active in the everyday affairs of the foundation, and still retained executive control over its Conclave, he’d been retiring to the Sharn office more and more frequently over the past year, supposedly to “recuperate.” Given the office’s convenient location in the financial district, Sabira wondered if he weren’t actually getting his affairs in order.

  The silver-clothed woman paused before a nondescript door on the tower’s third level and knocked once. Though Sabira heard nothing from the other side, the woman gave her and Greddark a stern look and then pushed the door open and led them inside.

  Based on what she’d seen below, Sabira had expected to find an office crammed with a desk, shelves groaning under the weight of maps, and bizarre collectables from the world over shoved into every nook and cranny. Instead, the woman ushered them into a small, almost utilitarian bedroom dominated by a huge canopied bed.

  In the middle of the bed, dwarfed by massive pillows and nearly buried in paper, lay a halfling wrapped in a green velvet robe and sucking on a long, curved pipe. Sabira recognized the pungent aroma of firepepper leaves, native only to the volcanic fields of Xen’drik. The Sulatar drow of the region believed the leaves of the potent pepper had healing abilities, but most found the cure worse than the disease, and Sabira couldn’t blame them—the acrid smoke from ir’Dayne’s pipe was already making her eyes water.

  “You may leave us now, Hendra,” the halfling croaked, his voice reedy and tired. Hendra’s tight face registered surprise for a moment, but she quickly covered it with her habitual haughtiness. She inclined her head, but cast a warning glance at Sabira and Greddark as she left, closing the door quietly behind her. Sabira was sure the other woman was just on the opposite side of the door, ear pressed up against the wood as she strained to hear what went on inside the small room.

  “Come closer, Marshal.”

  Sabira complied, though Greddark hung back.

  “You, as well …?”

  “Greddark d’Kundarak,” the inquisitive supplied, apparently more willing to use his real name when there weren’t as many witnesses to impending mischief.

  “Ah.” Then the halfling’s eyes narrowed. “The same Greddark who was kicked out of the Tower of the Twelve after the death of—?”

  “Yes. The same,” the dwarf interrupted flatly, his face hard.

  Sabira had known that Greddark had been asked to leave the arcane institution founded by the dragonmarked Houses, but she’d never known why. She’d always assumed it had something to do with his gambling—or, more accurately, with his che
ating.

  Well, now she had a better idea why he wanted to leave Khorvaire.

  “Cleared of all charges, as I recall, though Helanth d’Medani still bears a grudge.” At Greddark’s narrowed eyes, the halfling gave a small laugh that turned into a coughing fit. Wheezing, ir’Dayne continued, “You forget—the main House Medani enclave is just down the road from here, in Wroat. It was all over the broadsheets.”

  Wonderful. Sabira wondered how many of the half-elven House’s bounty hunters would be dogging their steps to Xen’drik.

  “Not what we’re here to talk about,” Greddark said brusquely.

  “No, but almost as entertaining,” the halfling replied with an impish grin that made his careworn face look surprisingly youthful. Though Sabira wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about him describing Tilde’s disappearance and the death of thirty Blademarks as entertainment.

  Ir’Dayne shoved some papers aside and patted the bed beside him. It was then that Sabira noticed there were no chairs in the room.

  “Sit, Marshal. It’s rude to make an old halfling crane his neck looking up at you.”

  Though Sabira didn’t relish being that close to either the halfling or his pipe, she once again complied. Breven had told her to humor the head of the Wayfinder Foundation, and though she wasn’t normally the humoring type, she had a feeling honey would work better with this particular fly than bile.

  She sat carefully on the edge of the bed, trying not to crush the maps and letters acting as a second blanket for ir’Dayne. She saw a map of the western half of the Menechtarun Desert, bounded on the north by the mountain chain known as the Skyraker Claws. A town was marked in red at the southern base of the mountains, the name “Trent’s Well” written beside it in small, precise letters. There were also manifests for an airship called the Seeker, a bill of goods from Riak’s, a Silver Flame prayer book and several old, yellowed parchments covered with strange writing that Sabira thought might be Draconic.

  “Now, I’m sure Hendra told you I’ve been easily fatigued of late—aptly named, that one—so I’m going to try to keep this as brief and to-the-point as possible.” Sabira bit her cheek at that; considering that two halflings could take an hour just to say, “Hello, hot enough for you?” on a warm spring day, succinctness wasn’t something she’d come to expect from the small but fierce race.

  “I’m assuming Breven gave you the pertinent facts?”

  Sabira nodded, listing off what the Baron had told her.

  “Brannan ir’Kethras discovered the caverns of Tarath Marad near an abandoned settlement on the edge of the Menechtarun—Trent’s Well, I’m guessing?” she asked, gesturing to the map. At ir’Dayne’s nod, she continued. “He was led there by a bit of Prophecy he’d unearthed on an expedition to the ancient giantish city of Tharkgun Dhak. The same Prophecy that indicated that a Deneith woman was needed to unlock a powerful treasure … though what exactly that ‘treasure’ might be is still a little unclear to me.”

  The halfling puffed on his pipe for a moment before answering, his eyes having taken on a far-away expression. Sabira wondered if he was thinking of his own ill-fated expedition in the jungles of Xen’drik—maybe in Tharkgun Dhak itself. Ir’Dayne shook himself, his thin, wispy hair floating about his head in response. Sabira noticed the halfling wore a stud in his right ear, a dark bluish black gem that could have been a sapphire, but was more likely a Khyber dragonshard. Her distaste for the Wayfinder grew. While she understood their value, after her experiences with the murdering Nightshard in the Mror Holds, she tended to distrust anyone who would actually choose to wear the dark stones on their person.

