by James Wyatt
“What is it?” the marshal behind him asked.
“Nothing.” He slid open the door to the next cart and went through, ready to search every compartment until he found the fugitive.
* * * * *
Gaven shifted just slightly, looking up from under the small platform at the end of the steerage cart. He saw the door sliding shut behind the Sentinel Marshals, and he let out a long, slow breath.
That was close, he thought. Something made that marshal suspicious.
“Lord Marshal!” a voice cried from the station, very close. Afraid he’d been spotted, Gaven pulled his head back down, clinging to the underside of the platform. His heart pounded, and his muscles started to shake from the exertion of holding himself in place.
The marshal’s next words hit him like a punch in the stomach. “We’ve got the woman!”
CHAPTER
20
Lightning flashed along the crew cart as it started moving again, and a long rumble of thunder answered it in the sky. Gaven took advantage of the sound to jump to the roof of the next cart, where he’d seen them take Senya. His feet slipped on the damp surface, and he started to fall before his hands caught the beam that ran the length of the cart. He hung there for a moment, breathing slowly, before pulling himself back up to a crouch, straddling the beam.
He still hadn’t decided what he wanted to do. A loud voice in his mind told him to forget Senya. It seemed clear that the Sentinel Marshals were trying to lure him out of hiding by holding her, and he wasn’t eager to fall into their trap. She had chosen to follow him around. He had made no request of her, and he told himself he owed her nothing.
On the other hand, the ruse that had kept him safe at Zolanberg had been her idea. And more importantly, she was at the moment the only person in Khorvaire who was actively trying to keep him out of Dreadhold. That thought had brought him as far as the roof of the cart she was in.
But he stopped there. The lightning rail was just out of Sterngate and wouldn’t reach its next stop, Starilaskur, until the middle of the night. If he was going to attempt some kind of rescue, it made more sense to do it under cover of darkness and closer, at least, to his destination. He tried to find a position that would let him relax without slipping off the cart’s roof and shield him from the brunt of the wind. He ended up lying facedown on the beam with his arms and legs spread wide to keep him balanced. It wasn’t very comfortable, and the rain was coming down harder. At least it was warm. He sighed. It would be a long ride to Starilaskur.
He closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted again. But every time he started to drift into sleep, he felt as though he were slipping off the beam and he woke up with a start. The third time that happened, he opened his eyes and saw a pair of booted feet planted on the roof beside him. Then something hit his head, and everything went black.
* * * * *
A sharp crack of thunder startled Evlan, and he glanced out the window. The storm raged. Trees bent over in the wind, and from time to time a particularly strong gust set the lightning rail to rocking. He’d never heard of high winds blowing the lightning rail off its conductor stones before, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t happen.
He looked back at his prisoners and was pleased to see Gaven stirring. The marshal had hit him too hard. Still, Gaven was lucky Phaine d’Thuranni hadn’t found him first. At the hands of House Thuranni, he’d be dead instead of nursing a headache.
Gaven groaned and looked around. His eyes fell on the elf woman first—he looked at her face, which was set in a grim expression, then to the ropes binding her to her chair. He tested the strength of the ropes binding his own wrists, without putting much effort into breaking them. Only then did he seem to take in the rest of the compartment—the wood paneling, the upholstered chair, the ceiling ornamented with filigree. And then he saw Evlan.
Evlan took that opportunity to introduce himself. “Ah, Gaven,” he said. He watched Gaven’s eyes drop to the dragonmark on Evlan’s neck, then flick over his armor and the heavy bastard sword at his belt. “I am Evlan d’Deneith, Sentinel Marshal of House Deneith, and you are under arrest.”
Evlan wasn’t sure what to expect from his prisoner—resigned defeat or spirited defiance. He’d seen fugitives go both ways, and a range of emotions in between, upon finding themselves captured and bound. Sometimes they pleaded for their lives or for the lives of their companions. He certainly did not expect the reaction he received.
