Praise for Rich Wulf’s Voyage of the Mourning Dawn …

“Voyage of the Mourning Dawn is a soaring adventure with great characters and an intriguing mystery. I can’t wait to see where Rich Wulf takes his story in Flight of the Dying Sun.”

— Don Bassingthwaite
Author of The Killing Song

The Legacy, the ultimate doomsday weapon, is reborn—and it lies in the hands of a madman.

The black sphere in Marth’s hand seethed with bitter cold. The smell of burnt ozone singed the air. Below him, the city of Sharn was thrown into chaos. Already he could see fires erupting in the lower reaches of the city from the crashed airships. Alarm bells echoed throughout Skyway. Lights flickered in the buildings ahead as citizens roused from their slumber. The Brelish airships, thrown into chaos, pursued the Seventh Moon at a distance. They were hardly even worth concern.

The ship gained speed again, soaring deeper into Sharn. Marth saw lights rising from the floating island like hornets stirred from their nest. Some were the burning rings of airships, flying out to reinforce the fleet. Others might be skycoaches attempting to flee the city or even the gleaming staves of wizards flying under the power of their own magic. A squad of swift Brelish airships darted up from the streets below, soaring toward the Moon in formation.

The airships attacked with a desperate volley of fire, lightning, and raw arcane power. The changeling’s hand tightened around the glass sphere, and the Legacy lashed out.

THE HEIRS OF ASH
BY RICH WULF

Voyage of the Mourning Dawn

Flight of the Dying Sun

Rise of the Seventh Moon

RISE OF THE SEVENTH MOON
The Heirs of Ash • Book Three
©2007 Wizards of the Coast LLC.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Represented by Hasbro Europe, 2 Roundwood Ave, Stockley Park, Uxbridge, Middlesex, UB11 1AZ, UK.

EBERRON, Dungeons & Dragons, D&D, Wizards of the Coast, all other Wizards of the Coast product names, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the USA and other countries.

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

Cover art by: Philip Straub

eISBN: 978-0-7869-6492-5
640A5498000001 EN

For customer service, contact:

U.S., Canada, Asia Pacific, & Latin America: Wizards of the Coast LLC, P.O. Box 707, Renton, WA 98057-0707, +1-800-324-6496, www.wizards.com/customerservice

U.K., Eire, & South Africa: Wizards of the Coast LLC, c/o Hasbro UK Ltd., P.O. Box 43, Newport, NP19 4YD, UK, Tel: +08457 12 55 99, Email: wizards@hasbro.co.uk

All other countries: Wizards of the Coast p/a Hasbro Belgium NV/SA, Industrialaan 1, 1702 Groot-Bijgaarden, Belgium, Tel: +32.70.233.277, Email: wizards@hasbro.be

Visit our websites at www.wizards.com
www.DungeonsandDragons.com

v3.1

FOR RASKAL

Contents

Cover

Other Books by This Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Epilogue

Breland, near Ringbriar

Tristam climbed atop the shattered tower, puffed out his chest, and attempted to look impressive. He was a skinny youth, so this was a difficult task. At least his long coat flapped dramatically in the chill autumn wind.

Beneath him, only a few paces away, the four men were digging through the rubble. They took no notice of him just yet, sifting out metal scraps and tossing them in a wagon. They wore faded uniforms, worn and bloodstained but recognizable as those of Brelish soldiers. Each had a large sword lying within easy reach. Tristam’s shoulders slumped and his courage faltered; he had thought there were only two. He considered retreating to rethink his plan. He glanced around for a quiet path back down the rubble heap. One of the soldiers turned to add a large scrap to their haul and paused to stare blankly at the strange boy standing above them.

“Who in Khyber is that?” the man said, dropping the metal in the wagon.

There was no retreating now. Not with his dignity intact. There was only one option—pure, stupid bravado.

“Hold, villains!” Tristam cried, sweeping out his hand in a flourish. “Step away from your weapons and I will show mercy.”

“Hold, villains?” one of them said, surprised. He turned to his comrade. “Veran, did that boy actually say ‘Hold, villains’ to us?”

The other man blinked. “I think he actually did.”

“Sounds like a Lhazaarite,” said the first man, returning to his work. “They’ve got a liking for drama. Ignore him. He’s just a harmless brat.”

Tristam’s face darkened. He considered backing away in shame. He was heavily outnumbered, after all. But no, he couldn’t leave now. He had an important task to complete, and these men were interfering. That wasn’t even considering what they might do if they discovered what he had been working on. He drew his sword.

Four pairs of eyes moved instantly at the sound. Their amusement and playful indifference vanished. The men watched Tristam with the dead eyes of experienced soldiers. The nearest, Veran, drew his his own sword from its scabbard.

“Don’t be stupid,” Veran said. “Why would you want to get in our way?”

“You’re grave robbers,” Tristam said. “By your uniforms, I’m guessing you’re deserters as well. Worst of all”—he pointed at the wagon full of metal scrap—“you’re stealing the House Cannith property that I have been sent to collect.”

The men blanched at that. The law could reach only so far. The Brelish army could spare only so many resources to find them. But only a fool crossed the House of Making. House Cannith’s reach extended into every city in Khorvaire. The Cannith guildhouses commanded the loyalty of nations.

Veran’s eyes hardened as he took a step forward. “If this scrap belongs to House Cannith, then they shouldn’t have sent a lone boy to collect it,” he said.

The others drew their swords and grouped close behind Veran, advancing to surround Tristam’s high perch.

Tristam reached into his coat with his free hand and drew out a thin ivory wand. He spoke a word of magic and released a bolt of crackling electricity at the nearest soldier’s feet, hurling him backward in a cloud of smoke and debris. The soldiers scattered. Tristam leaped from the rocky spire and ran, trying to take advantage of the distraction.

Tristam felt a sharp tug from behind. His feet slipped on the loose stones, and he fell. Veran had seized the tail of Tristam’s long coat, pulling him off balance. A booted foot struck Tristam in the stomach. His sword and wand were lost. Coarse hands seized Tristam’s wrists as the soldiers overwhelmed him, pulling him to his feet. Veran leaned close to his face.

“Curse you, boy,” Veran growled. “I don’t want to kill you but can’t have you going off to report us to the Canniths either. There’s a cellar in the ruins not far from here. We’re going to leave you there and seal the door. Don’t dig yourself out until we’re gone. Understood?”

No! He couldn’t let them beat him. If they discovered what he found, they would destroy it. Or, worse, use it …

Tristam lifted his throbbing head. He twisted in their grip, quickly sliding one arm out of the sleeve of his coat and punching Veran across the jaw. The soldier reeled and struck Tristam back with a mailed fist. Tristam’s vision blurred. He felt them grab his wrist and hold him helpless once more. Blood trickled down his chin. Veran seized Tristam by the throat, holding his sword against his stomach.

“You just killed yourself, idiot boy,” the soldier rasped.

Tristam saw the cold rage in the soldier’s eyes, but the killing blow never came. Dead silence fell over the crumbling ruins for half a breath, then the silence was punctuated by the sudden ring of metal against stone. The sound came again. Again. And again, in a rhythmic pattern.

The four soldiers looked at one another uneasily, as if they recognized the sound. They turned as one, looking toward an archway among the ruins. An enormous figure stepped into view. He was humanoid, except that his body was carved from scarred adamantine and battered darkwood. The setting sun framed him from behind, giving him a dark and ominous appearance. Two pools of blue light served as eyes in his smooth metal face. His thick arms curled into three-fingered claws, now balled into fists half the size of a man’s head.

A warforged.

The construct looked at the men silently, then at their wagon. He plucked a chunk of metal from the load and looked at it intently. It was the shattered face plate of another warforged. After a few moments he looked up at them, blue eyes shining with a cold light. The warforged spoke, his bass, metallic voice resounding over the shattered stone.

“Tristam Xain is my friend,” he said. “Let him go.”

Veran quickly released Tristam’s throat and backed away from the boy. “By the Host, do what it says,” he said. The other soldiers released Tristam, letting him fall limp on the stones.

“Now run,” the warforged said.

Veran sheathed his sword and clambered away over the stones.

“What about the salvage?” one of his greedier comrades said, nodding at the wagon.

“Can’t spend it if we’re dead, fool!” said another soldier, grabbing the man’s arm. “Run!”

The deserters scrambled away over the ruins, never looking back. Tristam sat up and watched them vanish over the heaps of ancient rubble. He groaned and crawled to his feet, wobbling unsteadily. The warforged still stood in ruined archway, though he now leaned heavily against the threshold. He slid down the frame till he sat hunched among the broken stone.

“Omax!” Tristam shouted, running to the warforged’s side. He helped Omax lean back against the archway. In the shadows of the setting sun, the soldiers could not see how badly damaged Omax was. His metal body was a network of jagged scars. His adamantine skin was deeply dented or missing in many places. It had been one week since Tristam had found the wounded warforged buried in the rocks. How long had he been here? Ashrem said no one had lived in the monastery since it collapsed twenty years ago.

“Omax, are you hurt?” Tristam asked.

“No worse than before,” the warforged said.

Tristam searched his pockets, pulling out vials of reagents and whispering transfusions to mend Omax’s damaged body as much as he could. The warforged watched in silence as his metallic flesh twisted back into its proper shape at Tristam’s command. “You shouldn’t even be walking yet. They might have killed you.”

“They would surely have killed you,” Omax said. “You were not afraid.”

“I didn’t want them to find you,” Tristam said. “They would have forced you into servitude or used you for scrap.”

“Then you understand,” Omax said. “Even if you know you will die, to stand your ground for a righteous cause is the greatest victory.”

Tristam was stunned. No one had ever risked their life for him before. “Thank you, Omax,” he said quietly.

“You are welcome, Tristam,” the warforged said. He looked at the metal plate in his hand. “I assume their business here was the same as your own?”

“I think so,” Tristam said. “A lot of warforged died here. That’s a lot of House Cannith darkwood and adamantine. The right people would pay a lot of money for this stuff.”

“And is that why your master sent you here?” Omax asked, looking at Tristam solemnly. “To profit?”

“No,” Tristam said. “He sent me ahead to see if the ruins had been looted. Ashrem wanted to make certain the warforged received a proper burial.”

“Why?” Omax asked, placing the scrap back in the wagon. “We are only weapons.”

“Ashrem feels differently,” Tristam said.

Omax looked at Tristam, keenly interested. “Oh?” he said.

“Ashrem helped create the first generation of warforged,” Tristam said. “He feels sorry for the way they’ve been used.”

Omax said nothing.

“He should be here soon,” Tristam said. “Our airship is in Wroat, picking up supplies. Ashrem is a much more skilled artificer than I am. After he arrives we should have you back at full strength in no time, Omax.”

“And what then?” Omax asked. “Will I be returned to the War?”

“If you want to be,” Tristam said. “Or you could stay with us on the Seventh Moon. Master Ashrem believes that the warforged should be free to seek their destinies.”

“Free?” the warforged mused, tasting the word.

Tristam nodded.

“I think I would like that,” Omax said.

ONE

The Harrowcrowns
Seven Years Later

Nothing,” Eraina said, emerging from the worn shed with a scowl. She sheathed her shortsword and scanned the small camp with a sullen expression.

Zed Arthen sat on a stump. His two-handed sword lay on the grass, discarded but within easy reach. His long pipe dangled between his teeth, letting a plume of smoke curl in the air. He radiated disinterest as he studied the deep orange hue of the leaves above them.

“Are you even listening, Arthen?” Eraina asked. “I said I’ve found nothing.”

“I heard you,” he said, leaning backward and twisting to pop his back.

“You’ve nothing to add?” she said.

“Not really,” Zed said. “Not without saying I told you so, and that sort of thing just provokes you.”

Eraina’s face darkened.

“It’s true, though,” he said. “I told you Marth wouldn’t use these old scouting outposts. The Thrane military may have abandoned them, but they’re still on the maps. You know all it would take is one curious soldier checking in on area military holdings and Marth would be exposed. He wouldn’t take that kind of risk.”

“I don’t recall you saying any of that,” Eraina said. “I recall one grumbled, ‘Are you sure about this?’—which I attributed to your natural penchant for complaining.”

“I may have abbreviated my explanation,” Zed agreed, tapping out his pipe and tucking it back into his shabby coat.

The paladin gave him an exasperated look. “Zed, if you thought coming out here was such a terrible waste of time, you could have made your opinion clearer.” She stabbed her spear into the soft earth and slumped cross-legged on the ground.

“I didn’t have any better ideas,” Zed said. “None, at least, that you would have approved. To be honest, I kept my disagreement to a minimum because I hoped I was wrong. I thought maybe we would get lucky and find something.”

“Your first impression was correct, unfortunately,” she said.

“I’m a little confused by the entire situation, actually,” Zed said. “With as large an operation as Marth has, I would have thought he would be easier to track. At the very least he has to have some sort of airship repair bay, docking tower, and barracks. That means he has to maintain food, clothing, and morale for at least sixty to seventy troops. That’s assuming the soldiers we’ve faced are the majority of his followers. That may not be the case. There may be more. This sort of operation needs a lot of supplies, but we’ve seen nothing. Nathyrr is the most obvious staging point.” Zed sighed. “You haven’t sensed anything, have you, Eraina?”

“Nothing,” Eraina said, “but that isn’t unusual. Marth is, for all his cruelty, an ordinary mortal. Such beings rarely leave a supernatural trail that a paladin can easily follow. Though I don’t know why you need to ask me. You could try to sense him for yourself.” She looked at him meaningfully.

“That isn’t funny,” Zed said. “I told you, the Silver Flame hasn’t shone upon me in years. I’m not a paladin anymore.”

“Only because you turn away,” Eraina said. “Those who were wronged have been avenged. Commander Kalaven was brought to justice. Think of the good you have done in the years hence. You have risen above your weakness and atoned, Arthen. I think that your god would receive you as its champion. All that remains for you to be a paladin again is for you to forgive yourself.”

“Eraina, drop this,” Zed said. “It isn’t something I want to talk about. Ever.”

“Very well,” Eraina said. She rubbed her eyes, pushing strands of pale blond hair back into her unraveling braid. She caught Zed looking away and suppressed a grin. “What are you staring at?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Liar,” she said. “You were going make a comment about my hair again.”

Zed scratched his chin. The inquisitive had not shaved in several days, either due to laziness or preoccupation with their search. “What if I was?” he asked.

“I would have instructed you to return your thoughts to our task, deputy,” she said.

“Again with the deputy business.” Zed sighed. “You really take that seriously, don’t you?”

“I take everything seriously, Arthen,” Eraina said.

“I know you took a vow of honesty, but what other sorts of vows does a Spear of Boldrei take?” Zed asked.

“Arthen, focus,” she said. “We have much to do here.”

“Just making conversation,” he said. “I was wondering what sorts of relationships you’re allowed to have with outsiders.”

“If you are trying to seduce me again, this is hardly the time,” she said, rising and plucking her spear from the earth. She strode back to her horse.

“Why not?” Zed asked, not rising from his seat. “We’ve been here nearly a week and haven’t seen any sign of Marth’s soldiers. You’re an attractive woman, Eraina. You’re also interesting to talk to when you don’t have your spear jammed up your—”

“Wait,” she repeated, pausing with a thoughtful look as she adjusted her saddle. “Repeat what you said earlier about your ideas.”

“Excuse me?” Zed said, looking at her blankly.

“You said you had no ideas that I would have approved,” she said, looking at him sharply. “Implying that you had ideas of which I would not approve.”

Zed’s eyes shifted nervously. “Maybe.”

They mounted their steeds and rode back toward Nathyrr. The sun floated low above the horizon, painting the sky deep red. They urged their horses to a trot, eager to leave the dark reaches of the Harrowcrowns behind before sunset. Local legend held that the woods were haunted. Most Thrane forests were. Eraina and Zed were no strangers to the supernatural, nor were they entirely helpless against such foes. Nonetheless, their experiences had only made them all the more eager to avoid conflict if possible. If the legends were only that, so be it, but there was no harm in riding a bit more swiftly to avoid danger. Nothing more was said until the woods parted and the walls of Nathyrr appeared among the distant hills. Small farms and homesteads dotted the plains around the city, evidence of normal life that was a world away from their own existence.

“Tell me your plan, Arthen,” Eraina said.

The inquisitive looked at her blandly. He held his reins with one hand. His other hand held the straps of his sword belt, which he had slung over one shoulder. “I can’t,” he said with a sly grin. “Not if you want it to work.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“You know better than to ask that,” he said.

She studied him warily. She had known Zed Arthen long before this business with the Legacy and Mourning Dawn began, mostly through reputation. He was said to be one of the most skilled inquisitives in Khorvaire. The last few weeks had offered her the opportunity to work directly beside him. She had learned that Zed was a man quite adept at offending every moral sensibility she possessed. He was also, to her endless astonishment, a good man. Though she could feel her judgment straining at its foundations, she trusted him. She tried to imagine the worst that could happen as they rode through the city gates. The Nathyrr city guards looked up with bored expressions until she presented her Sentinel Marshal’s seal, then returned to their posts.

“How much will I regret this?” Eraina said.

“Only a bit,” he said. “On a positive note, if it doesn’t work, you’ll have another reason to call me an idiot.”

Eraina chewed her lip. She gave Zed a long, cold look. He answered with a patient grin. The inquisitive’s clothes were rumpled and torn. His hair was unkempt. Had the man even bothered to groom himself this morning? It almost seemed as if he was inventing new ways to offend her.

“What do I need to do?” she asked with a sigh.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just follow me at a distance and try not to get involved.”

“Fine,” she said.

“I’m serious,” he said. “Even if I look like I’m in trouble.”

“I said fine.”

“Eraina, look at me,” he said firmly.

She turned to face him. His blue eyes were sharp, focused. There was no more laziness or carelessness about him.

“I’m serious,” he said. “Don’t get involved. Just let whatever happens to me happen and keep your eyes open.”

She was silent for a moment, wondering what the man planned. “Agreed,” she said at last.

“And hold this,” he said, offering her his sheathed sword.

She looked at him in mild surprise.

“I don’t want to be armed,” he said. “That’ll just cause more trouble than it’s worth, and I’d rather not lose that sword. It’s also pretty recognizable. I’d prefer to remain anonymous here if possible.”

“Fine,” she said, taking it from him.

Zed grinned and kicked his horse to a gentle gallop.

Eraina frowned and followed him at a safe distance. The streets of Nathyrr were busy this evening. Travelers and townspeople bustled in the streets. A trio of Thrane Knights noticed Eraina and gave a short salute. She returned the gesture with respect. They quickly moved on, not sparing her a second glance.

Eraina smiled. She had met the knights shortly after her arrival. They had been curious about the presence of a Sentinel Marshal in their city, but Eraina recognized their curiosity as the boredom of young men tired of their assignment in a remote city. She overwhelmed their curiosity with technical discussions of jurisdiction and international authority until their eyes glazed and they excused themselves with a politely insincere offer to help if needed. She had convinced them that, whatever she was doing in Nathyrr, it was clearly even more boring than their own duties.

It was strange. A few weeks ago she would not allowed herself even such a harmless half-truth. It was better that the knights mind their own business. Such inexperienced and overzealous allies would only interfere with her investigation and perhaps end up harming themselves. Nonetheless, it was obvious that her time with Arthen and the Mourning Dawn’s crew was affecting her judgment.

They were good people. When things looked worst, the crew generally did the right thing. Even Dalan, as manipulative as he was, seemed to care for his crew. Perhaps there was a greater purpose to this adventure. Perhaps she had been following her vows too strictly. Perhaps Boldrei had intended for Eraina to learn from the Mourning Dawn’s crew—and perhaps to teach them in turn? It seemed as if a few of them had adopted a stronger sense of honor since her arrival. Even Zed Arthen listened to her sometimes.

Her self-indulgent fantasies faded as she realized she had lost track of Arthen. She had been watching him the entire time. The man didn’t seem particularly stealthy, but he had somehow slipped away.

At the far side of the town square, the doors of a tavern burst open. Arthen staggered out into the street. He clutched a glass bottle in one hand as he leaned against the door frame unsteadily. A few passersby paused, wrinkling their noses in disgust before continuing on their way. Zed ignored them, scanning the crowd with a glassy stare till he found what he was looking for. He moved swiftly, pushing his way through the crowd and moving toward the three knights, staggering as he greeted them in a boisterous voice.

Eraina couldn’t hear the words from where she stood, but she guessed his intent. All three knights whirled to face Zed, their eyes wide with outrage. The largest knight’s hand moved to his sword. Zed broke his bottle over that one’s head, sending him sprawling in the street.

The crowd scattered quickly, though a handful stopped a safe distance away to watch the fight. Eraina sighed and began shoving her way through the chaotic mob. She hoped she could make it close enough to help Zed in case his reckless plan failed and he was hurt—though she couldn’t help feeling that the idiot deserved whatever happened to him.

“You call yourselves servants of the Flame?” Zed roared, his voice slurring. “My brothers died fighting your damned war. Where was the Flame when they died at Vathirond?”

One of the knights knelt to help his unconscious brother. The other glared at the broken bottle in Zed’s hand with extreme calm and spoke in a low voice. Eraina could not hear what the man said from this distance, but he was clearly trying to talk Zed down from his madness.

Eraina stopped, remembering her promise not to interfere. What did Arthen hope to accomplish by picking a public fight with the authorities in the center of town? To Eraina’s eyes, everything about Zed radiated falsehood. It was all an act, albeit a convincing one. She looked at the townspeople who had paused to watch the fight, studying their reactions. Most watched with detached, if morbid, curiosity. A few laughed at the spectacle, though not loudly enough to offend the knights. Two city watchmen shoved their way through the crowd with determined expressions, unseen by Zed.

There.

At the back of the crowd, two men watched the conflict with keen interest. They wore dark clothing and nondescript gray cloaks. One turned to whisper to his comrade, who quickly vanished into the crowd. Eraina followed the stranger as quickly as she could. The man jogged swiftly through the streets, glancing over his shoulder but taking no note of her. Though wary that he might be followed, he was unskilled at noticing a tail. The paladin pursued him at a safe distance, casually weaving through crowds to avoid drawing notice. She hoped that this random hunch didn’t amount to nothing.

The man ducked into a large building, closing the door behind him. Eraina quickly read the sign above the door.

KENRICKSON BROTHERS
UNDERTAKERS

There were few windows in the building. The ones she could see were tightly drawn and covered by black shades. A large wagon waited in a deserted alley beside the building, loaded with wooden coffins.

She leaned into the wagon, grasping the lid of a coffin. It was securely nailed shut. Peering around to make sure she wasn’t watched, she grasped the lid more firmly with both hands. She whispered a short prayer to Boldrei, importuning the goddess to bolster her strength and simultaneously praying that she wasn’t making a terrible mistake.

A surge of divine power issued through her limbs. The coffin’s lid popped loose with a dry crack as the nails pulled free. She looked back at the mortuary, worried she might be heard. The windows remained drawn tight.

Eraina eased the coffin’s lid open. Heavy burlap sacks and small barrels filled the coffin. She opened the nearest, finding it filled with dried beans. Another held rice. A third was filled with strips of dried beef. So this was how Marth supplied his troops. Who would search a wagon full of coffins?

Eraina closed the coffin and turned her attention to the mortuary. She wondered what other secrets lay within, and exactly how far Marth’s grip extended.

She also wondered whether Zed Arthen had been beaten unconscious by the city guard yet.

TWO

To stand on the deck of this ship again was at once both familiar and strange.

Marth’s slender hands rested lightly on the gunwale of Albena Tors, or the Dying Sun in the language of the elves.

In younger days, Marth had rarely worn his natural face. Most changelings did not, preferring to slip from one alias to the next. Marth saw no reason to uphold such illusions among his own crew. They would accept him as he was or not at all. Though his scarred white face showed no expression, he was preoccupied with how different the ship felt since he had reclaimed her in the ruins of Metrol. The way the vessel carried herself in the air, the hue of the flaming ring that surrounded her, the vibration of the deck beneath his feet, he couldn’t quite isolate what bothered him—but something deep and significant had changed.

At first Marth thought it was merely the unfamiliar sensation of piloting the vessel alone. In all his dimly remembered years at the airship’s helm, he had never flown her without a crew before. Though Ashrem’s extensive modifications made such piloting possible, the loss of speed and maneuverability made it impractical to do so. He had limped to Nathyrr as swiftly as he could after escaping the Mourning Dawn, taking on a supplementary crew. Their presence didn’t alter his nagging feeling.

“The mist is ahead, Captain,” the helmsman called out. He pointed at the horizon, where a murky gray fog consumed the land. “Do we veer north or south?”

Marth looked at the man evenly. “Neither,” he said. “Continue our course east to the Talenta Plains, Mister Draen. The rest of you, see to your duties. We must make all possible speed.”

The crew did not argue, but Marth saw several of them look at one another with fearful expressions.

“The Seventh Moon waits for us,” Marth said. “We must not alter our course.”

“Aye, Captain,” the helmsman said, the doubt clear in his voice.

Marth turned to face the helmsman. The other soldiers quickly went about their duties. The helmsman concentrated upon the ship’s controls, trying not to look afraid under his captain’s scrutiny.

“Have you never entered the Mournland?” Marth asked. His white eyes stared out at the horizon.

“No, Captain,” the helmsman admitted, “but I have heard terrible stories.”

“All of those stories are likely true,” he said. “The Mournland teems with horrors beyond imagination. Most of the wild magic that consumes the place prefers to stay near the earth—we should be safe enough if we keep a high altitude and a steady speed. Do not allow fear to conquer you. Let Cyre’s grave stand as a reminder of why we fight beside one another. Remember that this was once our home.”

“Aye,” the helmsman replied contritely. “We shall make all possible speed.”

“See that you do,” Marth said. He walked past the others, climbing down the ladder that led to the heart of the ship. He felt a sense of nostalgia to be in his old ship, his old home, once more. To know that the Dying Sun would soon be stripped down and abandoned seasoned his mood with sadness. There was no other way. The Dying Sun was a small ship, designed to support a small crew. For what Marth planned to do, he required a warship. He needed the Seventh Moon to rise again, her damaged elemental core replaced with that of her sister vessel. The idea of cutting out his first ship’s heart to power his warship pained him—but it was necessary.

Marth opened the hatch that led into the ship’s core chamber, closing it behind him so that he would not be interrupted. A large cylinder of black metal dominated the small room. He stepped inside and touched the ship’s heart. The metal was warm, heated from within by the bound elemental.

Tristam’s repairs to the damaged airship had been significant. Marth was impressed at the miracles the boy had performed in such a short period of time. When Marth had abandoned her in Metrol, she seemed irreparable. Yet even Tristam’s modifications were not what bothered him. It was something deeper.

The mystery could wait. He had urgent matters requiring his attention.

Marth reached into his long, black coat and drew out his amethyst wand. He passed it in a complex pattern, chanting words of power. Motes of stuttering, sparkling light projected from the end of the wand and scattered like insects. Marth gave another sharp command, and the energy froze in midair as if trapped by an invisible force.

“Reveal yourself,” Marth commanded.

The shining bits of light stirred, swirling around one another as they wove shapes in midair. The image of a humanoid figure formed, resembling an elderly human man. It was nearly transparent. Its arms and legs faded into nothing. The vision’s face was more haunted and lined with worry than Marth remembered, but it was still the face of Ashrem d’Cannith.

“I thought I had been destroyed,” Ashrem’s visage said. “I thought I was free.”

“I absorbed the magic that sustains you into my wand,” Marth said. “Destroying you would have been rash. You pose too many questions.”

“Let me fade,” the vision whispered, his voice hoarse. “I have served my purpose.”

“Then serve my purpose now, or linger in pain forever,” Marth said. “Tell me what I wish to know, and I will grant you the oblivion that you desire.”

The changeling’s pale eyes shone green for the briefest instant. He stared deep into the illusionary figure, probing the threads of magic that bound it together. After nearly a minute, he was satisfied that his suspicions had been correct. The changeling’s shoulders slumped. Marth’s eyes filled with pity.

“Why were you in that rail station?” Marth demanded.

“I am a reflection of Ashrem d’Cannith,” he said. “Like a ghost, I was bound to protect the Dying Sun until the last Heir of Ash arrived.”

“The last Heir of Ash?” Marth asked. “Tristam Xain?”

“Yes,” the vision said. “Xain has been chosen … as have you.”

“Chosen by whom?” Marth demanded. “How can you tell?”

“I do not know,” Ashrem said. “There is a glow about you, an aura of importance. You were approved by my maker.”

“Who made you?” Marth demanded.

“The Mourning made me,” he answered. “I am woven of forgotten magic, like the living spells that haunt Metrol.”

“Lies,” Marth hissed. “You are reciting an answer that means nothing.”

He tightened his grip on the wand, causing sparks of green flame to erupt from the tip and scour the illusory figure’s form. The visage of Ashrem doubled over in pain but did not scream.

“Tristam may believe your idiot ravings, but I lived in the Mournland for months,” Marth said. “I know the magic and creatures that dwell there. Living spells have no intelligence. They are mindless predators, suited only to hunt. You bear none of their mad, destructive appetites. The magic that composes you is far more complex. Neither are you a true ghost. You are a programmed illusion, albeit a powerful one. You were intended not only to guide, but to activate and maintain the extensive wards that protected that rail station. Someone designed you specifically so that the Dying Sun would not be stolen or destroyed. Someone placed you there so that you could aid in its eventual repair.”

The phantom’s eyes widened with a strange, silent horror as he absorbed the truth of his existence. Marth leaned close, his eyes only inches from the tormented illusion. He spat each word with spiteful, deliberate venom. “Who. Made. You?”

“My memory is … unreliable,” the illusion said, shuddering. The admission brought it great discomfort. “I cannot say. If I truly am neither a living spell nor the ghost of Ashrem, then I would assume Ashrem d’Cannith himself had a hand in my creation?”

“Wrong,” Marth said. “I know the weave of his magic, and you are no creation of his.” The changeling sighed. “I almost wish that you were. I had hoped there was some chance that he survived the Day of Mourning.” Marth continued to study the figment for a long moment. “But perhaps there is a chance after all, and you are proof. You are quite an accurate reproduction of the original. You knew of my wife and children when you faced me in Metrol. Your creator would have required access to Ashrem’s memories to know such things. I know you were not in that train station on the day I fled Cyre, so you must have been created afterward.” Marth turned over the possibilities in his mind.

The floating shade of Ashrem d’Cannith watched the changeling cautiously. Its eyes hardened in intense concentration. The wand in Marth’s hand glowed brightly, then crackled with a sudden pulse of energy. The changeling looked at the weapon in surprise, sensing the buildup of energy. A blazing flash of green fire filled the room.

When it faded, Marth was entirely unharmed.

“What did I do?” the vision said, voice quavering. “How did that happen?”

“Fascinating,” Marth said. With a thought, he dismissed the residual power surging through the wand. The amethyst crystal went dark. “You used the same enchantments that allowed you to command the wards in Metrol to turn my own magic against me. You might have killed me, were I less cautious.” He stared into the vision’s eyes. “Look into your memories, creature. You know that Ashrem would not have attacked me in such a cowardly manner. The one who created you did not wish the true secrets of your creation to be revealed, but he was careless. The magic that composes you is familiar to me now.”

“What am I?” the illusion wailed. He held up his arms, staring at the empty space where his hands should have been. “Why do I remember these things?”

“You are a memory whose time will soon be past, now that your purpose is complete,” Marth said, leveling the wand at the center of the illusion.

The figment gave a sad smile. “Then we are much the same, Orren Thardis.”

Marth scowled. “I have learned all I can from you.”

“Then do what you must.”

A hiss of green fire erupted from the tip of Marth’s wand. The illusion’s tormented eyes were, for a brief instant, peaceful. Then the shade of Ashrem d’Cannith was torn apart, rent into sparkling motes of light. The residual energy was absorbed back into the changeling’s wand for later study. He tucked the weapon back into his coat. The truth made no sense, but it was undeniable. The creator of that illusion was the same person who had set Marth upon his path.

Zamiel.

The prophet had guided Ashrem once. When Ashrem had proven useless, he offered his guidance to Marth. Was this illusion, deep in Metrol, the prophet’s form of insurance? It was disturbing. To think that the prophet expected him to fail was disheartening. What bothered Marth more was that, while Zamiel obviously had magical abilities, he had never revealed anything on the scale required to create such an illusion.

Who was the prophet?

As Marth turned to leave, he noticed his reflection on the surface of the ship’s core. He was struck by memory, recalling the many times he had seen his own reflection here in ages past. The face that stared back at him now was unfamiliar. The difference was greater than the raw burn scars that crawled up the left side of his face. He looked into his own eyes and was taken aback by the cruelty there.

He remembered the illusion’s mocking words when it saw him at Metrol—Kresthian would be ashamed to see what you have become. Your sons weep for their wretched father.

Their deaths had removed all purpose from his life—all purpose save revenge. Hate consumed Marth. One by one, he had inflicted that hate upon those who had wronged him, but at what cost? How many more orphans had he created? How many more widows? Ashrem d’Cannith had shown him mercy, given him a second chance to help mend this twisted world that had murdered his family. Ashrem taught him that the Last War was their true enemy. It was the Last War that had ruined his life and destroyed his family.

For a time, Marth had reclaimed that life. The changeling became something more than a deranged killer. At Ashrem’s side, he had brought some measure of peace to this world.

But it wasn’t Ashrem d’Cannith who ended the Last War. The good they had done had all been for nothing. The unthinkable destruction wrought by the Day of Mourning was the only thing that opened Khorvaire’s eyes to the truth.

It was all so pointless.

Marth had fought for his nation, and was betrayed. His nation murdered his family.

Marth had fought for peace, and was betrayed again. The Mourning murdered his homeland.

Zamiel had shown him what seemed to be the truth. The people of Eberron didn’t want to be saved. It was the nature of mortals to destroy themselves. To resist war and chaos only prolonged things—but the world could still be saved. The Draconic Prophecy proved that history was cyclical. Great empires rose to rule the world. They were inevitably corrupted from within and destroyed themselves. The world was always reborn from those ashes, heralding a new golden age. Now it was time for the world to be reborn again. The Legacy would be the catalyst of that rebirth.

The Legacy awaited … here. Marth’s fingers brushed the warm surface of the ship’s core again. Marth would be the herald of the new age.

But now, with his goal nearly in his grasp, the changeling wavered. How many innocents would suffer for what he had done? How many like Kresthian? How many like his sons? Had he come too far to turn back?

It was not the ship that had changed. It was he. He was no longer the man he once was. The illusion was right. They were the same. Both of them had been programmed by forces they could not comprehend to serve a purpose they did not understand. If Ashrem d’Cannith had taught Marth anything, it was that it was never too late for redemption.

The changeling climbed back out onto the deck. He had been ready to command the helmsmen to turn about but stopped himself. The air was still. The land beneath him was gray and dead. Crawling mist shrouded the cities. Ruined buildings clawed at the sky, monuments to a forgotten nation. To see Cyre in such a state pained him.

Perhaps Marth had changed, but so had this world. This was not the Cyre he knew. This was not the world he knew.

“Captain?” the helmsman said, looking at him curiously.

“Nothing,” Marth said. “As you were.”

The helmsmen nodded and returned to his work. Marth scowled down at Cyre’s ruined landscape. A world that could do this was not worth saving.

THREE

The town of Gatherhold had been transformed into a frenzy of activity by Gerith Snowshale’s arrival, though Gatherhold was always a frenzy of something. The town was a central meeting place between the nomadic tribes. Halflings from across the Talenta Plains came here to rest, trade, socialize, fight, tell stories, and frequently all of the above. With the cold season approaching, most of the tribes had returned to their own territories, but a substantial number of permanent residents remained. Even at the busiest of times, the arrival of an airship was quite an event.

The combined weight of Gerith’s news and the roguish reputation of his tribe made him an instant celebrity. He alerted the citizens to the Mourning Dawn’s impending arrival and the delicate cargo she bore before blowing kisses to the young girls and flying away on the glidewing’s back. Gatherhold responded to his warning with the eager urgency only halflings can muster. The built a docking tower in less than two hours. A small army of diplomats, merchants, and curious children gathered to welcome the visitors.

The healers of House Jorasco pitched a conical tent at the base of the tower. A few more opportunistic merchants moved their carts closer to the new tower so that the visitors could see their wares more easily. When the Mourning Dawn descended from the cloudy skies, Gatherhold was ready.

It had been two days since the airship had landed at the halfling settlement, but much of the novelty hadn’t worn off. The villagers always stopped as they passed, staring up at the strange vessel surrounded by her ring of searing blue flame. Ijaac Bruenhail emerged from the vessel at least twice a day, shouting fiercely in Dwarven as he shooed away the latest group of youngsters who had snuck aboard.

While Gatherhold had greeted its visitors with the boisterous hospitality for which the halflings were famous, the ship’s crew was quiet and somber. Even Gerith was a shadow of his usual adventurous self. The scout hadn’t even appeared since their arrival, most likely retreating to explore the countryside on his own.

Seren Morisse climbed down the tower’s rope ladder and hopped onto the dusty road. She wished she could have visited Gatherhold under happier circumstances. The town was a blaze of color and activity. She wanted to explore, to meet people, to know more about the curious tribes that could produce someone like Gerith, but now was no time to do it.

Seren wore a simple black tunic, dark cotton breeches, and no obvious weapons. It was some small comfort, considering the circumstances, to be in a safe place. She could hear the rhythmic chanting of the healers within the tent, accompanied by the lilting music of a flute. A haggard figure in a long coat sat beside the tent’s entrance, slumped on an overturned crate. He buried his face in his hands, unkempt sandy-brown hair spilling between his fingers.

“How is he, Tristam?” Seren asked.

The artificer didn’t answer.

“Tristam?” she repeated.

Tristam jerked forward and looked up at her with surprised, bloodshot eyes.

“You can’t see him yet, Seren,” he said groggily. “Mother Shinh only wants one visitor at a time, and Dalan is in there now.” The words tumbled out of his mouth in a single, jumbled slur. Seren barely understood him.

“Tristam, have you slept?” she said, concerned.

“Yes. You just woke me up,” he said wryly.

Seren gave a disapproving frown, but she had more urgent matters on her mind. “How is Omax?” she asked, nodding at the tent.

Tristam glanced away uneasily. “Not good,” he said. “I’ve never seen him so badly hurt. Even when I found him buried under the monastery. I’ve seen dead warforged in better shape than he is now. The healers say he was hiding a lot of damage from us, Seren.”

“Can they fix him?” Seren asked.

“I don’t know,” Tristam said. “Their medicine doesn’t affect him, but a few of them have real healing magic. That helps a little. I did as much as I could for him, but after a while they saw that I was just getting in the way. They chased me away and told me to rest.”

“So why didn’t you return to the ship?” she asked.

Tristam gave a crooked smile. “I was going to,” he said. “I just sat down here to get off my feet for a moment and dozed off.”

She sighed, hooked an arm under his, and dragged him to his feet. He staggered heavily, trying not to lean on her and failing. She looked up the rope boarding ladder carefully, then back at him. So that was why Tristam hadn’t gone back to his cabin. He was so exhausted he could barely stand, let alone climb a precarious ladder.

