by James Wyatt
Gaven turned around and stepped to the edge of the balcony. The air was clearer up here, above the clouds of incense that settled at street level. The western horizon was blood red-“Evening red, clear skies ahead,” he whispered, remembering the old sailor’s proverb. The Ring of Siberys shone across the sky like a million tiny suns, lighting the night sky in a pale imitation of day. As he looked, a shooting star darted down from the Ring and disappeared above the distant forest.
More memories surfaced in his mind. He had climbed the dark and narrow stairs beside his friend, Mendaros, and waited on this balcony as the elf made his petitions to his ancestor. Then Gaven had knelt in the small room behind him, and learned much that was still locked in his mind. Mendaros Alvena Tuorren had been his friend, probably Senya’s great-uncle or cousin far removed. And now Senya and her lover had brought Gaven here because of the knowledge he possessed.
“Gaven, we’re ready,” Haldren said behind him.
Gaven turned to see Cart and Darraun shuffling into the chamber. Haldren extended a hand, inviting Gaven to join them, a broad smile on his face. Gaven’s pulse quickened. What did Haldren hope to learn here?
Gaven followed Darraun into the small stone chamber. It smelled of death, clouds of incense unable to mask the acrid scent of the embalmed corpse that stood and watched them enter. Pale flames flickered in empty eye sockets, and Gaven felt them burning into him as he approached. Senya’s ancestor was draped in ancient finery, rich velvet and brocaded silk cloaking her withered flesh. Long black hair fell around her desiccated face, pale paper-thin skin stretched tight over her bones, and her clawlike hands held a slender gold rod. Senya knelt on the floor before her ancestor, and Cart took a similar position behind her.
Gaven cast a sidelong glance at Darraun as they sank to their knees, noticing his wide eyes and the sweat beading on his brow. He’d seen this reaction on the battlefield during the war. Soldiers faced with the undead soldiers of Karrnath, animated from the corpses of earlier battles, often suffered more from their own fear than from the blades and arrows of their enemies. He wondered if Darraun had fought in the war, perhaps suffered at the skeletal hands of Karrnathi forces. He gave the man credit for facing his fear at Haldren’s command. Haldren knelt in front of Gaven, just behind Senya’s elbow.
“Senya Alvena Arrathinen,” the deathless thing said. Her shriveled lips barely moved, as though the cold, clear voice emerged magically from somewhere inside her head. Gaven was surprised at the purity of the voice, a far cry from the rasping whisper Gaven had expected. “What are you doing here? You are not a credit to your family.” She spoke in Elven, and Gaven wondered who else in the room understood her words.
Senya held her head high. “I am a warrior, and my skill at the blade brings honor to my ancestors.”
“Martial skill is not honorable when it is used for the pursuit of profit.”
“The Valaes Taern would not agree,” Senya said.
Gaven held back a smile. The warriors of the Valaes Taern had been mercenaries in the Last War until they annexed part of southern Cyre to form the nation of Valenar.
“Your family is not of the Valaes Taern.”
“Nevertheless, I fight with honor in a worthy cause.”
Her ancestor made a sound like a long sigh and stepped closer to where Senya knelt. “You have invoked the Right of Counsel, and tradition requires that I answer your questions, as much as I might wish to deny you. What counsel do you seek, Senya?”
Senya glanced over her shoulder at Haldren, and Gaven caught his first glimpse of fear in her eyes. Haldren put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and she turned back to her ancestor. “I seek knowledge of the Prophecy of the Dragons,” she said. Her voice sounded high, strained.
“The knowledge of the dragons should be used only as a weapon against the dragons.”
“I have invoked the Right of Counsel, as you said. Grant me the knowledge I seek.”
“There is more to wisdom than knowledge. You would do well to heed my counsel.”
Gaven watched Haldren take his hand from Senya’s shoulder and bring it to his mouth. The old man had to restrain himself from jumping into the argument. Gaven rather enjoyed seeing Haldren faced with someone he could not charm, bully, or dominate. He hoped to see many more examples of Haldren caught powerless.