“A clash of dragons signals the sundering of the Soul Reaver’s gates,” Gaven said, his eyes wide but fixed on Evlan’s neck. On his dragonmark. Evlan found himself looking at Gaven’s own mark—a huge, sprawling Siberys mark that extended from his jaw down beneath his shirt.
“Ah, yes,” Evlan said. “They did tell me that your mind was off in the Realm of Madness.” He sighed and sat down in the seat next to Gaven. He glanced at the woman, whose face had not changed. “Listen, Gaven. Your friend here has been singularly uncooperative. She didn’t tell us where to find you, and she says she doesn’t know where Haldren ir’Brassek is. So I need you to think very hard in that warped little mind of yours and see if you can tell me where he is.”
Gaven stared at the woman.
“Gaven?” Evlan said. “Look at me, Gaven.”
Gaven turned his head.
“Where’s Haldren ir’Brassek?”
“A clash of dragons signals the sundering of the Soul Reaver’s gates.” Gaven didn’t look at Evlan’s dragonmark this time, and Evlan thought he detected the faintest hint of a smile.
“Yes, you said that already. Are we the dragons, Gaven, you and I? Two heirs of dragonmarked houses? Is our confrontation cosmically significant?” Evlan got to his feet and spat on the floor. “I’ll tell you what’s significant, Gaven. You’re going back to Dread-hold, and you’re going to rot there. I haven’t decided yet what to do with your friend Senya, but I’m fairly certain it will involve rotting in a cell somewhere too. This is no clash of dragons. I’m a Sentinel Marshal, and you’re a criminal and a fugitive from justice. You’re mine now. Can you understand that? You’re mine.”
“The hordes of the Soul Reaver spill from the earth, and a ray of Khyber’s sun erupts to form a bridge to the sky.”
Evlan spun on his heel and left the compartment. He barked an order for another marshal to relieve him, and he started toward the galley cart to get something to eat. He would need to keep his strength up to deal with this one.
As he reached the door at the front of the cart, a gust set the cart rocking again, and Evlan nearly lost his footing. He gripped the handle mounted beside the door, cursing the storm under his breath, and yanked the door open.
A brilliant flash of light exploded in his face with a crash of thunder, sending him sprawling backward into the cart, blind and deaf. The cart shivered from front to back. Evlan lay on his back, gasping for breath. Someone grabbed his hand and tried to pull him up, but he couldn’t seem to plant his feet on the floor. He heard shouts—quiet, as though they were far away, though he could feel breath on his face. His sight started to clear at the same time, though blue-green lights danced across his vision. He found his feet at last, mumbling his thanks to whichever of his marshals had helped him stand.
And then he saw Gaven. The prisoner had broken his bonds and forced his way out of the compartment. Two Sentinel Marshals lay on the ground by his feet, unmoving. The storm wind howled through the cart, entering by the door that Evlan had opened. It swirled around Gaven where he stood before blowing out a broken window beside him. Hail drummed the roof, and constant flashes of lightning engulfed the cart like a slow, steady heartbeat of the storm.
Evlan drew his sword and charged. The cart lurched to starboard, sending him careening. His shoulder slammed into the wall of the corridor, but he kept his feet. A few more steps and he was there—at the heart of a churning maelstrom of wind and thunder. The air itself buffeted him backward, thunderclaps ringing in his ears.
“Merciful Sovereigns,” he
shouted. “What are you?”
“Don’t you remember?” Gaven’s voice was a peal of thunder. “I’m a criminal and a fugitive. And I’m yours. Your doom.”
He stretched out his hand, and lightning coursed outward, swallowing Evlan in another burst of blinding light.
* * * * *
Gaven looked up at a purple-gray sky. Wind lashed the tall grass across his field of vision and blew rainwater onto his face. He sat up with effort and watched the last cart of the lightning rail disappear behind a curtain of rain in the distance. A few yards away, a conductor stone sparked with the memory of the carts’ passing, as if imitating the angry sky. He looked around, saw another depression in the grass nearby, and crawled over to where Senya lay flat on her back, staring blankly up at the sky.