“Wait here,” she said. “I’ll lower the stretcher we used to unload Omax.”

“You don’t have to do that, Seren,” he said, grabbing a rung in one hand. “I can climb.”

“You’ll do Omax no good if you fall off that ladder and break your leg,” she said. Her grip tightened on Tristam’s arm, eliciting a pained yelp. He let go of the ladder and stepped away, looking at her with an expression that was somehow both hurt and grateful.

Seren swiftly pulled herself up the ladder and into the Mourning Dawn’s cargo bay. After a quick search, she found the stretcher. It was lashed together from the flattened remains of a rail car coach seat, fortified with iron struts, padded with thick blankets, and secured to a steel hook. It looked unstable, but if it had supported Omax without difficulty surely it could be used to draw Tristam back aboard. Seren checked to make sure the ropes connected to the stretcher were still secured to the cargo winch, then glanced down to make sure the ground beneath was clear to lower the stretcher.

She saw Dalan d’Cannith emerge from the healer’s tent. The portly guildmaster was dressed in somber earthen tones. He held his small black cap against his round belly. He exited the tent with a slow, measured pace, stopping to stand beside Tristam. Dalan rested one hand on Tristam’s shoulder, drawing a confused look from the artificer. Curious, Seren crouched against the crates in the cargo hold and listened.

“Dalan?” Tristam said. “Is something wrong?”

Dalan looked quickly back the way he had come, then at Tristam. He gestured and stepped away from the healer’s tent, into the scaffolding of the docking tower where they would not be overheard. Or, rather, where only Seren would overhear them.

“Did they tell you anything, Dalan?” Tristam asked. “Did they say how Omax is doing?”

Dalan looked at Tristam with a shocked, angry expression. “How do you think he’s doing, Tristam?” he whispered sharply. “Marth shattered his torso. These people are used to healing flesh and bone, not wood and metal. There’s only so much they can do for him. You know they are only delaying the inevitable. Omax is dying.”

Tristam’s jaw hung open silently. His lips moved to form words, but none came.

“What are you going to say, Tristam?” Dalan asked. “Were you going to issue a pointless apology? Swear petty revenge against Captain Marth? Perhaps you were going to cast blame on someone else? Find your voice if you have something to say, boy.”

Tristam grasped the lapels of Dalan’s coat, his face red with a mix of anger and shame. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to speak again. Dalan pushed him away. Tristam fell to his knees in the dust, sobbing softly.

“Get up,” Dalan said. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”

“I’ve killed my best friend,” Tristam said, voice choked.

“No, Tristam,” Dalan said. “You’ve killed us all. Not just Omax. The crew. These halflings. You. Me. All of Khorvaire. You know what Marth is capable of. You know what you’ve given him. Your foolishness has given him victory.”

Tristam looked up at Dalan. His eyes were tormented, but hopeful. “We haven’t lost yet, Dalan,” he said. “Zed and Eraina are still out there. Norra—”

“Does any of it matter?” Dalan said. “We had already won, Tristam. The Seventh Moon was crippled, destroying his army’s mobility. We could have destroyed the Dying Sun and crushed all of his hopes. You gave all of that back to him with a single arrogant mistake. He will use the Dying Sun to repair his warship and complete his monstrous weapon. Do you really think anything that Zed, Eraina, or Norra will find can help us fight Marth, his army, the Seventh Moon and the Legacy?”

It hurt Seren to hear Dalan say such things to Tristam, but it was nothing that had not weighed upon her own mind. Tristam had been more erratic of late, culminating in the madness that consumed him in Metrol. Instead of destroying the Dying Sun and sealing off Marth’s last real chance to complete the Legacy, Tristam had repaired the shattered vessel. Then Marth had come, nearly killing Omax and escaping with the repaired airship.

“Why did you let him go, Tristam?” Dalan demanded. “The Dying Sun had no weapons. Marth was alone. We could have run his ship into the ground and defeated him.”

“Dalan …” Tristam said softly.

“What?” Dalan snapped, his voice growing even more heated. “What are you going to say, Tristam? What excuse would you make? I hired you to fix things. How will you fix this?”

“Damn it, Dalan!” Tristam growled. He glared at Dalan. His exhaustion had faded, at least for now. “When we left Metrol, you told me the decision was mine.”

“And that was obviously a mistake,” Dalan said. “Omax will most likely die despite your efforts, and Marth remains at large.”

“No,” Tristam said, seizing Dalan’s silk jacket again. The guildmaster’s eyes widened. “The Mourning Dawn is still your ship. Captain Gerriman still obeys your orders. I have made my mistakes, but do not pass command to me and then moan that the results are not to your liking. I made my mistakes, but at least I didn’t aid a murderer, then hide it from the world. Hypocrite!”

Tristam shoved the man away. Dalan stumbled and collected himself, smoothing one hand over his jacket with a disdainful grimace. Tristam climbed up the boarding ladder, anger filling him with renewed energy. Seren looked up at him as he climbed into the cargo bay. He staggered, face flushing with embarrassment as he realized Seren had witnessed his breakdown. He leaned heavily on a large barrel as the energy of his tirade drained from him.

“I’m so tired,” he said in a weak voice. “I’m sorry, Seren. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want you to see that.”

She moved to his side, wrapping an arm around his waist to support him. “Let’s get you back to your cabin,” she whispered. “Rest, so when you wake up you can help Omax.”

He pulled away from her. “I can walk on my own,” he said.

She watched as he staggered down the corridor, leaning heavily against the bulkhead as he walked. He fumbled with the hatch to his cabin and disappeared inside. The tiny clay face of Tristam’s homunculus peered out through the hatch, looking at Seren with a worried expression. It closed the cabin with a creak.

Seren looked at the hatch for a long time, then climbed back down the ladder. She found Dalan leaning against the tower’s main support beam. The guildmaster chewed absently on a stick of dried meat, not looking at her. He didn’t look the least bit upset by Tristam’s insults.

“If my guess is right, you heard most if not all of that,” Dalan said.

“Yes,” she said, her voice hoarse.

“So what now?” Dalan asked, looking at her. “Are you going to threaten me again? Tell me to leave Tristam alone? Insult my cowardly self-interest? Any of that nonsense?”

Seren said nothing.

“Master Xain is ruled by emotion,” Dalan said. “Pride and arrogance rule him. Courage drives him. His brilliance makes him special, but it is his emotions that make him strong, Seren. Since we left the Mournland he’s been changing, growing more reserved. He blames himself for what happened in Metrol.”

“So do you,” Seren said.

Dalan chewed his lunch in silence and stared blandly out at the plains.

“Don’t you?” she asked.

“Now that really would make me a hypocrite, wouldn’t it?” Dalan said. “If I really wanted to stop Tristam from repairing the Dying Sun I could have done so any time while we were in Metrol. Maybe the Mournland was blurring my judgment as well, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. I have no problem with the decision Tristam made, though I regret the outcome.”

“Then why did you say what you said?” she asked.

“Because Tristam’s emotions deserted him,” Dalan said. “He was exhausted. With no enemy in sight, he had nothing to dwell upon but his failure. But you know Tristam. You know there’s one thing that will always fire his sense of righteousness.” He looked at her shrewdly.

“You want him to hate you,” Seren said.

“He needs it,” Dalan said. “He has to draw strength from something. If he cannot draw it from within, then let him draw it from hate.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked.

“Because sometimes I am motivated by cowardly self-interest,” he said, looking at her alertly. “The last time you perceived me as a danger to Tristam, you threatened to kill me.”

“I remember,” Seren said. She met his gaze, unflinching.

“Then you do not intend to kill me?” Dalan asked.

“Not at the moment,” Seren said.

“Excellent,” Dalan said. “You’ve made my day, Miss Morisse.” He bowed to her, popped his cap back atop his head, and began to walk away.

“Dalan,” Seren called to him.

He looked back over his shoulder.

“Is Omax really dying?” she asked. “Or was that another lie?”

“The halflings said no such thing, but I have known enough healers to recognize when they can do no more,” Dalan said, “but if anyone can save Omax, it is Master Xain.” He smiled at her, tipping his hat as he walked away through the village. “Good day, Miss Morisse.”

Seren watched Dalan go, uncertain what to say or think. Part of her wanted to climb back onboard the ship, to tell Tristam that Dalan hadn’t meant what he said so that he wouldn’t feel so terrible. The stronger part of her knew that Dalan was right, that Tristam needed to be angry right now, needed to push through his weakness. In either case, Tristam wouldn’t believe her if she told him. He was so used to being abused and manipulated by Dalan. The idea that the guildmaster was now manipulating Tristam for his own good would be inconceivable.

And as much as Seren hated to admit it, part of her felt that Tristam deserved Dalan’s barbs. They had been so close to finishing this. With the Dying Sun destroyed, Marth would have been unable to complete the Legacy. The race to stop the changeling from completing his mysterious plan of revenge against the Five Nations would have ended.

It seemed the closer he came to understanding Ashrem’s work, the more Tristam changed. At first, it was small. He became more impatient and cynical. After leaving Zul’nadn he had grown even more withdrawn, less idealistic. Everything came to a head in Metrol. What had happened back there? It was strange, like a haze had fallen over everyone. Looking back, repairing the Dying Sun instead of just destroying her and escaping the Mournland had been foolish. Yet, at the time, no one disputed it but Ijaac. It had seemed like the right thing to do.

The dwarf warned that the Mournland created illusions to make people crazy. Maybe that was it, and maybe Tristam wasn’t the only one to be affected. Ashrem d’Cannith’s “ghost” didn’t want the Legacy to be destroyed. Had it influenced them all, somehow?

Seren slid a hand into her boot and drew out the golden badge Ijaac found in Metrol. It had belonged to Haimel Gerriman, the Dying Sun’s first mate. Two of Ashrem’s ships had vanished into Cyre just before the Day of Mourning. Neither ship crashed, but only Marth and Kiris Overwood survived. What had happened to the rest of the crewmen?

Seren sighed and tried to stop thinking about it. If she kept agonizing over unsolvable mysteries, she was going to drive herself mad. There was no purpose to worrying about what might have been when there was so much gone wrong that still needed fixing.

She stepped toward the conical canvas tent. The gryphon seal of House Jorasco was painted in bright colors above the entrance. The soothing pattern of chanting and woodwinds continued from within. She pushed the tent flap open just enough to peek through. The gentle scent of sandalwood incense hung in the air. A quartet of halflings knelt in circle around a pallet in the center of the tent.

Omax lay upon the pallet, covered with a thin blanket knitted in a riot of color. Seren couldn’t help but smile at the odd sight. The blanket did a warforged no good, but Omax was too polite to remove it. The warforged’s head turned slightly as she entered. His face was, as always, an expressionless mask of scarred metal. The flicker of blue light in his eyes brightened when he saw her. At least both his eyes now shone again and had lost the sickly red light they radiated after Marth wounded him. Seren was no expert in warforged anatomy, but that seemed to be a good sign.

“Seren,” he said. His once rumbling voice was now cracked and hollow.

One of the halfling healers followed Omax’s eyes, looking at Seren. The little man smiled warmly and gestured for her to enter.

“Omax,” Seren said. She hurried into the tent and knelt beside the warforged.

“You may visit him, but do not tarry. He needs his rest,” said Mother Shinh, the elder halfling kneeling at Omax’s right side. She rose, as did the others. The flutist slid his instrument into a leather case at his hip. “If you need us, we will be nearby.”

Seren murmured her thanks as the healers filed out of the tent.

“I keep telling them that I do not rest,” Omax said. “They do not listen.”

Seren laughed softly.

“Mother Shinh has done what she can, Seren,” the warforged said, “but she can do nothing more.”

“You don’t know that, Omax,” Seren said. She reached out and grasped his hand. The three thick metal fingers coiled around hers with surprising gentleness.

“Tristam believes that his failure caused this,” Omax whispered. “He is wrong. It was my own failure. A warforged does not heal naturally as a creature of flesh does. If I had told anyone how truly injured I was …”

“I thought Norra Cais repaired you,” Seren said.

“She tried,” Omax said with a rueful chuckle. “She helped, but the full extent of the damage was beyond her skill. How strange that with all the threats and terrors that haunt this world, the deadliest enemy is the self.”

The warforged lay back on his pallet. He stared up through the hole in the ceiling at the sky, lost in his thoughts.

Seren wanted to offer words of encouragement, but could find none. She could not speak at all.

FOUR

If something was at all important, it either began in Sharn or ended there.

It was an old saying—one Norra Cais was fond of. It was coined by a Sharn poet, of course. Norra’s own bias was fairly evident, as a native of the city, but she was fond of the saying nonetheless.

Norra sat alone in a small passenger compartment, watching the landscape as the lightning rail sped through the heart of Breland. She had taken pains to appear inconspicuous. Her short robe and breeches were a conservative gray. Her blond hair was braided and coiled into a severe bun. She clutched a small leather duffle against her lap and kept to herself in a private cabin. With international relations as they were, a traveler who kept to herself and caused no trouble received little attention.

As the lightning rail crested a hill, Sharn came fully into view. Even to Norra’s jaded eyes, the City of Towers was an amazing sight. Impossibly tall spires of metal and stone reached into the sky. Islands of magically enchanted clouds hovered above the city, hosting even more towers that had never known contact with the crude earth. Even from here she could see the graceful skycoaches and much larger airships that soared through the city. Sharn was, quite literally, an impossible city. It was even more amazing for how starkly it stood out from the surrounding landscape, bordered by a mighty river and a lush jungle.

Sharn skirted the laws of possibility only because the boundaries between realities were thin here. In this place, Eberron bordered closely upon the plane known as Syrania, the Azure Sky. Syrania was a glittering paradise—infinite sky broken only by perfect flying cities of shining crystal. So close to Syrania, that realm’s laws imposed themselves over Eberron’s. The towers of Sharn could stretch as high as they wished and not topple. Skycoaches could take to the air, drawing upon only a fraction of the power needed to fuel a genuine airship. Sharn lived and breathed magic. For a woman whose life’s work was to create arcane wonders, it was an inspiring sight. Norra had not intended to return from the Frostfell, but it was good to be home.

The lightning rail cruised slowly to a halt, depositing its passengers at the Coggsgate rail station. People surged forward to board the train, pushing through the station’s crowded corrals in a jumbled sea of humanity.

Norra stepped out onto the walkway, her bag slung over one shoulder. Hovering signs drawn in pure magical energy guided passengers on their way to the appropriate exit. Norra ignored the press of the crowd as she looked for the right gate. She searched the pockets of her short robe, digging out the few silver coins she had remaining, and found a skycoach.

The vehicle resembled a long rowboat with no oars, featuring a covered passenger area in the rear. It hovered in the air like an airship, but without an airship’s ring of fire. A lumpy old dwarf captain sat hunched in the bow. He sat up and greeted Norra amiably, but his smile evaporated under the force of her unfriendly glare. Norra Cais was a woman with little patience for pleasantries.

“Menthis Plateau,” she ordered. She climbed aboard the skycoach and took her seat. “The university.”

“Yes, my lady,” the dwarf said. He shoved a felt cap onto his head and whispered a word of command, causing the skycoach to lurch skyward.

The dwarf made a few token attempts to engage his passenger in conversation, all of which Norra rebutted with a noncommittal grunt or ignored entirely. At the end of their flight she gave him a few soveriegns for the fare. He uttered a short curse in his language, which she pretended not to understand as she disembarked.

Norra leaned her head back, taking in the sight of Morgrave University once more. The school was housed in Dalannan Tower, a thick structure of polished black stone that rose higher than the other buildings in this quarter. Five spires stretched from its heights, each representing one of the Five Nations. Morgrave was not the largest university in Khorvaire, nor was it the most prestigious, but it was well respected. The students of Morgrave were known for using unconventional methods to achieve results in the name of profit. Though Norra might easily have secured a place at any number of the continent’s institutions of higher learning, none granted her the freedom that Morgrave did.

It had been her home for most of her adult life—first as a student, later as an associate professor. Though she was extremely talented and knowledgeable in several fields of arcane artifice, prejudice against her youth had prevented her from securing a position as a full professor. Her ego chafed at the lack of recognition, but at least that granted her time to conduct her research free of the university’s watchful eye.

She strode briskly up the tower’s main steps. Metal gates parted silently at her approach, allowing her access to the courtyard beyond. A few students sat on benches or on the grass, studying from textbooks or talking quietly with one another. They paid little mind to Norra as she strode past them, entering the lower levels of the library. She continued onward through darkened stacks, pushing open the door to a small side office and stepping inside. A middle-aged man in a scholar’s dumpy gray robes looked up from his reading with a start, nearly knocking over the lamp on his small desk.

“Norra?” he said, shocked. “Is that you?”

“I won’t deign to address such a stupid question, Petra,” she said. She set her bag on the floor and sat on a stool across from him.

“I see your trip has not softened your demeanor,” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you again after your quarters were found empty.” His eyes widened as he spoke. He shifted nervously, as if he expected her to leap at him at any moment. Petra Ghein had been a junior librarian at the university as long as Norra could remember. He was always a nervous man, but at least that made him reliable. He didn’t have the courage to turn on her.

“Honestly, I didn’t expect to come back,” she said.

“I feared as much,” Petra said. “A gentleman named Baron Radcul has been sending messengers to ask about you. They’re rather rude. Something about a debt. He sends a man once a day. I think Master Larrian is beginning to get annoyed.”

Norra looked around the office, distracted. “Do you have anything to drink, Petra?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said, chuckling. “How else am I to be expected to deal with the students at end of semester?” He reached under his desk and took out a long-necked wine bottle and a sturdy metal cup.

Norra ignored the cup and took the bottle, drinking from it directly.

“You seem upset,” Petra said, watching her guzzle the alcohol with mild astonishment.

She looked at him coldly and took another drink.

“Stating the obvious; I know it annoys you,” he said. “Perhaps I can be of help?”

“You can start by not telling anyone you saw me here,” she said, “and maybe by helping me put some reagents together so I can craft myself a cap of disguise.”

“Norra, what’s going on?” Petra asked. He picked up the cup and held it out to her tentatively. She poured some of the wine into it, and he sipped nervously.

“I never told you why I was going to the Frostfell,” she said. “I know you think it was some sort of archaeological research, but it wasn’t. I knew what I was looking for. I went there expecting to die for a cause.” She smirked bitterly. “As it turns out, I didn’t.”

“Fantastic,” Petra said. His sudden grin faded when he noticed her dark expression. “Isn’t that good?”

“Good in some ways, bad in others,” Norra said. “I was so sure I wouldn’t come back, I used it to my advantage. I squandered every resource I had funding that trip to the Frostfell. I borrowed a lot of money I can’t afford to pay back.”

“This Baron Radcul, presumably, is a creditor?” Petra asked.

“The worst kind,” Norra said. “He was a brutal mercenary during the Last War. When the War ended, the Brelish army owed him a lot of money. Boranel settled the debt by awarding him some holdings on the Droaam border.”

“The land of monsters?” Petra asked, wincing at the name. “Boranel must not have liked Radcul much.”

“Probably not; rumor has it he was a vicious killer,” Norra said. “Radcul turned the snub into a victory by leasing his properties to House Orien, helping them establish the Droaam trade route. He made a ridiculous profit, left his son to look over his holdings, and bought private estates in Sharn. Now he makes a comfortable living arranging independent loans for the desperate at ridiculous rates of interest.”

“A usurer,” Petra said.

“And a vindictive one,” she said. “If I wasn’t using magic to obscure myself from detection and scrying, he probably would have found me by now. I don’t even want to think about how much I must owe him by now.”

“Well, you should be safe enough while you’re within the university,” Petra said. “Master Larrian would not take kindly to his staff and students being threatened by a glorified street thug.”

“We won’t even need to bring Master Larrian into this,” Norra said. “I can take care of myself. I’ll figure out a way.”

“Is there no one who can help you?” Petra asked. “Friends? Family? Any of your old friends in Zil’argo?”

Norra paused, her lips on the mouth of the bottle. She hadn’t even considered paying off the debt legitimately. It seemed so unlikely. “I have a friend in House Cannith,” she said. “Well, not exactly a friend, but an ally. I don’t know if he would help me. If he did, it would only be exchanging one form of debt for another. At least Dalan is more merciful than Radcul.”

“I don’t want to see you hurt, Norra,” Petra said, hand shaking as he sipped from his cup. “If there is anything I can do to help …”

“If you’re talking about money, forget it. I know how much Larrian pays the junior staff,” Norra said. “But you can help me with some research.”

“Research?” Petra said, perking up like a pet offered a treat.

“Do you remember a man named Ashrem d’Cannith?” Norra asked.

“Of course I remember old Ash,” Petra said, smiling. “I was proud to assist him during his brief stay at Dalannan. You were the one who referred him to us, as I recall, during the brief period you were writing for the Chronicle.”

“Yes,” Norra replied.

“Ah, yes,” Petra said. “I remember now.”

“He was looking for information on the Draconic Prophecy,” Norra said. “I knew Morgrave had a large archive. Could you show me some of the books he researched while he was here?”

Petra looked at her archly. His usual scatterbrained nervousness was gone. He sat straight and composed, his eyes showing the slightest hint of insult. “My records are entirely complete, Norra,” he said. “I can show you every book Ashrem read.”

“Every one?” Norra asked, impressed. “After all these years?”

Petra nodded. He finished his cup of wine and stooped down in his chair, pulling a stocky filing cabinet out from under his desk. He thumbed through the contents for several moments before drawing out a thick book labeled with the year in question. Every page was covered with small, cramped handwriting.

“That can’t possibly be a record of every volume withdrawn from the library,” Norra said.

Petra looked at her frankly. “Well, that would be useless, wouldn’t it?” he asked. “Most of our volumes are extremely valuable references. They can’t be withdrawn from the library. This is a record of every book read, by every attendant, for any length of time, for the last fifteen years—the duration of my service here.”

“How can that be?” she asked.

“You ask me for my help, and then declare my help impossible?” Petra asked, hurt. “Suffice it to say, while not as talented as yourself, I do have some skill with wards and artifice. Magic can do more than make a tower fly or hurl a bolt of lightning, you know.”

Norra laughed. “How is it possible you’re still a junior librarian?” she asked.

“I spend too much time trifling over records and not enough time playing university politics,” he said. He looked back at his book. “Now, do you remember roughly what month and day Ashrem arrived in Sharn?”

FIVE

As the cell’s stone ceiling slowly came into focus, Zed Arthen concluded that he had acted rashly.

He sat up on his wooden pallet, rubbing the back of his skull and looking around the cell with bleary eyes. What had gone wrong? He was a good judge of character, typically. He had carefully observed those three knights the other day. When he saw them coming to introduce themselves to Eraina, he quietly withdrew and watched from a safe distance. He had no quarrels with the Knights of Thrane. He just knew from experience that it was better to avoid them. If they saw his sword, they would ask questions. He preferred not to relive that part of his past for the sake of nosy strangers. It would be even worse if they recognized his name.

They hadn’t spoken to Eraina very long, but nonetheless he thought he had a pretty good gauge of them. Knights of Thrane were a little better trained than the average soldier, but they were the same as any young soldiers. They usually fell into one of three categories—those who fought, those who panicked, and those who waited. Arthen thought he’d had them pegged.

Aden, the one he had hit with the bottle, was a typical hothead. He’d entered the knighthood for the thrill. He was ready and eager for violence. He had probably never seen any fighting during the Last War. Predictably, Aden drew his sword first so Arthen had taken him out quickly with as little violence as possible before the situation escalated.

Knocking out Aden had the added benefit of throwing Nialin, the youngest of the three knights, into a state of panic. When Aden went down Nialin didn’t even think to defend himself; instead he fell back to make sure his friend wasn’t seriously injured.

That left only Rane, the leader. He had faced Zed calmly, waiting for him to make a mistake. Zed had planned to finish out his drunken tantrum and stagger into an alley, ranting against the knights and the Last War. Zed figured Rane would let him go, expecting he could quickly catch up to an exhausted drunk. Then, once out of sight, Zed would have discarded the charade and ran for it.

Zed realized too late that Rane wasn’t watching him at all, and the mistake he was waiting for had already been made. Rane’s eyes were locked on something behind Zed. When the inquisitive peered over his shoulder to see what was happening, he saw several members of the watch moving up quickly with their cudgels drawn. One struck him hard across the face. Then another. Darkness swam over his vision, and he woke up in this cell.

Footsteps paced the stone floor outside, slowly approaching. A key clanked in the heavy iron lock. The door creaked open, admitting a tall man in the gleaming armor emblazoned with symbols of the Silver Flame. A heavy sword, identical to Zed’s blade, hung behind one shoulder. The knight’s face was stern, weathered by the years, framed by a thin blond beard. His gray eyes glared down at Zed with an unforgiving gaze.

“I knew you would do something stupid the moment you entered my town, Arthen,” the knight said.

“Well, that explains how those novices caught me,” Zed said. His heart sank. He had hoped he could leave Nathyrr without anyone recognizing him. This would make things a lot more complicated than they needed to be. “How have you been, Sergeant Draikus?”

“Captain Draikus now,” he said. “And I’ve been joyous. I am always joyous during times of miracles. I had heard you were dead, but here you are, restored to flesh.”

“Praise be to the Flame!” Zed said wryly.

“Blasphemy,” the knight said, folding his arms across his chest and glaring down at Zed. “Charming.”

“It’s only blasphemy if the gods are offended, Draikus,” Zed said. “The Silver Flame stopped listening to anything I say a long time ago.”

“I am saddened that you appear to believe that,” Draikus replied. “The Flame never abandons its children, Arthen. The Flame watches over all of us—even a failure like you.”

“You had better hope that isn’t true, Draikus,” Zed said. “If it’s seen the things you’ve done in its name, you’re going to have a lot of explaining to do.”

Draikus lunged forward, shoving Zed against the wall, pinning him there with an armored gauntlet against his throat. His eyes seethed with hatred, daring Zed to push him further. Zed gave a weak grin.

“What we did in Vathirond was cruel, but it was necessary,” Draikus said. “The war with Breland had gone too far. Commander Kalaven didn’t deserve what you did to her.”

“Those priests didn’t deserve what we did to them,” Zed replied.

Draikus’s voice shook with fury. “If you doubted her honor, you should have faced her with courage and decried her to her face, not dispatched your Cannith politician to blacken her name. She was a hero.”

“I had nothing to do with what Dalan d’Cannith did,” Zed said, “but I wish I had. There were no heroes at the Battle of Vathirond, least of all Therese Kalaven. The Brelish offered a hand of friendship to us. When she saw they were weak, she turned on them. You remember, Draikus.”

“I should kill you, Arthen,” Draikus said, tightening his free hand into a metal fist.

“Killing a defenseless prisoner?” Zed asked. “Well done, Draikus. Therese would have approved.”

The knight’s lips pressed into a white line. He closed his eyes and looked away, lowering his hand. He stepped back, releasing his grip on Zed’s throat. “Why, Arthen?” he said, his voice choked. “Commander Kalaven was ruthless, yes, but war made her that way. She only desired to end the fighting. She did what she had to do. What use is mercy against enemies who see mercy as weakness?”

“Draikus, I know all of that,” Zed said. “I was closer to her than you were. After seeing what she did, I’ll choose idealism over betrayal and murder any day.”

Draikus chuckled. “Judge Commander Kalaven if you will,” he said, “but she carried the Flame’s blessings till the day she was executed. How long has it been since you heard its whispers? That is all the proof I need of her righteousness.”

Zed frowned but gave no other reaction.

“I don’t understand you, Arthen,” Draikus said. “I’ve been monitoring you, as much as I have been able. You walk into Nathyrr with a Sentinel Marshal. You vanish into the Harrowcrowns for hours at a time. Then you show up alone, wearing some feeble disguise, ranting about a dead brother you never had, and assault one of my officers. What in Khyber are you up to?”

“Do you really want to know?” Zed asked. “Or do you just want me out of your town?”

“I tire of this,” Draikus said. “If you will not cooperate, then you may as well leave. Your fines have been paid in full, Arthen. Get out. Cause trouble again and you won’t find me as reasonable.”

Zed’s brow furrowed as he rose, but he tried not to show undue surprise. Who would have paid his fine? Eraina certainly would not. She would have demanded his release or, embarrassed by his stupidity, left him to serve his time.

Draikus cleared his throat as Zed reached the cell door, causing him to look back. The knight’s eyes were grim. “You may be pardoned in Flamekeep, but you are not welcome in Nathyrr,” he said. “Finish your business and be on your way. My knights and the watch will be instructed to show you no mercy.”

Zed nodded. “No mercy,” he said. “Very important to maintain the order’s traditions.” He stepped out of the cell.

The other knights were gathered in the main hall, beyond the block of cells. They watched Zed with open suspicion. Of course they would. Draikus would have told them what happened in Vathirond, the version where Commander Kalaven was a hero and Zed Arthen betrayed her to an opportunistic war tribunal. He ignored them. He didn’t care what they thought. They weren’t his concern. He stepped out onto the streets of Nathyrr, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the light.

“Sir Arthen,” said a voice to his right.

Zed glared at the speaker, a thin man in a finely trimmed back coat. His face was pale and thin, the sort of man who spent far too little time in the sun. “It’s Master Arthen,” he said tersely. “Not ‘Sir.’ ”

“Of course,” the man said, spreading his hands wide in a gesture of apology. He spoke in a distinctly Cyran accent. “My name is Niam Kenrickson. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Are you the one who paid my fines?” Zed asked.

“Not I alone.” He offered a thin smile. “My associates and I are veterans of the Last War who have found difficulty adjusting to a world at peace. We are once-respected warriors now struggling to find our place in a world that sees us as extraneous. Much like yourself.”

“I see,” Zed said, trying to buy time to think. He hadn’t intended for things to happen this way. He had hoped to cause a little trouble in a public place, gambling that Eraina would notice someone who was a little too interested in the antics of a bitter, violent war veteran. He had hoped, at best, that they would find a lead. He wasn’t prepared for this. Zed cursed Draikus for recognizing him. This would be easier if Kenrickson didn’t know his real name. If Marth found out that Zed was here in the Harrowcrowns … that would make his life a great deal more complicated.

“Thank you,” Zed said, realizing Kenrickson might be growing impatient at his silence. He smiled politely.

“Quite welcome,” Niam said with a pleased grin. “Pardon me for disturbing what might be a difficult memory, but when you attacked those men earlier, did you say you fought at Vathirond?”

“I did,” Zed said.

“And you had brothers who died there?” Niam pressed.

“Not brothers in blood,” he said, “but men I considered brothers.”

“I was stationed far from Vathirond, but I have cousins who fought there,” Niam said. “I have heard it described as one of the bloodiest engagements of the last two decades. A true test of loyalties. Thrane, Cyre, and Breland in a battle for survival. Did you know many Cyran soldiers?”

“Some,” Zed said. “Vathirond isn’t something I like to think about.”

“Of course,” Niam said. “The Five Nations have become difficult for men such as you and I. It is difficult to find a place. The quest for new purpose in a world at peace can be elusive. My associates and I specialize in helping former soldiers renew their purpose.”

“Are you mercenaries?” Zed asked.

“A coarse term,” Niam said. “Mercenaries fight for profit. Our goals are greater. Most of us are former Cyrans, but there are a few like yourself—brothers in arms from distant nations.”

“Sounds interesting,” Zed said.

Niam glanced around, blinking rapidly as he spoke. “I can say little more,” he said. “In these times the Five Nations become nervous when they hear of Cyrans taking up arms. I pray only that you do not discount my offer for its clandestine nature. My brethren and I have learned that men without a nation must value caution. Even so, I assure you our cause is a noble one.”

“Of course,” Zed said. “As I said, it sounds interesting.”

“If you are interested in employment, you should visit my offices,” Niam said

“We could go now, if you like,” Zed said, hoping to put Niam off-balance so that he might reveal something.

“That isn’t necessary,” Niam replied, wrinkling his nose. “You are quite obviously exhausted after your night in prison. You should rest. You can meet with us this afternoon, after you’ve cleaned yourself. Our offices are on the corner of Carver Street and Oak Lane.”

Zed nodded. He realized, with some embarrassment, that he still stank of rum.

“I’ll be there,” he said.

“Excellent,” Niam said. “I shall inform my associates of your impending arrival.” He tipped his wide-brimmed hat. “Good day.”

Zed tapped his temple in informal salute as the thin man strode off down the street. He scanned the streets as Kenrickson left. Where was Eraina? She would have come to help him by now, or at least to gloat over his arrest. He found her sitting at a table outside a small restaurant with a view of the prison. She sipped from a small cup as she watched him approach. He saw that his sword was leaning against the table, near the seat across from her.

“Good morning,” she said as he took the seat. “You smell terrible. Like you’ve been doused in alcohol.”

“I have been,” he said.

“I thought you didn’t drink,” she said.

“I don’t,” Zed said, pouring himself a cup of water. “Just doused myself in it. Literally. I spilled some rum on my hair and my shirt before I attacked the knights. I figured they would be a less likely to kill me if they just thought I was an angry drunk.”

“Convincing disguise,” she said.

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” he answered, taking a deep drink of the icy water. He had to get out of these clothes. The smell reminded him too much of years better off forgotten. “How long have you been here, Eraina?”

“A little while,” she said. “I followed the undertaker.”

“Were you going to leave me in prison?” he asked.

“You asked me not to interfere,” she said, smiling softly. “So I didn’t. I assumed everything that happened was exactly as you planned.”

Zed grunted sourly and set his cup back on the table. “Not exactly,” he said. “I’m surprised you went along with it.”

“I treasure my vow of honesty,” she said, “but I have come to recognize that allies not similarly bound can operate with a greater degree of flexibility. If you had told me what you planned to do, I might have stopped you.”

“Well, thank you for trusting me, Eraina,” Zed said. “That means a lot.”

She flushed slightly, returning her gaze to her cup. “The results don’t change the fact that your plan was ridiculous,” she said. She set her cup aside and leaned back in her seat. “You were very lucky. You had no guarantee that your performance was going to provoke any sort of useful reaction.”

“We were out of leads,” he said. “It was worth a try. The town square is busiest that time of day. I had the greatest chance of being seen by someone connected to Marth.”

“If those guards had been a bit more zealous, they might have killed you,” Zed said.

“Might have,” Zed admitted. “I brought up Vathirond for a reason. That was a day that blackened the image of the knights for a lot of people. I thought mentioning it so loudly in front of so many witnesses would have made things a little less likely to get bloody.”

“It was still a gamble,” she said.

“I’m alive,” Zed said, shrugging. “I admit, I wouldn’t have tried it if I knew Draikus was their commanding officer. I think he had the town watch standing ready, waiting for me to do something stupid.”

“Your reputation precedes you?” Eraina asked, chuckling.

“I’m serious, Eraina,” Zed said, annoyed. “You know being recognized doesn’t help us at all. Marth knows who we are. Draikus knows I’m working with you. If Niam knows I came here with a Sentinel Marshal, especially one that’s hunting Marth on a murder charge, we’re going to have a lot of trouble. We might have a lead, but it turned out messier than I would have liked. Pursuing this is going to be tricky.”

“We knew this would be dangerous,” Eraina said.

“I wish the others were here,” Zed said. “As comfortable as I am working alone, it’s been good having them to back me up.”

“Agreed,” Eraina said.

“So what did you find out while I was in jail?” he asked.

“The Kenricksons have a wagon full of coffins outside their office,” Eraina said. “They’re loaded with dry rations and other supplies.”

“Coffins?” Zed said. “Smart way to sneak a lot of supplies out of the city without drawing any attention. Nobody is going to search a load of corpses.”

“I’m amazed no one would notice,” Eraina said. “The Kenricksons have to be moving out a lot more coffins than there are people dying in Nathyrr.”

“I think after the Last War, most people are perfectly happy not counting the dead,” Zed said. “Especially this close to the Mournland. Incidentally, Niam Kenrickson is a Cyran veteran. He was interested that I fought at Vathirond.”

“One of the last battles where Thrane knights and Cyran soldiers fought side by side,” Eraina said.

Zed nodded. “He wants me to go to his offices today. I think he intends to recruit me.”

“Or kill you,” Eraina said. “Depending on how much he knows about you.”

Zed took another drink, acknowledging the possibility with a deep nod.

“You don’t have to meet him,” she said. “We know the undertakers are up to something now. We just have to find out where they’re taking the coffins.”

“But who knows when they plan to deliver that wagon?” Zed said. “If I don’t show up for our meeting, they may get skittish and postpone their delivery. Worse yet, they may warn their superiors that someone has been poking around. That isn’t even entertaining the chance that the Kenricksons aren’t connected with Marth and this is another dead end.”

“And we’ve simply stumbled over a ring of Cyran morticians smuggling beans into an uninhabited forest?” Eraina asked. “You’re giving yourself too much time to think about this, Zed.”

“I guess I’m letting my cautious nature get the better of me,” he said. “It happens when I spend too much time talking. I over-analyze things.”

“Then let’s get moving,” she said, rising and tossing a few coins on the table. “You have a meeting to attend. And you really need to bathe.”

SIX

Tristam sat up in his bunk, adjusting to the unfamiliar feeling of a clear head. He hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since … how long had it been? It had to have been when the Mourning Dawn arrived in New Cyre. At first he’d been too nervous about the journey through the Mournland and finding the Dying Sun to get any real rest. During their time in Metrol, repairing the airship took up most of his time. After fleeing the city, he became obsessed with keeping Omax alive until he had spread himself so thin that his body would endure no more. He’d grown used to having a pounding headache, burning hunger, and blurry vision. A bit of sleep had cured everything but the hunger. It felt almost strange to feel normal again.

Tristam peered through his cabin’s porthole, trying to get an idea of the time. The sky was tinged with yellow haze. Sunrise. He had slept through the entire day yesterday. He felt weak and a little numb from spending so much time in bed. He swung his legs over the side of his bunk and rubbed his eyes.

His homunculus sat amid the beakers, journals, and assorted equipment atop the desk. The lumpy little clay man watched Tristam with empty black eyes, waiting for any command. It pushed a tiny foot forward, nudging the edge of a plate heaped with a thick slab of bread, wedge of cheese, and two apples. Seren must have brought it while he was sleeping.

“Are you standing guard over my breakfast?” Tristam asked.

The homunculus cocked its head and stared at him. It picked up the chunk of cheese and held it out between tiny hands. Tristam laughed and accepted the food. He picked up a satchel of tools and reagents, slung it over one shoulder, and made his way into the corridor as he chewed.

The ship’s interior was quiet. The hatch to Seren’s cabin was closed, as was Pherris and Ijaac’s. The cargo hold, though laden with supplies, seemed oddly empty without Omax’s presence. Tristam climbed up onto the deck, cool morning breeze mussing his long hair.

“Aeven?” he whispered.

Instantly, she was there. The dryad appeared perched on the gunwale beside the figurehead that was her perfect likeness. She watched Tristam silently with wide, green eyes. She hugged her slim legs against her chest, pointed chin perched upon her clasped fingers.

“Aeven, I need you to talk to Karia Naille for me,” he said.

“Why?” she asked coolly.

