by James Wyatt
“I’m sorry, Cart,” Gaven said. “I…”
“I know. You were thrown in Dreadhold before the warforged proved their worth on the battlefield, almost a decade before Chase received his commission, I believe.”
Cart’s voice was a little too loud, and Gaven thought he saw the shopkeeper’s eyes dart in the warforged’s direction at the mention of Dreadhold. Damn, Gaven thought. All of Darraun’s careful work undone by one slip.
“Chase?” he said, keeping an eye on the shopkeeper.
“The first warforged to hold a command over human soldiers. He served in Aundair and proved himself far more competent than the Lord Major in command of the company. In 981 his general promoted him and relieved the Lord Major of his command, but the Lord Major complained to the Queen.”
Gaven watched the shopkeeper excuse himself and head into the back of the shop again.
“Sorry to interrupt you, Cart, but we need to get out of here.”
“What?”
“Fast. Darraun!”
The man whirled around. “What is it?”
Gaven nodded in the direction the shopkeeper had gone. “He’s going to get the authorities. We need to go.” Grabbing Cart’s arm, he hustled to the door. Darraun stared for a moment at the provisions spread over the countertop, then ran after them.
They hurried up the street away from the provisioner’s, the rain drenching them. Only when they were about to turn a corner did Gaven risk a look back at the shop-just in time to see a trio of soldiers arrive and peer through the shop door.
“What in the Ten Seas happened back there?” Darraun said as they turned the corner.
“My fault,” Gaven said. “I got Cart a little riled up, and he let a mention of Dreadhold slip out. The shopkeeper heard it and took the first opportunity to get out and summon help.”
“The fault was mine, then,” Cart said. “I’m sorry, Darraun. I don’t even remember mentioning it.”
Darraun sighed. “We were about to finish the deal, too,” he said. “Now what do we do? We should find Haldren and get out of town, but we don’t have supplies.”
“We find Haldren first,” Gaven said. “Tell him what happened, and figure something out from there.”
“The general is not a forgiving man,” Cart said. Gaven could hear the trepidation in his voice.
“Put the blame on me. Tell him I blurted something about Dreadhold. He can get as angry at me as he wants to, but he has to answer to Vaskar about my fate, and something tells me he wouldn’t want to have to tell the dragon he killed me.”
The warforged strode along in silence, making Gaven wish for the hundredth time that he could read Cart’s unmoving face.
“Back to the hostel, then,” Darraun said, turning a corner and leading them back to break the news to Haldren.
“I wonder what he’s telling them,” Cart said. He stood by the door of their little room, occasionally pacing as much as the tiny space allowed.
Gaven sat on the bed, staring out the window to the street below, watching for any sign that guards were coming after them. Darraun had insisted on breaking the bad news to Haldren himself, and neither he nor Cart was clear on which version of the story Darraun would tell. So far Gaven had not heard any shouting, but Haldren did not strike him as the yelling kind. For that matter, he couldn’t be sure Darraun was still alive.
“Do you hear anything in there?” he asked the warforged.
“I can hear them speaking,” Cart said. “I can’t make out what they’re saying. You can tell when the general is really angry, because he whispers. It’s frightening.”
The general, Gaven thought. He began to understand what Darraun meant about Haldren’s ability to inspire loyalty. Haldren hadn’t been a general in at least three years, but he would always be “the general” in Cart’s mind.
The door flew open, banging hard against Cart’s shoulder. The warforged stepped out of the way, and Haldren came barreling into the room. “We are leaving now,” he said, very quietly.
Gaven looked around as if he had a pack to load, then got to his feet. Darraun slipped into the room behind Haldren, eyes lowered.
“Circle up,” Haldren commanded. Senya entered, fumbling with the last buckle on her pack, and quickly joined the others in a circle, taking Haldren’s right hand. Darraun stooped to lift his own pack to his shoulders, then took Gaven’s hand, still avoiding his eyes. Haldren glared at each of them in turn, not even sparing Senya his withering stare, then began another incantation.