He tried to speak, but his voice came out a croak. He coughed, sending a jolt of pain through his throat.
Senya’s eyes flicked to his face, then back to the sky. “What does the Prophecy say about me, Gaven?”
He watched her face for a long time, watched her eyes follow the clouds as the sky slowly began to clear. Finally he stood up, bent down to take her hand, and lifted her to her feet.
“I think that’s up to you,” he said, his voice still gravelly.
“How do you know so much of the Prophecy?”
Gaven found his sword, liberated from the Sentinel Marshals’ custody, a few paces away, and Senya’s pack nearby. They shouldered their gear and walked to the conductor stone, then to the next one on the line, leading them slowly toward Starilaskur. Gaven thought about his answer for a long time before speaking.
“Years ago, I made it my life’s work to learn all I could about it.”
“My ancestor said she’d talked to you before.”
“That’s what she said.”
“Well, did she? Had you been there before?”
Memories flooded Gaven’s mind, recent past and ancient history blurring together. “I don’t know,” he said. “You don’t know? Why not?”
“Maybe you can help me,” he said. “Does the name Mendaros mean anything to you? Mendaros Alvena Tuorren?”
Saying the name conjured his old friend’s face in Gaven’s memory—even as he realized that those memories were not his. Mendaros had never known Gaven, though Gaven remembered him clearly.
“The name’s a blot on my family’s honor,” said Senya. “He’s reviled as a traitor to Aerenal.”
“Why?”
“He conspired with dragons. He opened a door for one of the most devastating attacks against Aerenal in a thousand years.”
“Did he? That’s a story I’d like to hear sometime.”
“Why are you asking about Mendaros? He’s been dead for centuries.”
Centuries, Gaven thought. That helped put the memories in context. “How many centuries?”
“I’m not sure. Four, maybe five?”
“And he was a relative of yours?”
“Fairly distant, but yes. Naturally, my family would like to emphasize the distance, not the relation.”
“How long has your family lived in Khorvaire?”
“About as long as Mendaros has been dead. Coincidentally.” Senya stopped, grabbed Gaven’s arm, and whirled him to face her. “But it’s your turn to answer questions now. What does Mendaros have to do with you and the Prophecy?”
Gaven sighed. “During the war, I worked for House Lyrandar, hunting for the dragonshards they needed to build galleons—or, rather, to bind elementals to power the galleons. Khyber shards are found underground, so I spent a lot of time crawling around tunnels. And the Prophecy was sort of a hobby of mine, something to think about as I traveled. It turns out that Khyber holds a lot of secrets about the Prophecy, maybe even some things the dragons don’t know.”
“And Mendaros?”
“Well, at one point I found … something—a record left by another scholar of the Prophecy. Evidently it was an ancient record, at least four centuries old, because it mentioned Mendaros. As a contemporary.”
“What did it say about him?”
Gaven remembered his laugh—a loud, easy laugh. “Not much. It indicated him as a source for some information about the Prophecy. Much the same information that your ancestor gave us in Shae Mordai.”
“You knew what he was going to say, you recited the words along with him, because you’d read this ancient record. And that’s why my ancestor thought you’d been there before?”
“Something like that.”
“I see.”
They walked in silence, conductor stone to conductor stone, following the magical line that stretched off past the horizon. The sun broke through the clouds, and Gaven pointed out the hint of a rainbow over the mountains to the east.
“How far to Starilaskur, do you think?” Senya asked.
“Got a map?”
“No.”
“Well,” Gaven said, “I figure we must have been about half the way from Sterngate when we jumped off. At least six days on foot.”
“Six days! I’m exhausted just thinking about it.”
“I agree. I suppose we could just wait for the next lightning rail and try to jump aboard.”
“People die doing that.”
“I know. I was joking.”
“Wait—we’re near the end of the Seawalls, right? We can’t be far from New Cyre.”
“New Cyre?”
“A refugee town, more or less. After the Mourning, Breland gave a little patch of land to surviving Cyrans. It can’t be more than a few days east, nestled up against the mountains.”