“I have an important question,” he said. “I can find the answer with my magic, but it would be … more polite”—he smiled—“to simply ask the elemental directly. Do you think she would do that?”

“Unlikely,” Dalan grumbled, stepping out of his cabin. He rubbed one eye and looked from the artificer to the dryad. “Elementals aren’t a part of this world. They don’t like being bound. They hate mortals and don’t want to help us voluntarily.”

“Usually that’s the case,” Tristam said, “but it’s entirely a matter of communication. Mortals and elementals have difficulty understanding each other. Karia Naille is different, isn’t she, Aeven?”

“Yes,” Aeven said. “I have helped her to understand this world, and her place in it, to a degree far greater than most elementals. She feels she has gained more than she has lost by being bound to this ship. She wishes to aid us.”

“Interesting,” Dalan said, settling himself on a barrel to watch.

“Ask your question,” the dryad said.

“Marth accidentally revealed something to me in Metrol, but I wanted to make sure it was true,” Tristam said. “Ashrem d’Cannith made a lot of modifications to his ships after the gnomes built them, but there’s one in particular I’m interested in—one that no one would know about except the ship herself. Did Ashrem infuse Karia Naille with the power of the Dragon’s Eye?”

Aeven closed her eyes and lowered her head, fine blond hair spilling over her face as she communed with the airship’s elemental. The ring of burning blue flame that surrounded the vessel pulsed a warm, brilliant white.

“He did,” Aeven said.

“What?” Dalan said, astonished. “Impossible. Ashrem never took this ship to Zul’nadn.”

“The power flowed from Zul’nadn to the Dying Sun,” Aeven said, “and from the Dying Sun to her sisters, never diminishing, just as water taken from a stream cannot diminish it. It is a primal flame, born of another plane of existence. As such only a similar power—such as the elementals—can anchor it in our realm. The power of the Dragon’s Eye burns within Karia Naille.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this earlier, Aeven?” Dalan asked.

The dryad glared at him. “I did not know,” she said. “Even to me, Karia Naille can be cryptic and distant. She wishes to help but does not always comprehend what is of importance—just as you rarely comprehend what is of importance to her.”

“That’s why the other airships fell out of the sky in Stormhome but we didn’t,” Tristam concluded. “It wasn’t luck. She’s fueled by the same otherworldly power as the Legacy.”

“So the entire time we’ve been hunting the Legacy, we’ve been riding inside it,” Dalan said, astonished.

“Yes and no,” Tristam said. “I think Ashrem did all he could to make certain the Legacy wouldn’t be used again, scattering and destroying the components, but he couldn’t bring himself to destroy the airships he loved. Zul’nadn’s fire is the power source, and that will always be a part of the ship’s elemental core, but the Legacy is more than that. Still, this is important. I’ll need to see if I can work on a way to extend the ship’s immunity so that Omax and Aeven won’t be as badly affected by the Legacy if we encounter it again.”

“Karia Naille is worried for the warforged,” Aeven said.

“Oh?” Tristam said, looking at the dryad in surprise.

“He is woven from elemental forces, bound together by magic, just as she is,” Aeven said. “She feels his pain. She fears she did not fly him here swiftly enough and that he may pass from this world. She does not understand death, but she is sorry that Omax may soon experience it.” The elemental ring burned a dark, somber blue.

Tristam looked past Aeven at the shimmering fire. He saw images within the bound energy, reflections of his vision at Zul’nadn. He witnessed an ancient giant struggling to hold creation together through sheer force of will. He saw the Dragon’s Eye form as a reflection of the ancient being’s desire to preserve Eberron.

“That brings me to my next question,” Tristam said. “A favor, actually, if Karia Naille is willing.”

“For all the times you have saved her, Tristam, she is pleased to help you,” Aeven said.

“Good,” Tristam said. “I’ll be right back.” He dropped into the cargo hold.

Dalan hurried down the stairs after him. “What is this about, Tristam?” he asked. “What are you up to?”

“Fixing my mistakes,” Tristam said, seizing one end of Omax’s stretcher. “Or maybe making another. Either way, this should be interesting to you. Help me with this.”

Dalan quickly moved to the winch, turning the handle to lower the stretcher as Tristam pushed it out through the cargo bay doors with a clatter.

Gerith Snowshale peered down into the hold from the deck above, blinking sleepy eyes. “What’s going on down there?” he asked.

“Wake Captain Gerriman,” Tristam said. “Tell him to set a course for Korth. And wake Ijaac, too. I’m going to need his help.”

“Korth?” the halfling said, confused. “Dalan?” He looked at the other man.

“Do it,” the guildmaster commanded.

Gerith nodded and vanished. His frantic shouting could be heard deep in the ship moments later. Tristam lowered the boarding ladder and climbed down through the tower, Dalan following. Mist clung to the lush plains. Most of Gatherhold still slept. A few halfling hunters were setting out on clawfeet. One yawned sleepily and waved as he rode out.

Mother Shinh sat just outside the entrance of the healer’s tent, head bowed as she sipped from a skin of water. She looked up as Tristam and Dalan approached. Dark rings hung beneath her eyes. She smiled weakly. The halfling healer was extremely tiny, with wrinkled skin and fine gray hair. Halflings, even elderly ones, usually had a youthful appearance—suggesting that the healer must be ancient indeed.

“How is Omax?” Tristam asked.

“It is difficult to say,” Mother Shinh said, glancing away evasively. “I’ve never seen a real warforged before, and certainly never treated one. Our normal medicines don’t do anything. Only my magic affects him and even that doesn’t heal him as wholly as it would a normal person.”

Dalan raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t mean your friend isn’t normal,” she amended. “I mean he isn’t a flesh and blood creature. I thought it was odd, at first, you people going to so much effort to keep a construct alive …”

“But then you spoke to him,” Dalan said.

“He is a gentle soul,” Shinh said, smiling fondly. “And so very wise. I’ve been trying to get him to sleep, but he’s stubborn.”

“Warforged don’t sleep,” Tristam said. “They don’t heal on their own, either. They can only be repaired.”

“I see,” Shinh said, a little embarrassed. “This is all new to us. We’re learning things every day, but I honestly don’t know if we can save him. Our healing spells are not replacing the broken metal quickly enough, and we have no one skilled enough to repair him.”

“You’ve done enough, helping him hold on this long,” Tristam said. “I’ll take things from here. Thank you.”

Mother Shinh looked at Dalan, confused. Dalan quickly drew a small pouch from his pocket and pressed it into the old halfling’s hands, clasping them warmly. “Your fee and more, Mother,” Dalan said. “If you require the aid of House Cannith, do not hesitate to call on me.”

Tristam pushed through the tent flap, Shinh and Dalan following him. Tristam knelt beside the warforged and slung the leather bag from his shoulder. He pulled the blankets away to inspect Omax’s injuries.

“You’re some sort of wizard, aren’t you?” Shinh asked.

“Artificer,” Tristam corrected.

The warforged turned his head weakly to face Tristam. His eyes shone only dimly. He looked a great deal better than he did after their escape from Metrol, but he was still seriously damaged. Large chunks of adamantine were missing from his torso. The smooth darkwood that granted his body flexibility was burned and splintered. A hoarse rumbling echoed in his chest.

“Don’t try to speak, Omax,” Tristam said. The artificer extended one hand, hands shining with a pale white light. The energy danced from his fingertips onto the warforged’s metal skin, sparks of magic winding through the damaged structure. “Just hold on.”

Omax nodded and lay back. The light in his eyes faded to almost nothing.

“You needed my help, Tristam?” Ijaac Bruenhail said. The dwarf looked around the inside of the tent. He gripped his morningstar in one hand, as if expecting a fight.

“Get his legs,” Tristam said. “Help me get him back onboard.”

The dwarf groaned at the idea of carrying Omax but did as requested. With some effort they carried the dense warforged to the stretcher and hauled him back aboard the ship. Once aboard, Tristam and Ijaac carried him out of the hold, laying him on the deck next to the ship’s helm. The rest of the crew had gathered, watching Tristam with varying degrees of confusion. Pherris Gerriman was tending the ship’s controls but spared Tristam a vexed glance.

“Korth?” the gnome captain asked.

“Aye,” Tristam said, digging in his bag again. “We need raw materials to repair this much damage.”

“Gavus Frauk,” Dalan said. “You intend to take him to the golemwright.”

“To the golemwright’s shop, anyway,” Tristam said. “I wouldn’t let Frauk touch Omax.” The artificer drew a length of thick metal wire out of his satchel. “The Canniths don’t build warforged anymore, but they build golems out of the same materials. Frauk will have what we need to fix a warforged—and he owes us.”

“Can Omax hang on long enough for us to reach Karrnath?” Seren asked, looking at the warforged with a worried expression.

Tristam fixed one end of the wire into the scar bisecting Omax’s chest. He spoke words of magic, fusing it to the warforged’s body. “That’s where Karia Naille’s favor comes in,” Tristam said. He held out the other end of the wire, weighted down with an improvised adamantine hook. He swung it in a few quick circles and hurled it straight up, latching it around the tall strut that embraced the ship’s fiery elemental ring.

“What are you doing, Tristam?” Aeven asked.

“The Dragon’s Eye drew upon a raw elemental force,” Tristam said. “I don’t entirely understand what it is—but I know what it does. I want Karia Naille to share her elemental energies with Omax. Let the fire we saw in Zul’nadn flow into him. That power was used to preserve the entire world once. We can use it to keep Omax alive.”

Tristam closed his eyes and concentrated. The ship’s elemental ring burned brilliant blue in reply. That same light extended the length of the thick cable. Omax’s back arched, and a deep groan erupted from him. His eyes shone with searing blue energy. Crackling blue sparks erupted from every joint in his damaged body. Tristam extended his hands, grasping Omax’s shoulders. The light in his eyes receded to its normal hue, though faint sparks of blue electricity still crackled across his body. Omax lay still once more.

“Karia Naille warns that what we attempt is dangerous,” Aeven said. “Such raw power could kill Omax as easily as it preserves him. She does not know how much a fragile form such as his can sustain.”

“Omax, fragile?” Ijaac scoffed.

“To an elemental creature such as Karia Naille, you are all fragile,” Aeven said.

“It’s all right,” Tristam said. “I know the ship doesn’t understand how he’s put together, but I do. I’ll stay here to help regulate the flow of power.”

“Korth is days from here, Tristam,” Dalan said. “You plan to watch him the entire time?”

“Yes,” Tristam said.

“I think that will do,” Pherris said gruffly. “I don’t doubt Master Xain has considered all the reasons why not to do this; there is no need to question him further. Omax is our friend. He deserves any chance we can give him. Unless one of you has a better idea how to save his life, I suggest we get on with this.” The gnome took the helm in both hands. “All hands, prepare for takeoff.”

SEVEN

In all her travels and studies, Norra Cais knew of only three places in all of Eberron that could truly boast larger libraries than that of Morgrave University. Despite her standard cynicism, she was impressed with the school’s wealth of knowledge. She had also come to appreciate Morgrave’s diversity. The masters of the school had long ago accepted that other colleges would always be afforded greater respect. Thus they were more willing to take measures to obtain information that other institutions might frown upon.

Master Larrian ir’Morgrave frequently hired independent experts to obtain prized volumes on behalf of the school. These explorers rarely had any real degree in their fields of study; sometimes their expertise consisted of good night vision, a sense of opportunity, and a crowbar. While the university did not officially condone theft, it did overlook the liberation of threatened manuscripts from areas of political turbulence. Depending on one’s point of view, nearly any part of Eberron could be reasoned to be an area of political turbulence. Many of the school’s most prized reference works had origins that were best not discussed. It didn’t matter. Morgrave University valued results. Its librarians were adept at removing bloodstains from leather and vellum.

The school’s collection of references concerning the Draconic Prophecy was particularly extensive. The Prophecy was a matter of keen interest to treasure hunters, as it often emerged in areas rich in valuable dragonshards. Those adventurers who failed to find the shards they sought often transcribed the Prophecy instead, knowing that the scholars in Dalannan Tower would pay a fair price.

Norra sighed as she tucked one of the heavy books back onto the shelf and consulted her list once again. Petra had been kind enough to translate the subjects of Ashrem’s research to a format she could actually read. There were dozens of books on the list. In the three days since her arrival, she had barely begun. The books she had already reviewed were all extremely basic. They told her nothing about the Legacy or how Ashrem had begun his path.

She leaned heavily against a bookcase, covering her eyes with one hand to fight the throbbing headache she was developing.

“Think, Norra,” she chided herself. “You’re missing something obvious here.”

She slid into a crouch against the bookcase and held the list close to her face, staring down at each name and date as if the secret lay there. She replayed the past in her mind, remembering the circumstances that led to Ashrem’s interest here. He had taken a sudden interest in the Draconic Prophecy, discussing it with her at length, musing that perhaps it might hold some key to ending the Last War. She had mentioned Morgrave as a resource, and Ashrem became interested. After a few months of study here, he suddenly set off on his journey to the Frostfell …

Of course.

Whatever had set Ashrem off seeking Zul’nadn wouldn’t be at the top of the list. It would be at the bottom—the last book he had read before urgently deciding the journey would be worthwhile. Her eyes scanned the list, widening when she found the title in question.

The Wanderings of Morien Markhelm: A Journey into Argonnessen.

She had never even heard the name Morien Markhelm before. If such a man had truly entered the land of dragons and returned to tell his story, why was it not more widely known? Perhaps it was a work of fiction.

She tucked Petra’s list into her vest and set out to find the answer.

The book she sought was not stored with the rest of the Draconic Prophecy references. The Morgrave library occupied nearly a dozen floors within Dalannan Tower. The most valuable references were safely stored in the upper levels, where security was tightest. The volumes most commonly accessed by the student body were stored on the lower levels, for convenience. The book she sought was apparently stored in the middle levels, an area seldom visited by anyone other than the wizards who occasionally refreshed the library’s maintenance spells. By the coating of dust on the bookcases here, even they were apparently infrequent visitors. She was forced to navigate with her own light, summoning a radiance from one of her rings with a whisper.

She found what she sought on a top shelf tucked in a far corner, next to a thin window that, if not for the grime, would have afforded an excellent view of the plateau. It was a thick volume, emblazoned with crudely scrawled Draconic runes. She took the book to a dusty chair and sat, using her ring for illumination as she turned the pages.

From what she could glean at a quick glance, the book had been written nearly a century ago. The author was an explorer who ventured into Argonnessen at the behest of Sannis ir’Morgrave, then master of the university. Morien had been the expedition’s only survivor. The book was written in a mad hodgepodge of the common tongue, Elven, and roughly sketched Draconic runes, in a cramped, tilted hand as if the writer was in a great hurry or a little mad. It almost reminded her of Petra’s crazed shorthand, though it was more legible. Norra sighed. Trying to decipher this would be a chore.

Yet as she turned the pages, something bothered her. It was like a flash of movement in the corner of the eye, something seen but not quite seen. Something was out of place. She studied the pages intently, turning back and forth, trying to find what she had glimpsed.

And there it was—a rune hidden among the Draconic scrawl that was not truly Draconic, but something else. It was the sort of symbol often used to mark magical creations with words of command. Even a trained eye might not notice it—Norra nearly hadn’t. Surely it wasn’t part of Morien Markhelm’s original text. Norra focused her senses upon the symbol. There was magic here. She let her fingertips brush the symbol and read the word of command aloud.

She felt a sense of nausea as the room shifted. She found that she was standing in the center of a darkened study. A map of Khorvaire was drawn upon the floor. She recognized the room as one of the university’s lower-level private studies. When Morgrave University was first built more than two centuries ago, this study’s marble floor was inlaid with a beautifully crafted map of the world. For whatever reason, the artist had left the map bare of all names and national borders. In recent decades, the students had begun to use the map to monitor the tides of the Last War. They added names and boundaries in colored chalk to the continent of Khorvaire, correcting them as they changed, adding names as nations arose from the fortunes of war. It looked like their work had been erased and redrawn of late, so often that the tiles were beginning to wear.

But something didn’t look right. Norra knelt and studied the floor. This was not a recent map. By the state of the borders, it seemed to illustrate the state of the Last War years ago, roughly the same time Ashrem had come to study here.

She felt another shift in her surroundings. Suddenly a man stood beside her. He was thin, almost gaunt. His features, once fine, were now pale and sallow. His shoulders slumped in his loose tan robes. He looked as if he had been handsome, perhaps in his youth, but time and stress had worn on him. His dark hair and thin beard were shot with gray. His eyes were haunted as he stared at his feet, concentrating on the scribbled borders of Cyre. He wrung his hands within his sleeves.

Norra drew away quickly, but he didn’t notice her at all. It took her several seconds to realize that she recognized him. It was Ashrem, as he looked many years ago. She looked from Ashrem to the map again. This was some sort of illusion—a reflection of the past.

In the shadows between the bookcases, something moved.

“Who is there?” Ashrem demanded. “I told your headmaster I preferred to use these chambers for private study.”

“And the headmaster has respected your wishes,” replied a calm, sibilant voice. “But I am not a student.”

“You,” Ashrem said in a low voice. He turned to face the speaker, hands balled into fists within his wide sleeves. “Step into the light.”

There was a shift in the darkness as the speaker nodded in compliance. He stepped forward, revealing a small bald man in robes of burnished copper. His face twisted in a bemused grin.

“Who are you, monk?” Ashrem demanded.

“You know me, Ashrem,” the man said, mildly confused. “Do not feign ignorance.”

“And do not misunderstand my question,” Ashrem said. “I know your name, Zamiel. I want to know who you are to know what you know. You are no simple monk, as you claim.”

Zamiel. Tristam had demanded Norra tell her what she knew of a Zamiel and was shocked when she knew nothing. He had never explained what significance the name bore, other than that he was a prophet. She listened carefully.

“You do not tell me how you can craft marvels of magical artifice, yet I accept you have mastered mysteries I scarcely understand,” Zamiel said. “So it is with me. I am a servant of the Draconic Prophecy. I sought you out to aid you in fulfilling your part of the Prophecy, Master d’Cannith. That is why I gave you Morien Markhelm’s name. I did not know what ultimately became of him, but I knew one of your allies could help you find his legend.”

So that was why Ashrem suddenly developed a curiosity about the Draconic Prophecy. Norra moved closer to the strange monk, studying his robes and mannerisms. Norra did not subscribe to any particular theology, but she was aware of the customs and symbols of many religions throughout Khorvaire. This man bore the trappings of none of them. Who was he, and how had Ashrem found him?

Or had this man found Ashrem?

“Strange,” Ashrem said. His tone was sharp and suspicious. “In my studies here, everything I read assures me that the predictions of the Draconic Prophecy are inevitable. Why would a prophet be required to help them come to pass?”

Zamiel chuckled. “Why is it that men of reason always seek to bind faith with logic?”

Ashrem glared at the prophet.

“Your mind is the sort that cannot move forward without answers,” Zamiel said. “So consider this metaphor. Within any forest sprouts a wealth of edible fruits and grains. This happens with or without mortal interference. Yet a farmer can cultivate those plants and see to it that their growth benefits as many as possible.”

“So you see yourself as a farmer?” Ashrem asked.

Zamiel grinned, showing perfect white teeth. “Yes,” he said. “I cultivate destiny, so that it will have the greatest benefit.”

“To whom?” Ashrem asked.

“To Eberron.”

“I have difficulty believing that anything beneficial could be cultivated from what I have seen,” Ashrem said.

“So you found something of Markhelm’s?” Zamiel asked, suddenly alert. “Knowledge of his journey survived?”

“I found his final journal,” Ashrem said, hesitant.

“Tell me what you have learned,” Zamiel said. “Please.”

Norra watched Zamiel warily, disturbed by the eager light in the prophet’s eyes.

Ashrem scowled. “His writings were buried so deeply that the archivists were only dimly aware of their existence. How did you even know of Morien Markhelm? His history is extremely obscure.”

“No mortal who walks in Argonnessen is ever truly forgotten,” Zamiel said, growing obviously more excited. “Tell me more.”

“If you wanted to know more, why didn’t you seek Markhelm’s story for yourself?” Ashrem asked.

“I knew the truth would be of greater value to you than to me,” the prophet said. “You are a respected scholar. You may travel the world’s libraries unimpeded. I am …” he chuckled. “I am a lunatic prophet. I cannot access institutes of higher learning as you can. I was fortunate to even be permitted this audience with you.”

Ashrem folded his arms tightly against his chest and paced across the map. He gazed at the dark continent dominating the southeast corner of the map. He stared past it, out the leaded window at Sharn’s vast cityscape where towers reached for the sky. “I cannot help but doubt the veracity of what I read,” Ashrem said. “The dragons do not tolerate mortal visitors. I would think that if a man had seen what Morien claimed to see, it would be widely celebrated in the academic community, not buried in a forgotten corner of a library such as this.”

“Certain circumstances decreed otherwise,” Zamiel said.

“What circumstances?” Ashrem said.

“Madness,” Zamiel said. “Politics. The things that always serve as the bane of great men.”

“Explain,” Ashrem demanded.

“Morien was the sole survivor of his expedition,” Zamiel said. “The barbarians who guard the Argonnessen coasts deposited him on a trading vessel, feverish and near death.”

“They released him?” Ashrem asked. “Such mercy seems uncharacteristic. The natives are notoriously merciless toward any who venture into dragon lands.”

“It was no mercy,” Zamiel said. “The barbarians believed that Morien disturbed something which should not have been disturbed, an ancient power that slew his crew. Markhelm had taken a great curse into his soul, a curse that devoured his mind. To kill him would release that curse upon the dragon lands. So the barbarians forced the sailors to take Morien home with them. They hoped that when Morien died, his curse would merely consume the foreign lands that had sent him.”

“So he was an accursed madman?” Ashrem asked.

Zamiel smiled faintly. “Or perhaps a genius,” Zamiel said. “Once Argonnessen was safely out of sight and the captain was preparing to toss him overboard, Morien made a miraculous recovery.”

“He feigned madness?” Ashrem said.

“Quite possibly,” Zamiel said, smiling faintly. “He returned to Morgrave University. I thought he might have recorded his findings here.”

“He did,” Ashrem said. “Though the journal looks as if it were written hastily.”

“A rush to record his findings, no doubt,” Zamiel said.

“So why were his discoveries buried?” Ashrem asked.

“Sannis ir’Morgrave, Master of the University at the time, hated Markhelm,” Zamiel said. “The details of their rivalry are immaterial, but suffice it to say there was a lady involved who preferred adventurers to scholars. It is thus no surprise to me that Sannis would have hidden Morien’s discoveries. Presumably, he never even read the journal, but buried it deep within the archives so that Markhelm would never receive due recognition.”

“Nonsense,” Ashrem said, shaking his head slowly. “Why wouldn’t Morien simply take his findings to a competing university?”

Or, Norra wondered, why hadn’t Sannis destroyed the book? She wished this were not merely an illusion so that she could question the mad prophet herself. Ashrem was a brilliant man, but he always asked the wrong questions. The prophet’s story did not add up. She folded her arms across her slim chest and watched with growing frustration.

Zamiel shrugged. “Perhaps he feared that Morgrave would declare him a liar, and the academic community would shun his findings. Perhaps after recording his discoveries once he could no longer remember them clearly enough to record them in detail a second time. Or perhaps …” Zamiel trailed off, his eyes flickering across the map.

“Perhaps what, prophet?” Ashrem said.

“Perhaps Morien Markhelm reconsidered the wisdom of writing down what he had seen,” Zamiel said. “Perhaps he felt that a dragon’s secrets are better left secret.”

Norra rolled her eyes. A ludicrous answer, but then Ashrem was a dreamer, willing to buy into the dramatic. She would find out nothing more useful if the prophet retained this approach. Knowing Ashrem, he would allow it.

“Dangerous secrets,” Ashrem said. “You sent me here seeking those same secrets, prophet.” He glared at Zamiel.

“We worry a great deal about what may be, Ashrem,” the prophet said. “Let us worry over what we know, not what we might know. I will not lie. The knowledge we seek is deadly. If you fear the wrath of Argonnessen, then walk away. I shall bother you no more. But consider that the secrets of dragons can grant incredible power. Perhaps even the power to end this war.”

Ashrem’s frown deepened. He turned his back to the prophet, walking swiftly toward the door. Wizened fingers rested upon the brass handle. Ashrem stood there, unmoving, for a long moment.

“Leave, Ashrem,” Norra said, though she knew he could not hear. “Leave this manipulative charlatan behind.”

“Morien mentioned something called the Legacy,” Ashrem said. “An artifact crafted countless ages ago when dragonkind ruled Eberron.”

“Yes,” Zamiel said.

“You know of it?” Ashrem demanded, looking at the prophet.

“It was a tool so powerful it could alter the world,” Zamiel said. “Its power created the Boneyard in the Talenta Plains, ending a war between dragonkind and the demons of Khyber. It nullified the very magic that was the demon horde’s lifeblood.”

“And slew the dragons as well,” Ashrem said.

“Only because dragons are creatures of magic,” Zamiel said. “Humans are not. Think of it, Master d’Cannith. Such power could neutralize the magical weapons that allow the Five Nations to fight one another—but leave the people alive.”

“Foolishness,” Ashrem said. “Wars existed long before airships and warforged. Without magic, men would still kill one another.”

“But the wars of times past were not as savage as this one,” Zamiel said. “You have seen the signs, Ashrem. You know if your family and others like them do not cease to pursue the use of magic as a weapon that the situation will only escalate. Things can grow much worse than they are now.”

“So you want me to prevent the Five Nations from destroying themselves by creating an even more dangerous weapon?” Ashrem sneered. He pulled the door open with a creaking wooden cough.

“You have been trying to end this war for how long now?” Zamiel said. “What progress have you made?”

Ashrem’s fingers tightened on the brass handle. He glared over his shoulder at the prophet.

“I apologize, Master d’Cannith,” Zamiel said, bowing his head. “I did not mean to insult your good works. I did not anticipate that you would be the sort to shy away from knowledge. I cannot believe you would fear this opportunity.”

“Knowledge does not frighten me,” Ashrem said.

Zamiel’s dark eyes narrowed. “Then there is something more,” he said. “Something you have not told me. What did you see in Markhelm’s report?”

“Markhelm found sections of the Draconic Prophecy transcribed on the walls of a cavern deep in Argonnessen,” Ashrem said, pulling away from the door. “He transcribed them in his reports in perfect detail. That was how he learned of the Legacy, but there was something more.” Ashrem’s expression became troubled.

“The future is often troubling,” Zamiel said. “Especially when we learn our part in it. Tell me.”

“It isn’t that,” Ashrem said. “These weren’t mere words. When I looked at Markhelm’s transcriptions, it was as if I heard a voice in my mind. I saw things that were impossible.”

A vision, Norra reflected. Much like this one?

“The Prophecy spoke to you?” Zamiel asked, growing obviously more excited. “A rare but not unprecedented occurrence. Tell me what you saw, Master d’Cannith! Please.”

“I saw a mortal rebuild a weapon once wielded by ancient dragons,” Ashrem said. “I saw him use it against the nations of Khorvaire, destroying their weapons, rendering them helpless. I saw this man cursed as a traitor. I saw him flee into exile.”

“But what became of Eberron?” Zamiel asked. “Did the vision show you what came next?”

“Bereft of their magic, the Five Nations knew terrible hardship,” Ashrem said. “In the end, this hardship unified the people. There was peace again.”

“Disturbing,” Zamiel said. “I think I would turn away as well, if I saw such a thing. Why risk everything, only to be forsaken by those I had saved? It seems pointless.”

Ashrem smiled bitterly. “For peace?” he said. “It would be well worth it. And most of those who were once my friends have already forsaken me.”

“But you still hesitate?” Zamiel asked. “Why?”

“I know enough about magic to know such visions can be faked,” Ashrem said. “What if the vision was false?”

Zamiel frowned. “A trap?” he said. “To what end? Who would do such a thing and why?”

Ashrem scratched his thin beard in irritation. “I do not know,” he said. “Something simply doesn’t sit right. I feel very strange.”

“We speak of a tool forged thousands of years before mankind walked the earth, a weapon that shattered an army of immortal demons,” Zamiel said. “We speak of defying every nation in Khorvaire. We speak of ending the war itself. I should hope you feel strange; this is not the sort of matter one engages lightly.”

“Perhaps,” Ashrem said.

Norra found it telling that Zamiel insisted on calling the Legacy a tool, not a weapon.

“It is not my intent to compel you to do that which you do not wish to do,” Zamiel said, bowing his head in a gesture of humility. “I know only that my studies of the Prophecy led me to you, Ashrem d’Cannith. I have offered my guidance. Whether you choose to accept that offer, I leave to you. How you choose to fulfill your destiny is your decision.”

“Is it?” Ashrem asked with a bitter laugh. “I thought the Prophecy was inevitable.”

“It is,” Zamiel said.

“Then how can I truly have any choice?” Ashrem said. “If this is my destiny, will it not unfold whether or not I choose to embrace it?”

“The Prophecy is inevitable, but it is also inscrutable,” Zamiel said. “Mortal interpretations, even those of learned individuals like me, are frequently flawed. Sometimes even a perfect interpretation of its manifestations makes little sense without the context of hindsight.”

“What use is a prediction that makes no sense until it has transpired?” Ashrem asked.

“I said sometimes,” Zamiel said. “In your case, the manifestation that led me to you was relatively clear. I was instructed to seek a senior craftsman, a man who can breathe life into stone, a man cast from his house for setting his sword aside.” Zamiel smirked. “You helped create the first warforged, thus granting life to stone. Your pacifist leanings have earned you the disfavor of your house, a form of self-imposed exile. Such words are open to interpretation, but they describe you aptly.”

“But they may just as equally apply to someone else,” Ashrem said. “Someone a thousand miles from here or someone not yet born.”

“Perhaps,” Zamiel said. “You cannot do what I do for any length of time without the ability to admit being wrong.”

“So the Prophecy has foreseen everything, but our ignorant inability to understand it gives us the illusion of free will?” Ashrem asked.

Zamiel laughed. “You are a cynical man.”

Ashrem shrugged into his robes.

“The point is this. The Prophecy guides us, but our choices are our own,” Zamiel said. “If you wish, I can guide you to other manifestations and help you interpret them. You may find wisdom there. Or you can choose to pursue the secrets of the Legacy alone. Perhaps you might even choose to ignore this altogether and hope that the war ends without your assistance.” The prophet watched Ashrem in silence for a long time. “But I doubt a mind as keen as yours will be able to set this puzzle aside. An ancient device capable of unraveling all magic? If you do not seek it out, Ashrem d’Cannith, you know that someone else will. Someone less noble and selfless than you.”

Norra looked into the strange prophet’s copper eyes. They were dark, unreadable. Was the man issuing a threat or stating a fact? The prophet knew his audience. That much was certain. He mixed fact and mysticism to Ashrem’s unique taste, adding in just a dash of flattery to inspire the old man to taking up his cause. Norra found she hated Zamiel, even though she had never met him. His style of manipulation reminded her of Dalan, but it was a great deal more sinister. If Zamiel had truly guided Ashrem all those years ago, he had been wise to hide himself from her.

“I need time,” Ashrem said softly. “More time to study Markhelm’s writings and determine their legitimacy. More time to determine what I must do. I will need to seek others that can aid me.”

“House Cannith?” Zamiel asked.

“No,” the old man said, his voice hollow. He seemed to be resigning himself to a painful decision. “If this vision is true, I would not wish such a fate upon my family. Though they abandoned me, I cannot damn them. I must find others like myself—others who hate this war as much as I do. I must find people who have been forsaken. People with nothing left to lose.”

“Like me,” Norra said gravely. “No wonder you kept Tristam away from the Legacy. He had imagination with none of my bitter cynicism. He was always your favorite student, wasn’t he, Ashrem?”

“You are wise not to ignore your destiny, my friend,” Zamiel said, attempting to comfort the old man.

Ashrem d’Cannith looked at the prophet with a fixed, wary gaze. He exited the chamber, letting the study door creak shut behind him. A thud echoed through the shadowed chamber.

The moment Ashrem left, Norra Cais found herself seated in the dusty library again. Morien Markhelm’s book lay open in her lap. She felt a sense of dizziness from the shift in her apparent surroundings. She grasped the arms of her chair until the room stopped moving.

What had she just seen? Had it been some sort of message, left behind by Ashrem? A warning? If he wished to warn her about Zamiel, why hide it in a rune in a book she might never even read? Why not just tell her directly? Who had left this vision and to what purpose?

It didn’t make any sense.

She had to know more.

Norra returned to the beginning of Markhelm’s journal and started reading.

EIGHT

Zed moved to the mouth of the alley and peered carefully around the corner. The mortuary was calm and quiet. Only a few passersby walked the streets. Most of them casually avoided the darkened building. The cart still waited outside the offices, hitched to a pair of horses.

“Must be delivering that cart soon,” Zed said.

“No sense in waiting any longer, then,” Eraina said. She waited a safe distance behind him, out of sight.

Zed nodded. “If things go wrong, I’ll try to signal you somehow.”

“I’ll look for screaming, random violence, and possibly fire,” Eraina said.

He gave her a hurt look. “I was thinking more of a whistle, you know?” he said, “Maybe pulling up one of the window shades and waving—but keep an eye out for those other things. Just in case.”

“I will,” she said. “Are you certain you wish to do this? It’s already fairly obvious they are working for Marth. We could approach this more directly.”

“But we don’t know how many there are or where their larger base is,” Zed said. “Let’s try diplomacy first. We might learn something.”

Eraina nodded. “Boldrei watch over you, Arthen.”

Zed looked at the paladin for a long, silent moment. “Thank you, Eraina,” he said finally.

He set out across the street, shrugging into his coat as he adjusted the weight of his sword across his shoulders. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to fight. His sword bore the markings of a Knight of the Silver Flame. As a war veteran, it lent him a certain air of legitimacy. Plus, the fact that it was one of the deadliest weapons in Eberron didn’t hurt—just in case diplomacy was insufficient.

Zed knocked on the door. A slit opened, and a curious eye stared out. “Are you Master Arthen?” a gruff voice demanded.

“I am,” Zed said, giving a short bow. “I am here to speak to Niam Kenrickson.”

The slit closed. The sound of a rattling lock followed. The door opened, and a large man waved Zed inside. The inquisitive strode into the mortuary, looking over one shoulder warily as the door slammed shut and bolted behind him. The doorman was nearly a foot taller than Zed and dressed in thick leather armor. A shortsword hung from a loop on his belt.

“Kind of thorough for an undertaker’s doorman, aren’t you?” Zed asked.

The guard stared at Zed with the bored, sullen stare shared by hired muscle the world over. He folded his arms and stood with his back to the door. Zed studied his surroundings. The mortuary lobby was sparse. The walls were of bare wood, with a floor to match. The boards were loose in several places. A single glowing stone hung from a cheap glass fixture on the ceiling. Black shades had been drawn over every window. In one corner, a rather incongruous looking vase of roses rested on a tall, crooked table. The sickly scent of chemicals and rotten meat hung in the air. A pair of double doors at the far side of the room led deeper into the mortuary. This place had been constructed cheaply, and the occupants apparently didn’t care.

The opposite doors opened and Niam Kenrickson entered, alongside six other men. One was dressed nearly identically to Niam, in a dark coat and cloak. He was short and squat where Niam was thin. The other five men resembled the guard, burly men in cheap armor. Zed noticed that Niam looked nervous while his counterpart looked angry. This was going to be bad.

“Yarold, you are overreacting,” Niam said, punctuating his remark with a nervous laugh. “This is unnecessary.”

“First the Lyrandar embargo against us and now this,” the shorter man said. He looked up at Zed. There was obvious anger in his eyes. “We shall see if I am overreacting. You are the Thrane war hero?”

“I don’t think too many people who knew me in the Last War would call me a hero,” Zed said, “but I was a Knight of the Silver Flame.”

“Indeed,” Yarold said. “How convenient for you to appear when you did.”

Zed blinked. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but it looks like you’re upset. I got into a fight with some guards, and Niam bailed me out of prison. He said I could pay back the favor if I came here. If that’s not the case, I’ll go.” Zed turned around but the guard had not moved from the door. The man rested one hand absently on his sword as his beady eyes flicked in Zed’s direction.

“I apologize for this, Master Arthen,” Niam said. “My brother is short-tempered and we are in the midst of an important transaction.”

“Do not apologize to the Thrane cur!” Yarold said, pointing one pudgy finger in his brother’s face.

“Niam, there is no need to be insulting,” Niam said. “The Thrane have often proven worthy allies.”

“Of worth in your eyes, perhaps,” Yarold said. He looked up at Zed again. “Master Arthen, if you are truly as harmless as you claim, then you will surrender your weapon and submit to my questions.”

Zed sighed. Fighting his way out of this could be rough, especially if he couldn’t signal Eraina. At least compliance might buy some time. Maybe he could even learn something. He unslung the sword from his shoulder. He held it out in both hands to show that it was safely sheathed before walking to the corner and leaning it against the small table with exaggerated care. He paced his way back along the wall to the corner of the room, hands buried deep in his pockets. One of the thugs moved between Zed and his sword. Yarold watched the inquisitive suspiciously, but at least his seething rage had been replaced with simmering anger.

“Ask your questions,” Zed said.

“Why are you in Nathyrr?” Yarold demanded.

“I was desperate for work,” Zed said. “I’ve been moving from place to place since the war ended. Somehow I always make a bad impression on the authorities when I stay in town for too long.” He reached into his coat, causing the guards to go for their swords. He froze, gave what he hoped would be a soothing smile, and slowly drew his pipe and smoking pouch from his pocket.

“Picking fights with knights is an odd way to look for work,” Yarold said.

“Yeah, well.” Zed shrugged, striking a tindertwig and lighting his pipe.

“If you disapprove of the Knights so highly, why not try Breland?” Yarold said.

“Tried that already,” Zed said. “Didn’t like the climate. It was time to come back home.”

“Listen to him, Yarold,” Niam said. “Look at his clothing. Obviously someone in such a state isn’t a threat. He’s just an old soldier desperate for work.”

“Hm,” Yarold said. “He certainly looks like a vagabond. I’ll admit that.”

Mildly surprised, Zed looked down at himself. He hadn’t noticed how dirty and ragged his coat had become in the last few weeks. He really did look like a desperate vagrant. It wasn’t intentional; this was just his favorite coat. He felt relieved and mildly insulted at the same time.

“I’m not quite certain what to do with you, Master Arthen,” Yarold said, eyeing the inquisitive meticulously.

Zed realized he was going to have to take control of this situation fast, or Yarold’s paranoia was going to get the better of him. He glanced at the men surrounding him, looking for clues to what they were thinking. Yarold cracked his fingers, one at a time, eyeing Zed all the while. Niam looked embarrassed. His gaze was locked soundly on his own feet. The other guards were all tense, as if they were expecting him to attack at any moment. The inquisitive breathed a long plume of smoke into the air.