Gaven blinked, and he was in another forest, sweltering hot and buzzing with insects. Haldren freed his hands and stormed away from the circle.
CHAPTER 6
Are you Arnoth d’Lyrandar?”
Evlan watched the old man carefully. Every reaction was important. Any twitch or shift of the eyes could reveal whether Gaven’s father was aware of his son’s escape or had any idea of his whereabouts.
“I am,” the man said. He was hoarse and short of breath, but he stood as tall as Evlan despite his age. The hair was gone from the top of his head, but what remained still bore traces of black amid the gray and white. His dark eyebrows bristled. “What is this about, Sentinel Marshal?”
“My name is Evlan d’Deneith. I’m here to talk to you about your son.”
Arnoth turned to the stairs behind him. “Thordren?” he said, and the young man who had kept a respectful distance on the stairway came to stand beside him. Thordren strongly resembled what his father must have looked like in his youth-fine, black hair cut above his shoulders and combed away from his face, high cheekbones, and proud brown eyes.
“I’m sorry,” said Evlan, “I meant your other son.”
“My other… Gaven?” The old man’s skin went ashen, and he slowly sank down onto a bench. Then he seemed to recollect himself, and he looked away. “I have no other son, Sentinel Marshal. He was excoriated a long time ago.”
“All the same, it’s Gaven I need to talk to you about.” He shot a pointed glance at the other man, but Thordren sat down on the bench next to his father, his eyes glued to Evlan.
“Is he dead?” Arnoth’s eyes told Evlan almost everything he needed to know. Excoriate or not, Arnoth loved his son, and as far as he knew, Gaven was still locked away in Dreadhold.
“No. At least, not as far as I know. He has escaped.”
“Escaped? From Dreadhold?” Arnoth got to his feet again, Thordren fluttering after him, trying to get him back to the bench.
“Yes,” said Evlan. “According to House Kundarak, there was a dragon involved.”
The old man’s eyes went wide. “Where is he?”
“That’s why I’m here,” Evlan said. “I take it you have not received any communication from him?”
“Not in twenty-six years, no.”
“Were you aware that he manifested a Siberys mark during his imprisonment?”
“Yes. House Kundarak has kept me informed of developments.”
“You have seen the reports of his ravings?”
“Ravings?” Arnoth said. “You think he is mad?”
“His mind hardly seems stable, if you’ll pardon my saying so.”
“You underestimate his mind, Sentinel Marshal. He is not all brawn.”
Evlan shrugged and tried another tack. “Does the name Haldren ir’Brassek mean anything to you?”
“Ir’Brassek?” Arnoth scratched the side of his face. “Wasn’t he an Aundairian general? Tried for war crimes?”
“Yes. Are you aware of any connection between your son and ir’Brassek?”
“Gaven and Haldren?” Arnoth seemed genuinely confused. “No. I can’t imagine that Gaven would associate with such a person.”
“They occupied adjacent cells in Dreadhold,” Evlan said, a reminder that Gaven was no less a criminal than Haldren.
Arnoth shook his head and looked back at Thordren. “No, I’ve never heard their names connected.” He looked back at Evlan. “Did Haldren escape with Gaven?”
&
nbsp; “Yes, they fled Dreadhold together. Mounted on wyverns.”
Arnoth raised his eyebrows and sank back down to the bench, to Thordren’s obvious relief. “Gaven is free,” he muttered, running a hand through his short gray hair.
Thordren spoke for the first time. “Sentinel Marshal, my father is in poor health. I must ask-”
Evlan cut him off. “He has escaped, but he is hardly free. He is a fugitive from justice, and the combined efforts of Houses Deneith, Tharashk, Kundarak, and Thuranni will locate him eventually.”
“House Thuranni?” Arnoth said. “They’ll kill him!”
“Probably. Certainly you can appreciate that it would be better for Gaven if I find him before Thuranni’s assassins do. If you have any information that might help me locate him…”
“If I knew anything, I would certainly tell you, Sentinel Marshal,” Arnoth said, and Evlan believed him. “And if I hear from him…”
He trailed off. He couldn’t quite bring himself to promise that he’d turn in his son. Evlan would have marshals watch the house.