“Give me knowledge, and trust my wisdom and that of my allies,” Senya said. Haldren nodded approvingly behind her.
“You have given me no cause to trust either.” The ancestor cast her burning eyes over Senya’s companions. Gaven was sure she dwelled longest on him. Was she studying his dragonmark, perhaps? Or did she somehow recognize him? “On the contrary,” she continued, “to all appearances you are rushing headlong into folly and destruction. I would not assist you in this.”
“You must,” Senya said.
Gaven was impressed at how Senya handled herself. For a moment he wondered if Haldren had established a magical connection between his mind and Senya’s so that he could speak through her. But Gaven decided it was more likely that Haldren had fallen in love with a woman who shared some of his talent for debate.
The undying ancestor drew herself up, bristling with anger. “I am bound to give counsel to deaf ears and show the path to blind eyes.”
Triumph rang in Senya’s voice. “Tell me, revered elder, how the Storm Dragon shall claim the place of the first of sixteen and become a god.”
CHAPTER 9
The Storm Dragon?” The elder’s voice was quiet, and the fire in her eye sockets dimmed. She fixed her gaze on Senya, then on Haldren for a long moment. Gaven watched the old man hold her gaze without flinching. Then the deathless elder turned her burning eyes on Gaven, and he forced himself to meet those eyes.
“Who is this, Senya?” the ancestor said, her eyes still locked on Gaven’s. “Who is this hybrid you have brought into the city of your ancestors?”
Senya rose to her feet and stood between her ancestor and Gaven. Gaven looked at the floor and took a deep breath.
“Answer my question,” Senya said.
“Kneel!” The ancestor’s shout rang with supernatural power, and Senya dropped back to the floor. Gaven saw that Haldren had been about to rise as well, but he planted both knees back on the floor at the elder’s command.
“You came to ask my counsel,” the ancestor said, “but you have proven yourself unwilling to heed it. I will give you the knowledge you seek because I must, but I will not tolerate insolence from the likes of you, Senya Alvena Arrathinen.”
She turned her back on them, and Haldren shot a glance over his shoulder at Gaven. Gaven looked away.
“It can be no accident that you have come here on this night,” the ancestor continued. “You seek the Eye of Siberys, and your question suggests that you would help the Storm Dragon rather than hinder him. So be it.” She turned to face them, and again her eyes burned into Gaven’s. “The Eye of Siberys lifts the Sky Caves of Thieren Kor from the land of desolation under the dark of the great moon, and…”
Gaven found himself speaking the rest of the sentence in unison with the ancestor. “… the Storm Dragon walks in the paths of the first of sixteen.” The Draconic syllables of the Prophecy coiled and snaked through his mind as he spoke them in Elven. Those words had become a part of him.
The ancestor stepped closer to Gaven. “I have told you this before.”
Gaven shook his head slowly, trying to wrench his eyes away from the ancestor’s piercing stare. “I am just a man,” he gasped.
I am not the other, he thought-I am not the one who was here before.
“In the first age of the world,” said Gaven, “sixteen dragons transcended their mortal forms to become like the Dragon Above who had made them. These are the first ascendant. In the second age of the world, the first elders of Aerenal transcended their mortal forms to become the second ascendant. In the last age of the world, the Storm Dragon takes the place of the first of sixteen, the Gold Serpent whom the world ha
s long since forgotten. The third ascendant.” Words spilled from Gaven’s mouth without thought, the narrative of his nightmares: “A clash of dragons signals the sundering of the Soul Reaver’s gates. 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.”
Images filled his mind as if summoned by the words he had spoken: the gibbering hordes of tentacled monsters, the brilliant column of light bursting up from the ground.
“The Storm Dragon descends into the endless dark beneath the bridge of light, where the Soul Reaver waits. There among the bones of Khyber, the Storm Dragon drives the spear formed from Siberys’s Eye into the Soul Reaver’s heart. And the Storm Dragon walks through the gates of Khyber and crosses the bridge to the sky.”