“Listen,” Zed said. “First, I’m sorry I came at a bad time. Last thing I want to do is interfere. I keep getting the feeling that someone screwed up, badly. My guess is that someone threw you off whatever schedule you’re trying to keep. What’s more, I bet it has something to do with that cart outside. You want to get that shipment out of here before the locals start wondering what could be inside so many coffins, but something is getting in the way. Either something got lost, or somebody died. Which is it?”

Niam looked up, eyes wide. Yarold’s face darkened in anger.

“Who are you working for?” the undertaker demanded. “Have you been spying on us?”

“I just pay attention,” Zed said. “Be calm. Maybe I can help.”

“How dare you presume to speak to me in such a fashion,” Yarold said. “We do not need your assistance, cur. If not for my brother, you would already be dead.”

Zed gave a soothing smile again and held up his hands in mock surrender. “Sorry,” he said. “Not trying to cause trouble.”

“Bah,” said an irritated voice from the darkness. “This is a waste of time.”

One of Yarold’s guards fell forward, eyes bulging as he clutched his throat. Blood gushed between his fingers. A thin elf in black silk materialized from the shadows behind the dying man, a long dagger in each hand. With a flick of his wrist, a second guard fell across the room, blade lodged in his forehead.

“Khyber,” Zed swore.

“Kill them both!” Yarold shrieked, drawing a shortsword from within his cloak.

The closest guard brought his sword up and charged Zed. Zed flicked his pipe at the man, scattering hot ashes in his face. The man screamed and faltered. Zed stomped on a loose floorboard while the guard was distracted. Zed’s sword, carefully balanced on the other end, catapulted into his hand. By the time the guard had recovered his senses, Zed had unsheathed the heavy blade and brought it down across the man’s chest. He turned to meet another guard’s charge with a heavy kick, followed by a punch to the bridge of the nose. The guard rolled to his feet in time to meet the next heavy cleave of Zed’s sword.

Across the room, the two remaining guards charged the elf. The intruder seized the closer man’s wrist with his free hand and twisted, diverting his momentum and driving the thug’s sword into his comrade’s path, impaling him. With a backhand slice, the elf brought his dagger neatly across the first man’s throat and let them both fall at his feet. The elf looked at Zed with a mischievous smile.

“Your mode of investigation is far too time-consuming, Arthen,” the elf said.

Yarold had not moved. He still stood clutching his sword inexpertly in both trembling hands. Niam had taken several steps back and looked from Zed to the newcomer in terror. Zed held his bloody sword, point low, eyes on the elven assassin.

“You bastard, Arthen,” Niam said. “You’d planned to kill us all.”

“I won’t deny that I’m a bastard,” Zed said, watching everyone carefully. He slowly circled away from the elf, toward the nearest window, “but I don’t even know who this elf is.

“If you’re of a mind to signal your paladin accomplice, feel free,” the elf said with a cheerful grin. “I won’t interfere.”

“Who are you?” Zed demanded.

“I think you know,” the elf said, laughing. “Don’t worry; I’m here as an ally. You’re far too interesting to kill for free, Arthen.”

Zed stopped dead. “Shaimin d’Thuranni?” he said.

The elf smiled broadly, pleased to be recognized.

“You have terrible handwriting,” Zed observed.

Shaimin’s smile became a confused grimace.

Zed lifted pulled up the shade over the nearest window and waved frantically. The window faced the alley where Eraina was waiting. Hopefully she would see and help him figure out how to deal with this.

Shaimin ignored Zed and faced the undertakers. “Now, Kenricksons. What to do with you?” Shaimin said, flipping his daggers in his hands.

“The sons of Cyre will never yield,” Niam said, voice quavering.

“Spare us,” Yarold said, dropping his sword. He fell to his knees, clasping his hands. “I’m no match for a Thuranni assassin. We’ll tell you what you want to know. I don’t want to die!”

Shaimin looked at Zed, mildly surprised. “A strange reversal. Amazing what happens to people when they feel their death is imminent.”

Niam glared at his brother in disgust. He snatched the shortsword from the floor and buried it Yarold’s back. Yarold gasped in pain and surprise, feebly reaching over his shoulder to try to dislodge the weapon as he crumpled to the floor.

“For Captain Marth and Cyre!” Niam roared, charging at Zed.

Startled, Zed readied his sword to defend himself. Niam flung himself onto the blade. The shortsword fell from his hands with a clatter. He sneered at Zed with a look of satisfied defiance as he died.

“I suppose interrogating them is out,” Shaimin said dryly.

The door burst open behind them. Eraina entered with sword and spear in hand. She looked at the body impaled on Zed’s sword.

“Diplomacy?” she asked.

“I tried to talk to them,” Zed said, pushing the undertaker’s corpse off his blade with one boot. “These people are crazy.”

“The fault is mine, Marshal,” Shaimin said, gesturing calmly with his daggers. “Violence was an inevitable outcome, but I fear I accelerated matters.”

“Get rid of your knives, whoever you are,” Eraina ordered, looking at him warily.

Shaimin flicked his wrists and the blades disappeared. He held up his empty hands and smirked. Eraina’s hands tightened on her weapons. Her eyes took a stubborn gleam that warned Zed a quick intervention was in order.

“Eraina, be careful,” Zed said. “This is Shaimin d’Thuranni.”

“The assassin who attacked Tristam?” Eraina asked. “Did you follow us here?”

“Follow you?” Shaimin chuckled. “Absolutely not. I’ve been here watching these ghouls for nearly a week. It was about time you arrived.”

“Come then, assassin,” she said, beckoning with her sword. “We are ready for you.”

Shaimin rolled his eyes. “I’m not here to kill you,” he said. “I just saved Zed’s life. Pay attention. Shall we call it even?”

“It’s true,” Zed said. “I think. It didn’t turn violent till he started killing people, but he was trying to help.” Zed shifted uncertainly. “Probably.”

Shaimin sighed. “I’m not talking about the orgy of death,” he said. “These men were nothing you couldn’t handle alone, Arthen. I killed them because I was bored. I refer to this.” He reached into his vest and drew out a folded scrap of parchment, throwing it at Zed’s feet.

Zed looked at Shaimin suspiciously.

“Oh, yes, by all means be cautious,” the elf said, growing more annoyed. “It’s a dangerous letter, covered with invisible scorpions. They’re trained to bite everyone but me. It’s my weapon of choice.” He rolled his eyes and tapped his foot impatiently.

Feeling foolish, Zed sheathed his massive sword, knelt and picked up the letter. It bore a broken wax seal decorated with the modified Cyran crest that Marth’s soldiers wore. He unfolded it and read the contents.

Kenricksons,

The man in question is an Inquisitive in service to our most dangerous enemies, House Cannith. Reports indicate he is a former paladin and an expert swordsman. Zed Arthen must be approached with utmost caution. If he can be taken alive, interrogate him and determine the location of the airship Mourning Dawn. If he poses any difficulty, kill him without hesitation. He must be kept away from Fort Ash at all costs.

“You’re fortunate the undertakers never received that,” the assassin said. “They might have roused enough thugs to actually kill you.”

Zed looked at Shaimin sharply. “Where did you find this?” he demanded, passing it to Eraina.

“Yarold Kenrickson was a distrustful man,” Shaimin said. “The moment his brother returned with news of your meeting, he dispatched a messenger to this Fort Ash to determine whether you were a threat. He became paranoid when the messenger never returned.”

“When you murdered the messenger, you mean,” Eraina said.

“His death was mercy,” Shaimin said with a wicked smile. “He wouldn’t have lived long, the way he was bleeding after I found him.”

“Wait,” Arthen said. “You took this letter from a messenger on his way back here. After the messenger reported. So Marth’s soldiers know I’m in Nathyrr?”

“Apparently,” Shaimin replied, waving one hand. “The only reason I even followed the messenger was to learn where their headquarters was. It was serendipity that I found that letter while I was questioning him on the way back. Your exposure was no fault of mine. Use an alias, Arthen. You won’t have these problems.”

“I didn’t mean to be recognized,” Zed said. He blinked, realizing what he was saying. “Why am I explaining myself? What are you doing here, d’Thuranni? Whose side are you on? You tried to murder Tristam and Seren. Now you want us to help each other?”

“I serve House Thuranni,” he said. “That is all.”

“You took a contract on behalf of your house to murder our friend,” Eraina said.

“You assume much,” Shaimin said, leveling a stern finger at her. “Suffice it to say that you are wrong. Dalan d’Cannith revealed elements of this situation that have complicated my involvement.”

“Dalan tends to do that,” Zed said.

“Dalan hired you?” Eraina asked. “Your loyalties shift easily.”

Shaimin sighed, then laughed. “My loyalties? Let us retain perspective. You’re the mercenary here, Marshal. Money can occasionally broaden a Thuranni’s loyalties but they never waver. I was entrusted to perform a task. I now find it in my best interests to complete it in an unconventional manner. Suffice it to say that our ultimate goals are, for the time being, in alignment. We can help one another.”

“You expect us to aid a known killer?” Eraina said.

“We are all killers, Marshal,” Shaimin replied. “How many criminals have you killed in Boldrei’s name? How many of Marth’s soldiers have you slain? Were they wicked men, d’Deneith? Did all of them deserve death?”

The paladin snarled. “I should turn you over to the Knights of the Silver Flame.”

“For their sake, I recommend that you do not,” Shaimin said. “I see no reason those knights should die.”

“Eraina, Shaimin, please,” Zed said. He stepped between them but kept his eyes on the elf. “Sniping at each other isn’t helping. It won’t be long before the Cyrans come looking for their supplies and discover the Kenricksons are dead. We need to figure out our next move.”

“I know the location of Fort Ash,” Shaimin said, “but I am hesitant to infiltrate it alone. Though I mean you no harm in any case, perhaps a truce might settle your temper and allow us to aid one another?”

“Easy for you to say, Shaimin,” Eraina said. “You don’t have to worry about either of us stabbing you in the back if a truce becomes burdensome.”

“I have sharpened my daggers on tongues half as sharp as yours,” Shaimin snapped. “Why must you be so judgmental, Marshal? You do not know me. I am not the monster you presume me to be.”

“Why do wicked men always believe they are good?” Eraina asked. “Boldrei grants me clarity of vision. I know you for what you are.”

“I never claimed to be good either,” Shaimin said. “I merely wish to serve my family—as you do. Before you deny what I offer, consider that I can lead you to Marth’s stronghold. On the honor of my House, I swear not to betray you. Surely even a Deneith can comprehend that?”

Eraina fell silent. She sheathed her shortsword and lowered her spear.

“Up to you, Eraina,” Zed said. “I’m just the deputy.”

“On the honor of House Thuranni, you swear not to betray us?” Eraina asked.

“I swear your lives and honor are safe in my care so long as mine are safe in yours,” Shaimin said. He closed his eyes and bowed his head before her.

Eraina grunted under her breath. “Keep an eye on him, Zed,” she said. “I’m going to search the rest of the building.”

“Aye, Marshal,” Zed said as she marched past into the back rooms.

“Sharn,” Shaimin said.

Zed looked at the elf. “Excuse me?”

Shaimin was studying Zed intently. “I’ve been trying to recall where I remember you from since the first time I saw you,” he said. “You used to dwell in Sharn. We never met, but I know you by name and reputation.”

“Oh?” Zed said.

“Were you aware that House Thuranni agents were instructed to increase their fee for any mark under your protection?” Shaimin asked.

“No,” Zed said. “I don’t think I ever ran into any Thuranni assassins.”

“That we stand here speaking to one another today is proof that you have not,” Shaimin replied. “The additional fee was so significant that it discouraged all potential clientele. They sought more economical options, and likely regretted their parsimony from the inside of a Sharn prison.”

“Nice,” Zed said. He chuckled, scratching the stubble on the side of his chin.

“I beg your pardon?” Shaimin said. “Why are you laughing?”

“The backhanded compliments are a nice touch, but don’t try to intimidate me, d’Thuranni,” Zed said. “I saw you fight. You’re quick, ruthless, and have just a little bit of magic to give you an edge. I know you’re smart. I know you’re cocky. Eraina was right. You know she’s a paladin, and you think that her sense of honor will make her a malleable pawn.” Zed leaned close to Shaimin, grinning at the elf. “But you have no idea what I’m capable of. I heard every word of your little vow, and I heard every word you didn’t say, too. Eraina isn’t the only one who should be watching her back here.”

“Are you threatening me, Master Arthen?” Shaimin asked.

Zed’s easy grin vanished, replaced by a hard, cruel stare. “You had damned well better believe it,” he said. “Do we understand one another, elf?”

“I think we do,” Shaimin said.

“Good.”

NINE

I think we’re finished, Omax,” Tristam asked.

The warforged looked at his hands, staring at himself in awe. The once scarred and pitted metal was now smooth. His adamantine plates shone. The darkwood supports beneath gleamed. The warforged sat up on the stone work table, moving with unaccustomed energy. He caught sight of himself in a battered mirror across the workshop. Blue eyes shone from a mask of pristine silver adamantine. He looked like a freshly built version of himself.

Tristam withdrew several steps. He watched Omax nervously, as if not entirely sure that his work had been sufficient to the task. The little homunculus clung to Tristam’s left boot, holding a small hammer in one pudgy hand. Gavus Frauk perched on a wooden stool, keeping an eye on his workshop.

“Finished?” Gavus asked impatiently.

“I think we may be,” Tristam said. “How do you feel, Omax?”

Omax closed his hands and looked at Tristam. “I feel different,” the warforged said.

“Did I do something wrong?” Tristam asked, concerned. “Are you in pain?”

“No,” Omax said.

“Excellent work, Tristam,” Gavus said. “My personal opinions aside, I must recognize a job well done. Your construct looks entirely new.”

“Thank you, Master Frauk,” Tristam said.

“I am surprised you care for my well-being, Frauk,” Omax said, looking at the golemwright. “Do you not believe I am a mindless machine?”

“Mindless? No,” Gavus said. “Soulless? Yes. However, that does not mean I cannot appreciate fine craftsmanship. I have grown quite fond of a golem servant or two in my time. I can understand the desire to prevent one from becoming inanimate, though I probably would not have gone to such great effort to preserve a tool. One can always build a new golem.”

Omax lurched across the room, his metal feet resounding heavily on the wooden planks. Gavus Frauk sat up a bit straighter on the stool as Omax loomed over him. The warforged extended one hand to the golemwright, three fingers spread wide enough to cast a shadow over the old man’s face.

“Omax!” Tristam called out. “Just ignore him. Let’s go back to the ship.”

“Keep your metal claws away from me, monster,” Gavus said, whimpering as he cowered before the warforged.

“If I were truly soulless,” Omax said, “I would take no more offense to your insults than a lump of inert clay. Ask yourself this, Master Frauk. If you are so sure that I am unliving, why are you afraid?” Omax rested his hand on the golemwright’s shoulder, causing him to jump. “You think you hate us, Gavus Frauk, but it is not hate you feel. It is envy.”

“I am not afraid of you,” Frauk said. “Harm me, and not even your friends will protect you from House Cannith’s retribution.”

“I do not wish to harm you,” Omax said, removing his hand and folding his arms across his chest. “I pity you. You envy me and my kind because we represent change. You see us as a symbol of everything you have failed to become. You must reduce us to nothing because you think so very little of yourself. It is your own hatred that drives so many of my brothers to take up arms against their creators. You are fortunate that I have risen above that.” Omax backed away from Gavus once more.

Gavus glared at the warforged. “Master Xain, I believe my obligation to Dalan d’Cannith is fulfilled,” he said. “Take your weapon and leave my workshop now.”

“Right away, Master Frauk,” Tristam said. He slung his satchel of tools over one shoulder. The homunculus scurried up his leg and climbed into the bag.

“And take this,” the golemwright said. He drew a folded envelope from his pocket and offered it to Tristam.

“What is it?” Tristam asked.

“A speaker post from Norra Cais,” Gavus said. “The bit I could read instructed me to give it to you if you passed through Korth. The rest was encoded.”

“Thank you,” Tristam said, taking the letter.

“Whatever,” Gavus said. “Get out.” He shooed Tristam and Omax away with a dismissive gesture.

Tristam and Omax walked out, quietly closing the door behind them and making their way through the halls of the Cannith estate.

“I apologize for losing my temper, Tristam,” Omax said.

“Why?” Tristam asked. “He provoked you.”

“You seemed upset,” the warforged said. “You reacted as if you believed I would harm him.”

“No,” Tristam said, grinning. “I was sure you wouldn’t, but I didn’t want to ruin the surprise for him. Knowing you, I figured he might learn something.”

Omax chuckled.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Omax?” Tristam asked. “You seem different.”

“I feel different,” he said. “It is the pain.”

“You’re in pain?” Tristam asked, worried. He immediately reached into his satchel.

“I am not,” Omax said. “For the first time in decades, I am not.”

“What do you mean?” Tristam said, surprised.

“When you found me beneath that Breland monastery, I was barely alive,” Omax said. “You repaired me sufficiently to walk and speak, but your skills and resources were, at the time, insufficient to repair me fully.”

“I remember,” Tristam said. “Ashrem completed your repairs when we returned to Zil’argo.”

“Some of them,” Omax said. “There was a great deal of deep internal damage that I requested he leave intact. Ashrem honored my wishes, fixing only what I needed to survive.”

Tristam looked at Omax in surprise. “For all these years?” he asked. “Why?”

“I felt a deep sense of shame that I survived when so many others perished,” Omax said. “When I emerged into the light, I blamed myself for the deaths of my friends, my enemies, and the innocents who stood in our way. I wanted to remember their sacrifices. I begged Ashrem to repair me just enough so that I would survive. That was why you found me so difficult to repair, Tristam. It wasn’t merely the fact that I took so much damage in so short a time in our battles against Marth, but that my new injuries exacerbated wounds I have borne for decades.” Omax lifted his arms, examining his new limbs. “I think that is why I feel so strange. The pain had become a part of me. And now it is gone.”

“I’m sorry, Omax,” Tristam said.

Omax looked at his distressed friend. “Do not be ridiculous, Tristam,” the warforged said. “It was foolish of me to torment myself. My mind is clearer than it has ever been. I feel as strong as the day I was built.”

“Stronger,” Tristam said.

Omax looked at Tristam sharply.

“Theoretically, in any case,” Tristam said. “Once I got to work, the repairs went more smoothly than I expected. I made a few improvements, reinforcing your design. It only proved what I suspected since my vision in Zul’nadn.”

“What is that?” Omax said.

“The Legacy destroys magic by drawing upon the elemental power that Ashrem drew from the Dragon’s Eye,” Tristam said, “but that isn’t the Eye’s true purpose. It’s a force of creation—not destruction. When I infused your body with Karia Naille’s magic, that power didn’t just sustain your life. It made my repairs easier as well.”

“For a time, aboard the ship, I felt the presence of a force greater than myself,” Omax said. “I felt a great sense of peace. I thought perhaps it was my proximity to death, but the feeling faded almost immediately after I was removed from the ship. I was, briefly, one with something ancient and boundless.”

“The Eye is alive?” Tristam said, surprised.

“I cannot say,” Omax said. “I have spent much of my own existence wondering if I am truly alive. I am not the best person to judge another being’s sentience.”

Tristam scratched his chin as he struggled with his thoughts. Ahead of them lay the gardens at the center of the Cannith estate. Dalan, Ijaac, Seren, and Gerith sat around a stone table near a bubbling fountain. Dalan was deeply engrossed in a book while the others occupied themselves with a game of cards.

“Tristam!” Ijaac said, looking up eagerly. “About time you came back. If I lose another round I’ll have to sell my pants to pay this girl.”

“I’ll pay your debt before I let you roam my ship naked, dwarf,” Dalan said. “How go the repairs?”

Seren dropped her cards, staring past Tristam. The warforged had remained in the hall, shadowed by the doorway. “Omax?” she said, rising from her seat. “Is that Omax?”

The warforged stepped fully into the light, allowing his friends to see him. His metal skin sparkled in the morning sun. He stood taller. The scars that riddled his body were gone, but his eyes shone with the same familiar light. Dalan’s book closed with a snap.

Seren ran to the warforged, wrapped her arms around his waist, and pressed her cheek against his chest. Omax glanced down in surprise. He clasped her in one arm, his massive hand covering her entire shoulder. Her eyes glistened with sudden tears when she looked up at him.

“You’re alive,” were the only words she could manage.

“It is as you promised, Seren,” he said fondly, looking to each of them. “You brought me home.”

Seren stepped away from him and wrapped her arm around Tristam, kissing him softly on the cheek. He held her close, blushing fiercely at the public display of affection.

“Hope you’ll settle for a handshake from me,” Ijaac said, smiling broadly up at the warforged.

Omax nodded silently and shook the dwarf’s hand.

“Good to have you back,” Ijaac said. “I was afraid they’d start making me do all the heavy lifting.”

“Extraordinary,” Dalan said, staring at Omax in awe. “How did you accomplish this, Tristam?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Tristam said. “I have some theories, but I want to study Karia Naille’s core a bit more before I’ll be certain.”

“Omax,” Gerith said, looking up at the warforged.

Omax gazed down at his halfling friend.

The little scout patted his colorful jacket and leggings frantically, emitted a small yelp, and fled the courtyard.

“What was that about?” Ijaac asked.

“I hope we never know,” Dalan replied blandly, tucking his book into his pocket. He faced Tristam again. “Did Master Frauk give you any trouble for using his workshop?”

“He was his usual self, but at least he didn’t try to kill us this time,” Tristam said. “He did give me a post from Norra …” Tristam took the envelope from his pocket and studied its contents. A softly whispered word caused Norra’s code to reform into legible characters under Tristam’s scrutiny.

“What does it say?” Dalan asked.

“She says she’s made a breakthrough in her research,” Tristam said, looking up at Dalan urgently. “She asks that we come to Sharn immediately and contact her through a university librarian named Petra Ghein.”

“That’s all?” Dalan said. “Nothing more?”

“You expected Norra to just give information away?” Ijaac said dryly.

Dalan sighed. “She’ll have to wait,” he said. “Nathyrr is our next destination.”

“What if she’s in danger?” Seren asked.

“Then she’s in danger on the far side of the continent,” Dalan said. “Zed and Eraina aren’t even a quarter the distance away. They’re just as likely to need our aid.”

“More likely, if they’ve found Marth,” Tristam said.

“Indeed,” Dalan said. “In either case our business here is done. Return to the Mourning Dawn. We depart for Nathyrr as soon as possible. I have some paperwork to attend, but I should follow you presently.”

Tristam remained behind as the others filed out of the garden. Dalan gave him a questioning look and returned to his seat, drawing his book out of his jacket.

“Did you have something else you wished to discuss, Tristam?” Dalan asked.

“Back in Metrol you said you had no illusions about who commands this quest,” Tristam said, “but since we landed at Gatherhold you’ve done nothing but give orders. Were you only passing me responsibility to see if I would fail?”

Dalan looked at Tristam over the top of his book. “No,” he said, then returned to reading.

“Then why?” Tristam demanded, growing annoyed at Dalan’s indifference.

“Because you had just failed to prevent your most deadly rival from escaping,” Dalan said. “Because your arrogance had nearly cost your closest friend his life. Because we were in the most hostile environment imaginable. I gave you command so that you would not have time to dwell on how horrible the situation had become. We needed you to survive, Tristam.”

“And now?” Tristam asked.

Dalan closed his book and sighed. “You are a brilliant man, Tristam. Your skill at artifice may exceed that of Ashrem himself one day, and should you clash with Marth again on even terms I have no doubt who will prevail. But you are no leader. You hesitate. You vacillate. You agonize over mistakes that are no fault of your own. You do not compromise. You are unprepared to make sacrifices. I will value your counsel, Tristam, but you must realize that no other member of this crew is as suited to command as I am.”

“Even though no one trusts you?” Tristam said.

“I do not care if they trust me,” Dalan said. “I do not care if they like me. All that matters is that they obey me.”

“You haven’t changed, Dalan,” Tristam said.

“How sad that you think so,” Dalan said. He opened his book again.

“I thought you had work to do,” Tristam said.

“I do,” he said. “I am waiting for Baron Zorlan’s scribe to return and notarize the final draft.”

“Of what?” Tristam asked.

“My sponsorship for your initiation to the House of Making,” Dalan said. “I submitted the initial application shortly before we left Korth the last time. I assumed you were still interested.”

“If you’re trying to bribe my loyalty—”

“A bribe you aren’t even aware of?” Dalan asked. “That would be cryptic, even for me. Does it surprise you that I am capable of giving a friend credit where it is due?”

“I’m surprised you consider me a friend,” Tristam said.

“You know it is not a term I use lightly,” Dalan said, “but yes. I do.”

A young woman in the livery of a Cannith servant entered the courtyard carrying a stack of papers. Dalan set his book aside and waved her over while Tristam quietly excused himself. The artificer made his way through the halls of the Cannith estates, hands tucked deep in the pockets of his coat.

There was a time when membership in House Cannith was his fondest desire. When Ashrem had denied it, he abandoned his master and set out on his own. Now he was not so certain. It would be an incredible opportunity, to be certain. He would have a chance to work beside the brightest minds in the field of artifice. The resources he would have to conduct his research would be nearly unlimited. But would they manipulate him as Dalan did? Would they ostracize him as they had Ashrem?

Would he be forced to leave the Mourning Dawn behind?

Tristam stepped onto the streets of Korth. The others were waiting for him there. Seren smiled at him, pushing away his bleak thoughts. She took his hand as they made their way back toward the airship.

Captain Gerriman stood at the ship’s helm, absorbed in his charts. Aeven sat in the bow, letting the wind spill through her long blond hair. The hatch of Dalan’s cabin opened a creak and the guildmaster’s shaggy dog, Gunther, waddled out to greet Seren. The dog whined softly as Omax emerged from the hold, shying away from the unfamiliar stranger.

“Omax?” Pherris said, looking at the warforged in astonishment.

Aeven opened her eyes for a brief moment and looked at Omax. The warforged knelt and extended one hand to the dog. Gunther cocked his head and eased forward, sniffing Omax’s hand. The old dog eased onto its haunches as Omax gently scratched the animal’s ears.

The leathery flap of wings sounded above them. Gerith’s glidewing swooped gracefully around them and perched on the deck, halfling mounted on its back.

“I found it,” Gerith said proudly. He leapt out of the saddle and marched up to Omax.

The warforged peered at Gerith as he rose. “Found what?” he asked.

The halfling reached into his vest and drew out a lump of dusty cloth. He proudly offered it to the warforged. Omax hesitated before accepting gently with both hands. He stared at the gift for a long moment before setting his shapeless woolen hat back upon his head.

“Thank you,” the warforged said.

Gerith beamed.

“Gerith, where did you find that?” Tristam asked.

“Metrol,” Gerith said. “I went back while you were in Gatherhold.”

Ijaac gaped at the halfling. “You flew back into the Mournland alone to find a hat?”

“He always wears it,” Gerith said.

“It was just a hat,” the warforged said.

“Oh,” Gerith answered, his shoulders slumping. “I thought it was special for some reason.”

“It is now,” Omax said.

TEN

Lady Kairen?” Petra called out. “Lady Kairen, please wait up.”

Norra glared over one shoulder as she marched down the university stairs. Petra stopped, surprised at her angry look.

“It’s Kairel,” Norra said, looking around quickly to make certain they were not overheard. “Not Kairen. I don’t know how you remember every book ever borrowed from your library but you can’t keep my name straight.”

“Sorry,” Petra said sheepishly. “I actually have a horrible memory. That’s why I write everything down.”

“I don’t care,” Norra snapped. “What did you want, Petra? Just use my real name. No one is here to overhear.”

“Those men came again, Norra,” he said. “They were asking about you. They have begun visiting me directly.”

Norra’s face paled, though the enchanted cap that masked her features did not show it. Her face was wrapped in the illusion of a young university student, dark-haired with fair skin and the slightly pointed ears of a half-elf. “Did you tell them anything?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he insisted.

“Are you certain? You are the only person who knows I’ve returned to Sharn.”

“Norra, please,” Petra pleaded. “You know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you. If I did, why would I warn you?”

“I’m sorry, Petra,” Norra said. She closed her eyes and rubbed her face with one hand, trying to think. “I feel like such a fool for letting this happen, though I cannot help but think it’s no less than I deserve.” She sat down heavily on the steps, watching the airships as they soared across the skyline.

Petra gave her a quizzical look. He sat down beside her, gingerly arranging his cloak around his ankles. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I told you I didn’t intend to return from the Frostfell,” she said. “I didn’t tell you what happened afterward. I led my crew to their deaths, Petra. I knew they would die … and I didn’t care.”

Petra blinked at her, eyes wide. “How did you escape?”

“Good fortune,” she said. “Or perhaps the gods whose existence I’ve always denied weren’t quite through with me yet. I ran into an old colleague in pursuit of the same goal, though he was better prepared. He saved my life, helped me complete my quest, and returned me to Khorvaire.”

“What were you doing out there?” Petra asked.

“Believe me, you’re better off not knowing,” Norra said sadly. “This quest has taken everything from me. I think all that is left for me to do is to leave Tristam Xain and the Mourning Dawn whatever information I can before they finally catch up to me.”

“Radcul’s thugs?” Petra asked.

“No,” Norra said, smiling bitterly. “The ghosts of the men and women who died following me. Radcul’s thugs are just the instrument of their vengeance. I can’t keep hiding forever.”

“I can help,” Petra said. He clasped her hand. “Let me help, Norra.”

Norra pulled her hand away and stood, turning her back to him. “No, Petra,” she said. “Go back to your library. Treasure your boring life and forget you helped me. You won’t see me again. I won’t have them trying to get at me through you.”

“No,” Petra said plaintively. “No …”

Norra felt a quiet sense of pity for the lonely librarian. As rudely as she treated him, he had always been patient and kind. Perhaps if things had been different … she remembered the touch of his hand. She had never had time for men; her research had always kept her too busy.

She looked back at Petra, allowing the illusion that concealed her face to fade. “Farewell, Petra,” she said softly. “When Tristam comes, give him Markhelm’s journal.”

“I will, Norra,” Petra said, his voice cracking. A tear seemed to escape the corner of his eye. He quickly covered his face with a handkerchief and pretended to blow his nose. “May Boldrei carry you home.”

Norra smiled at him and whispered a word of command, summoning her disguise again. She continued down the stairs, into the streets surrounding Dalannan Tower, heading for work. She had taken a job cleaning dishes in one of the seedy restaurants that clung to the university. It was a horrible job that barely paid enough to survive, but they didn’t ask any inconvenient questions.

She considered skipping work altogether. If Radcul’s henchmen knew about Petra, it wouldn’t be long until they discovered her. She might be safer exercising discretion and fleeing the city while she could. She could always find Tristam later and tell her what she had learned.

No. Not yet. There was still much to learn at Morgrave and Tristam did not know the library like she did. She had to stay as long as she could. She had to learn more. If what she already knew was true, then their entire conflict with Marth might be a moot point. A much greater danger waited to consume them all.

The sound of glass breaking in an alley to her left drew her attention. Just as Norra glanced in that direction, a cloaked figure leaped out of the shadows to her right, tackling her to the street. She cried out for help, but an oily gag was looped over her head and drawn tight. Her arms were twisted roughly behind her back and bound with cord. Rough hands seized her by the shoulders and dragged her into the alley, propping her against the wall by her throat.

Norra saw two men. The one that held her was lean and hairy, dressed in oily black leather armor. The other man was tall and thin. He dressed in dark blue silken robes and wore his hair in a finely styled ponytail. From the many reagent pouches that dangled from his belt, Norra guessed he was a wizard of some sort. The wizard studied a scrap of parchment, then looked at Norra’s face with a sour expression.

“It isn’t her, Morg,” he said.

“It is,” the other man said. He leaned close to her. His breath was warm upon her cheek and stank like rancid meat. He touched her face with his free hand, tracing jagged nails gently over her skin. Then he moved suddenly, tearing the cap from her head and removing her illusory disguise.

“A hat of disguise,” the wizard said. “Impressive.”

“I’m keeping this,” Morg said with a pleased growl. He tucked the cap into his belt and cackled in Norra’s face. She groaned through her gag and turned away, nauseated by the stench. Norra noticed that Morg’s ears and canines both came to sharp points. A shifter—savage humanoids who traced their lineage to werewolves and other such beasts. So that was how Radcul’s men had found her. While she used magic to disguise her appearance, they tracked her by scent. What a fool she had been.

“Miss Cais, please calm yourself,” the wizard said. “If you had not gone to such great lengths to avoid me, I would not have been forced to arrange such an abrupt appointment. My name is Silas Radcul. I believe you owe my uncle some money.”

Norra glared at him. Behind her, she could feel the ropes loosen, if only slightly. The wards woven into her vest were, bit by bit, causing her bonds to come undone.

“Good,” Silas said, as if she had answered him. “Now please hold still while I remove the rest of your magical trinkets.” He whispered a spell and began to concentrate. He took the pouch from her belt, where she kept her potions. He stooped and drew the magic dagger from her boot. He plucked an enchanted earring and then reached into her pocket, frowning curiously as he studied a small tree figurine. “I wonder what this could do.”

Morg looked over curiously, his grip loosening for a moment. Norra seized her chance, pulling her wrists free of the ropes. The two men looked up in surprise. She pulled a bead from her necklace and hurled it into Morg’s chest. It erupted with a fiery explosion, throwing her attackers against the far wall. The shifter struck the bricks hard and fell to the cobbles, his body wreathed in flames.

Silas gasped and shrieked at the dead shifter. Realizing his robes were on fire as well, he flailed about in an attempt to extinguish himself. Norra calmly plucked the tree figurine from the ground, and dropped it on the wizard.

“Tree,” she said.

The tiny tree erupted with sudden growth, its roots burrowing into solid stone. Silas grunted in pain as the full-grown tree’s trunk settled atop his chest, his arms pinned among the still-growing roots.

“You can’t run from us forever,” he said, wheezing.

“Maybe I can,” Norra said, kneeling beside him and leaning close. “Let me make you a deal. I’ll leave town tonight. I’ll make another disguise and I’ll disappear. You’ll never see me again. Tell your uncle you killed me. No one can ever prove otherwise.”

Silas looked up at her, still wincing from the pain of the tree on his chest. “What do I get out of this?” he asked.

“Simple,” Norra said. “I won’t kill you like I killed your friend.” She reached into her vest and drew out another tiny tree figurine. She dangled it between two fingers, holding it over Silas’s head. “Do we have a deal?”

“Yes, yes!” Silas wailed fearfully. “Just let me live.”

Norra smiled, stood, and tucked the token into her pocket. She walked back out of the alley, stepping over the dead shifter with a disgusted grimace and stopping to collect her scattered possessions.

“Wait!” Silas called out. “How am I supposed to get this tree off my chest?”

“Figure something out,” Norra said, and kept walking.

Norra allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. She was not a violent person, but that had been intensely satisfying. It didn’t really matter if Silas upheld his end of the bargain or not. She would be gone from Sharn by the time he recovered. That was, of course, assuming that he ever figured out a way to untangle himself from the tree.

She changed her course, walking instead toward her hovel of an apartment. It was in the poorest section of the plateau, amid the housing where even the poorest students refused to dwell. It suited her well enough. She had nothing of value, so she didn’t fear being robbed. Her wards kept the place safe enough while she slept.

But where would she go next? Perhaps Wroat. Dalan might return to his home there eventually. Assuming Tristam didn’t find the clues she had left for him at Morgrave, she could explain everything to them there.

An uneasy feeling came over her as she reached her apartment door. She traced the doorway and studied the wooden grain. Though the door was unharmed, all of her mystical protections had been removed. She backed away. Who could have found her home and unraveled every one of her wards? None of her meager possessions were worth finding out. She turned to run, to flee far from Sharn before her pursuers found her.

A small monk in a shimmering copper robe blocked her path.

“Hello, Norra Cais,” the man said. He smiled at her, but there was no joy in his smile. He looked upon her with peculiar metallic eyes. There was something vaguely reptilian about his appearance and demeanor.

Norra pulled another bead from her necklace and hurled it at the man. It exploded in a sphere of searing flame. The monk lunged through the smoke with an irritated snarl. He moved fast, quicker than Norra could avoid. He seized her by the shoulders and thrust her back against the wall so hard that her head cracked the wood.

The monk stepped away and smoothed his robes with one hand as Norra slid to the floor. She touched the back of her head with one hand. Her fingers felt warm and sticky.

“As a teller of tales, there is one thing I disdain,” the monk said. “Do you know what it is?”

“You’re Zamiel,” Norra said, looking up at him in terror. “You’re the one who started all of this.”

“Endings,” Zamiel said, ignoring her. “I abhor endings. In telling a tale, one lives the tale. With each revision it is told over and over in the author’s soul. As you construct it, you see the ending. It is ever-present in the author’s mind. By the time it comes to a conclusion, the ending, to me at least, seems obvious. Redundant even. Bringing that ending to execution is oftentimes rather tedious. Don’t you think?”

“Why did you do this?” she asked, struggling to sit up.

“And yet an ending is required,” Zamiel continued. “Without it, the rest of the story is for nothing. Without closure, the story lingers forever and ceases to be a story at all. So it is a terrible irony that all who create must, inevitably, destroy their creations. If they do not. then they have created nothing.”

“Stop babbling and answer me,” she said.

Zamiel cocked his head. “Such arrogance. Strange that you should demand answers. You understand more than any of them and still you do not see the truth? I am no player in this game. I am the game. Sadly your part in my story is at end, Norra Cais.”

“You’re too late to stop me, Zamiel,” she said defiantly.

The prophet’s eyes hardened.

Norra reached desperately for the dagger in her boot. She had just enough time to watch the blade shatter on the little man’s flesh before he snapped her neck.

ELEVEN

Though they had set out early in the morning, the forest was quite dark. The crowns of the trees were woven so thickly that the area was cast in a perpetual twilight. An unsettling, musty odor hung in the air. Zed’s expression was troubled as he studied a nearby tree.

“What is it?” Eraina asked, moving beside him.

Zed pointed. A crude triangular metal amulet hung from a low branch. A swirling flame was carved upon its surface.

“That looks like a symbol of the Silver Flame,” Eraina said, peering at it closely.

“What is that doing here?” Shaimin asked, riding back to them. He frowned. “Holy ground?”

“The opposite,” Zed said. “Remember the legends about these woods being haunted?”

Eraina nodded.

“Knights of the Silver Flame leave symbols like these,” Zed said. “They serve to warn travelers that the area is infested with undead, and to offer the Flame’s protection to any bold enough to travel further. Look.” He pointed at some of the nearby trees. At least a half dozen other crude holy symbols were visible dangling from the branches.

“If the knights are aware of trouble, why wouldn’t they just send in their exorcists to deal with it?” Shaimin asked.

“During the war, our forces were often spread too thin to take the risk, especially here on the borderlands,” Zed said. “If the walking dead were content to mind their own business, we were content to leave them alone until we were ready to deal with them.”

“In Karrnath this sort of thing is not uncommon,” Eraina said. “Undead can be powerful and unpredictable foes. More often than not, they merely wish to be left alone. I will not deny they are dangerous and often evil, but sometimes it is better this way.”

“Do you believe this warning is genuine?” Shaimin asked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps this was left by Marth’s troops to turn away superstitious locals. I didn’t notice anything unusual when I came here earlier, but admittedly the messenger was riding swiftly.”