“Thank you. I have just one more question for you. Do you know where I might find Rienne ir’Alastra?”
The shadows pooled and thickened in a corner of the little room. A sword blade took shape out of the darkness, glinting dully in the dim light that filtered through the shutters of the room. Then the hand that held it appeared, covered in a black glove. Phaine d’Thuranni stepped out of the shadows, lowering his sword as his eyes swept the empty room. Another form took shape in the dark corner, and Phaine made a hand signal: Stand down.
Either they had received bad information, or they had arrived too late. Phaine shifted his sword to his left hand and used his teeth to pull the glove off his right hand. He bent over the bed beside the window, placing his palm on the mattress. A trace of a circle rumpling the blankets showed that someone had been sitting there not long before. Very recently, in fact-Phaine could still feel the heat.
Phaine shot Leina another hand signal, and she stepped to the door, pressed an ear to it, and shook her head. Then something on the door caught her eye, and she examined it. She knelt and looked at the floor, then stepped away from the door, signaling to Phaine: Look here. She pointed at the door and the floor.
Phaine crossed the room in two steps and looked where Leina had pointed. There was a mark on the door as if something had struck it. Perhaps the metal head of a mace, but not a hard blow. The floor was scuffed.
“A warforged,” he whispered. “Pacing here beside the door, and the door hit him when it opened.” The other elf nodded. Search it, Phaine told her.
Phaine pressed his own ear to the door then opened it silently. There was no one in the hall, and the opposite door stood open. Taking his sword in his right hand again, he stepped quickly across to the other room. Empty. The two beds were pushed together, their blankets piled on the floor. He found white hairs on the bed-presumably ir’Brassek’s-and curly black hairs that must have belonged to the woman the innkeeper had described, the beautiful elf. Phaine snorted. He didn’t like to imagine an elf dallying with an old human like ir’Brassek.
He stepped back across the hall, no longer making an effort at silence. “What did you find?” he asked Leina, who knelt on the floor beside the window.
“Come have a look,” she said.
Phaine crossed the room and looked over her shoulder. The window sill was thick with grime-except where a fingertip had traced patterns in the dirt.
Without thinking about it, Phaine reverted to hand signals: Over there. Leina got out of the way, and Phaine knelt on the floor to study the patterns. At first, they were incomprehensible, but he knew there was something-the shapes hinted at letters, in the ornate Draconic script. But they’d been written on top of each other, and he found it almost impossible to distinguish them. He breathed the words of a simple spell, and the letters slowly resolved themselves in his mind.
He read them aloud, translating them from Draconic to Elven. “The Bronze Serpent seeks the face of the first of sixteen.”
“What?” Leina said.
“The Prophecy. Come. Let’s get out of here.”
The shadows in the corner darkened again, and Phaine stepped into them. When he vanished, Leina took one last look around the room, then followed.
Rienne ir’Alastra whirled on Evlan, a picture of righteous fury. “I assure you, Sentinel Marshal,” she said, “if I had any idea where Gaven was, I’d tell you, just as I did all those years ago.”
She set her jaw, trying to make herself believe the words she spoke. Back then, she had honestly believed that she was helping Gaven by leading the Sentinels to him-she thought they would help him, restore him to his right mind. Instead, they had locked him in Dreadhold, and she had spent two and a half decades blaming herself for all the tortures she imagined him enduring there. Now he had escaped, and this Evlan d’Deneith seemed a little too skilled at reading the ambivalence she felt.
“I am sure you will do what’s right,” Evlan said. He smiled slightly, but his eyes fixed on her like a hawk.
She turned her back on him again. “I appreciate your confidence,” she said.
“I spoke to his father this morning,” Evlan said. The sound of his voice drew a little closer. “Master d’Lyrandar does not believe that Gaven is mad.”
“Love blinds him.”
“Perhaps. Although he was careful to remind me that, technically, he has only one son.”