The deathless elf stared at Gaven in silence for a long time, and Gaven could not turn his eyes away. He was dimly aware of the others-Haldren glaring at him, Senya gaping in amazement, Cart watching with curious interest. Darraun’s eyes were elsewhere, probably avoiding contact with the undying thing he seemed to fear.
Finally the ancestor turned her gaze away from Gaven and wheeled on Senya. “Your question is answered, my counsel given. Depart from here, and may you bring honor and not shame to your family.”
Senya pressed her forehead to the ground then stood and busied herself around the brazier that burned in the corner of the room-Gaven had not noticed it before-but the ancestor interrupted her.
“I do not care for your prayers and offerings. Be gone!”
Startled, Senya hurried from the chamber, Darraun right on her heels. Haldren and Cart followed. Gaven tried to avoid the ancestor’s gaze as he moved to the door, but she placed herself in his path.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“I am just a man,” he said again. “Gaven, once of House Lyrandar.”
“Go then, Gaven. Twice you have come to me now. The third time, you will finally find what you seek.”
Gaven hurried after Cart. He did not think he breathed until he was back on the street.
When he reached the street, Haldren snarled at him. “What in the Realm of Madness was all that about?” The sorcerer’s face twisted in rage.
Gaven shrugged, his eyes darting everywhere but in Haldren’s direction. He wasn’t sure what had happened, but he certainly didn’t want to tell Haldren what he suspected.
“How did she know you?” Senya asked. “Why did she say you’d been here before?” Her voice held none of the fury of Haldren’s outburst, and Gaven allowed his eyes to meet hers. But he quickly looked away, and shrugged again.
“Who did she think you were?” Haldren demanded.
Gaven sat on his haunches and stared at the ground.
Darraun put a hand on Haldren’s arm. “Why are you so angry, Haldren?” he said. “What did you expect to happen in there?”
Haldren straightened and seemed to calm down a bit, but his eyes were still narrowed in suspicion, and he didn’t answer Darraun. “Have you been here before? Is that how you learned about the Prophecy?”
I have not been here before, Gaven thought. I just remember being here. He ran a finger along a groove between the cobblestones. But what had the ancestor meant with those words? The third time, you will finally find what you seek?
Senya fell to her knees in front of Gaven, trying to make him meet her eyes. “Gaven, that was my ancestor in there, and she said you had been there before,” she said. “Why did she say that? What’s your connection to my family?”
Gaven kept his eyes on the ground. Senya Alvena Arrathinen, he thought. What is your relation to my old friend Mendaros? No-I never knew him, he reminded himself, shaking his head. That was the other.
“Damn you!” Senya drew her hand back as if to slap him, but Cart’s words stopped her.
“It seems those showers of light have begun,” the warforged said.
Gaven looked up at the night sky. The Ring of Siberys made it look like an overcast day; the sky was dark blue gray and studded with points of golden light. Streaks of fire crossed the sky as dragonshards fell from the ring and rained to earth.
A few dragonshards clattered on the stone streets nearby, and Gaven heard others striking the buildings above them. He had been a prospector-that’s what he’d told Darraun. To a prospector’s mind, there was a small fortune to be made here. Siberys shards were the most precious dragonshards, useful primarily to the dragonmarked houses, who sent prospectors to Xen’drik to find the products of showers like this one. Properly attuned, a Siberys shard could enhance the power of a dragonmark in a variety of ways. House Lyrandar built them into the helms of their galleons-probably their airships as well-so that a dragonmarked heir of the house could control the elemental spirit bound into the ship. Clearly many of the living residents of the City of the Dead shared that point of view. They were scrambling after the shards that landed in the street like chickens after a handful of seed.
But Gaven was not here to make a fortune, and the shard they sought was no ordinary dragonshard. As he looked, one shard flared brighter than all the others and streaked across the sky. It grew brighter as it fell, stinging his eyes. When it landed, he heard its impact, like a great spear striking the earth. It was close, no more than a mile outside the city.
“The Eye of Siberys,” Haldren said. “Move!”
Gaven did not need Haldren’s command-he was already on his feet and three strides ahead of Haldren. Darraun kept pace with him at first-spurred, no doubt, by his eagerness to leave the City of the Dead-but Gaven soon left him behind.