  “Not just any Deneith woman, as I’m sure you know. But, yes, a great treasure, one that could change the balance of power both under the surface and above it.”

  He rummaged around for a moment on the bed, then found a stone tablet with more strange writing on it.

  “Soon after Brannan made contact with the Umbragen—drow who fled into the depths of Khyber to escape slavery, though we still know very little about them—he discovered more of the Prophecy, which he and I both believe is related to this same treasure.” The halfling’s voice had taken on a lecturing tone, and she and Greddark exchanged longsuffering looks.

  “Bound by eight locks

  Her Heart breaks free

  And bathes both worlds

  In tyranny

  “ ‘Heart’ is often another word for treasure, and the likelihood of there being more than one treasure with eight locks is very slim, so I think you’ll agree that our conclusion is the correct one.” As the Wayfinder continued, his voice grew stronger and a bit of color returned to his cheeks. He really was in his element playing the role of professor of antiquities. Sabira almost felt guilty for being utterly uninterested. Almost.

  “The reference to ‘Her’ also correlates to the first bit of Prophecy,” he said, briefly holding up another chunk of stone with more of the same writing on it, though it was black and glossy where the first was a dull gray. “Though we’ve yet to fully understand who or what ‘She’ is, though ‘Spinner of Shadows’ would seem to indicate a weaver of some sort. A female spider deity peculiar to the Umbragen, perhaps—or at least to a splinter group thereof? My guess—”

  “I thought the drow in Xen’drik worshiped scorpions, not spiders?” Greddark interrupted with a frown.

  Ir’Dayne shrugged. “Well, scorpions and spiders are in the same class of animals, so it’s not as much of a stretch as it might appear. Add into that the fact that worship of an exclusively male deity like Vulkoor would naturally tend to alienate the female portion of the population, and it isn’t too surprising that worship of a similar, but more feminine aspect of the divine arachnid would gain a foothold among some of the drow. Those that worship the genderless Umbra are actually the most interesting of the three, since—”

  The halfling caught himself, realizing he’d gone off on a tangent. He took another pull on his pipe before righting his course.

  “In any case, though we don’t know the exact form this artifact takes, it seems clear it can only be unlocked—and probably wielded—by a female member of House Deneith, so we informed Baron Breven of our findings, and offered to help him recover it—for a small fee, of course.”

  Of course.

  “And I believe you know the rest.”

  Sabira highly doubted that, but she figured she knew enough, at least.

  “Although there is one more thing …,” he added, digging again at the mound of papers, coming up with an old tattered bit of cloth pressed between two thin sheets of glass. “Ah, yes. Here it is.

  “This was recovered in Waterworks beneath the Stormreach harbor. I believe it’s variant of the same Prophecy.”

  He brought the glass-encased strip of fabric up to his face and squinted to read it. Sabira could see it was part of an ancient tapestry, though the writing was different from that of the other bits of Prophecy she’d seen.

  “Then again,” ir’Dayne said, as if reading her mind, “since it’s written in a little known dialect of the ancient giants, I can understand why some of the others think differently. But I thought you should know about it, since it may change the nature of your mission.

  “Her fate known e’re she graced the womb

  Her birth signals her people’s doom

  Her blood that both of stone and shield

  The world will be her killing field.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Wir, Barrakas 4, 998 YK

  Stormreach, Xen’drik.

  It doesn’t necessarily mean what you think it means, you know.”

  Sabira didn’t look over at the inquisitive, instead keeping her gaze on the city of Stormreach spread out below them. As the Seeker skimmed through the air toward Falconer’s Spire, Sabira couldn’t help but marvel, as always, at the architectural medley that was Stormreach. Remnants of giantish ruins, scavenged hulls from sunken ships, floating towers reminiscent of Sharn, Thrane curves and Karrnathi
angles all coexisted in a surprisingly cohesive tapestry of colors, textures, and shapes. It was, in its own very peculiar way, beautiful.

  Though she’d only been gone a couple of months, it still seemed as if the city had reinvented itself entirely in that time, with walls and buildings springing up where she didn’t remember there being any before. But that was the way of Stormreach, as it was of the inhabitants who lived here—constantly changing, ever growing, always surprising. It was what attracted so many explorers and adventurers to this vast continent, and what kept them coming back. No matter what it had been like when they left, they could be guaranteed it would be different when they returned.

  In many ways, the city was the exact opposite of places like Krona Peak and Frostmantle in the Mror Holds, which prided themselves on constancy, and even some of the older human cities like those in Karrnath, too steeped in tradition to change easily, let alone willingly. Natives of Sharn, on the other hand, might find the city’s growth a bit too staid for their tastes, which probably explained why it had taken so long for groups like the criminal Boromar clan to find their way to Xen’drik’s shores. But that was changing now, too, and the city that had once been little more than an outpost for outcasts was becoming a metropolis in its own right. Where would the castoffs go when that happened? Farther south, into the jungles and desert? Even farther, to the edges of civilization, like Everice and Frostfell?

  It wasn’t just idle musing on her part—the farther those who’d broken the law ranged, the farther Marshals like her would have to go to find them, wherever they were in Eberron.