“There is a sense of something evil in the air,” Eraina said. “I do not think this warning is false.”

“I wouldn’t put it past Marth to establish his headquarters in an area known to be haunted,” Zed said. “With his kind of power, he wouldn’t have a lot to fear from most undead. He might even have found a way to control them—or at least ward them off so that only intruders would have to deal with them.”

“We will not arrive upon any useful answer by wasting time here with pointless theories,” Shaimin snapped, then strode off through the woods. “We should keep moving. The truth will present itself when it is ready. We shall be prepared to face it.”

“Boldrei will protect us from the undead, Arthen,” Eraina said. “Come. We have to keep moving.” She hurried after the departing elf.

Zed looked back at the dangling amulet. Something about it unnerved him. Was he more disturbed by the warning it presented or by the memories it conjured? There was a time when a symbol of the Silver Flame much like this one was one of his most prized possessions. As a paladin, it had symbolized his connection to his god. He’d left his flame in the mud at Vathirond years ago, on the day he realized justice was dead and the gods no longer protected their people.

Now he felt differently. The idealism he had clung to so firmly in his youth was long dead, but it had been replaced by something stronger. Perhaps the world was not a perfect place. The gods might not take a personal hand in the lives of their faithful—but there were heroes if you searched for them. They were imperfect heroes, but heroes all the same. Justice was not dead, but it could not live without sacrifice.

“Arthen, are you coming?” Shaimin whispered.

“Aye,” Zed replied. He pulled the symbol from its branch and slipped it into his pocket.

“The Cyran messenger took a path parallel to this one,” Shaimin said, gesturing toward the woods to his left. “I’d prefer not to take an identical route, lest we encounter patrols.”

“Afraid you can’t handle a few soldiers?” Zed said, hoping to annoy the smug elf.

“Killing without compensation upsets my delicate stomach,” Shaimin replied, smirking.

“Shaimin is right,” Eraina said. “We should avoid fighting if we can.” She studied the thick forest uneasily. Hints of broken stone walls could be seen here and there amid the undergrowth. “It looks like this was some sort of outpost.”

“Thrane knights?” Shaimin asked.

“Smugglers or mercenaries, more likely,” Zed said. “I don’t recall any Thrane outposts this deep in the Harrowcrowns.”

“Or something worse,” Eraina said. She knelt beside a heap of fallen stone and peeled away the undergrowth with one gauntleted hand. Smoothing away the dirt and debris, she revealed an ancient hexagram engraved in the stone.

Shaimin snarled and drew back, eyes darting about the shadows as if expecting an attack. “A symbol of the Dark Six,” he whispered.

“This must have been some sort of cultist temple,” Eraina said. “The knights probably wiped them out, then sealed off the area.”

“Why is it everywhere we go, we run into some death cult or abandoned temple?” Zed asked.

“I would be surprised if Marth’s interest in both Zul’nadn and this place were mere coincidence,” Eraina said. She stood and looked around slowly. “Whatever happened here, it happened a long time ago, from the look of this place.”

A mournful wail resounded from deeper in the woods. Shaimin’s daggers appeared in his hands. He looked at Zed and Eraina, gave an embarrassed chuckle, and slipped them back into his sleeves.

“Nervous, Shaimin?” Zed asked.

Shaimin scowled. “As you should be,” the elf replied. “My people know and respect the power of the dead. I do not relish the idea of entering their territory unprepared.”

“If there are undead in these woods, they didn’t bother you last time you came this way,” Zed said.

“Last time I didn’t come this way,” Shaimin replied. “I followed Yarold’s messenger and saw none of this. If Marth is mad enough to build Fort Ash on the ruins of a death cult, then he must have some means to protect himself and his minions from the predations of whatever lurks in these woods. Perhaps avoiding the path was unwise after all.”

“We’ll be fine,” Eraina said. She rose and started off through the woods again. “We just need to keep moving.”

Another cry, closer this time, encouraged Shaimin and Zed to follow the Sentinel Marshal. They quickly picked their way through the thick undergrowth, avoiding the shadowed remnants of ruined stone that loomed amid the trees. A strange sound erupted behind them, the raucous clatter of hundreds of flapping wings. They glanced back just as a cloud of shrieking creatures swarmed overhead, blotting out what little light filtered through the trees.

Shaimin relaxed slightly and sheathed his daggers again. “Only bats,” he breathed.

“Something startled them,” Eraina said brusquely. “Keep moving.”

Shaimin glanced back, eyes wide. Zed grabbed the elf’s shoulder and shoved him to get him moving again. As the bats vanished from sight and sound, their cries were replaced by the sound of several creatures moving through the woods behind them, snapping branches and scattering leaves.

They broke into a run. Zed risked a glance over one shoulder and saw several hunched figures loping through the woods behind them. Their eyes gleamed with red pinpoints of light. His hand unconsciously moved to the metal holy symbol in his pocket as they hurried on.

They emerged into a small clearing surrounded by broken stone plinths. A half dozen ragged figures waited for them. Like the others, their eyes gleamed with red hunger. Their flesh was pale and rotten, their fingers curled into savage claws.

Eraina drew the sacred octogram from her pocket and held it defiantly before her. “By the light of the Hearthmother, burn!” she cried.

Golden flames erupted from the ghoul’s flesh. The creatures shrieked and scattered.

“Keep running before they regroup!” Eraina shouted, darting through the opening her goddess had created.

Zed drew his sword and swung out at one of the creatures who hadn’t been affected by Eraina’s power, cleaving it from shoulder to hip. It fell in a twitching heap, one claw still scraping at the earth. Behind him, Zed could see more of the creatures chasing them. Zed cursed loudly. Some of their pursuers did not have the rotten flesh and shambling gait of ghouls. Instead they were ghostly images of their living selves, floating gracefully over the earth. Zed had fought the undead long enough to know the sorts that couldn’t touch you were far more dangerous than those that could.

The spirits threw back their heads and released a mournful, hypnotic dirge. Zed felt his limbs grow heavy with fear. He didn’t want to run anymore. He didn’t want to fight anymore. There wasn’t any point.

“Fight it!” Eraina shouted, snapping Zed back to himself.

“Working for Marth was definitely a mistake,” Shaimin grumbled bitterly as they ran. “What sort of madman would willingly live in a place like this?”

“Then get us out of this,” Eraina said. She looked back at the elf. “Which way, Shaimin?”

“This way.” Shaimin pointed ahead and to the left. “We aren’t far now.”

They kept running. Behind them, the ghouls shrieked with hunger and the ghosts moaned. Each time Zed felt his will falter, Eraina called out to them again, pushing them on. Zed remembered a time when he had possessed the same selfless bravery, the ability to inspire others merely by example. Eraina made it look so easy, though Zed knew the path of a paladin was anything but. Sometimes she made him wonder if his own faith wasn’t quite as dead as he had believed for so long.

The woods abruptly ended. A stone fortress loomed above them, nestled deep in the Harrowcrowns. This was no ruin—at a glance it looked well maintained. This could only be Marth’s fortress. There were no gates or entrances nearby. Eraina glanced up and, seeing no guards on the battlements, ran directly for the wall. She stood with her back to the stone, spear in one hand and holy symbol in the other. Zed and Shaimin flanked her.

The undead host appeared. There were at least two dozen of the ghouls now and half that many spirits. They halted at the edge of the woods, hovering just in the shadow of the trees. For a long, tense moment they waited there, glaring at the foolish mortals who had trespassed in their domain.

Then, one by one, they retreated. The ghouls receded into the deep woods. The ghosts simply ceased to be.

“Marth has definitely done something to ward this place against the undead,” Zed said, looking up at the fortress. “They can’t even get close.”

“Explains why he hasn’t done anything about them,” Shaimin said, catching his breath. “They make rather efficient guardians. Good fortune we had a paladin along. Well done, Marshal.”

“Did I just hear a Thuranni thank a Deneith?” Zed asked.

“My pride is not such that I won’t recognize when someone has saved my life,” Shaimin replied. “No matter how unfortunate her lineage.”

“None of that will matter much if we can’t find a way inside,” Eraina said, looking up at the fortress. “If we stay here too long, someone up above is bound to notice. Which way to the main gates?”

“Head back to the main gates and we may as well go back into the forest and wait for the ghosts to take us,” Shaimin said, fiddling with his gloves. “They’re far too well defended.”

“So what do we do?” Zed asked.

“You wait here,” Shaimin said. The elf held out his palms, displaying a pair of climbing claws.

The assassin climbed up the stone wall with almost supernatural grace, making nearly no sound at all. He disappeared over the lip of the wall. A few moments later, a silken rope uncoiled from above. Zed and Eraina looked at one another uneasily.

“I don’t trust him either,” Eraina whispered, “but what point would there be in his betraying us now?”

“All the same, I’d rather go up first,” Zed said.

“Your chivalry is misplaced, Arthen,” Eraina replied. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know,” Zed said, “but if he cuts the rope and I fall, you can heal me.” He winked and climbed the rope.

After nearly a minute of climbing, Zed hauled himself over the battlements with a grunt. Shaimin looked at him with obvious amusement. An unconscious guard lay on the stones nearby. Shaimin had incapacitated him without a sound.

“What’s so funny?” Zed asked.

“Just wondering if age or natural human clumsiness was making you take so long,” the elf said. “I was merely pleased that I need be burdened by neither.”

Eraina climbed over the wall behind them, finishing much more quickly than Zed. Her eyes widened as she moved to crouch beside Arthen, studying the wide courtyard below. Dozens of Cyran soldiers moved about the fortress, hauling crates of weapons and supplies into a large silver airship docked in the center of the courtyard. The three huddled behind the inner wall, carefully avoiding notice from the soldiers below.

“That explains why the guard on the walls was so light,” Shaimin observed. “Marth is getting ready to move.” The elf looked at them curiously. “What’s wrong with you both?”

“We’ve seen that ship before,” Zed said. “That’s the Seventh Moon, Marth’s flagship.”

“And that is surprising why?” Shaimin asked.

“She shouldn’t be here,” Eraina said. “We saw that ship go down over the Talenta Plains. Tristam destroyed her elemental core.”

“They’re still securing the docking ropes,” Zed observed. “She hasn’t been here for long.”

“I wouldn’t be worried about an airship returning from the dead as much as I worry about the number of troops Marth has at his disposal. We have no idea how many troops Marth holds in reserve. This fortress could support a much larger force than we see here.” Shaimin looked back at Eraina and Zed with a pained expression. “As much as it disturbs me to admit this,” Shaimin said, “I can’t help but think that the authorities might be of some use here. Perhaps we should return to Nathyrr and leave an anonymous tip?”

“No,” Zed said. “Even if Draikus came out to investigate, we can’t risk it. Too many people know about the Legacy already. If it fell into the wrong hands, especially someone like Draikus, another Vathirond wouldn’t be far behind.”

Shaimin grunted. “So what is our next move?”

“Our first move should be getting out of sight before someone looks up and sees us hiding here,” Eraina said. She pointed at a nearby sentry tower.

The trio moved along the wall, running at a crouch to draw as little attention as possible from below. Shaimin gestured for them to wait as he stalked ahead, pressing his ear against the tower door, listening for any guards inside. After several moments he opened the door and waved them in, ducking out to drag the unconscious guard inside.

“Not even posting guards in his towers,” Shaimin said as he closed the door behind them and sat on a wooden stool. “He must be gathering his troops for something major.”

“That worries me,” Eraina said, sitting across from the elf. “He was very close to completing the Legacy before. What if Tristam and the others weren’t able to stop him?”

“We can’t let ourselves think that way, Eraina,” Zed said. He leaned against the wall, peering through a narrow window into the courtyard below. “If we believe that we’ve been beaten, then we will be. We have to hold out hope that the others are still out there.”

“Faith, Arthen?” Eraina asked. “Quite a change for you.”

Zed scowled. “I have faith in Tristam,” he said.

“So what do we do?” Eraina asked. “How do we find out what Marth is planning?”

“We could try to capture and interrogate some of his soldiers,” Zed said.

“No,” Shaimin replied. “For a moment let’s ignore the unlikely assumption that whichever random guard you knock over the head will know anything of use. Remember how a late messenger threw the Kenricksons into a paranoid fit? Imagine that, but worse. If more of his troops started disappearing, Marth would tear this place apart looking for you.” Shaimin smiled thinly. “Especially since he already knows you’re in the area, Arthen. We’re already on borrowed time. We have no idea when this guard is expected to report.” He nodded at the unconscious man.

Zed grimaced. “So what do you recommend we do? We can’t just walk up to Marth and ask him what he’s planning.”

“You cannot,” the assassin said, “but perhaps I can.”

“What?” Eraina said.

“Remember that as far as Marth is aware, I am still an assassin in his employ,” Shaimin said. “My quarry is an elusive one. It would not be out of the question for me to appear, requesting more information.”

“You really think Marth would allow you to walk into his supposedly secret headquarters and not question how you found him?” Eraina asked.

“Why not?” Shaimin asked. “He hired the best. He should expect that his secrets are not safe from me.”

“This is a foolish risk,” Eraina said. “He may simply kill you.”

“A fortuitous result for you, Deneith,” Shaimin said. “For such a twist of fate will free you of an unsettling allegiance with an untrustworthy assassin—and likely leave Marth gravely wounded for the attempt. Now, do either of you have a better idea?”

Eraina and Zed looked at one another in silence.

“Very well,” the elf said, rising and smoothing dust from his black clothing. “Wish me luck. If I do not return within two hours, assume I will not return at all.”

TWELVE

Infuriating.

Simply infuriating.

Marth stalked through the halls of Fort Ash, his pale eyes seething with anger. He held his amethyst wand in one fist, as if expecting an attack at any moment. The guards melted out of his path, offering fearful salutes as he passed. Helmsman Marcho followed Marth like a shadow; he knew better than to speak when the captain was in such a dark mood. Making his way to an office deep in the heart of the fort, Marth threw open the heavy wooden door and strode inside. Within, a heavyset officer sat at low desk, conversing with a nervous man in the light, worn leathers of a scout. They both glanced up as Marth entered, rising quickly and saluting.

“Captain Marth,” the officer said with a weak smile. “We did not expect you to return so quickly. Welcome home.”

Marth glared down at the smaller man. The scout quietly backed away, happy to let the officer take the brunt of the captain’s wrath. “I have no home, Commander Sholan,” Marth snapped. “I have a fortress. A military fortress engaged in a campaign of utmost secrecy. Is that not so?”

“That is so, Captain,” Sholan said, unable to meet Marth’s gaze.

“Then why is it that your subordinates report that Zed Arthen has been sighted in the area?” Marth demanded.

“The situation should have been dealt with,” Sholan replied. “I issued orders to Nathyrr. Arthen was to be apprehended and killed.”

Marth sneered. “Was to be?” the changeling repeated. “Explain that.”

Commander Sholan glanced at the scout, then back at his captain. “Scout Arristan, tell the captain what you told me.”

“No,” Marth said. “You tell me, Commander Sholan. The security of Fort Ash was, after all, made your responsibility.”

Sholan swallowed with some difficulty and looked into his captain’s pale eyes. “After Yarold Kenrickson reported Arthen’s presence in Nathyrr, I dispatched a messenger with orders to kill Arthen, sparing effort to interrogate him only as a secondary measure. The messenger never returned, so I sent Scout Arristan to investigate.”

“And?” Marth prompted.

“Everyone in the mortuary was dead,” Sholan said gravely. “Of Arthen himself there was no trace. He has apparently vanished from the city.”

Marth’s eyes widened. Such wholesale slaughter seemed out of character for Zed Arthen, but it certainly wasn’t beyond the man’s ability.

“Sholan, do you realize what you have done?” Marth asked.

“Let me make amends, Captain,” Sholan said plaintively. “I can dispatch more troops to Nathyrr. They will find Arthen, interrogate him, kill him.”

“You are too late,” Marth replied. “Khyber, the man is a former paladin and an inquisitive! Who did you think you were dealing with? By now he likely knows exactly where Fort Ash is and has forwarded the information to our enemies in House Cannith. You should have directed all of your resources toward his death the moment you knew he was in the area. The entire security of this facility has been compromised, due to your incompetence. After I return from Sharn we’ll have to strip this base entirely.”

“I am sorry, Captain,” Sholan said, bowing his head in shame. “What do we do now?”

“We?” Marth replied. “There is no ‘we,’ Sholan. You are dismissed.”

“Dismissed?” Sholan asked, surprised.

“Gather your belongings and leave Fort Ash,” Marth commanded. “Immediately.”

“What of my badge of rank?” Sholan asked nervously.

“Keep it until you reach the edge of the forest,” Marth said. “Scout Arristan will accompany you and take it from you when you reach Nathyrr. A fool you may be, but I will not send a countryman to his death in this forest.”

Sholan bowed his head deeply. “Thank you for your mercy, Captain,” he whispered hoarsely.

“Be gone,” Marth said. “I must begin the evacuation of this base. You are in the way.”

Sholan nodded and scurried out of the office. Scout Arristan followed him, obviously relieved to have escaped punishment.

Marth circled the low desk and seated himself, burying his face in his hands. His fingers traced his rough, scarred cheek. His features shifted, only slightly, hinting at deeper scars kept hidden by the changeling’s shapeshifting abilities. He pulled his hands away and looked up at helmsman Marcho, who was carefully diverting his attention elsewhere.

“What is it, Devyn?” Marth said, causing the helmsman to look up with a start.

“Pardon, Captain?” Marcho replied.

“You seem pensive,” Marth said. “Do you think I was wrong to deal with Sholan as I did?”

“No, Captain,” Marcho said. “Much more lenient than I would have expected.”

“Than you would have expected?” Marth asked archly.

“No offense, Captain,” Marcho said quickly. “Considering what he’s cost us.”

“You mean you find it strange that I would let him live?” Marth asked.

Marcho shifted uncomfortably.

“That was no mercy,” Marth said. “What fate could be more cruel than to be an outcast even among those who have no nation? If Sholan finds no welcome with us, then who else will accept a Cyran mercenary in their midst? His life will likely be cold, short, and brutal.”

“Do you think the Mourning Dawn will find us here?” Marcho asked.

“It was inevitable,” Marth said. “The restless dead who wander this forest originally came here for a reason. The caverns beneath this fortress burn with the writings of the Draconic Prophecy. Xain follows the same path that I do. It is inevitable that he will find this place in time. This fortress served us as a secure base of operations, but when Xain finds us he will discover that is only one of its functions.”

“What do you mean, Captain?” Marcho asked.

“The wards that keep the undead at bay can be reversed,” Marth said. “Let Xain come to plumb the secrets of this fortress. Our comrades will be long gone from this place, and the original inhabitants will be ready.” Marth fell into silent thought for a long moment. “Speaking of which, return to the Seventh Moon and oversee the preparations. We must ready ourselves for departure as quickly as possible.”

“Aye, Captain,” Marcho replied. He saluted and quickly exited the small office.

Marth leaned back in Commander Sholan’s rickety wooden chair. His head throbbed and his shoulders ached from the last few mad days, but he could take no time to rest. His destiny lay ahead.

But was it truly his destiny? The illusion of Ashrem d’Cannith had been left behind as a guide—but not necessarily for him.

Yet they were irrelevant. Whether it was truly his destiny or not, Marth had won the power to strike a mortal blow to the heart of the nations that had betrayed and destroyed Cyre. That would have to suffice. It galled him to entertain the idea that he had been manipulated, but at least he would have what he desired as well.

A light knock at the door roused him from his thoughts. He peered up curiously. “Come in,” he commanded.

The door opened and a thin figure in silky black clothing slipped inside with a florid bow. He held his hands open to his sides, palms out, an obvious gesture that he intended no harm. His delicate features creased with an unreadable smile.

“Shaimin,” Marth growled, hand tightening on the amethyst wand. “Is this fortress’s existence a secret to no one?”

“I sincerely apologize for my intrusion, Captain,” the elf replied. “It took some effort to find you here.”

“More effort, it seems, than you have spared tracking Tristam Xain.”

“Yes, but Xain operates with a small ship,” Shaimin said. “The chosen few who serve him live on the Mourning Dawn. Their contact with the outside world is rare and difficult to track. You have many soldiers and constantly seek new recruits. Though you take great effort to mask your trail, it remains for those who know what to seek.”

“Don’t remind me,” Marth said sourly. “Why are you here, d’Thuranni?”

“Because I’ve had an epiphany,” Shaimin answered.

“Don’t tell me you’ve found religion,” the changeling said.

“Nothing of that sort,” the elf said with a chuckle. “Finding it so difficult to kill a relatively simple mark has upset me dearly. As much as I imagine it must upset you, if not more so, for it is my reputation on the line. But then I realized whence my difficulty arises.”

“Oh?” Marth asked.

“With you,” the elf replied. “Tristam is so difficult to track because his movements are reactive. He follows you. With that realization came the truth that, if I seek to find him, I must head him off at the source.”

“By following me?” Marth said.

“Of course not, that would be a pointless endeavor,” Shaimin replied. “You are a powerful artificer, more than capable of taking care of yourself. What good what it do me to wait beside you for Xain to appear? You have plenty of guards already and are no doubt quite capable of dealing with him yourself.”

“Indeed,” Marth said.

“But the boy has proven to be infuriatingly adept at predicting your next move,” Shaimin said. “So perhaps it would behoove you to utilize that to your advantage?”

“How so?” Marth asked.

“Send me where you plan to go next,” the elf said. “I will lie there in wait for him.”

“I think your purpose would be better served by waiting here,” Marth said. “Xain’s ally recently discovered the location of this fortress. It won’t be long before Karia Naille arrives to investigate.”

“Here?” the elf said, pouting slightly. “But this is such a bleak and unsettling place. No offense, but I had hoped not to remain here for long.”

“Nonsense,” Marth said. “You are safe enough within these walls and among my guards. I insist. Remain here as my guest until Xain arrives.” His scarred face twisted in a lipless smile.

Shaimin gave the changeling a cool look. There was no room for negotiation in his dead white eyes. “Very well,” Shaimin said. “What sort of Thuranni would I be to turn down the hospitality of an old friend?”

“Follow me,” Marth said, rising and gesturing to the elf. “We’ll get you situated.”

The changeling stepped to the door of the office, turning his back to the assassin for one brief moment. Marth peered over his shoulder. His face was fixed in the same humorless smile. He waited patiently.

The elf fell into step beside him.

“Quite an operation you have here,” Shaimin said as they walked. “Planning to branch out into mercenary work?”

“Not exactly,” Marth replied. “Mercenaries, much like assassins, owe their loyalty to an employer. The only loyalty my brothers and I hold is to Cyre.”

“I commend your patriotism though I confess I do not understand it,” Shaimin said. “Cyre is a dead land. The world has changed. You must move on.”

“You have a brother, Shaimin,” Marth said. “Correct?”

The elf gave Marth a startled look. “Yes, my younger brother, Kias.” Shaimin chuckled. “The pleasure of my mother and agony of my father. He chose to be a painter.”

“If your brother died, would you cease to remember him?” Marth asked.

“Of course not.”

“If your brother were murdered, would you fail to avenge him?” Marth asked.

“That is a foolish question,” Shaimin said. “Blood must be answered in blood.”

“And why should it be any other way with Cyre?” Marth said. “Every man and woman here has friends and relatives who perished in the Last War. The Day of Mourning has scarred us all. Yet you tell us to move on? To forget the insults and injuries we have suffered?”

“You speak in generalities, Marth,” Shaimin said. “I know your family died well before the Day of Mourning. I know you avenged them.”

“But I should let the murder of Cyre itself be forgotten?” Marth asked, his voice growing heated.

“If Cyre had truly been murdered, no,” Shaimin said. “The Day of Mourning was a mystery, Marth. No one knows why it occurred, not even you. It could have been a natural disaster. It could have been the fault of Cyre itself. Whom do you intend to blame for Cyre’s death?”

Marth glared at him. “All those who did nothing to save her,” he said. “All those who let her orphans wander in darkness.”

Shaimin looked back at him calmly. “My friend, it seems you have resigned yourself to a life of pointless vengeance against many innocents.”

“So be it,” Marth said. “This world has given me little else.”

Shaimin sighed and looked away as they stepped out of the fort and into the courtyard. Marth called sharply to a group of six nearby guards, summoning them to his side.

“This man is to be placed under guard in my personal quarters,” the changeling said. “See to it that he remains safe and secure until Karia Naille arrives.”

“Aye, captain,” the guards said. They stared at the elf, unable to conceal their surprise that he had entered the fort unnoticed.

“He is an important man,” Marth said. “Keep six guards on him at all times and do not let him leave your sight.”

“Aye, Captain,” they replied.

“Do not forget your obligation to me, d’Thuranni,” the changeling said.

“I have not,” the elf said. “Though you hardly resemble the man who earned it. If I may ask you a question before I go?”

Marth folded his arms tersely but nodded his assent.

“Why did you name this fortress after Ashrem d’Cannith?” Shaimin asked. “It seems a peculiar tribute, considering that its very existence betrays everything your master represented.”

“You are an odd man to question my morality,” Marth said.

“I do not judge,” Shaimin said. “I am merely curious. Was irony your intent?”

“No,” Marth said. “I named my home after Ashrem because I respect his knowledge, his skill, and his compassion. I only regret that he wasted his life in a futile quest for peace.”

“You aided him in that quest, once,” Shaimin said.

“It seemed right at the time,” the changeling said, “but I have been shown much since then.”

Shaimin raised an eyebrow curiously.

“Take him to my quarters,” Marth commanded, ending the conversation.

Marth watched as the soldiers led Shaimin d’Thuranni away.

Marth retreated to a far corner of the courtyard, watching as his soldiers completed the repairs on the Seventh Moon and prepared for the journey to Sharn. He ignored those who saluted and greeted him, consumed in sullen silence. Shaimin had been such a disappointment. When Marth had tapped the assassin for his aid, the idea that Xain would be of any further trouble seemed an impossibility. The Shaimin of old could have found and slain Tristam Xain with ease. The idea that Tristam could repeatedly escape the assassin seemed impossible.

But then Marth was also guilty of underestimating Xain’s resources and abilities. It had cost him his ship and nearly his life. Perhaps Shaimin truly had been unable to complete his contract. The possibility that Tristam, or more likely Dalan, had turned Shaimin’s loyalties seemed a great deal more likely. Shaimin could respect the letter of their agreement in any number of ways while still betraying the spirit. The elf obviously disapproved of his mission of vengeance.

Maybe it had been foolish of him to seek Shaimin’s aid. It had been a desperate move, an attempt to set one ghost from his past against another. Instead, it had only created greater complications.

Shaimin’s parting words haunted Marth. Since the Day of Mourning, Marth felt that everyone else had changed, turned away from him. That had been another reason he had drawn upon Shaimin—the elf had always been such a cold-blooded professional that surely he had not changed as well. Now the assassin claimed that it was Marth who was so much different. Was it possible?

In Marth’s mind, he had not changed so much. Every dark choice he had made since the Day of Mourning had been a natural progression that this new world of “peace” forced upon him. It was the world itself, not he, that had changed. All that he had ever known was the Last War, and the war had taken everything away. Now he, like so many other sons of Cyre, was a memory that refused to fade. If the prophet had not come to him, shown him visions of a great and terrible future, then his life would be as hollow and pointless as the wandering ghosts in the forest.

But, like those ghosts, had his existence been twisted to someone else’s purpose? Zamiel always claimed he was merely a custodian of destiny, but what did he truly have to gain through the use of the Legacy? Did that even matter, so long as Marth’s own ends were met?

It didn’t matter what the prophet wanted. It was too late to abandon his course now. So many had died—Grove, Kiris, so many others. There was too much blood on his hands now. At least, through his actions, Cyre would be avenged.

Yet he wondered, what did Zamiel have to gain from all of this? The mysterious monk had advised Ashrem and himself to different ends. Now it seemed as if he would have gladly advised Tristam as well had the artificer followed and obeyed the commands left by Ashrem’s illusion. How many others had the prophet guided? Had their end been as bleak as Ashrem’s? Who was Zamiel?

Answers would not be forthcoming, though the truth was slowly unraveling as Marth replayed events in his head. He was too close to the problem, too close to the prophet himself. He could find no answers without alienating his most powerful ally. To do so now would be foolhardy, undoing years of patient labor.

Yet perhaps there was a way to see justice done.

Perhaps he could not escape his destiny—but Tristam might. The boy seemed to thrive on defying the expectations of others.

A slow smile spread across the changeling’s pale face.

THIRTEEN

It was still early morning. The sun had barely peeked over the eastern horizon. The ship was silent save for the burning hum of her elemental ring as she soared gracefully across the sky. Omax meditated deep in the ship’s hold. Gerith, in the galley, prepared the morning meal. Pherris directed their course. Seren should have been sleeping, but she couldn’t.

With everything else that had happened since Metrol, it was easy to convince herself to put this off, to find the right time. But Seren realized that she had been lying to herself. There was no right time to do something this difficult. The longer she ignored it, the more difficult it would be. She climbed onto the ship’s deck, clasping her arms against her chest. A chill wind blew over the airship’s deck, pushing her hair back out of her face.

“Good morning, Miss Morisse,” Pherris said, glancing back at her. The old gnome did a double take when he noticed the streaks of tears that marked her cheeks. His snowy brows furrowed. “What’s wrong, Seren? What is it?”

“I’m sorry, Pherris,” she said, voice cracking. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Pherris said softly.

Seren held out one hand, cupping a small golden badge sculpted in the shape of an open wing. Pherris’s eyes widened in disbelief. Keeping one hand on the ship’s wheel, he extended the other toward her, pudgy fingers trembling so much that he fumbled at first, dropping the tiny chunk of metal to the deck. Seren stooped to pick it up, but Pherris shooed her away with a curt gesture.

“Master Snowshale,” Pherris called out. “Master Snowshale!” he repeated.

Gerith poked his head out of the galley hatch. “Captain?” he asked, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

“Take the helm,” Pherris said, dropping to his knees on the deck. “Please.” The ship listed heavily to one side as her captain lost contact with the helm.

Gerith gave Pherris a concerned look, then hurried to comply, taking the ship’s wheel. The Mourning Dawn steadied herself, though she did not fly as evenly as before.

Seren knelt beside Pherris, unsure what to do. The gnome looked so much smaller and older than usual. He cupped the little piece of metal between his hands.

“Haimel,” Pherris whispered, shuddering. “This belonged to Haimel. His first mate’s badge. He would never lose this. Where did you find this?”

“Metrol,” Seren said. “In the ruins of the train station, on one of the bodies of the Dying Sun’s crew.”

“What—” Pherris struggled to compose himself. “What did you do with his remains?”

“Omax and Ijaac buried him, along with the rest of the crew,” Seren said.

Pherris nodded slowly, seeming to take some small solace in that. “Thank you, Miss Morisse,” he said. “At least there is that.”

Then Aeven was there, without sound or warning. The dryad knelt beside the tiny captain and wrapped a slender arm around his shoulders. Pherris closed his eyes tightly and clasped the badge in both hands, fighting the tears.

“I’m a fool,” Pherris said, his voice still thick. “Nothing but an old fool, for believing he could still be alive.”

“No,” Seren said. “You couldn’t give up hope. He was your son.”

“My son,” Pherris said. He looked around the ship’s deck blankly. “He was the whole reason for all of this. After the war, I was planning to retire. When Dalan appeared and said he was looking to unravel the mysteries of Ashrem’s final days, I agreed to stay on, to take Karia Naille on one last adventure. I knew Haimel disappeared along with Ashrem … I thought I might find him some day. I thought he might have survived, like Marth and Kiris did.” He bowed his head again. “I was a foolish old man to think the Gerrimans would be spared.”

“Remember him, Pherris,” Aeven said. “It is all you can do. Haimel will survive in you.”

“I only wanted to find him to say good-bye,” Pherris said weakly, eyes glazed as he stared at the deck. “He was my only son, and I never told him how proud I was. He was the only family I had left.”

“Not anymore,” Seren said. “You have us now.”

The gnome looked at her in surprise. His thick moustache twitched. One corner of his lip curled in a slow smile. “Thank you, Seren,” he said.

“What’s going on out here?” Dalan asked, stepping out of his cabin and looking around. “Something wrong?”

“Everything is in hand, Master d’Cannith,” Pherris said, standing up smartly. Aeven had vanished once more. “Master Snowshale, you may return to your duties. I shall take the helm.”

“Aye, Captain,” Gerith said with a grin, hopping back down to the deck and vanishing into the galley.

Pherris climbed back up to the ship’s controls, pausing only long enough to pin his son’s badge on his vest before taking the wheel again.

Dalan looked at Seren suspiciously. “Everything in order?” he asked.

“Everything’s fine,” she replied, standing. Seren took a small guilty pleasure from Dalan’s confusion.

“How far to Nathyrr, Captain?” Dalan asked, moving beside the helm and looking out at the vast plains and forests of Thrane.

“An hour at most, Master d’Cannith,” Pherris said.

“Good,” Dalan said. “Mind that we do not land close enough to the city to be seen. If Marth has agents in the city, they will recognize our ship.”

“Aye,” Pherris said.

Dalan nodded and marched across the deck into the galley. Seren watched the captain quietly for several moments. He peered back at her, squinting slightly. “Something on your mind, Miss Morisse?” he asked.

“Are you all right, Captain?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said brusquely. “I am not the sort of gnome to display my grief outwardly. I intend to honor Haimel by completing our mission. Then I’ll have time to mourn.” He winked. “Now. Shouldn’t you be waking Master Xain or something?”

“Aye,” she replied, hurrying back below deck.

Omax still sat in the shadows of the hold, meditating on whatever mysteries occupied his mind. Seren took care not to disturb him. When she reached Tristam’s cabin, she found the door open. He sat at his small desk, poring over stacks of hastily scrawled notes.

“Seren,” he said, smiling warmly when he saw her. The smile quickly faded. “Have you been crying?”

“I’m fine,” she said, wiping her cheeks with the back of one hand. “I finally worked up the courage to tell Pherris about his son.”

“Oh,” Tristam said, his voice subdued. He looked confused, uncertain what to say.

“Everything is fine, Tristam,” Seren said, clasping one hand over his. “We should be in Nathyrr soon.”

“Already?” Tristam said, surprised. “I’ve lost track of time. I had no idea we would be arriving so soon.”

“That normal, healthy sleep schedule you’ve been practicing lately probably threw off your sense of time,” Seren said.

“Clearly,” Tristam said. “I’ll have to cut that out.”

She frowned. Her hand tightened painfully over his.

“A jest,” Tristam said, wincing. “I’m joking, Seren.”

Tristam sorted his notes, stashed them in a drawer, and shrugged into his coat. He nearly dropped his shortsword from its scabbard as he strapped it onto his belt.

He noticed her stern look and grinned. “I put on a façade of clumsiness to lure opponents into a false sense of security,” he said, adjusting the sword at his hip.

“Whatever,” she said. “You really need more practice with that thing.”

“I’ve been practicing,” he countered meekly.

“With who?” she demanded.

“Ijaac has been helping me,” he said. “He’s the one who gave me the sword.”

Seren frowned at him.

“What?” he asked.

“I can’t believe you’ve been cheating on me with another sparring partner,” she said, her tone terse and clipped.

“Are you serious?” he asked, confused.

“No, now I’m jesting,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Come. The others are waiting.”

Tristam followed Seren back to the ship’s deck. Ijaac and Omax had already gathered there with the others. Dalan stood at the railing, cupping a bowl of thick stew in one hand and chewing contentedly. Dalan’s old dog lay at his master’s feet, eyes sharp for any morsels that might fall from the bowl. Gerith delivered an identical bowl to each of them and then retired to the far corner of the deck to eat his own breakfast.

“Do you think there’s any hope Marth might actually still be in the Harrowcrowns?” Dalan said without preamble. He looked intently at Tristam.

“I really don’t know,” Tristam said. “Even given that the Dying Sun needed to take on a new crew, he had a large head start on us.”

“Karia Naille is faster,” Pherris offered.

“That counts for something,” Tristam said. “Even if he did arrive before us, he shouldn’t have much of a lead.”

“Do you think Zed and Eraina are all right?” Gerith asked.

“We shall see,” Dalan said. “I am eager to see what they have learned. If the Harrowcrowns are truly the heart of Marth’s operation, then I might be able to answer a question that has disturbed me for some time.”

“What’s that?” Seren asked.

Dalan smiled. “Answer me this, Seren,” he said. “Why, ultimately, do the rest of you endure my presence?”

Tristam frowned. “Let’s not start this again, Dalan. Let the past remain in the past. You’ve proved yourself time and again.”

“I do not seek pity or validation, Tristam,” Dalan said, cutting him off. “Merely an answer to my question. From the very start, each member of this crew had a part to play in this adventure. Ignoring for a moment that the quest for the Legacy was my idea, why was I included among this crew?”

“Because you own the ship,” Pherris said.

“Precisely,” Dalan said, pointing at the captain, “and because my fortune finances the considerable expenses of our adventures.”

“What’s your point, Dalan?” Tristam asked. “If you’re looking for thanks …”

“Put it into context, Xain,” Dalan said, exasperated. “Without wealth earned from a lifetime in service to House Cannith, our own exploits would be impossible. Now consider Marth, a nameless, penniless exile from a dead nation. Yet he boasted an airship larger than ours, with a crew ten times the size. Mercenaries do not feed and arm themselves. How, I wonder, has Marth funded his own campaign and yet remained so carefully anonymous? That, I think, is an even more crucial question than what he intends to do with the Legacy. Marth owes someone.”

“Zamiel,” Tristam said.

“A good guess,” Dalan said. “Prophecy and promises of greatness will only lead a soldier so far. Food and gold, however …”

“Who in Khyber is this prophet, anyway?” Seren asked.

“Perhaps we shall finally find out,” Dalan said.

The Mourning Dawn flew on for some time in silence. Plumes of smoke in the distance marked their final approach to the city of Nathyrr. Pherris brought the ship into a smooth descent, soaring just over the rich green treetops.

“Dalan, Ijaac, Seren, and Gerith, you’ll come with me down into the city,” Tristam said. “We’ll check that inn that Zed mentioned first. The Kindled Flame. Hopefully he’s still there.”

“And me, Tristam?” Omax asked. “I am more than well enough to stand by you again.”

“I’m not worried about that, Omax,” Tristam said, grinning. “I am worried about Marth’s agents recognizing you. You tend to stick out.”

“Ah,” Omax said, unable to argue. “Yes.”

“Captain, I’d like you to patrol the forest while we’re in the city,” Tristam said.

“Patrol for what?” Pherris asked.

“If the Dying Sun is hiding somewhere in this forest, Karia Naille may be able to sense her like she did in Metrol,” Tristam said.

“What if Marth’s ship senses us back?” Pherris asked.

“Irrelevant,” Aeven said, appearing beside the figurehead. “Marth does not possess any sort of rapport with his vessel’s elemental. If he did, he would have tracked us through the ship itself rather than through the ring Tristam destroyed.”

“I don’t like it,” Pherris grumbled. “What if you get in trouble down there? You won’t be able to signal us if we’re moving around out here.”