“The censure of House Lyrandar means little to Arnoth.”
“And what about you, Lady?” he whispered, uncomfortably close now. She could feel him behind her.
Rienne stepped forward and whirled on him again, resting a hand on the hilt of a dagger in her belt as she did so. “What about me, Sentinel Marshal?”
“You were engaged to be married. Gaven has been in Dread-hold for twenty-six years, and you have not married anyone else. Might love be blinding you as well?”
“My marriage to Gaven would have been advantageous both to my family and to House Lyrandar. It was a political allegiance. After Gaven’s arrest, my value in such a bargain diminished significantly. House Lyrandar has made other alliances with other noble families, and the ir’Alastras have waned in influence. Surely you, a scion of House Deneith, can appreciate what is involved in such an alliance.”
Evlan raised his palms as if to deflect the force of her anger. “I married a woman I loved.”
“Well, aren’t you lucky?”
Evlan met her glare and held it for a long moment. “Very well,” he said at last. “If you hear from Gaven, please contact me immediately. I don’t imagine that I need to remind you of the consequences if you do not.”
“I would hate to imagine that a Sentinel Marshal is leveling petty threats at a member of Aundair’s nobility, however much my family’s influence has fallen.”
“Farewell, Lady.” Evlan turned and strode out of the hall.
Rienne watched his back until the servants had ushered him out the front door and closed it behind him. Only when she heard the satisfying slam of the door did she turn and run to her chambers.
Bordan looked up through the shattered ceiling of Dreadhold’s tower to the dazzling arc of the Ring of Siberys overhead. He tried to imagine the force it must have taken to break through the thick stone, the size and sheer strength of the dragon that had done it. Blinking several times to clear the dust and drowsiness from his eyes, he set a thick sheaf of papers down on the bed beside him and stood up to stretch his back.
He walked around Gaven’s tiny cell, reading whatever words his eyes fell on, hoping that something would leap out at him that would help him understand. He could certainly see why so many people thought Gaven was at least halfway across the Sea of Rage, practically lost to madness. Disjointed fragments full of strange imagery and obscure descriptions covered the walls. Bordan had been wrestling for hours with numbers: twice thirteen years, the first of sixteen, shards of three dragons, thirteen cycles of the B
attleground, nineteen turns of the thirteenth moon.
The thirteenth moon? Bordan thought. To the best of his knowledge, there were only twelve. And he could only guess at references for most of the rest of these numbers.
His eyes fell on a scrap of writing at his eye level, and he read the words aloud. “The cauldron of the thirteen dragons boils until one of the five beasts fighting over a single bone becomes a thing of desolation.” Bordan stroked his beard. “Very well, Gaven, let’s play this game. Five beasts fighting over a single bone-is that your code for the Five Nations? Are we talking about the Last War here? And Cyre, bless it, has become a thing of desolation. So Galifar is the boiling cauldron of the thirteen dragons? It’s a boiling cauldron because of the war. Thirteen dragons-thirteen dragonmarked houses!”
He looked up at the Ring of Siberys again. “But there were only twelve dragons before House Phiarlan split, Gaven. Is that why you conspired against them? Did you orchestrate the schism so there would be thirteen dragons and your precious Prophecy would make sense?”
He looked around the room again, at all the writing on the walls, the rubble on the floor, the crack in the ceiling through which Gaven, formerly of House Lyrandar, had escaped.
“So your Prophecy would come true?”
CHAPTER 7
The Aerenal jungle teemed with life. Even discounting the insects that swarmed around them, the sounds of movement were everywhere-gibbons leaping through the canopy overhead and whooping at each other, the hiss of an emerald-scaled snake coiled around a nearby branch, the harsh cries and elaborate songs of a dozen different birds. More alarming, something large rustled in the undergrowth not far enough away, off to Gaven’s right.
“Welcome to Aerenal,” Haldren announced. He swept his arm grandly around him, taking in the jungle, then pointed behind Gaven. “The City of the Dead lies in the valley in that direction.”