“New Cyre it is, then.” Gaven turned his steps away from the next conductor stone, setting his course to run along the line of the mountains instead. “From there, we’ll try to find a carriage or something to carry us to Vathirond.”
“And what’s in Vathirond, anyway?”
Gaven shrugged. “After twenty-six years? Who knows? Maybe nothing but memories.”
CHAPTER
21
Very well, Gaven,” Senya said, “if you’re going to be a fugitive, we’re going to do this right.”
Senya’s hunch had proved accurate, and they had reached New Cyre after dark on their third day of travel. Now she was dragging Gaven through the tiny village.
“What are you talking about?”
Gaven was exhausted. They had pressed hard to reach New Cyre before resting for the night, and he wanted nothing more than to find a comfortable bed. Despite their stops in Shae Mordai and Grellreach, the last time he’d slept in an inn had been White-cliff, and he was almost ready to go back to Dreadhold just for the beds.
“We’re going to get you some papers.”
“How are we going to do that in a town this size? I think it might have a pickpocket or two, but a forger?”
“Would you mind keeping your voice down?”
“Sorry.” Gaven glanced around at the darkened windows.
“And trust me.”
Gaven watched in bemused wonder as Senya—heir to a noble warrior line of Aerenal—found the few people in New Cyre who were still awake, asked just the right questions, and led him to what must have been the only house anywhere between Starilaskur and Darguun that could get him forged papers. He stayed up through the night watching the forger—a gnome with a thick accent who must have been a renegade offshoot of House Sivis—carefully tracing the lines of a magical sigil that would convince any inspector that his papers were authentic. The sun brightened the sky behind the Seawalls by the time they finally left the forger’s house, Gaven admiring his new identification and traveling papers.
“Keven d’Lyrandar,” he said, trying to get used to the name. “This makes me really uncomfortable, pretending to be a legitimate heir of my house.”
“It’s either that or wrap yourself like a mummy to hide that dragonmark,” Senya whispered.
Shutters were starting to open in the village, and Gaven was suddenly aware of the stares they drew as strangers who had arrived in the
night.
“Well, it might work, as long as I don’t show these papers to any other Lyrandar.”
They stood at the door of one of the village inns—New Cyre, though small, had enough transient residents to support a handful of inns—and found it locked. Undaunted, Senya pounded on the door until a sleepy-looking woman opened the door.
“Respectable folk aren’t about at this hour,” she said, scowling at Senya.
“Please,” Gaven said, cutting off Senya’s retort, “we’ve been traveling for days and just need beds.”
“Time for sleeping’s done.”
“We understand, but—”
“If you understand, then why are you asking for a place to sleep? Why don’t you go to the Jorasco place? The halflings’ll take anyone who shows enough silver.”
They’ll also look over my papers with too close an eye, Gaven thought.
Senya interjected, “Silver? We’ll pay gold.” She produced two galifars to emphasize her point, and smiled as the woman’s eyes fixed on the gleaming coins.
“And will you be needing one room or two?”
“Two,” Gaven said.
“Please, come in.”
* * * * *
New Cyre by daylight was a strange experience. To Gaven’s mind, it was easy to imagine that he was in Cyre. The fashions and architecture he’d seen on his previous visits to that nation were on proud display, and the people spoke with the lilting accents of Cyrans. In his cell in Dreadhold, Gaven had heard only vague and conflicting reports of what had happened to Cyre, the nature of the magical cataclysm that had engulfed the nation. Most of Cyre’s residents had been killed in an instant, he had heard, but here was a village full of refugees who had been lucky enough to escape the Mourning, presumably because they had been traveling or fighting abroad when it occurred.
As they walked to House Orien’s enclave, Gaven found himself thinking of his own home, House Lyrandar’s island refuge of Stormhome. When he was convicted and sent to Dreadhold, his family had declared him excoriate, cut out of the house, and he was no longer welcome in Stormhome. He felt an odd sort of kinship with these displaced Cyrans, who spoke so lovingly and passionately about the home they had lost.