“Blizzard can find you,” Gerith said. The glidewing looked up and squawked at the sound of his name. “He always finds his way home.”

Pherris gave the halfling a steady look, then turned back to Tristam. “Be careful down there, Master Xain. All of you. I’ve a feeling we’re headed into something dangerous.”

“Considering what I’ve been through since I came on board, that’s quite a statement, Captain,” Ijaac said. “I’ll look after ’em.”

“See that you do, Master Bruenhail,” the gnome replied.

The ship banked, turning to hover over a small clearing in the forest. The docking ladder spilled from the ship’s belly as she pulled to a halt. Tristam, Seren, Ijaac, and Dalan climbed down. Dalan cursed as he dropped off the ladder, annoyed at the unaccustomed physical exertion. Ijaac helped the fat guildmaster steady himself, gather what he could of his dignity, and lead them off toward the road.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been to Thrane before,” Tristam said.

“I know I haven’t.” Seren laughed.

“Haven’t missed much,” Ijaac said, chuckling under his breath. “Bunch of zealots. Rude and obnoxious braggarts far too full of themselves for their own good, every one of them. Save Master Zed, of course. Apple fell a bit far from the tree in his case.”

“I wouldn’t judge the Thrane too harshly,” Dalan said. “Extreme circumstances have forced them to take extreme measures for their survival. If they seem cold and aloof, it is only because they face enemies on every border. If they seem obsessed with the will of their god, it is only because the Silver Flame has been the only constant source of support in their dark history. They are a grim and unforgiving people, but they possess a determination and nobility unmatched in all of Eberron. Look at Arthen. Though he may not be as rigid as his countrymen, in every way that matters he is Thrane. I would not want such a man as my enemy.”

The city of Nathyrr soon lay before them, nestled at the edge of the Harrowcrowns. The architecture held a cold, surreal beauty, worked in graceful white stone engraved with symbols of curling flame. Tall white towers stood like sentinels over the city walls. Though visually stunning, it was unmistakably a place that would brook no trouble from outsiders.

At the gates, Dalan presented his d’Cannith seal and dragonmark, introduced the others as his employees, and continued walking. Seren was nervous that the guards would become suspicious, but they made no move to stop them as they passed.

“Strange,” she said, looking back as they continued on into the city. “They didn’t even ask for your name.”

“The guards know better than to interfere with a dragonmarked heir,” Dalan explained. “This nation has many debts to repay. Thrane didn’t rebuild itself after the war. Now, let us find this Kindled Flame inn.”

After pausing briefly for directions, they wandered the city for a confused hour. Nearly every inn in Nathyrr, it appeared, had some variant of a flame motif in its title. Even the local residents frequently confused one with another. At last they found the inn they sought, a ramshackle structure near the southern wall. Several vagrants lingered outside, panhandling for loose change from any who passed.

“I see Arthen’s tastes have not changed,” Dalan said, sneering.

Tristam studied the inn warily. “Gerith,” he said. “Wait out here and keep an eye on things.”

The halfling nodded, falling behind them and vanishing into the crowd. Seren hadn’t seen the little scout’s glidewing since they had landed, but she doubted Blizzard would wander far from his master.

Ijaac paused to throw a silver into a beggar’s cup as they entered. Dalan arched an eyebrow at the dwarf, but he only shrugged.

“Never know when it’ll be me on the other side of that cup,” he said.

The inside of the inn smelled of sour sweat and old smoke. The paint curled from the walls. A gaunt, unshaven man sat at the front desk, carving an intricate pattern in the wood with a stubby knife. He looked up as they entered, straightening and tossing the knife aside when he noticed Dalan’s fine clothing. His eyes were so large they nearly bulged from his head.

“May the Flame keep you on fine this day, Master,” the innkeeper said, showing poor dental hygiene in a wide grin. “How may I be of service?”

“I’m looking for an associate of mine,” he said. “A Sentinel Marshal named Eraina d’Deneith. I believe she is staying here?”

The innkeeper’s smile vanished. His fish eyes blinked several times. “Not sure,” he mumbled, patting about his desk for a ledger. He found it underneath several dirty plates. “Not sure if I recall that name. Let me see.”

“Take your time,” Dalan said in a soothing voice.

Seren looked around the room cautiously. The mention of Eraina’s name had obviously spooked the innkeeper. Something was wrong here. Seren gave Tristam a warning look. He just peered back in confusion, not noticing anything amiss.

“Wrong ledger,” the innkeeper said. “Just let me check in back.”

“No need,” Seren said. “We have the wrong place.”

Dalan looked at her keenly. “Wait,” he said to the innkeeper. The bug-eyed little man glanced nervously from them at the rear door. “My niece is correct. We were looking for the Kindred Flame, on the other side of town. Sorry to waste your time.”

The innkeeper turned and ran out the back door. “Help!” he cried. “Officers, help!”

“Khyber,” Dalan swore.

The doors opened behind them. Tristam drew his wand but hesitated. The three panhandlers from the front step blocked the door. They had thrown their cloaks aside, revealing silver breastplates engraved with the Silver Flame.

“Drop your weapon, in the name of the Flame!” said a voice from behind them.

A tall knight with a thin blond beard had emerged from the rear office. He wore armor like the others, with the trappings of an officer. He held a heavy two-handed sword, identical to Zed Arthen’s. When he saw Dalan’s face, his gray eyes darkened.

“You,” the man growled.

“Captain Draikus,” Dalan said, bowing politely. “What an unexpected honor. I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“You know him?” Tristam asked, calmly placing his wand on the desk and taking a step back.

“Indeed I do,” Dalan said.

“I thought you said the knights didn’t mess with dragonmarked heirs,” Ijaac said, hand on his morningstar.

“I find they make exceptions,” Dalan replied, “for dragonmarked heirs who see their commanding officer receive due court martial and execution.”

Ijaac blinked. “Ah,” the dwarf said, setting his morningstar on the floor.

Dalan gave a tight smile.

“D’Cannith,” Draikus said, nearly spitting the name on the floor. “In the name of the Silver Flame and the City of Nathyrr, you and your associates are coming with me.”

FOURTEEN

From a glance, it would be difficult to surmise that the room where Shaimin d’Thuranni now found himself was the personal quarters of Fort Ash’s commanding officer. The room was large but only sparsely furnished with a small bed, wash basin, writing table, dented wardrobe, containing no clothing, and an unused chamber pot. The chambers were likely a mere formality. The changeling preferred life aboard airships; it was likely this chamber was never used at all. Shaimin sat at the edge of the bed, hands clasped before him, staring into nothing as he turned recent events over in his mind. Three of the six guards stood at the far side of the room, watching the elf nervously as they leaned on their halberds.

Shaimin was aware that Marth no longer trusted him, but for the assassin it was hardly a matter of concern. The guards were of no moment. If he wished to leave this place, he would do so. Even the forest was no longer quite as intimidating as it had been during his first frantic run. From the conversation he had overheard before revealing himself, he now knew it was the badges the Cyrans carried that warded off the undead outside the walls. When he wished to leave, he could strip a guard of his badge and vanish into the forest before anyone was the wiser.

That was, however, not what Shaimin desired. The elf still owed Marth. The changeling had saved his life and reputation back in Wroat, and a Thuranni repaid his debts. However, it had become clear that this debt could not be repaid in the manner requested. Ashrem d’Cannith’s Legacy was a weapon of unimaginable destructive potential, one that might ultimately be brought to bear against Shaimin’s own house. After speaking to Marth, Shaimin had no doubt that the changeling was deeply disturbed. Whatever he had seen in the Mournland had changed him deeply.

Dalan d’Cannith and the others from Karia Naille obviously had already encountered Marth’s darker side, thus their campaign to stop him. Marth had slain their friends, even attempted to kill them. Their reaction was understandable, even if he did not agree with it.

What did Shaimin care about the deaths of people he had never met, people who were of no value to his house? For a Thuranni to judge another man for the blood on his hands would be the height of hypocrisy. All that mattered was his debt to Marth, a man who clearly was no longer himself. What could have happened in the Mournland that transformed him so?

To blame the Day of Mourning was too easy. If Marth were simply mad, he would never have accumulated the resources to build this fortress, maintain his airship, and recruit his followers.

Pondering such mysteries was pointless with such little information to go upon. From the bored demeanor of his guards, it seemed increasingly unlikely that they expected Marth to return and check upon Shaimin before his departure to Sharn. If that was so, then he could afford to wait here no longer.

He knew that there were three more guards in the hall outside. A fight with six well-trained soldiers was more than Shaimin felt confident to handle without incident. To complicate matters further, a cry from any of them would quickly alert the rest of the fortress. If he wished to escape, it would be best if Marth did not realize his intention until he was already gone.

This would require elegance and timing.

He looked up at the guards, offering them a pleasant smile. They moved a bit closer to one another, hands tightening on their weapons. So they had some inkling that he was no one to be trifled with. They were afraid of him. Good.

“So you men are all Cyran, eh?” Shaimin asked.

They did not answer.

“Did any of you fight beside Marth in the war?”

They made no reply.

“Have you been trained not to speak to prisoners?” he asked, “or are you merely afraid of me?”

The soldiers shifted uncomfortably. The leader took the bait. “We are sons of Cyre,” he said. “We fear no one, not even a Thuranni killer.”

“Is that why you neglected to disarm me?” Shaimin asked.

The guards glanced at one another. The one who had spoken had Shaimin’s twin daggers tucked behind his belt. “What are you talking about, elf?” he demanded. “You have already been disarmed.”

“Oh,” Shaimin said innocently. “I thought you allowed me to keep the third dagger out of courtesy. My apologies.” He stood before them with his arms outstretched, inviting them to search him. “I have a dagger hidden on the inside of my left boot. Please, come and remove it.”

“Take it out and hand it to us,” the guard demanded.

“So you can tell your captain I drew a concealed weapon on you?” Shaimin asked. “I think not.”

The lead guard sighed, leaned his halberd against the wall, and stepped toward Shaimin. The other two stood back with their weapons ready. Shaimin carefully memorized the positions of each man, then called upon the power of his dragonmark.

Inky darkness filled the room.

The elf moved with startling speed. He lunged forward, pulling one of his daggers from the first guard’s belt just as he seized the man’s throat with his other hand. The blade sank in the throat of another guard. He twisted his wrist and clenched his hand savagely, crushing the first guard’s windpipe even as he pushed him away. He leaped over the man’s tumbling body onto the third guard, seizing the shaft of his halberd and twisting it to push him off balance. He drew the man’s sword with his free hand and slid it neatly across the man’s neck.

The three guards crumpled on the floor. Dead without a single cry of pain. The darkness melted away, dismissed by its master.

“Trosk?” called one of the guards outside, alarmed by the sounds of the falling bodies. “Everything all right in there?”

“Fine,” Shaimin replied in a passable impersonation of the guard’s voice. “Damned elf wanted his bed moved by the window.”

The guards outside chuckled. Shaimin carefully lodged a halberd in the door frame, wedging the door shut. When the guards swapped shifts they would at least waste some time trying to force the door before doing something useful like searching for him. He recovered his daggers, wiping the blood off on Trosk’s cloak. He pocketed the badge from each man’s cloak before sliding out the window.

Marth’s quarters were on the second floor of the main keep, roughly twenty feet from the stone courtyard. In the heat of mid-afternoon, only a few soldiers were still busy preparing the Seventh Moon for departure. He could see that the sleek silver hull of the ship was badly burned in places, as if she had recently seen a terrible battle. Many of the soldiers appeared quite busy putting the final touches on the repairs, sanding and repainting the hull. Shaimin noticed that a massive Cyran crest hung above the gates of the fortress, a golden crown on a field of green. Shaimin was no saint, but it often astonished him the terrible deeds that people did—or occasionally paid him to do—in the misbegotten name of country. How many true Cyrans, Shaimin wondered, would approve of what Marth planned here today?

Shaimin glanced about to make certain no one was watching, then dropped to the ground. He hurried across the courtyard and up the stairs leading to the wall. Crouching amid the battlements, he stalked back to the tower where Zed and Eraina waited. He knocked on the door softly.

“You’re late, d’Thuranni,” Zed whispered, opening the door and looking around.

“That was never two hours,” Shaimin said in an offended tone, slipping inside and closing the door behind him.

“What did you discover?” Eraina asked.

“More from spying on Marth than from actually speaking to him, sadly,” Shaimin said. “It seems he hardly trusts me anymore.”

“What a sad day when a maniac can’t trust his own assassin,” Zed said.

“Indeed,” Shaimin agreed. “At any rate it seems that this stronghold is built upon some sort of cavern containing a significant passage of the Draconic Prophecy. I wonder if the ruins here, like Zul’nadn, were one of the discoveries that placed Marth upon his path.”

“We’ll leave Tristam to sort that out,” Eraina said. “Any idea what Marth is planning?”

“He’s headed for Sharn,” the elf said.

“Norra Cais is in Sharn, researching the Legacy,” Zed said. “Could he be after her?”

“I doubt it,” Shaimin said. “Look down at the courtyard. He’s mobilizing as many of his troops as he can, loading weapons and supplies into the Seventh Moon. I think this is bigger than that. Marth is through learning about the Legacy. He intends to use it.”

“We need to get out of here,” Eraina said. “We have to get back to Nathyrr and contact the Karia Naille.”

“Agreed,” Shaimin said.

The clamor of an alarm bell echoed in the courtyard below. Cyran soldiers began swarming out of the keep, armed with swords and crossbows.

Zed glared at Shaimin. “Did you kill anyone on your way here?”

“A few,” the elf confessed, smiling.

“We’ll have to take our chances in the forest,” Eraina said.

“Take these,” Shaimin said, offering them two of the guards’ badges. “Apparently these protect the wearer from the undead in the forest.”

“Seems it would take more than a simple charm to protect against what we saw back there,” Eraina said, accepting hers.

“Marth himself claimed they work,” the elf replied, pinning one to his cloak. “They may not think to search for us in the forest at first. We may yet have a chance to escape.”

They had barely reached the edge of the forest when Marth’s guards found Shaimin’s grappling hook. Crossbow bolts thudded into the trees around them, urging them to greater speed. A hideous moaning rose around them as they ran deeper into the forest. Shambling figures appeared between the trees, lurching after them. One erupted from the earth beside them, clawing savagely at Zed before he put it down with his sword. Three more dropped from a tree and rushed them, only to be scattered by Eraina’s holy symbol.

“I cannot turn them away forever,” Eraina warned.

“They don’t seem bothered much by your badges, d’Thuranni,” Zed said.

The elf did not reply, but only kept running.

They crested a hill to find dozens of the undead meandering between the trees. Glancing back, Shaimin saw that Marth’s soldiers had begun pursuit. The sizzling flash of green flame showed that the changeling himself was burning through his reluctant undead guardians to find them.

“There,” Eraina said. She pointed to the crumbling ruins of what once might have been a chapel. It appeared to be mostly intact. “Maybe we can make our stand there, hold off against the undead and the Cyrans while they kill each other.”

Zed nodded and ran in that direction. Shaimin hesitated. Being discovered and pursued was bad enough. The idea of crawling into a hole and waiting to die was distasteful to say the least. He considered, for a moment, striking off on his own. The inquisitive glared back at him, as if reading his thoughts. He sighed and trudged on after them.

The inside of the broken chapel looked as if it had been untouched for centuries. Green mold crawled upon the walls. The wooden floors were cracked and warped. In the gaps between them Shaimin could see water glinting far below.

“There’s some sort of cave under here,” he said, kneeling and examining the gaps between the floorboards. “Perhaps we could escape.”

Zed stood beside the elf, spitting between the floorboards and turning an ear. “That’s a sixty foot drop at least,” he said. “We don’t even know if the water is deep enough for us to drop safely, or what else is down there.”

“We know what’s up here,” the elf retorted.

Outside the moans of the undead were met with the thunderous explosions of Marth’s magic. Zed and Eraina stood side by side at the narrow door, watching the battle outside.

“I wish I’d brought a crossbow or something,” Zed said. “I might have a clear shot at Marth from here.”

“He wouldn’t have offered you such a target if his magic didn’t protect him, Arthen,” Shaimin said. “We are no threat to him, cornered like we are.”

“If you don’t have any helpful ideas, be quiet,” Zed snapped.

Shaimin scowled. For most of his career, he had prized the calm control with which he approached all situations. If there was one thing he detested more than anything else, it was feeling helpless. Only children and cripples could not help themselves—and a Thuranni was neither. He had weakened himself by associating with these people. Perhaps Dalan was his equal, in certain arenas, but these two were too weakened by interdependence and compassion. To remain here with them would only hasten his demise.

At least this was what Shaimin told himself. He saw a crack in the rear wall, too thick for his human allies but perhaps just enough for an elf. He wriggled through the cracks and crawled away through the forest’s thick, leafy carpet. The Cyran soldiers were too occupied at the entrance of the chapel to notice his escape. The undead were too maddened by Marth’s brutal magical assault to notice much of anything. The assassin peered back once he had crawled a safe distance. He watched as Marth struck down the last of his undead attackers with a lash of fire from his wand. The Cyran soldiers flanked out immediately, surrounding the ruined chapel.

Shaimin could see no way out for the others. The chapel stood within a small break in the forest. Marth’s soldiers now flanked it. Several, including the changeling himself, were on horseback. Even if Zed and Eraina were to split up and run for it, Marth would easily capture them.

“Thuranni!” Marth called out. “Those men you murdered were my countrymen! By aiding my enemies you forsook my trust, but in slaying my brothers you have earned your House a place beside all those who will tremble before the power of the Legacy. If you have any honor left, surrender yourself, and House Thuranni will be spared my vengeance.”

Marth was truly mad, Shaimin reflected, if he believed himself a match for House Thuranni. Or was the Legacy truly so powerful that it could challenge even the dragonmarked houses?

“Your elf assassin isn’t here, Marth!” Zed Arthen called out with a bitter laugh. “He betrayed us just like he betrayed you!”

“Your lies will accomplish nothing, Zed Arthen,” the changeling said. He smiled bitterly. “For I make you no such offer of mercy. Know, as you die, how truly foolish you have been. Had you remained closer to the road, those badges you stole would have actually offered you some protection. Fleeing into the woods only assured your demise.”

Marth leveled his weapon at the chapel. A burst of boiling green energy surged into the ancient ruin, scattering stone and timber in a furious sphere of destruction. Within seconds, the entire structure had been reduced to seared rubble. There was no way Zed Arthen and Eraina d’Deneith could have survived such a conflagration.

Well, at the very least Shaimin wouldn’t have to worry about them being angry about abandoning them. Though he had technically upheld his oath, only fleeing them when they proved unable to protect his own interests, it was nice when problems solved themselves. It even seemed as if Marth truly believed Shaimin had perished in the chapel, for the changeling departed as well, leaving only his soldiers to pick through the rubble.

With a quiet sigh of relief, Shaimin d’Thuranni crawled off through the leaves as quickly as he dared. He made his way back toward the road and the safety of Nathyrr.

FIFTEEN

Captain Draikus and his men did not lead them back to the prison, as Seren expected. Instead he escorted them into the inn itself, to a large room on the second floor. He left one of his three knights in the hall to keep watch, then locked the door behind them. The other two knights took up positions on each side of the door.

“Please, have a seat,” Draikus said, gesturing to the shabby couch and rickety chairs that furnished the room. The tall knight remained standing, slowly pacing the room. Seren sat on a chair in the corner, giving her a good view of all her captors.

“This is most unorthodox,” Dalan said, sitting back on the couch. He removed his small cap and set it on one knee. Tristam sat beside Dalan. Ijaac remained standing, arms folded across his barrel chest.

“How did you arrive in Nathyrr?” Draikus asked, ignoring the question. “You have no steeds. The watchmen at the city gates reported an anonymous d’Cannith, which can only be you, arriving on foot with three others. Surely you didn’t walk all the way from Wroat.”

“I will not answer your questions until I know on what charges we have been arrested,” Dalan said.

“You are not under arrest, Master d’Cannith,” Draikus said. “I am well aware that, if you were, diplomatic entanglements would likely place you well out of my jurisdiction and force me to release you. Fortunately, that is not the case.”

“Then why are we here?” Dalan snapped.

“For your own protection. These questions only serve so that I might protect you more adequately. The innkeeper said that you seek Marshal Eraina d’Deneith?”

Dalan nodded.

“The Marshal is a known associate of the former knight Zed Arthen, who is wanted for questioning in connection with several recent murders,” Draikus said. “You know Arthen well, as I recall. While I am certain that a son of House Cannith would never knowingly accomplice himself to a criminal, I cannot allow such a high profile visitor to our city to endanger himself. You and your employees will remain in my custody until I am certain you are safe.”

Draikus offered a smug smile. Seren noticed that Draikus carried himself with almost the same swagger as Zed Arthen and spoke with the same inflections. The two might have passed as brothers under other circumstances.

“This is ridiculous,” Dalan said. “You know Arthen. Regardless of what passed between you two, you know that Arthen is no murderer.”

“Circumstances strongly suggest otherwise,” Draikus said, “but if you believe differently, help me find him. Allow him to state his case. If he is innocent, the Flame will protect him.”

Dalan sighed. “I don’t know where he is. I was looking for him when you arrested me.”

“What was Arthen doing in Nathyrr?” Draikus asked. “Did you send him here?”

“I’m not sure if I should tell you,” Dalan said.

“You would interfere with justice?” Draikus growled, leaning close. “You may be able to slip through my fingers, d’Cannith, but I can retain these others as long as I like. The girl and the dwarf aren’t even carrying traveling papers. I could arrest them as spies. With the assortment of magical powders and reagents we found on the boy, I’m sure we can find something suspicious enough to detain him.”

“And this is why I won’t help you,” Dalan said, his voice calm and even. “Because you are still so filled with hatred for Zed Arthen that it blinds you to your true duty. If you are the example to which the knighthood aspires, it is no wonder Arthen lost his faith.”

“How dare you insult me, d’Cannith!” Draikus snapped. He leaned over the guildmaster, one gloved hand balled into a fist.

“Do not try to intimidate me, Captain,” Dalan said, “and don’t try to threaten my friends. If you are prepared to approach me as an officer of the law instead of a thug, then perhaps we shall have something to discuss.”

Draikus leaned back, scowling deeply. His lips were pursed into a thin line, as if he were struggling to hold back an angry reply. It was obvious to Seren that Dalan and Draikus knew and hated each other from somewhere, and it was preventing them from saying anything useful to each other.

“What did Zed do?” she asked, attempting to throw the conversation back on course.

“What?” Draikus snapped, looking at her sharply. “Who was speaking to you?”

“What do you believe Zed Arthen did?” she pressed, ignoring his retort. “Obviously it must be important if the captain of the city watch is willing to stake out his room personally.”

Draikus looked at her for a long moment. “Does the name Niam Kenrickson mean anything to you?” he said, watching each of them for their reaction.

“No,” Dalan said. “None of us have even been to Nathyrr before today.”

“Zed Arthen was arrested after a drunken public disturbance yesterday afternoon,” Draikus said. “His fines were paid by a local undertaker, Niam Kenrickson. This morning we discovered Kenrickson, his brother, and six other men in the mortuary, dead from sword and knife wounds.”

“Won’t have to carry the bodies far, I guess,” Ijaac said.

Draikus leveled a glare at the dwarf. Ijaac laughed nervously and fell silent. The captain returned his attention to Dalan.

“There’s more,” Dalan said. “Isn’t there?”

Draikus’s eyes narrowed.

“It isn’t just the bodies, or Zed’s involvement,” Dalan said. “As much as you hate Arthen, you wouldn’t have bothered to stake out his rooms personally unless you had found something much more disturbing. What did you find, Draikus?”

“I am asking the questions here,” the captain said.

“And I am not under arrest,” Dalan said, rising from the couch. “If you do not answer me, I will leave.”

“Then your friends are under arrest,” Draikus said.

“Then I will report your actions to my House and you may deal with the repercussions.” Dalan brushed past Captain Draikus and strolled to the door of the room. “Move,” he said to the guards, “or I promise you will share in his disgrace.” They looked at their captain frantically.

“Fine,” Draikus said, his voice nearly a growl. “Sit down, d’Cannith.”

Dalan returned to the couch, looking up at Draikus intently.

The knight paced the room a bit more rapidly, his arms folded behind his back. “For some time my guards have reported strange activities in the forests,” Draikus said. “There’s been a lot of movement in and out of the woods, along with rare sightings of a large, unmarked airship. I always felt it merited further investigation, but there are certain dangers in the deep Harrowcrowns.”

“Dangers?” Seren asked.

“Portions of these woods have a dark history,” Draikus said. “Some places are still haunted by that history. There are areas still infested with undead, and they have long been sealed off. A full exorcism would have required more manpower than I have available. Thrane’s military is already spread thinly defending our borders. The chances of receiving reinforcements to deal with what amounts to a hunch are almost nothing. That hunch became a great deal more tangible when we searched the Kenrickson mortuary. We found coffins filled with rations, weapons, and medical supplies. It was as if they were supplying a small army.” Draikus’s brash demeanor had faded, if only slightly. He looked tired and worried.

“So it isn’t really Zed that you’re after,” Dalan said.

“Don’t you understand, d’Cannith?” Draikus snapped angrily. “If there’s some sort of conspiracy to weaken Thrane’s borders, Arthen knew about it. Now he’s missing.”

Dalan stared coolly at Draikus for a long moment before speaking. “For the last several months, I have been aiding Marshal Eraina Deneith in the pursuit of a dangerous changeling criminal named Marth,” he said. “This Marth, due to a specific interpretation of the Draconic Prophecy, believes he is destined to destroy the Five Nations. We believe he has reconstructed an experimental magical weapon of vast power and intends to use it in a mission of revenge for the deaths of his wife and children. He has amassed a small army of former Cyran soldiers and secretly constructed a base here in the Harrowcrowns. Zed and Eraina came here to search for that base while we pursued Marth. When the changeling finally eluded us, we returned here to rendezvous with them.” Dalan folded his hands across his lap.

Draikus looked at Dalan silently. “Ridiculous,” the knight said at last. “I knew there was only a slim chance of prying any useful information from you, d’Cannith, but I did not expect to be mocked with such lunacy. Be gone from my sight.” He gestured at the guards, who moved aside and opened the door.

Dalan rose, bowed, and made his way out of the room. Tristam and Ijaac stopped only to collect their weapons. Seren followed, pausing at the door to glance back at Draikus. The knight sat on a chair by the window, shoulders slumped as he stared out at the city.

“Men like Draikus want everything to be simple,” Dalan said as they walked out into the street. He looked out at the quiet bustle of locals going about their midday business. “When convinced with a complicated truth, they dismiss it as a lie.”

“He might have helped us, Dalan,” Seren said. “With the Knights of Thrane behind us, Marth’s soldiers wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“That is quite true, Seren,” Dalan said, “but we wouldn’t have the Knights of Thrane behind us. We would have a handful of knights led by an arrogant, argumentative, and foolish man. I would rather be outnumbered than be encumbered by such allies.”

“So what do we do next?” Tristam asked. “Check out the Kenricksons?”

“No,” Dalan said. “Captain Draikus’s men will still be investigating the scene. If we get in their way, he’s just spiteful enough to truly have us arrested for obstructing his investigation. The less we bother him, the better. He’s already revealed anything useful we can learn from the Kenricksons.”

A leathery flap of wings announced Gerith’s return. The halfling was breathless as he hopped from the saddle. The crowd scattered around them, with many passersby directing terrified looks at the creature.

“Are you all right?” Gerith asked, glancing back at the Kindled Flame, oblivious to the panic he had caused. “I was worried when I saw all those knights go inside.”

“Just a misunderstanding,” Dalan said. “Fortunately we were able to avoid legal entanglements without resorting to arson.” Dalan gave Tristam a look. The artificer pretended not to notice. “Return to Karia Naille and inform Captain Gerriman that we will be taking rooms here in the city. Locating Arthen may take longer than we anticipated.”

“Aye, Captain,” Gerith replied.

“And be careful landing your glidewing in Nathyrr, Gerith,” Dalan chided. “People around here aren’t used to seeing dinosaurs.”

The halfling smirked, as if he was perfectly aware of the fact. He climbed back onto the harness and leapt into the sky.

“Do you think Zed is all right?” Seren asked.

“He has a knack for surviving unfortunate circumstances,” Dalan said. “I maintain hope.”

“Seren and I can poke around the city a bit while you and Ijaac find us a place to stay,” Tristam said. “Maybe someone might know something.”

“Fine, but be careful,” Dalan said, looking at him meaningfully. “We are very close to our enemies now and the only authorities are unlikely to help us.” The guildmaster walked off through the streets of Nathyrr. Ijaac followed a step behind, watching for any signs of trouble.

“Was it just me,” Seren asked, “or did Captain Draikus seem to recognize Dalan?”

“Dalan travels a lot,” Tristam said. “You know how he leaves an impression on people. If they do know each other, that would explain why Draikus liked Dalan so much.” Tristam chuckled. He began leading them in the other direction, out of the late afternoon sun. “Whatever happened between them, it’s none of our concern. Where do you think we should start looking for Zed and Eraina?”

“We should follow the same trail they did,” Seren said. “If we find Marth’s fortress, we might find them along the way.”

“And how do we go about that?”

“Well, we could look for any areas with a lot of Cyran immigrants,” she said. “Those would be a likely recruiting target for Marth.”

“I don’t think we’ll find anything like that in Nathyrr,” Tristam said. “For all their talk of compassion, the Church of the Silver Flame didn’t open Thrane’s borders to the Cyrans like Breland did. We might find a few Mournland refugees here and there, but nothing like in New Cyre.”

They rounded a corner, finding themselves in a deserted alleyway. Seren stopped to think. Something about what Draikus had said to them earlier stuck out. “The forest,” Seren said. “Draikus said that parts of the forest had been sealed off. If we can find out what sections of the woods are haunted, maybe we can figure out where Marth is hiding.”

“Or you can just ask me,” said a bored voice. “I mean really, treading over the same mystery over again grows dreadfully dull sometimes.”

Seren recognized the voice instantly. She whirled, dagger appearing in her hand. Shaimin d’Thuranni stepped from the shadows of a narrow doorway, hands tucked into his sleeves. Tristam drew his wand. The elf moved instantly, running toward them, keeping Seren between himself and the artificer.

“Seren, duck!” Tristam shouted.

Shaimin pulled his arms from his sleeves, a long knife in each hand. He hurled one past Seren, toward Tristam. She glanced back, distracted. The blade flew wide but then Shaimin lunged upon her. He seized her wrist with one hand, twisting hard as he drove his knee into her abdomen. Pain seized her; her dagger clattered into the street. His hand moved to her throat, lifting her easily and holding her as a shield against Tristam’s magic. He ran forward, throwing her aside at the last moment and leaping onto Tristam, bearing him down to the street. The elf’s dagger drew a line across Tristam’s throat, leaving a thin trace of red.

“Ah,” Shaimin said, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he stood and backed away. He dropped his remaining dagger on the road. “That’s all I needed. A sense of closure.”

Seren gasped for breath as she struggled to her feet. She ran to Tristam’s side. He was stunned but barely injured.

“I no longer intend to kill you, Master Xain,” Shaimin said. “I merely wished to satisfy my curiosity and assure myself that I could.”

“Maniac!” Tristam shouted. He snatched up his wand from the cobblestones and pointed it at the elf.

“You would kill me?” the elf said, holding out his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I am the only person left who can help you find the Seventh Moon in a timely manner.”

“Kenshi Zhann crashed on the Talenta Plains,” Tristam said, though he hesitated. Seren quietly picked her dagger up off the street. She glanced around for Shaimin’s weapons but couldn’t find them. When had the elf had time to retrieve them?

“Her condition has much improved,” Marth said. “Captain Marth is preparing her for a final assault as we speak.”

“An assault on whom?” Tristam demanded.

“I want your promise of a truce, Master Xain,” Shaimin said. “I have a stake in this battle as well. I wish to aid you.”

“Aid us?” Seren said. “You were hired to kill us.”

Shaimin sighed. “No,” he said, annoyed. “First of all I was never hired. I was called upon to repay a favor. Second, you were never my objective, Seren. You were never anything but a frustratingly tenacious obstacle. It was suggested that I repay my debt by killing Tristam, but I have since reconsidered.”

“Why?” Tristam asked.

“Because the man to whom I owe that favor is now insane,” Shaimin said. “And, as he intends to destroy the entire political structure of the Five Nations, which indirectly includes House Thuranni, I find his employ a distinct conflict of interests. Further, I have determined the only way to repay the debt I owe to Marth. That is to defeat the monster that he has become.”

Tristam’s wand did not move. “I don’t intend to stop one monster by allying with another.”

“You are unmoved,” Shaimin said. “Let me speak, then, of details. Not far from this city, Marth has constructed a fortress atop an ancient cavern, apparently the home to a passage of the Draconic Prophecy—though I confess I did not see such a cave myself. He has named this stronghold Fort Ash, a dubious honor for your mutual master. There he completes repairs on the Seventh Moon in preparation for his mad campaign against the Five Nations. I can lead you directly to him.”

Tristam held the wand steady, pointed at the elf’s chest.

“You would be foolish to refuse me,” Shaimin said. “You have little time to decide. Would you let your friends die for nothing?”

“My friends?” Tristam asked.

“I helped Zed Arthen and Eraina d’Deneith discover Marth’s fortress,” Shaimin said. “They perished as we were fleeing from his soldiers. I had returned to search their quarters for any information that might help me find Dalan, but the Knights of the Silver Flame were already there. I thought that the rest of you might appear if I kept watch on the place. I must confess. I am pleasantly surprised at how swiftly my patience was rewarded.”

“You say Zed and Eraina are dead,” Seren said. “Why should we believe you?”

“If I were in any way responsible for their deaths, why would I even tell you that I met them?” Shaimin asked, laughing. “If you are so fragile that you cannot set aside our past and work with beside me for the greater good, then I do not need your aid. Say hello to Dalan for me.”

Shaimin turned his back to Tristam and walked away down the road.

Tristam looked at Seren, still pointing his wand at the retreating elf. “Seren, what do we do?” he asked.

She glanced from Tristam to Shaimin. The elf was dangerous; that much was obvious from their previous encounters. Yet he had a point—if he had wished to kill them he could easily have done so. Dalan seemed to offer Shaimin a strange kind of trust, as much as he trusted anyone. If he really knew what happened to Zed and Eraina, they couldn’t afford to let him leave. He had proved before how easily and completely he could vanish when given the chance.

“Wait,” Seren called out.

Shaimin looked back over one shoulder. He lifted one blond eyebrow expectantly. “Yes?” he asked.

“We need your help,” she said. The words left a sour taste in her mouth.

“And I need yours,” he said, turning and striding swiftly back toward them. “There. Was that really so difficult?”

SIXTEEN

All that Zed could see was flame.

All around him, fire consumed the once proud temples of Vathirond. The bodies of the dead and dying lay strewn about the square. Most of the knights had moved on, pushing toward the next objective. Zed had arrived late, returning from delivering a message to the rear guard. He arrived only in time to see the last of the temples put to the torch. Now he stood in the center of the square. His massive sword hung limp in one hand, blade dragging across the paving stones.

At first he thought it was the Cyrans, and he cursed them for their cruelty. Then he saw a band of his fellow knights emerge from the temple of Kol Korran, still holding flaming brands and swords drenched in blood. He stared at them in silent horror, but they paid him no mind, marching out of the square. He stood, numb and confused, unable to comprehend what he had seen.

If he had been here earlier, could he have prevented this? Or would he have been swept up in the bloodlust of his comrades and done the same? He knew the charisma with which Kalaven commanded her soldiers; he had felt it personally. He just never imagined that she could be so brutal.

It was the scream that snapped him back to reality. A woman’s scream from the shadowed alley between two ruined temples. He ran toward the sound, only to find two of his comrades, Airik and Daiven, dragging a girl through the ash-strewn alley. Her scorched robes bore the octogram of the Sovereign Host, now stained with blood.

“What are you doing?” Zed shouted to them. “Where are you taking her?”

“Just following orders, Arthen,” Daiven said with a wicked grin. “Go find your own.”

Arthen’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. The flames that coursed through the temple district now seemed to seethe through him as well. He charged, lifting the heavy steel blade high and screaming in inarticulate rage. Airik and Daiven barely had time to defend themselves, not that it would have mattered, for they had always been poor examples of knights. Two strokes of his blade and the men lay dead. The priestess offered no thanks. Seeing the Silver Flame on Zed’s breastplate, she shrieked in terror and crawled away through the debris.

Zed slumped against the wall, tears streaming down his face. Around him, he could hear stone walls crack and crumble under their own weight. The flames consumed this once holy place. He felt weak, but his fingers gripped the hilt of his sword. It was the only thing that still seemed real. He would have prayed for the fire to topple the buildings upon him, but he could not bring himself to pray.

He closed his eyes.

A sharp pain in his calf made him wince. He reached for his leg with one hand but felt nothing. He felt another pain in his lower back, and it grew difficult to breathe. Zed peered about in confusion. The city of Vathirond became a blur.

And then he awakened, thrashing in a pool of stagnant, frigid water. He was in total darkness. Finding the ground beneath them, he lurched for the surface. He gasped for breath, the smell of smoke searing his nostrils. Debris pelted his face, driving him under the surface again. Somewhere, far above, he could see the crackling light of distant green fire. He dared to surface again, taking another breath. He could barely feel his arms and legs in the freezing water.

“Eraina?” he called out desperately. The darkness did not answer.

Zed reached into his coat and took out his smoking pouch, quickly drawing out the waterproof box of tindertwigs. He struck one, filling the collapsing cavern with just enough light to see. Amid the falling rocks and shattered wood, he saw a narrow tunnel leading away to his right. He also saw the gleam of polished armor before the light went out—it was Eraina, floating face down in the water.

Zed waded toward her, finding her arm and pulling it across her shoulders. He stumbled over a thin wooden shaft which he quickly realized was her spear. He grabbed it as he pushed on. Eraina’s body was limp and heavy. Praying she was alive, he kept moving, hoping he could swim out of the tunnel before the entire chapel collapsed on them. Fortunately the water was shallow enough to let him push along the bottom with his feet. A surging wave suddenly shoved him forward. A roaring crash filled the tunnel as tons of stone plummeted behind them. Zed kept swimming as fast as he could, letting the shockwave carry him and not looking back.

To his amazement, there was light ahead. He emerged into a much larger cavern, suffused with a subtle orange radiance. Large, shimmering runes marked the walls and ceiling. The smallest of them were the size of a man’s hand outstretched. The largest were the size of a door. Zed understood little of what they said, though he recognized them as Draconic.

“Khyber,” Zed swore, staring up at the shining symbols. “It’s the Prophecy.”

A small stone island rose from the water in the center of the cave. Zed climbed onto it, dragging Eraina behind him with all the care he could. He laid her upon the rocks to study her injuries, dropping her spear and his sword beside her. She appeared unharmed, though her face was ashen and her breathing shallow. Her lips were pale blue. Perhaps it was just the shock of the fall and the numbing cold water that knocked her unconscious. Zed pulled off his coat and wrapped it into a ball, then lifted her head to tuck it underneath as a pillow.