The guards at the gate started to close ranks as he approached, probably assuming that he was fleeing the scene of a crime or trying to escape an angry watch patrol. Gaven prepared himself to barrel right through the guards if necessary. It proved not to be necessary-either the guards noticed the lack of any pursuit or they figured the city was best rid of the foreigners anyway.
It felt good to run. For so many years he had been confined to a small cell or given his exercise in a tiny yard where he just walked, slowly, counting his paces like the passing of years. Now the wind whipped his hair behind him, cooling the sweat from his face. His arms and legs pumped hard, his muscles protesting the exertion but also exulting in his speed. He remembered riding on the wyvern’s back behind Cart, feeling the dragon’s muscles as it flapped its wings hard to propel them through the air, and for a moment he felt as if he were flying.
A hundred yards outside the city, he realized he didn’t know where he was running. Three more steps, and he realized he didn’t care. He would run until he reached the sea, and then he would take flight and run across the waves. The wind blew at his back, and he could almost feel it lifting him off the ground.
In the jungle ahead of him, he saw a flicker of golden fire lighting a wisp of smoke, and he remembered why he ran. He turned toward the glow. The wind blew his hair into his face, and he lifted a hand to brush it aside. Then he was upon the source of the golden fire, and he stopped running.
The wind billowed around him, lashing the ferns and the leaves of the overhanging trees like a tiny cyclone, then it blew itself out. Gaven looked down at the Eye of Siberys where it lay, nestled in the tiny crater of its impact, where the earth had formed a sheltering hand to hold it. Blackened ferns lined its bed, burned from its heat, still blowing out wisps of smoke that twisted and danced in the dying wind. He fell to his knees and stretched out a trembling hand to touch it.
It was warm, not hot as he’d feared. Its yellow surface shone with light reflected from the Ring of Siberys high above, and veins of gold in its heart pulsed with a light of their own. He scooped it up with both hands, holding it in front of him like a chalice full of holy water. As he stood, he heard thunderous footsteps behind him, and he pulled it close to his chest as he turned to face his companions.
Darraun reached him first, wild amazement in his eyes. He was breathing too hard to speak, and he bent over double to catch his breath before Haldren and the o
thers reached them.
Gaven cradled the Eye of Siberys close. Its warmth spread through him and set his dragonmark tingling.
CHAPTER 10
That was quite a run,” Darraun said, trying to smile as he panted.
Gaven ignored him, his gaze fixed on the pulsing veins of gold in the heart of the dragonshard.
“Gaven?” No answer.
Darraun shot a nervous glance over his shoulder at Haldren, who ran as fast as his old legs could carry him. He was still a bowshot away, though Senya and Cart were closer.
Stepping closer to Gaven, Darraun tried to get a good look at the crystal, good enough to analyze the magic in it. “Gaven, if you’ll let me look at that…”
Gaven turned away, shielding the dragonshard against his chest, his eyes still glued to it.
Darraun put a hand on Gaven’s shoulder. “Gaven, look at me.” He shook him gently, then harder. Gaven pulled away but didn’t raise his eyes.
“This is not good,” Darraun muttered. “I’m sorry about this, Gaven.” He swung his fist at Gaven’s chin as hard as he could, hoping to snap Gaven out of this trance.
A deafening clap of thunder shattered the air, and Darraun found himself on his back two strides away from Gaven, gasping for breath. His ears rang, but he could still hear the footsteps approaching.
Senya and Cart stopped dead near where Darraun lay. Cart fell to one knee beside him.
“Are you injured?” the warforged asked, his voice heavy with concern. Darraun shook his head. “What did he do to you?”
Darraun sat up. Gaven still held up the hand he had used to block Darraun’s punch, but his eyes remained focused on the dragonshard in his other hand. Senya stood behind Cart, staring at Gaven as if she were entranced. A clap of thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “I think the dragonshard is enchanting him somehow, so I tried to wrench his attention away from it. Evidently he’s got some attention to spare-enough to defend himself anyway.”