His hand came away drenched with blood.

“No,” he whispered, lifting her head to check her injuries. “No,” he repeated weakly.

Eraina had landed badly, the back of her skull cracking on the rocks. Her blond hair was now streaked with blood. She was bleeding profusely. Even if Zed could stop it, there was likely nothing he could do to save her.

“No!” he cried, his voice echoing through the underground tunnels. His hands shook from cold and anger.

It made no sense. It could just as well have been him that had been injured in the fall, or both of them. It was like Vathirond all over again. The innocent suffered while he was spared. Where was Eraina’s goddess to save her? Boldrei had abandoned Eraina just as the Flame had abandoned him. If he could call upon his god, even once more, he could save her.

“Why?” Zed whispered hoarsely, clasping her hands in his. “Why can’t I hear it?”

“Because you are not listening,” he remembered Eraina saying.

Zed’s eyes opened and fixed on a flicker of something on the ground. The Silver Flame amulet he had taken in the woods now poked from the corner of Eraina’s bloody pillow. It was an impossible coincidence. Was this a second chance, or another test? Did it matter, if he might save her life?

This, Zed realized as he closed one hand over the amulet, was faith.

He placed the other hand behind her head and closed his eyes again. He concentrated, picturing Eraina whole and strong and well. He held the amulet against his chest, over his heart, and prayed.

“Please,” he whispered. “I know I’ve failed you, and I don’t like asking for help. But … do this for her. This world still needs heroes like Eraina. Flame, help me. Help her.”

Zed felt no different at all. Nothing seemed to happen, though he felt a strange sense that he was no longer alone. That was all.

He pulled his hand away from her and sighed, still clutching the amulet, and wondered how he had fallen so far.

Eraina’s eyes opened weakly.

“Zed?” she whispered. “Where are we?”

Zed stared in astonishment. “Careful,” he said to her. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

She sat up and peered around, gingerly touching the back of her head. The wound was still there, but it didn’t look nearly as bad as it had before. Had he truly healed her, Zed wondered, or had he imagined it? Her gaze flicked toward his fist, noticing the amulet chain that dangled between his fingers. She smiled but said nothing more on it. He tucked the holy symbol into his pocket. The paladin closed her eyes and called upon her goddess, summoning Boldrei’s healing magic to close her wound.

“Where is Shaimin?” Eraina said, opening her eyes again and staring at the shimmering runes above them.

“Vanished into the shadows before the chapel even collapsed,” Zed said with a sigh. He dipped his coat into the water and scrubbed it against a rock, trying to wash out the blood. “Should have known better than to trust that elf.”

“We really shouldn’t be surprised,” she said, plucking up her spear. She seemed to be quickly regaining her strength. “He lived up to his promise. He stuck by us until we endangered his life.”

“Still doesn’t make me feel any better about it,” Zed said. “Even Dalan wouldn’t have abandoned us like that.”

“Dalan would have remained behind on the airship,” Eraina replied.

“True,” Zed said.

“But, all details aside, that elf had better hope I don’t see him again,” Eraina said.

“Agreed,” Zed replied, laughing with relief that Eraina was all right again.

“These must be the caverns Shaimin mentioned,” Eraina said.

“And the prophecy that led the original cultists to their doom,” Zed added darkly. “We’re probably better off that we don’t know what it says.”

“You don’t read Draconic?” Eraina asked, looking at him in surprise.

Zed blinked. “Well, a few words,” he said. “Why? Can you read it?”

“Of course,” she said, looking mildly offended. “I was formally educated by the Church of the Sovereign Host. It’s one of a dozen languages in which I am fluent. Granted, this is an extremely archaic dialect. It’s nothing like the form that mages use to transcribe their journals, but I can read much of it.”

“So what does it say?” Zed asked.

“Nothing of any use to us,” she said. “This part is a fairly standard introduction, warning that those who trifle with destiny will be crushed beneath it, dark assurances that one cannot flee fate, that sort of thing. There’s a lot of that in the Prophecy. It does indicate that there is more elsewhere in the cavern.”

Zed looked over his shoulder at the rubble-choked hallway behind them. “Let’s hope it’s not that way,” he said.

Eraina looked around the cavern in thought. Tunnels led to the north and west. She drew the small metal case from her cloak and flipped it open, revealing a small compass. “We ran east from Fort Ash,” she said. “That would mean the keep is that way.” She pointed west.

“You intend to go back toward Marth’s army?” he asked.

Eraina snapped the compass shut and looked at him. “Well, we know these caverns open into the fortress somewhere,” she said. “That at least guarantees that we’ll find a way out. If we’re looking for a more significant passage of the Prophecy, that’s more likely to be directly under the fort as well. We can find out what drew Marth here and escape these caves at the same time.”

“Assuming we survive,” Zed said.

“All we can do is stay together,” Eraina said. “That’s worked for us so far.” She slid down off the island into the shallow water, leading the way deeper into the cavern.

Zed followed her, shrugging back into his dripping coat and shouldering the strap of his heavy sword. The gleaming runes continued to illuminate the tunnel just enough to find their way. They walked for several minutes in silence. The water gradually grew shallower as the tunnel sloped upward, until finally they walked on dry stone.

“Thanks, Eraina,” Zed said.

She looked back at him in surprise. “For what?” she asked.

“For believing in me,” he said.

Eraina smiled, seeming to understand what had happened. “If you were not strong enough to question your faith, the Silver Flame would never have chosen you as a champion,” Eraina said. “You just had to allow yourself to listen again. I have faith in you, Zed, and I have no doubt the Silver Flame has faith in you as well.”

“If you say so,” Zed said.

“You’ve been in darkness for years,” Eraina said. “Adjust to the light gradually.”

Zed grumbled but said nothing more.

Beyond them, the cavern broadened into another large cave. The Draconic runes covered the walls and ceiling here, filling the chamber in an eerie crimson light. Eraina walked out into the middle of the chamber, staring upward in amazement. Zed stood just behind her, throwing his wet coat over one shoulder. He glanced from her face to the indecipherable runes.

“What does it say?” he asked.

“It’s a continuation of the prophecy Tristam found in Zul’nadn,” she said. “It says, ‘The conqueror finds all that he desires in the City of Towers. There, the Legacy begins to remake the world. The sky falls around those who have betrayed …’ ” She frowned. “There’s more but it’s very strange.”

“Strange?” Zed asked.

“It’s difficult to describe,” Eraina said. She winced, as if reading the words brought her physical discomfort. “You know that Boldrei has gifted me with a heightened sense of the truth.”

Zed nodded.

“That is what bothers me now,” she said. “I read the words of the Prophecy … and all that I see are lies.”

“How is that possible?” Zed asked.

Eraina looked at him, then instantly looked past him. Her body tensed at the sounds of approaching footsteps on stone. Zed pressed one finger over his lips and hurried back the way they had come, gesturing for Eraina to follow. They ducked back into the shadows of the tunnel just as a small man in copper robes entered the chamber. An escort of two Cyran soldiers followed him.

“Leave me,” the man said, waving dismissively.

“Do you wish us to inform you when the captain intends to launch, Brother Zamiel?” one of the guards asked.

Zed and Eraina looked at one another in surprise. The traitor, Marshal Killian, had been working for a man named Zamiel. Tristam had also mentioned a mysterious prophet, Zamiel, who set Marth upon his path. This was the first time they had seen him.

“No,” Zamiel said softly. “I will know.”

The guards bowed reverently and departed. Zamiel moved toward the eastern wall, toward a section where the Draconic runes were clustered thickly. He knelt upon the floor and folded his arms in his robes, tilting his head back to study the writings.

“Wait here,” Zed whispered to Eraina.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Possibly something stupid,” he said.

Zed dropped his coat on the ground and moved quietly across the room, slowly drawing his sword from its scabbard. He moved behind the prophet, approaching him slowly. He was standing just behind Zamiel before the little monk glanced back in surprise. Zed grabbed the man by the collar of his robes and lifted him with his right hand, shoving him back against the wall.

“Don’t call for help,” Zed said, holding his sword so the monk could see it.

The prophet laughed. “Very well,” he said. “You must be the inquisitive who has been lurking about. Zed Arthen, is it?”

“I’m not very interesting,” Zed said. “Let’s talk about you instead. Who are you, and why are you trying so hard to light up the war again?”

“You wish to know of destiny?” the prophet asked. His copper eyes gleamed with zealous madness. “Did you learn nothing in these caverns?”

Zamiel grasped Zed’s right wrist and twisted with a horrible snapping sound. Zed cried out and staggered backward, releasing the prophet. Zamiel lashed out again, delivering a powerful backhand that threw Zed a dozen feet across the floor. Zed sat up, cradling his injured arm and looking for his sword. The prophet advanced on him, but as he moved, his form shifted. By the time he reached Zed, the thin prophet had transformed into a massive copper beast, filling much of the cavern. Long horns curled from a sharp, triangular face. Broad wings stretched from muscular shoulders.

“Khyber, not another dragon,” Zed said.

“Those who trifle with destiny,” Zamiel hissed, leaning over him and opening his fanged maw wide, “will be crushed beneath it.”

SEVENTEEN

Get that man off my ship immediately,” Pherris said. The gnome’s face was dark red with anger. His tiny hands were balled into fists at his sides.

Shaimin d’Thuranni looked down at Pherris with a polite smile as he climbed the rope ladder into the hold. He wasn’t really surprised. This sort of reaction was typical from those who had faced him and survived, few as they were.

“Don’t be so angry, Captain,” Shaimin said. “I apologize for my rudeness the last time we met, but circumstances deemed violence appropriate.”

The gnome glared at the elf, then turned toward Dalan as he climbed aboard the airship. “Dalan, this is outrageous,” Pherris said. “I’ve been quite willing to tolerate more than a fair share of your bizarre proposals in the past, but this is a danger to the ship that I cannot allow. This man is an assassin! He attempted to murder Tristam, Seren, and myself. How can you possibly invite his presence here?”

“I didn’t invite him,” Dalan said, turning to help Seren climb inside. “Tristam did.”

Pherris cast a wide-eyed gaze on Tristam as he followed her. “Master Xain, have you lost your mind?”

“I don’t like it either, Pherris, but we need his help,” Tristam said. “He says he isn’t trying to kill us anymore, and I believe him. He had ample opportunity down in Nathyrr.”

“I promise to be on my best behavior, Captain,” Shaimin said with an elegant bow.

“Shaimin has apparently had something of a change of heart,” Dalan explained. “He helped Zed and Eraina find Marth’s fortress in the Harrowcrowns. He has offered to do the same for us.”

“And where are Zed and Eraina?” Pherris asked, looking at the elf again.

“They were being killed by Marth, last I saw,” Shaimin replied, shrugging.

“What?” Gerith asked, looking from Shaimin to the others. The little halfling was devastated. “No …”

“I cannot believe we are even entertaining this option,” Pherris said, glaring from Dalan to Tristam. “The only thing we are certain of is that he cannot be trusted.”

“I’m with Captain Gerriman on this one,” Ijaac said gravely. “Even if the elf’s telling the truth, he’s already turned on Marth. In my experience, anyone who would betray his allies once will just as quickly do so again.”

This was quickly becoming boring. “Your ham-fisted analysis of my character is a waste of time,” Shaimin said. “Master Xain, do we have a deal or not? If you don’t wish to aid me, perhaps Captain Draikus would be willing to offer his assistance.” The elf turned back toward the bay doors, where the boarding ladder still dangled over the road.

“No, wait,” Tristam said, holding out one hand. “Captain, I’m not asking for Shaimin to stay any longer than needed to direct us to Fort Ash. It won’t be more than a few hours. I don’t even plan to let him out of sight.”

“If it helps at all, my apology was quite sincere,” Shaimin said. “I realize how trite it is for an assassin to tell you his attack was nothing personal. Matters of life and death are always personal to those involved. However, I truly meant you no undue harm.”

Pherris stepped directly before the elf, looking up with his hands on his hips. “No,” the captain said. “You threatened me because I was small, old, and weak. You threatened me because you were in a position of power and wanted to use me to get to Tristam. You would have killed me for no other reason because it was easy to do so.”

Shaimin frowned.

“Well, think of this, elf,” Pherris said. “You’re a long way up, and this is my ship. You may think you’re clever. You may think you’re even immortal—but you’re the one who’s weak here. If you endanger any member of this crew or even think about turning on us, Omax will hurl you over the side. I promise you, d’Thuranni, as strong as you think you are … he is stronger.”

Shaimin felt the sudden looming presence of the warforged behind him. The elf tried not to look uncomfortable. The constructs always unnerved him. Perhaps it was their lack of soft places to drive a dagger into if things went poorly. The elf counted himself lucky that he did not actually intend to betray Karia Naille’s crew—at least for now. He had no desire to fight the massive Omax. A heavy three-fingered hand gently clamped over Shaimin’s shoulder.

“This way, please, Master d’Thuranni,” Omax said coolly, leading him to the upper deck.

The crew gathered on the ship’s upper deck. The gnome climbed into his perch on the helm to watch Shaimin. Tristam paced in the bow, eyes searching the vast forest to the west. The halfling huddled in the corner next to his glidewing, hugging his knees to his chest in shock.

“Don’t believe what he says, Gerith,” Pherris said. “Don’t believe anything he says.”

“Now I know why Ashrem recruited zealots, sycophants, and criminals instead of heroes,” Shaimin said. “Dalan, your crew is altogether too sensitive for this sort of business.”

Dalan shrugged and tucked his hands into his pockets. He sat on a barrel near his cabin door with a grin. Shaimin wondered if d’Cannith was enjoying the unfamiliar sensation of not being the most distrusted person aboard the ship.

“Well, we’re all here now,” Tristam said. “Tell us what you know, Shaimin. Which way do we go?”

“And I am an elf of my word,” Shaimin said. “Turn your bearing northwest and stay parallel to the road by one mile. We should see his fortress in due time.”

“Aye,” Pherris said, turning to the ship’s controls. Karia Naille turned smoothly and soared off in the appropriate direction. “Master Snowshale, if you wouldn’t mind scouting ahead?”

The halfling nodded somberly, climbed onto his glidewing, and soared off over the forest.

“Truth be told, I’m a great deal more interested in the other information you offered,” Dalan said. “You said you knew where Marth planned to strike first.”

“Sharn,” Shaimin said.

“Khyber,” Tristam said. “Of course.”

“Sharn?” Ijaac repeated. “Is he after Norra?”

“If he is, that’s not his main goal,” Tristam said. “Sharn exists in a manifest zone, an area where the planes border very closely upon one another. The city’s connection to Syrania allows its artificers to build towers and floating structures that would otherwise be impossible.”

“If Marth activated the Legacy there, it could cause the entire city to collapse,” Dalan said.

“Why would he do that to all those people?” Pherris asked, horrified.

“Because he has become a madman,” Shaimin said. “He blames the surviving nations for the fate of Cyre. He believes the peace that now occupies Eberron to be an aberrant state. He wishes to reignite the War. The deaths he would cause in Cyre would only be the beginning of something much larger.”

“As insane as it sounds, it would work,” Dalan said grimly. “Sharn is a symbol of Brelish power, prestige, and prosperity. Were the city suddenly to be inexplicably destroyed, the entire kingdom of Breland would be thrown into chaos. The people would demand blood, demand vengeance, even if they weren’t sure exactly who was at fault. Old suspicions would flare into violence. The warmongers would have their day. Someone would be blamed—most likely Thrane, Aundair, or Karrnath. War would be upon us again.”

“I hope my motivations are somewhat clearer now,” Shaimin said stiffly. “Your personal opinions about my house and profession are irrelevant here. What kind of monster would I be if I condoned the murder of an entire city?”

“That isn’t going to happen,” Tristam said. “We aren’t going to let Marth do this.”

“Your defiance is admirable,” Shaimin answered, “but have you given any thought to what we intend to do when we find Fort Ash? The forest teems with undead, Marth’s guards have us terribly outnumbered, and then there is the matter of the Seventh Moon.”

“We’ve defeated the Moon before,” Pherris said.

“Narrowly,” Dalan added. “I don’t understand how Marth could have repaired her so rapidly. Tristam, didn’t you say you destroyed her elemental containment?”

Tristam nodded. “Marth must have removed the Dying Sun’s core and moved it into the Moon,” he said. “The Sun’s core really isn’t sufficient to deal with a ship that size. The Moon won’t be nearly as fast as we’re used to.”

“Small favors,” Pherris mumbled.

Tristam stopped pacing and looked directly at Shaimin. “How many undead did you see in the forest?”

“Dozens, at least,” Shaimin said. “Corporeal and incorporeal. They were apparently original residents. Marth has bound them to guard the forests beyond the fortress.”

“No,” Tristam said. “That’s impossible. Marth’s magic is powerful, but he’s no necromancer. He may be able to erect a ward to keep them out, but there’s no way he could command them to guard his fortress. Some of them would eventually wander off to seek prey.”

“Maybe they want to stay,” Ijaac said. “Remember, those ghouls at Zul’nadn haunted that temple for centuries.”

Tristam scratched his chin thoughtfully. “It’s possible,” he said. “I could see Marth using something like that to his advantage. I just wish I had some idea what sort of spells and infusions he used to produce that kind of effect.”

Shaimin coughed softly and took the Cyran badge from his pocket. He had intended to keep it for himself, just in case things went sour and he was forced to escape again. If Xain could put it to good use, perhaps he would never need escape in the first place. “Marth’s guards wear these,” Shaimin said. “As long as they remain near the road, whatever spells protect the fortress extend over them as well.”

Tristam eagerly took the badge from Shaimin, examining it for several moments. “This is very similar to the amulets the ghouls wore in Zul’nadn,” he said, amazed. “Instead of drawing upon ambient magical energy to bolster negative spirits, it draws upon it to repel them. Marth probably fashioned these after studying the undead in the Frostfell. I need to study it. It may give us the edge we need.” He hurried below deck.

“I’ll be in my cabin,” Dalan added, turning and opening the door. “Wake me if you need me. Or when things start catching fire.”

Shaimin sauntered toward the rear of the ship, doing his best to ignore the adamantine shadow that followed him. He glanced to his left and noticed Seren Morisse sitting on the ship’s railing, watching him quietly.

“Is there something I can do for you, Miss Morisse?” Shaimin asked, giving her an arch look.

“Did it really bother you so much?” she asked.

“Whatever do you mean?” he answered.

“Were you really so upset that you couldn’t kill Tristam that you had to give it one last attempt to prove that you could before you could ask for our help?” she asked.

“Yes,” Shaimin said, leaning back against the wall and lacing his fingers across his stomach.

“Don’t you think that’s a little childish?” she said. Her dark eyes burned with quiet, steady anger.

Shaimin couldn’t help but grin. “Of course,” he said. “But you must understand something, Seren. In my line of work, I have nothing more than my pride. Wealth is nothing. What use is political prestige to a killer? Maintaining a good reputation, while crucial, means very little if an assassin’s confidence wavers.”

“So you had to prove that you were Tristam’s equal?” Shaimin asked.

“Oh, I was always Tristam’s superior,” he said. “I could have killed the boy at any time. You were always the obstacle, Seren.”

“What?”

“You are quite lethal when you need to be,” the elf said. “Fired by your love of the boy, you fight quite fiercely. Sadly, when weakened by concern for him, you are vulnerable. Your killer instinct is somewhat delicate, too hampered by compassion. All the same, you have my respect. You have a great deal of potential.”

“As an assassin, you mean,” he said.

“Or a spy, informant, or even a simple thief,” Shaimin said. “With your looks and natural talents, you could be utilized in any number of intriguing endeavors.”

“Why would I want to be any such thing?” she asked.

“Why wouldn’t you?” Shaimin asked with a dark chuckle. “Imagine complete freedom from everything save the thrill of the hunt. As long as you perform adequately, your deeds will be well shrouded from the eyes of the law. There are worse fates, Seren. Such a life is not an option for everyone.”

“No, thanks,” she said.

Shaimin shrugged. “I predicted you would say no,” he said. “The memories of our past battles are still too fresh. You require emotional distance. Please give it some time. When you change your mind, I have already forwarded your name to House Thuranni. Should you ever seek training, contact Baron Elar in Regalport. He will see to you.”

Seren said nothing. She glowered at the elf.

“The choice is yours, naturally,” he said, “but there may come a day when you regret denying such an opportunity.”

“I’ve found it!” Gerith shouted. The wicked crack of his mount’s wings announced the halfling’s arrival on the deck. He pointed. “Straight ahead, there’s an opening in the forest. I saw the Seventh Moon.”

The ship soared higher over the trees. Below them, the stone fortress was now barely visible.

“Don’t come at them directly,” Tristam said, hurrying back up from below deck. “Stay low over the trees or they’ll see us as well.” His face was pale and the hand that still held the Cyran badge trembled. “I think I have an idea. Pull as close to the road as you can, but don’t let them see us just yet.”

Pherris nodded.

“Seren, Omax, Shaimin, come with me,” Tristam said. “We’re going down there. Pherris, I’ll send up a signal when we’re ready to get out of there.”

“Be careful, Tristam,” Pherris warned.

“We might need some additional distraction,” Tristam said.

“Aeven will do what she can,” Pherris said.

“Why so nervous, Xain?” Shaimin asked as he followed the artificer into the hold. “If you’re afraid that whatever plan you’re come up with won’t work, tell me now. I’ve no interest in going in there only to be chased out again.”

“That’s just it,” Tristam said, opening the cargo bay doors and lowering the ladder. “I’m afraid that it will work, but I couldn’t think of any other way to overcome Marth’s numbers.”

They climbed down the ladder, dropping to the beaten road below. Shaimin looked around for any sign that they had been seen, but he saw nothing. He didn’t like the idea of walking back into Marth’s fortress when they had an airship at their disposal, but from what he could discern while aboard Karia Naille, it didn’t even have weapons. How did they defeat the Seventh Moon in such a vessel?

“So I presume you want me to lead you inside?” Shaimin asked.

Tristam looked back at the assassin coldly. “Honestly, Shaimin, I don’t care,” he said. “You’ve already told us everything we needed to know. I just wanted you off my ship. Follow us and help if you want, or just stay out of our way.”

Tristam hurried off along the road, searching the trees for something as he ran. Shadows blanketed the trees as the sun began to set. While twilight offered cover, this was no place that Shaimin wished to be caught outside at night. Seren and Omax followed him. The warforged stared at Shaimin silently for a long moment. Though he couldn’t read the metal creature’s expression, he couldn’t help but feel that the creature pitied him. What a curious thing. A ravenous growl deep in the woods behind him threw Shaimin back into action. He hurried to catch up with Tristam.

Though the trees grew thinner as they approached the fortress, the forest grew darker. Catching a glimpse of the sky through the treetops, Shaimin saw dark clouds boiling above. A growl of distant thunder sent the forest’s upper limbs shivering.

“Storm should give us some cover,” Shaimin observed. “Fine timing for it.”

“Funny, isn’t it?” Tristam answered with a smirk.

Shaimin looked at the sky again. It certainly had all the marks of an unnatural storm. From what he had seen, Tristam was certainly not powerful enough to command the weather. That only left someone still aboard the airship. Apparently there was more to Karia Naille than he had suspected. Intriguing.

They gathered at the edge of the forest, away from the road. The gates of Fort Ash loomed to their right. Seren was studying the walls, looking for a safe place to climb. Since his earlier escape, Shaimin noticed that Marth had posted guards along the battlements.

“Not sure if I could hit him cleanly with a knife from here,” Shaimin said, studying the closest guard. “Even if I did, I can’t guarantee he wouldn’t cry out for help before dying.”

“No one asked you to kill anyone,” Tristam said. He reached into his coat, took out a small bottle, and handed it to the warforged. “Omax, do you think you could throw that far enough to break on the wall near that guard? It’s very fragile so it should break easily.”

Omax gauged the distance and shook his head quietly. He picked up a rock from the ground, smeared it with mud, and stuck the bottle to the side to give it enough weight for a proper throw. He hurled the stone at the wall, where it landed on the battlements with a faint tinkling. A plume of barely visible pink smoke could be seen. The guard quickly marched over to investigate the sound, stumbled, and fell unconscious on the wall.

“Perfect,” Tristam said.

Omax absorbed the praise without comment. He uncoiled the thick rope and grappling hook that he carried over his shoulder, hurling them over the wall. The hook caught with a clank, and Omax tugged to make certain they had purchase. Seren quickly climbed up the rope, followed by Tristam, who had slightly more difficulty.

“You are next,” Omax said, looking at Shaimin.

“After you,” the elf replied.

“I am the heaviest,” Omax said. “I should go last, in case the rope does not hold.”

Shaimin regarded him suspiciously.

“Best climb before the rain begins and slicks the rope,” Omax said. “Or before the ghouls arrive. Your flesh would suit their tastes better than mine, I think.”

Behind them, the slavering sounds of curious undead grew slowly closer.

“Fine,” Shaimin snapped, climbing up the rope. There went his last hope of quietly sneaking away. While the elf accepted that he needed Tristam and the others to stop Marth, he had hoped merely leading them here would be enough. He didn’t relish the idea of being so close to a former assassination mark for long. It was simply unprofessional. Those sorts of people always held a grudge, and even Shaimin couldn’t watch his own back forever.

When Shaimin reached the top, he found Tristam crouched at the inner edge of the wall, studying the courtyard intently.

“What are you looking for, Tristam?” Seren whispered.

“Trying to find the focus of the ward network that protects Fort Ash from the undead,” Tristam said. “It offers some protection to the road as well, so it must be visible from the gates.”

“There,” Shaimin said, pointing. “It would be just like Marth to use that as a symbol of protection.”

“Of course,” Tristam said. He concentrated on the enormous Cyran crest that hung above the fortress gates. “That crest is radiating a powerful abjuration dweomer. I can sense it, even from this far away.”

“So what happens next?” Shaimin asked.

“Be ready,” the artificer said, looking at the sky. “This will be tricky. After the soldiers are distracted we’ll need to rush aboard the Seventh Moon. Hopefully we can destroy the Legacy before Marth can escape.”

Above them, the storm erupted. Rain scoured the stone walls of Fort Ash. Lightning forked across the sky. Thunder exploded with a deafening report. Tristam drew his wand from his coat and pointed it at the gates.

When Shaimin realized what the artificer was about, a wicked grin spread across his fine features. He wouldn’t have expected such a thing from Xain. But for several moments, Tristam hesitated, as if uncertain if he could go through with it. Finally, a bolt of white lightning erupted from the wand, sizzling through the air and shattering the Cyran crest. Cries of alarm erupted within the fortress, but they were quickly drowned out by the sudden chorus of vengeful shrieks and tormented moans from the forest. Shaimin looked over the wall into the forest. Dozens of shambling and ghostly creatures lurched toward Fort Ash.

“Tristam, what have you done?” Shaimin asked, bemused.

“Those undead are compelled to haunt these ruins,” Tristam said. “Marth forced them out with his magic. Now that magic is gone, so they’re going back where they belong.”

“And when they find the living have taken up residence in their haunt, they’ll react most violently,” Shaimin said. “And you called me a monster? You’re a surprisingly bloodthirsty lad, Master Xain.”

The guards on the walls had drawn bows and were loosing randomly into the forest. None of them seemed to realize the lightning that struck the gates had not come from the sky. Down in the courtyard, the fort’s gates quickly ground closed. Undaunted, many of the attackers began to scale the walls, ragged claws finding easy purchase in the stone.

A pack of ghouls huddled around the gates suddenly parted at the arrival of a spectral figure. The ghost had the thin face and long, slender ears of a half-elf. It wore the flowing grey robes of a priest, embroidered with Draconic symbols. When the ghost arrived, the other undead ceased their actions and moved out of its path. It passed effortlessly through the gates. A few moments later, the gates ground slowly open and the undead flooded into Fort Ash.

“We can’t wait any longer,” Tristam said. He took the magical flare from his pocket and fired it into the air, tracing an arcing plume of sparkling green smoke through the sky above Fort Ash.

The artificer hurried down the steps into the courtyard. All around them was chaos as the Cyrans fought the undead. A pack of ghouls scuttled hungrily toward them, but Tristam scattered them with a blast of magic. A pair of confused guards stood at the airship’s gangplank, uncertain whether to stay and fight or flee aboard the vessel. Omax charged at them before they could ready their weapons, seizing one guard by the belt and hurling him into his partner, sending both flying off the ramp in a tangle. They charged onto the ship to find several soldiers on the deck already in combat. A half dozen of the undead had scaled the hull and were invading the ship. One guard opened his mouth to cry out as they boarded, but Shaimin silenced him with a swift knife to the throat.

“This way,” Tristam said, pushing open a hatch and descending below deck. “We have to hurry before—”

A lurching sensation passed through the Seventh Moon. Searing red flame ignited the air, surrounding the ship’s hull in a perfect circle. Marth’s warship slowly heaved herself into the sky.

They were trapped.

“Khyber,” Shaimin swore under his breath. He should have run when he had the chance.

EIGHTEEN

In his lifetime, Zed Arthen had seen his share of battles. Many brushes with death numbered in his memory. He’d had his share of battle scars from close scrapes. Even during his time as a champion of the Silver Flame, when his god had protected him from the adverse affects of fear, he had sometimes been afraid he would not live to see another day.

At no time in his entire life, however, could he recall being more terrified than at this moment. He knew part of that he couldn’t help. Dragons, by their very nature, radiated magical fear. Even if you didn’t want to be afraid, you couldn’t help but be afraid. His training as a knight had shown him how to identify that sort of fear, and he definitely felt that now. It felt somewhat redundant, though. Facing down a beast hewn from tons of muscle, scales harder than steel, and fangs that could slice through stone would have been terrifying with or without magic.

Zed cradled his broken arm against his body as he tried to push himself away across the floor. His sword lay on the cavern floor, just out of reach. It wouldn’t do him much good anyway. He could barely wield the weapon in one hand, much less fight. The dragon loomed over him, wings lazily fanning the air. In the light of the Draconic runes, Zamiel’s copper scales glinted blood red. The beast was more than forty feet long, its serpentine body filling over half the cavern.

“Paladins,” Zamiel said, showing long fangs in a twisted sneer. “Why is it always paladins that cause so much trouble?”

“I think you’re a little confused,” Zed said. “I’m not a paladin.”

“Liar,” the dragon replied. It lashed out with a claw, pinning Zed to the floor. “I can smell the stink of the Silver Flame upon your soul. How did you find this cavern, mortal? Who sent you here?” The dragon flexed just a bit, digging one claw deep into Zed’s shoulder.

In the midst of his terror and pain, something sparked in Zed’s mind. Why wasn’t he dead already? Why would a powerful dragon care enough about a random intruder to interrogate him like this? What in this cave was so important? It had to be the Prophecy. But why did Zamiel care who had sent him?

Because Zamiel was afraid. The dragon was afraid that someone had discovered him—someone that could hurt him. Zed couldn’t imagine such a creature being afraid of anyone on Karia Naille like that. What had he stumbled on?

Zed mustered up a smug grin. “Who do you think sent me?” he asked, bluffing as hard as he could. He wasn’t sure where he was going with this. He just hoped he was giving Eraina enough time to get away.

“Do not trifle with me, mortal!” Zamiel shrieked. “Who told you of this cavern?” The creature leaned forward, placing a bit more of its weight against Zed’s arm and chest. The inquisitive grunted in pain.

“It’s too late for you,” Zed said. “I’ve seen what I need to see and passed the message on. Even if you kill me, they know what you’re doing. They won’t be long.”

The dragon’s eyes narrowed into slits. Zed sensed he had pushed too far. Zamiel was no longer buying what he was selling.

“And what, precisely, am I doing?” the dragon said in clipped tones.

Zed scowled. “Planning to destroy Sharn,” he guessed, though he knew as he said it that there had to be more than that.

The dragon blinked. His grip loosened and he took a step back to stare down at Zed. “Is that all you know?” he said, chuckling darkly. “You must have stumbled in here by mistake. To think I was concerned.”

“You’ve altered the Prophecy,” he added.

The dragon’s eyes narrowed in hatred. “And you will die like the others who learned too much.”

Zamiel’s chest filled out as it took in a deep breath. Zed lunged for his sword, lifting the huge weapon feebly in one hand. He closed his eyes and whispered a short prayer, asking the Silver Flame to protect the Mourning Dawn.

A flash of golden light erupted behind the dragon’s head. Zamiel reeled, stunned, as Eraina called upon her goddess and smote him in the back of his neck with her spear. The creature shrieked and lurched to swat her away, but she had already leaped free. She pulled Zed to his feet and ran, dragging him back the way they had come. They stumbled into the tunnel, running as swiftly as they could down the slope. The water was much deeper than it had been before.

“You hurt him,” Zed said.

“Not badly enough,” Eraina said, “and I won’t get that chance again. Run!”

Behind them, they could hear the dragon roar in impotent fury, unable to pursue them in his current form. Zamiel sucked in air for a mighty breath again. Zed grabbed Eraina and dove under the surface, pulling her down just as the cloud of acid washed over them. He felt his face tingle and burn as the dragon’s toxic saliva mixed with the water, but he was otherwise unharmed.

They emerged again in the chamber where Eraina had awakened. The cave was also swiftly filling with water, streaming down the walls from above. The earthy smell of rain filled the cave. An open tunnel still led to the north, offering uncertain escape. The passage to the west, toward the chapel, was still choked with rubble. Eraina began wading to the north, but Zed stopped her, seizing her by the arm and dragging her to the western tunnel. She looked at him in confusion, but he didn’t say a word. He clambered among the rubble and dropped under the water. Realizing what he was about, she followed.

Under the water, Zed pulled his long smoking pipe from his pocket, poking it through the surface to breathe. He took a few breaths, then handed it to Eraina, who winced at the smoky taste of the air before handing it back. They both held very still, moving just enough to pass the pipe.

After half a minute, another person clambered into the flooding chamber. Zed couldn’t see it clearly through the dark water, but it could only be Zamiel, returned to his human form to pursue them. He barely even paused before charging down the north tunnel. Waiting nearly another minute for him to leave, Zed finally emerged from the water. Eraina rose beside him, doing her best not to cough.

“We don’t even know what’s down that way,” Zed said, “but we know Fort Ash is the other way. Let Zamiel think he’s chasing us while we get out of here.”

“What do you think is down that way?” Eraina asked.

“Let me see your arm,” she said.

“No time,” he said, clutching his injured limb against his body.

“Zed,” she said more urgently. “Stop before you hurt yourself permanently.”

He sighed and relented, recognizing that to continue arguing against her was pointless. Eraina leaned close, holding his forearm gingerly. Her fingers suddenly tightened and he heard a quick snap. Zed winced and bit his lower lip to keep from screaming.

“You could have told me you were going to set it,” he rasped.

Eraina smiled demurely and splinted a shaft of wooden debris to his arm. “We can fix it properly later, after I’ve had time to rest.”

“Fine,” he said. He tucked his injured arm into his shirt as an improvised sling. “We have to get back to Fort Ash as quickly as we can. This cave is flooding fast, and I have a feeling there’s one good reason a sudden storm like this would have happened.” Zed looked at her meaningfully.

“Aeven is here,” Eraina whispered.

“Let’s hope,” he said.

They hurried through the flooding cavern as quickly as they dared. They reached the cavern where Zamiel had revealed himself and passed beyond into the tunnel from which he had come. The natural stone cavern ascended, becoming hewn stairs. Eraina drew her short sword and led the way carefully as they emerged into a stone cellar filled with barrels and crates. A flight of wooden stairs led the way to a closed door. There were no guards to be seen. The raucous sound of the thunderstorm resounded through the fortress, along with the clash and cry of battle.

“What’s going on out there?” Zed asked.

As if in answer, the cellar door burst open, nearly falling off its hinges from the force of it. A hunchbacked ghoul clambered out onto the stairs, sniffing the air eagerly. It threw back its head and gave a piercing cry. Three more of the wretches joined it on the stairs. Eraina held out her holy symbol and shouted in Boldrei’s name. The creatures shrieked and scattered. One withdrew, cowering behind the doorway. The other three tumbled off the stairs and scurried into the shadows beneath. Eraina ran up the stairs, Zed barely a step behind. She lashed out with her sword as she emerged through the doorway, keeping the last ghoul at bay. Zed slammed the door behind them and looked up.

The Seventh Moon now hovered above the courtyard, her elemental ring burning angry red. The ship moved much more ponderously than Zed remembered. Even from here, he could see soldiers fighting on the deck above, struggling to expel the undead that had invaded their ship. He searched the sky, but could see no sign of Karia Naille. Undead continued to burst through the gates and climb over the walls. The defenders of Fort Ash were fighting a losing battle.

“There’s nothing we can do to stop the Moon from down here,” Eraina said. “We have to escape.”

Zed pointed at a stable on the far side of the courtyard. The ghouls and specters had not yet invaded it. “Will your goddess forgive us if we steal a couple of horses to get out of here?” he said.

“I think she may take our circumstances into consideration,” Eraina answered, pushing past him toward the stable.

The instant Eraina unlatched the door, the horses began to whinny and kick at their enclosures. The animals could sense the unnatural creatures outside and were terrified. She quickly moved toward the two nearest steeds, soothing them with a few whispered words and calming them enough to accept saddles. Zed, feeling useless with his broken arm, stood in the shadows of the door and kept watch. Strangely, none of the Cyrans had moved toward the stable at all. None of them even seemed to be making any effort to escape, other than the ones aboard the Seventh Moon.

Either Marth’s soldiers were entirely confident that they would emerge victorious, or they were willing to die to the last man to repel the invaders. Whatever the truth, the time to leave was long past. Eraina led the two horses out of their stalls and handed Zed the reins of one. He eagerly climbed up into the saddle. The animal shifted from foot to foot, as impatient to be gone from this place as he was.

With a short cry, Eraina kicked her steed into a gallop and led the way out of Fort Ash. They ran as quickly as they could, before the undead could gather their wits to attack or the Cyrans realize that they were intruders. In seconds they had escaped the city walls and flew off down the road toward Nathyrr.

“Where is Karia Naille?” Eraina called out as they rode. She searched the sky desperately when the canopy allowed.

“She must be here somewhere,” Zed said. “All of that back there couldn’t have been a coincidence.”

“If she is here, she isn’t in time to stop the Seventh Moon,” Eraina said. “Marth is already on his way to Sharn.”

Zed nodded grimly.

“So what do we do next?” Eraina asked.

The sound of approaching horsemen drove them off to hide in the underbrush. Zed watched the road, expecting to see more Cyran soldiers. His eyes widened in surprise. A platoon of Thrane knights rode down the road, led by a warrior with a familiar banner.

“Draikus,” Zed said.

“The Thrane are working with Marth?” Eraina asked.

“No,” Zed said, shaking his head. “For all his faults, Draikus is no traitor. He wouldn’t ally himself with a man like Marth.”

“Then what is he doing here?” she asked.

“Maybe he followed us?” Zed offered, though he didn’t know how that could be possible. Zed frowned.

“I recognize that look,” Eraina said. “You have a plan—one that you know that I will dislike.”

“Actually,” Zed said. “I’m just scowling because I don’t like this plan. I’m about to suggest we do what I hate most.”

Eraina studied him for a long moment. “Ask for help?” she guessed.

Zed nodded.

NINETEEN

It was strange how, after all her adventures, something like running through the passageways of a renegade airship while the crew battled a hostile invading force in the middle of a rampaging magical storm just ended up feeling strangely familiar to Seren. Maybe she was becoming too jaded.

“The ship’s elemental housing chamber is this way,” Tristam said, leading them deeper into the ship. “We can disable the Seventh Moon the same way we did last time.”

“But this time Karia Naille might not be here to catch us,” Seren warned.

“Try not to think about that,” Tristam said. “I saw life rings up on the deck. Maybe we’ll have time to run up and grab one. Their enchantments are usually strong enough to carry a few people float safely to the ground at one time. Most of the time.”

Shaimin glanced behind them uncomfortably. “You say this is how you disabled the Seventh Moon last time?” he asked.

“Almost exactly what we did last time,” Tristam said. He reached for the door of the containment chamber.

“Wait, Tristam,” Shaimin warned, but he spoke too late.

As Tristam opened the door, several hatches opened in the hallway behind them. A dozen Cyran soldiers stepped out, aiming crossbows at them. Marth waited patiently in the chamber beyond, amethyst wand in one hand. The walls of the housing chamber were still blackened with smoke from Tristam and Marth’s last battle here. The ship’s old core was a shattered husk. The glass half of the floor was still shattered, creating a yawning void between Tristam and Marth. The airship had ascended so high that the land below was only partially visible through the pouring rain.

“Hello, Tristam,” Marth said.

“You were expecting us,” Tristam answered.

Marth sighed. “Throughout this adventure I have suffered terribly for underestimating you, Tristam,” the changeling said. “Now you have some understanding of how I feel.”

“You moved the ship’s core,” Tristam said.

Marth shrugged. “When I rebuilt her, yes. After going to all the trouble to repair Kenshi Zhann, why leave her vulnerable to your sabotage again? Not to mention I wasn’t looking forward to cleaning this room anyway. You truly made a mess of this place.” He looked at the shattered floor and scorched walls with distaste.

“Are you going to kill us?” Shaimin asked.

“I should,” Marth said. “Two weeks ago I might have. Difficult to say. Now, things have changed. None of you are any further danger to me, and you’re about to replace me as pawns in a larger game. So I leave the choice to you. Drop your weapons and return to the main deck. I shall explain everything that is about to happen.”

“I’ve already heard your rhetoric, old friend,” Shaimin said. “I’ll take my chances with the storm before I sit through it again.”

The elf took a step forward and fell through the gaping floor. Tristam instinctively lunged forward to catch him and would have fallen out himself if Omax had not quickly seized his arm. He was too late. Shaimin was gone. Under any other circumstances that might have been a relief.

“Count on an elf to opt for the dramatic ending,” Marth said. “The rest of you, please drop your weapons and surrender to my soldiers.”

Tristam dropped his wand. He heard Seren drop her dagger as well. A guard stepped forward and pulled his wrists behind his back, binding them with coarse rope. Another did the same with Seren, while yet another produced thick manacles to bind Omax. Seren cast him a confused look, which he returned in kind as they were led to the upper deck. This didn’t make sense. Why was Marth allowing them to live?

On the upper deck, Cyran soldiers were just dumping the last of the fallen undead over the side. Others carried their fallen brethren below deck. Tristam tried not to look at them. Though they were enemies, the guilt for what he had done to invade their fortress weighed heavily upon him. It seemed especially pointless now. Their deaths had been for nothing.

Marth emerged from a door on the opposite side of the deck. His pale eyes searched the storm curiously. “I would have thought Karia Naille would have come for you by now,” he said. “Every time she appears in my life, there is always a storm. How do you manage that, Tristam? You are no Lyrandar. Surely weather control is beyond your simple talents.”

Tristam didn’t say anything. He glared at the changeling and took some satisfaction that he knew something Marth did not, for once. Seren and Omax stood to either side of him. The guards stood in a half-circle around them, keeping their crossbows ready.

Marth sighed. “I suppose it is irrelevant. Captain Gerriman knows better than to challenge me directly. Your ship’s speed may be greater, but my weapons will tear her from the sky.”

“The Mourning Dawn defeated you before,” Tristam said.

Marth sneered. “You understand nothing, Xain,” he said. “Let me show you something.”

The airship banked and made a wide turn. Far below them, Tristam could see Fort Ash, awash with turmoil. Cyran soldiers and undead monstrosities tore into one another on the walls, in the courtyard, and even in the forest beyond. Marth drew a small sphere of shimmering black glass from the pocket of his silken vest. He cupped it in one palm and closed his eyes, slowly drawing the tips of his fingers in a circle over its surface.

“My apologies, Omax,” Marth said. “I always admired you, but you brought this fate upon yourself.”

A sensation of bitter cold washed over the deck of the Seventh Moon. Lightning flashed through the air around them, leaving the smell of burnt ozone. Tristam felt a strange, numb sensation fall over him as his ability to sense magic began to ebb. Beside him, Omax groaned in pain and fell to one knee. The blue light in his eyes flickered.

“You’re using the Legacy?” Tristam said, looking at Omax in horror. “You’ll kill him!”

“The irony stuns me,” Marth said. “It is acceptable for you to unleash an army of horrors to murder my followers, but I should not kill one of yours to protect them? We are not as different from one another as you like to believe, Tristam.”

A shockwave of energy rippled out from the Seventh Moon, washing over the forest and castle below. Above them, the clouds parted as the storm melted away in a perfect sphere around them. As the Legacy’s effect passed over the land, the undead … stopped. The ghouls and zombies fell dead where they stood. The ghosts were simply no more. The Cyrans stood dumfounded in their fortress, weapons at the ready. After a few moments, Tristam could hear the distant sound of their cheers.

“Stop,” Tristam said, as Omax toppled, leaning forward on one shoulder. “He’s dying.”

“Then remember Omax’s death,” Marth said. “Take vengeance on the one responsible once I am gone. I do not shirk responsibility for what I have done or what I am about to do—but there is another who shares in my crimes.”

“What are you talking about?” Tristam demanded.

“Leave us,” Marth said, looking to his men.

“Captain, is that wise?” the closest soldier replied.

“You heard me,” Marth repeated, glowering dangerously. “Leave us.”

Omax slumped facedown upon the deck. Tristam wanted to go to him, to help him, but he knew at this point there was nothing he could do. He looked at Seren helplessly. She stared at Marth with murder in her eyes.

“We are pawns, all of us,” Marth said, pacing the deck. “Zamiel drew upon Ashrem d’Cannith for his expertise, but Ashrem’s morality grew burdensome. It was Zamiel who warned Ashrem of the Day of Mourning, knowing that he would rush to his death trying to stop it.” Marth frowned.

A flicker of movement near the bow of the ship caught Tristam’s attention, but he kept his eyes focused on Marth. A slim figure in dark clothing climbed over the rail of the ship and quickly darted behind a stack of barrels. Shaimin. The elf waved at Tristam and ducked back into his hiding place. How was it possible? Then again, Tristam hadn’t seen any trace of the elf falling. Could Shaimin have clung to the Seventh Moon’s hull and climbed his way back up to the deck?

“Zamiel drew upon me because he knew I was weak,” Marth said. “I was easily twisted by my petty bloodlust and thirst for revenge, especially once Cyre was destroyed. I fear soon the time will come when I am of no further use for him either.”

“And why is that?” Tristam asked.

Marth laughed. “Do you not realize already?” Marth said. “What did you see in Zul’nadn, Tristam?”

Tristam said nothing.

“A vision?” Marth asked. “A dream of yourself seizing up the Legacy and using it to change the world?”

Shaimin darted between the clutter on the ship’s deck, moving closer. Tristam nodded at Marth, trying to keep the changeling’s attention.

“That vision was not a true part of the Prophecy,” Marth said. “This is what he does. He uses the Draconic Prophecy to cloak his own schemes. Men will do foolish things if they believe it to be their destiny. Meanwhile he uses illusions to feed your ego, to convince you that you are doing the right thing. Zamiel guides mortals, but only as long as it suits his purposes. The vision in Zul’nadn was created for you, as was that illusion of Ashrem in Metrol. You were to be my successor once my association became problematic. But Zamiel erred with you, as he did with me, for he does not understand the impulses that drive mortals to do foolish things. He did not expect you to progress so far so quickly. Because of that, I saw what I was not meant to see. I know that I have been used. We have been used.”

“How did Zamiel err with you?” Tristam asked.

“He did not expect me to follow my master into Cyre,” Marth said. “He was forced to go there and save me. The prophet did not realize that I loved Kiris.”

“I watched you kill Kiris, Marth,” Seren said.

“Zamiel spent years twisting me against her, building suspicions, feeding my paranoia.” The changeling’s scarred face twisted in disgust. “Now that I have some inkling of what he is, I cannot believe the things I have done. He is no man. He is something very old and powerful. Something intimately connected with the Legacy, though he does not understand it well enough to rebuild it himself. Perhaps artifice requires some natural talent he simply does not possess?”

“If he needs you so much, then there’s your answer,” Tristam said. “Stop. Dismantle the Legacy. Set us free. Disband your army and turn yourself over to the authorities for your crimes.”

“No,” Marth said. “It is too late for me, Tristam. I have gone too far, done too many terrible things. At least with the Legacy in my hands, I may yet do some good, even if in so doing I aid Zamiel’s mysterious agenda. When Sharn falls, the rulers of the Five Nations will recognize that this world of peace is an aberration.”

“You’re still a madman,” Tristam said.

“And how many lives have you ended in your crusade to stop me, Tristam?” Marth said, gesturing at the ruined fortress below them. “Tell me, where is the line that legitimizes the deaths you have caused and demonizes mine?”

“You started this, Marth.”

“What a childish answer,” the changeling said. “Perhaps I am going about this the wrong way. If Zamiel truly sees you as my successor, educating you of the danger he poses is perhaps not the most logical route. Perhaps I should just cast you over the side and leave his plans stillborn.”

“At this point I think that would be preferable to hearing you speak any more,” Tristam said.

Marth laughed. He flipped the amethyst wand end over end in his hand and strode across the deck toward them. Green fire crackled from its tip.

“Unfortunately for you, my magic still functions properly within the Legacy’s aura,” Marth said. “My magic is attuned to the fires that empower it.”

“So is mine,” Omax growled.

The warforged lunged forward from the deck, slamming his shoulder into Marth’s chest. A shield of magical energy crackled around the changeling, protecting him from harm, but the sheer force of the blow sent him flying backward, through the hatch from which he had emerged.

Tristam stared at Omax in surprise, barely able to understand what had happened. Had using the Karia Naille’s elemental core to save the warforged’s life made Omax immune to the Legacy’s dark power?

Before he could ponder further, Shaimin rushed out to them, slicing through the ropes that bound Seren and Tristam. He held out one of the ship’s life rings so that each could grab an end. Omax, still chained, gripped his end awkwardly behind his back. Shaimin sliced the cord that activated the life ring’s enchantment and nodded sharply.

Before Marth could gather his senses and climb back onto the deck, Tristam and the others jumped over the side.

TWENTY

Karia Naille rode high in the storm, circling above the Seventh Moon. She was just out of sight among the clouds but near enough to dive in rapidly if needed. Pherris Gerriman watched the flaming red ring below with a nervous eye. Tristam had already fired one flare, signaling he was preparing to board the ship. The second flare, signaling he was ready to be pulled out, never came. Now the Moon had taken flight, though she didn’t seem to be doing much at the moment besides hovering over Fort Ash.

Pherris’s stubby fingers drummed nervously on the ship’s helm. In the bow of the ship, Aeven watched him with an enigmatic smile. She was always content when communing with the elements, even during the most dire circumstances. The storm playfully whipped about the dryad, causing her blond hair to dance in the wind.

“Karia Naille is worried for her sister,” Aeven said. “Albena Tors’s elemental has been forced into an unfamiliar ship and altered in ways she does not understand. She is confused, angry, and unhappy. She is not used to controlling a vessel that size and is hurt by the things Marth has done to her.”

“So then Marth stripped the Dying Sun of her core and used it both to repair the Seventh Moon and complete the Legacy,” Pherris said.

“Yes,” Aeven said.

“Good and bad news for us,” Pherris said. “If the elemental is upset, it’ll probably have problems controlling the ship.” He continued drumming nervously on the ship’s controls.

“Pherris, be calm,” the dryad said. “Your anxiety does nothing to help them.”

“I know,” Pherris said bitterly. “I am proud to name patience as one of my virtues, but I find myself less and less able to abide this each time it happens.”

“Abide what, the waiting?” Ijaac asked. The dwarf huddled against the galley door, as far from the edges of the ship as he could get. He made a point of not looking down, or up, or anywhere else that reminded him he was very high above the ground in a terrible storm. “I hate waiting. Especially waiting in the air.”

“The waiting doesn’t bother me as much as the uncertainty,” Pherris said. “One of these times, I fear there won’t ever be a signal and we won’t see Tristam again.”

“Just like what happened to Zed and Eraina,” Gerith said morosely. The little halfling was huddled in a corner. Blizzard crouched beside him, absently preening one wing while his master grieved. Glidewings did not excel at offering comfort.

“Nonsense,” Pherris said. “I won’t believe they’re dead until I hear it from a source more reliable than a murderous elf assassin. I think it’s more likely they got into trouble and Shaimin d’Thuranni abandoned them.”

“I want to believe they’re alive as much as you do, Captain,” Ijaac said. “But if Zed and Eraina aren’t dead, then where are they? How do we find them?”

“They’re alive, and that’s all that matters,” Pherris said stubbornly. “I can’t give up on them till I know for sure.” The gnome’s voice choked, almost imperceptibly, on the last word.

“I was sorry to hear of Haimel Gerriman’s fate,” Dalan said softly. The guildmaster stood at the ship’s starboard rail, studying the castle below. “My uncle always spoke highly of your son. He was a good friend and, if the tales of his exploits during the war were true, quite the hero. I cannot imagine how such a loss must feel.”

Pherris glared at Dalan, expecting some subtle mockery. Instead, he saw the man look at him with an expression of genuine sympathy. The rare gesture of support shocked Pherris. “Thank you, Master d’Cannith,” he said. “Fathers should not outlive their sons.”

“Since the day I first set sail as owner of Karia Naille,” Dalan went on, “I knew that the only reason you remained captain was because you believed you might find him one day.” Dalan smirked. “Call me selfish, but in a strange way I have always been grateful to Haimel for giving you a reason to stay on. No other captain could have taken us this far. I only hope now that you’ve found what you seek that you stay on for a while.”

“It’s been my life’s privilege, Master d’Cannith,” Pherris said. “If we get through this alive, I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be than on Karia Naille.”

“Marvelous,” Dalan said.

Pherris’s moustache twitched. He gave Dalan a shrewd look. “Though if I’m as good as you say, perhaps we could renegotiate my salary.”

Dalan’s eyes widened. “That is … something better left discussed at a later time.”

Pherris cackled softly. Actually seeing Dalan d’Cannith caught flat-footed was nearly payment enough. That was a rare treasure he’d keep as long as his memory lasted.

A sudden shift in the storm brought Pherris’s attention back to the matter at hand. He looked back down at the Seventh Moon, still hovering high above Fort Ash. A shockwave of white energy had erupted from the vessel. Pherris looked toward Aeven. The dryad had slid from her position next to her figurehead and curled on the deck.

“It’s starting,” she moaned. “The world is dying again.”

“Captain Gerriman!” Dalan exclaimed.

“I know, I know!” the gnome said, working the ship’s controls frantically. “Everyone hold on! Gerith, take care of Aeven!”

The halfling scrambled to the trembling dryad’s side. A wave of cold washed over the Karia Naille. The storm faltered.

“What’s going on?” Ijaac shouted, frantic. The dwarf still resolutely refused to look over the side.

Pherris steered the Karia Naille about and took her higher and deeper into the storm. Beneath them, the pulsating sphere of energy washed over Fort Ash and the Harrowcrowns. Pherris knew that the Legacy couldn’t harm the ship but was unsure if Tristam had finished the modifications that would protect Aeven from its power. He couldn’t take the risk.

“What about Omax?” Gerith said. “He’s still down in that!”

Pherris said nothing. He hated leaving the warforged behind as much as Gerith did, but there was nothing else he could do. He just had to hope that Tristam had found a way to protect them.

Then again, if Tristam had succeeded, the Legacy would never have been activated. Pherris tried not to think about that. He couldn’t let himself believe that this was it, that this was the time that Tristam and the others wouldn’t return. If he made that compromise he wouldn’t be able to help when they did need him. He wouldn’t give up on them until he knew they were dead.

Pherris risked a glance down at the Seventh Moon. The flaming red circle had not moved. The storm had dispersed. Everything below was peculiarly still. In the bow, Aeven had recovered somewhat and sat up beside Gerith.

“It has passed, for now,” she said, her voice a dry whisper.

“Damn it, Tristam, what’s going on down there?” Pherris said.

The Seventh Moon began to move, patrolling slowly over the Harrowcrowns. Lightning lanced from its bow, tearing into the forest periodically.

“Marth is looking for something,” Dalan said. “He’s trying to flush Tristam out. No doubt his soldiers are searching the woods on foot as well.”

“Want me to fly down and see what’s going on?” Gerith asked.

“Absolutely not,” Pherris said. “There’s no more cloud cover, nowhere for you to hide if the Moon spots you.”

“Good,” Gerith said. The halfling jumped over the side. His glidewing caught him in midair. They circled gracefully downward.

Instants later, the Moon began directing her blasts in midair. The ship started off at greater speed, lightning firing erratically.

“Fool halfling,” Pherris growled. “What are you doing?”

He realized Gerith was trying to lead Marth away. A split second later, a plume of magical fire below them marked Tristam’s signal. Pherris pushed the controls hard, turning the airship into a swift and powerful descent. Ijaac groaned miserably and climbed down into the hold. Dalan, sensing the rough ride ahead, disappeared into his cabin.

Pherris knew Marth would see Karia Naille as soon as she descended from the clouds; he was gambling that the Moon’s elemental was as stubborn and difficult as Aeven believed. As the ship circled lower, he saw four figures running along the road, waving frantically. The Moon had finally caught sight of them and was slowly turning about to pursue. Pherris swooped down over the road as close as he dared. The ship’s keel strut almost scraped the earth. Tree limbs lashed the ship’s deck. Karia Naille left a trail of smoking trees and singed grass in her wake as she pulled to a halt in front of Tristam and the others.

Ijaac threw open the bay door and hurled out the ladder. Pherris heard the bay doors close just as the Moon came into range. He flew her just over the road, skimming the forest for cover. Lightning streaked past them, blazing between the ship’s hull and the lower half of her elemental ring. Before the Seventh Moon could fire a second time, Karia Naille had gained speed and altitude, placing her well out of range. Rather than pursue them, the Moon turned and gained speed as well. The silver warship soared away through the sky to the west.

“Marth is leaving,” Pherris said, watching the ship soar away.

“He’s headed for Sharn,” Tristam said, climbing onto the deck. Seren, Shaimin, Omax, and Ijaac followed. Dalan emerged from his cabin. Gunther poked his head out and sniffed the air tentatively, then vanished back inside to his warm dog bed.

“What do we do?” Ijaac asked. “As slow as she is, her lightning will still rake us out of the sky if we try to give chase.”

“We don’t have to give chase,” Pherris said. “We can beat him to Sharn easily at the speed he’s flying.”

“We could muster aid when we arrive,” Dalan said. “I have a number of contacts on the City Council. He’ll arrive to find half the Brelish military waiting for him. They’ll blow the Moon out of the sky before he even has time to activate the Legacy.”

“What would you tell them, Dalan?” Tristam asked. “How would you get anyone to move quickly enough to help us without telling them what the Legacy is?”

“The time for secrecy is past, Tristam,” Dalan snapped. “Two hundred thousand lives hang in the balance, and countless more if this foolish act of terrorism ignites a new war. What does it matter if the Legacy’s secret is exposed, as long as we destroy it?”

“Because a weapon like that could do even more damage than Marth is planning and we both know it,” Tristam said.

Dalan bowed his head, conceding the point.

“There has to be a better way,” Tristam said. “We just need time to think of it.”

“What can we throw against an airship that can destroy all magic?” Ijaac asked.

“Another Legacy,” Pherris said.

Tristam frowned thoughtfully.

“Maybe Norra has found something,” Seren offered.

“Maybe,” Tristam said, though he was unconvinced. He looked down at Fort Ash. “Maybe there are more answers down there. Those undead were protecting something.”

“Marth said the caverns beneath Fort Ash contained the Prophecy,” Shaimin said.

“Do we really have time to gamble on this?” Dalan asked. “Need I remind you that Fort Ash is still heavily guarded by Cyran mercenaries?”

“I agree with Dalan,” Pherris said, unsettled by the admission. “We can’t afford to waste time while Marth is on his way to Sharn.”

The discussion was suddenly suspended as Blizzard alighted noisily on the deck. Gerith leaped from the saddle with a triumphant squeal. “Take us down, Captain!” he shouted, excited. “Take us down near the main road!”

“Gerith, calm down,” Pherris said, annoyed. “What are you talking about?”

“They’re alive, Captain!” Gerith said. “Zed and Eraina are alive—and they brought an army with them!”

TWENTY-ONE

This had better not be a waste of our time, Arthen,” Captain Draikus said coolly.

“Draikus, I wish I were lying,” Zed said. “Besides, you just happened to be patrolling out here today anyway, isn’t that right? Some coincidence.”

Draikus gave a tight smile. “I received a lead on some mercenary activity in the Harrowcrowns,” he said. “There are only a few old ruins that could house that scale of operation, thus I was on my way to investigate them. I am unsurprised to see that you are involved.”

“Why is that?” Zed asked.

“My informant is an old associate of yours,” Draikus said.

Zed blinked in surprise. Dalan was here? If so, then where was the Mourning Dawn? The inquisitive scratched his right forearm absently. He still wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or suspicious that the Captain had healed his broken arm personally. Looking back at the column of Thrane soldiers that now followed them to Fort Ash, he supposed grateful was the more sensible option.

“I don’t know what’s going on out here, Arthen,” Draikus said, “but you are fortunate that the Sentinel Marshal vouches for you.” Draikus led his horse past Zed’s, not sparing the inquisitive a second glance.

“I know you dislike him,” Eraina said, moving her horse beside Zed’s, “but he is not an evil man. He serves his god, as you once did.”

“He’s dangerous,” Zed said. “Too proud and boorish. He does stupid things without thinking them through.”

“Like you,” Eraina said.

“Exactly,” Zed said, looking at her seriously. “Following that sort of person is dangerous.”

Ahead of them, the storm over the Harrowcrowns was swiftly dying away. Zed wondered what that meant. Was the battle over already, or had Aeven simply dispelled her storm? A cold wind washed over them, followed by a burnt electrical smell. Zed felt a sickly sensation in the pit of his stomach. Marth was using the Legacy.

“What sorcery is this?” Draikus gasped, looking back at Zed and Eraina. “I cannot sense the Flame!”

Zed realized, to his surprise, that he could no longer sense the Silver Flame’s presence either. He hadn’t really noticed its return. It was, as Eraina said, as if it had never truly left. Now the Legacy had silenced his god’s voice again.

“This is a temporary effect,” Zed said. “It should fade in time.” He hoped it was the truth. The only time he had felt the Legacy’s power before was Marth’s experimental prototype over Stormhome. What if the effects produced by the final version were permanent?

“Damn it, what are you leading us into, Arthen?” Draikus said. “First you tell me a dragon and an army of Cyrans are occupying the nearby ruins. Now this … whatever it is. If there really is a dragon in the Harrowcrowns, how are we supposed to fight it without the Silver Flame’s blessings?”

“Faith,” Zed said, pushing his horse on.

Draikus watched Zed in angry silence. The other knights and soldiers mumbled uneasily among themselves. Draikus turned upon them. “Keep marching!” he roared, drawing his sword and lifting it in the air. “For Nathyrr and the Silver Flame!” The soldiers immediately complied, pushing onward despite their fear and doubt.

“He has a commanding presence,” Eraina observed. She watched Draikus circle the assorted soldiers, moving them into line, redirecting their fear from the unknown enemy to the captain who would punish them mercilessly for any sign of cowardice.

Zed frowned. “Just because he’s good at yelling at people? That doesn’t make him a leader.”

“I think I know why you dislike this man so much,” Eraina said.

“Don’t say it,” Zed said. “I’m serious.”

“He reminds me of you,” Eraina said.

Several thunderous reports in the forest cut off Zed’s angry reply. Plumes of smoke rose from the treetops ahead.

“They’re going to burn the whole damned forest down before we even get there to stop them!” Draikus shouted, urging the soldiers to a quicker pace.

A dark shadow passed overhead. Zed looked up, afraid it might be the dragon. Instead he saw the Seventh Moon, flying steadily away to the west. That was almost as bad.

Marth was already on his way to Sharn.

“That looked like a Cyran warship,” Draikus observed with growing unease. He pushed the soldiers onward to greater speed, nearly galloping through the forest.

They drew up short at the edge of the tree line. Marth’s fortress loomed above them. The bodies of the forest’s undead guardians lay unmoving on the earth. The gates hung open at an awkward angle.

“What is this place?” Draikus demanded. He stared horrified at the rotting corpses.

A flicker of movement at the gates drew their attention. Several of the Thrane soldiers drew crossbows and held them ready. A column of Cyran soldiers emerged from the ruins.

“Hold!” Draikus commanded.

“They are unarmed,” Eraina said, surprised.

Draikus nodded, watching them keenly. He gestured to his troops, which fanned out to surround the approaching soldiers. The Cyrans stopped ten paces away, then knelt on the earth with their hands folded behind their heads.

“They are surrendering?” Draikus asked, looking at Zed. “This seems too easy.”

“We’re already too late,” Zed said. “The real danger just escaped in that airship. Marth is gambling that we will take the extra time to capture his men alive.”

“Unfortunately, he is correct,” Draikus said. He turned to face his soldiers. “Take the Cyrans as prisoners. Doran, organize a watch of a dozen men and keep them under guard while we explore the ruins. Neiran, hurry back to Nathyrr and procure wagons so that we can transport the prisoners back to the city.”

The men hurried to obey their commander.

“Is this the same Draikus who asked me what use mercy was against enemies who see mercy as a weakness?” Zed asked.

Draikus glared at Zed. “Would you rather I murdered them?”

“No,” Zed said. “Actually, I’m impressed. For once this is the sort of hypocrisy I can support.”

Draikus opened his mouth to utter an angry retort, but the words died in his mouth. He bowed his head, clasping the silver amulet that hung about his throat. Several of the other Thrane soldiers did the same, mumbling soft prayers to the Silver Flame.

“I can feel Boldrei’s blessings again,” Eraina said, awed. “The Legacy’s effects have passed.”

Zed watched in confusion for several moments before he felt something as well. A warm, reassuring presence seemed to fill his soul. He thought he could hear the sound of roaring flame in the distance, swiftly growing closer. The sound was familiar.

Then the Karia Naille appeared above them, her elemental ring burning a brilliant blue. Zed stared blankly for a long moment. A part of him had never expected to see the airship again. To see her now was such a relief that he could not help but laugh.

“What now?” Draikus said, swearing under his breath and drawing his crossbow. “It looks to be another Cyran ship, but she bears no markings.”

“No, no, don’t attack them,” Zed said quickly, pushing Draikus’s crossbow down. “These are friends.”

The airship descended to hover above them. The bay doors opened and a rope ladder spilled out from above. Tristam, Seren, Omax, and Ijaac climbed down. Gerith flapped to the ground beside them.

“Zed, Eraina, you’re alive!” Seren said.

“You seem surprised,” Zed said.

“Shaimin told us you were dead,” Omax said.

“Shaimin?” Zed said, spitting out the name with a low growl.

“I hope these are friends,” Tristam said, looking at the Thrane soldiers cautiously.

“Arthen is not under arrest today,” Draikus said. “I am Captain Kaivar Draikus, Knight of the Silver Flame.”

“Tristam Xain of the airship Karia Naille. These are my friends, Seren Morisse, Omax, Ijaac Bruenhail, and Gerith Snowshale.”

“Karia Naille?” Draikus asked. His lip curled in a sneer. “The Mourning Dawn. I know that name. That’s a Cannith ship, isn’t she?”

“We all have a great deal to talk about,” Zed said, stepping between Tristam and Draikus, “but we should secure this area first.”

Draikus studied Zed gravely for several long seconds, then grunted his assent. Zed allowed himself to breathe. Draikus had been remarkably helpful and understanding, given the strange circumstances, but all of that would quickly change if he realized the man who owned the Mourning Dawn was the same d’Cannith who had exposed Therese Kalaven’s war crimes.

“We need to hurry out of here,” Zed said, heading toward the Mourning Dawn’s ladder. “We have to stop Marth before he reaches Sharn.”

“Wait, Zed,” Tristam said, turning toward the fortress. “We don’t entirely know what we’re up against, but there might be answers here.”

“We can come back after we save Sharn,” Zed said.

“And if we rush into this unprepared, we’ll have no chance,” Tristam said. “There are passages of the Prophecy in the caves underneath this fortress. I need to know what they say.”

“If we don’t hurry,” Zed said, “Marth is going to kill a lot of people.”

“Do you think I don’t realize that?” Tristam said. “There’s something deeper going on here, Zed. Sharn is only part of it. Zamiel has manipulated everything from the very beginning—driving Ashrem to recreate the Legacy, sending him to his death in the Mournland, twisting Marth into a deranged murderer; even our own part in this was engineered. I have to know what he is and why he’s doing this before we play into his hands again.”

“Zamiel is a dragon, Tristam,” Zed said. “We only narrowly escaped him in the caves earlier. He tried to kill us when we discovered the same caverns you’re talking about.”

“The Prophecy within the cavern is nothing but lies,” Eraina said. “Zamiel has changed the Prophecy somehow to suit his own ends. I can only assume he must have done the same at Zul’nadn.”

“A dragon?” Tristam replied, genuinely surprised. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would he want to unleash the Legacy? A dragon is a creature of magic. Its effects would kill him.”

“I don’t know,” Zed replied. “I only know what we saw. He was bigger than the one that chased us in the Frostfell.”

A faint tremor passed through the ground beneath them. Zed frowned and glanced up at the trees. The upper branches swayed gently even though there was no wind. Something was shaking them from their roots. The sound of cracking stone erupted from deep beneath them. The earth rumbled. A cloud of billowing dust suddenly rose from the depths of Fort Ash. The walls of the castle shook violently.

“Withdraw!” Draikus shouted, backing away from the walls. “The ruins are collapsing!”

The soldiers quickly complied, swiftly moving away from the crumbling fortress. Their prisoners moved with them, watching in stunned silence as their home fell in upon itself. In a matter of moments, it was done. Fort Ash lay in ruins. After a few tense moments of silence, an explosion of earth and stone erupted from the center of the ruins. A long, sinuous shape broke from the earth, climbing into the sky on immense bat wings, unleashing galeforce winds over the forest. Its reptilian body shone with brilliant copper scales. It soared into the clouds and was seen no more.

“The prophet,” Tristam said, amazed.

“I guess Zamiel doesn’t want us reading his prophecy after all,” Ijaac observed.

“Damn,” Tristam said. “I just wanted some answers.”

“You’re not the only one.” Captain Draikus cleared his throat loudly, drawing their attention. “Dragons, Cyran mercenaries, the Prophecy, and a plot to attack Sharn? I would appreciate it if someone fully explained to me what is happening.”

Tristam looked at Draikus. Zed could see the fear in the boy’s eyes. Tristam was afraid for the secrecy of their mission, worried that if the Thrane found out about the Legacy, it might fall into the wrong hands.

“Draikus, could I have a moment alone to speak to Tristam?” Zed asked.

Draikus regarded Zed suspiciously. “I will not allow you and your friends to play games with the security of my people.”

“Our people,” Zed said. “I’m still Thrane, Draikus. Even after all that’s happened, do you think I would do anything to place our homeland in danger?”

The knight stared into Zed’s eyes. “I suppose not,” Draikus said. “But be swift.” He stepped away brusquely, shouting commands to his confused soldiers.

Zed gripped Tristam’s sleeve and pulled him to one side.

“What do you think you’re doing, bringing him into this, Zed?” Tristam whispered. “He’s a Knight of Thrane. You know what could happen if the Five Nations learn about the Legacy.”

“Tristam, think,” Zed said. “This is bigger than any of us. This can’t stay secret anymore.”

Tristam’s eyes widened. “What are you saying, Zed?”

“Think about it, Tristam. Secrecy is what’s been killing us from the very beginning,” Zed said. “We’ve always moved cautiously because we’re afraid the Legacy would fall into the wrong hands. When I looked into the dragon’s eyes, I knew what a terrible mistake we had made. Secrecy only serves to help Marth and Zamiel. I don’t think the Legacy could possibly be in worse hands than it is now. Zamiel doesn’t care that we know what he is anymore because it’s too late to matter. Marth’s on his way to destroy an entire city and reignite the War. We’ve been outnumbered from the start because we were afraid to trust anyone. If we hadn’t been so damned paranoid, maybe things wouldn’t have gotten this far. Marth knows that when he destroys Sharn, the Five Nations will blame one another, but his entire plan would have been impossible if people knew the truth all along. If Sharn dies, Tristam, we share the responsibility for what happens afterward. We were so arrogant we believed we were the only ones worthy enough to stop him. We were wrong.”

Tristam’s shoulders slumped as Zed’s words sank in. “So what do we do?” he asked.

“We tell Draikus what’s going on,” Zed said. “That way if we fail, and Sharn falls, at least someone will know. Maybe if Draikus tells enough people the truth, at least Thrane won’t be stupid enough to get involved with this war because of one madman’s actions.”

“But what about the Legacy?” Tristam asked, folding his arms tightly across his chest. “We can’t let its secret get out.”

“That part is still up to us,” Zed said, clasping the artificer’s shoulder with one hand.

“So,” Draikus said, approaching them. “What have you decided? I hope what you have to say is illuminating. I suspect our prisoners will be difficult sorts to interrogate.”

“I’ll tell you as much as I can, Captain Draikus,” Tristam said, “but we don’t have much time—and I’m not sure if you’ll believe me.”

“Try,” the Captain said, glancing up at the sky where the dragon had vanished. “Today you might find me unusually credulous.”

TWENTY-TWO

Cold winds tore at Zamiel’s scales as he plummeted toward the Harrowcrowns. Acidic steam curled from the dragon’s nostrils. He gasped for breath, his mighty chest heaving against the thin air. His wings stiffened and snapped open wide, steering his massive body into a gentle glide. The earth grew rapidly closer. As a small clearing moved into view, he silently willed his draconic form away.

The prophet fell to his hands and knees as he became human once again. His limbs trembled as pain surged through his body. Memories flooded his soul. He remembered an army of dragons soaring through the young skies of Eberron on scaled wings of a dozen different hues. He remembered the demonic horde that marched across the plains, staring up at the impudent draconic invaders with hateful eyes. He remembered the power that wracked the earth and sky as it tore through demon and dragon alike. He was the power, surging through both armies. His breath tore the flesh from immortals. His touch burned impure beings from reality itself. The feeling was incredible, and with each being that died, a part of their being added itself to his. Bit by bit, he awakened. Bit by bit, he came into being.

The memories faded, buried under the weight of eons.

The prophet returned to himself, awakening to the present. His long fingers curled in the mud left behind by the recent storm. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, waiting for the agony to pass. Magical power wracked his being, setting his limbs trembling. No matter how many times the Legacy was unleashed, the pain never ceased to strike him as it did now. Though he despised the weakened state in which it left him, he welcomed the pain. It reminded him of how much closer he drew to his goal. Such was the price of power.

Zamiel’s eyes narrowed into slits as he looked to the north. A distant plume of smoke curled above the forest. Destroying Fort Ash had been, admittedly, a somewhat cathartic experience. It was not the first time he had been forced to do so, but in the past, it had always been due to failure. This time, it was a simple matter of expedience. Mortals were such easily distracted creatures. With the Prophecy still resonating deep in the caverns beneath Fort Ash, they might have spent forever pondering its mysteries. At this stage of the game, such things served only as distractions. He no longer needed the Prophecy. All had been set into motion.

If Marth should somehow fail at this point, time was still on the prophet’s side. He was, after all, timeless. He could retreat where even the Mourning Dawn would never discover him. He would wait until his enemies were dead. He would wait until the mortals forgot about the caverns beneath Fort Ash. He would return to clear the rubble and steer some new prodigy to their discovery.

Even so, the idea disgusted Zamiel. He had waited so long to reclaim what was rightfully his. He had seen so many fools attempt to grasp the secrets and fail. Ashrem had come closer than any before, and Marth was a worthy successor. Tristam, if he performed as predicted, would complete the cycle once Marth had fallen. This time, there would be no failure. The anticipation was driving him mad.

And that disturbed him. Over the ages, he had learned the value of patience. He accepted victory and failure in equal measure, for time was always on his side. He had waited lifetimes and watched nations rise and fall. The fulfillment of his dreams had seemed within grasp many times before, but never did he allow himself to presume victory. What was so different now?

The prophet rose, clasping his hands into fists within his sleeves. With a whispered spell, the dirt fell away from his hands and garments. Zamiel composed himself and surveyed his surroundings. He was almost disappointed that no one had noticed his descent. He yearned for a reason to strike down a few of those smug paladins, as senseless as it would have been.

Perhaps he had simply grown disgusted at the state of this world. Conflict had always been the defining attribute of Eberron’s existence. Good fought evil. Chaos struggled against law. Nation struggled against nation. Yet now, the denizens of this world struggled against order. As much as the Five Nations still mistrusted and despised one another, none of them truly wished for another war. The majority of Eberron’s inhabitants seemed, for the time being, to desire peace. The idea unnerved him. It was simply unnatural. At least there were those, like Marth, who could easily be turned to seeing things his way. Zamiel would return Eberron to a state of conflict—it would be his parting gift to the world.

In the distance, he could hear men shouting to one another. That would be the Thrane knights, searching the rubble for clues or survivors. Zamiel ignored them. Everything of importance in Fort Ash had been buried, and his Cyran allies were of no further use. The Thrane would enjoy their illusion of victory, grow bored, and leave in good time. They did not matter. The two who had discovered him were long gone from here, aboard the Mourning Dawn.

The prophet scowled. That was another thing that was quite different from before. In the past, none of his pawns—ally or enemy—had come close to discovering the truth about him. He had never expected Tristam to find Zul’nadn so soon, let alone destroy it. The two paladins had been another unexpected wrinkle. They had escaped knowing more than Zamiel intended to reveal. Marth, he suspected, had begun to discern the truth as well. Was the prophet’s fear of discovery leading to his impatience, or was his impatience leading to unprecedented mistakes? Perhaps mortals were simply growing more difficult to predict? Perhaps he was simply too set in his ways.

Such meandering thoughts were pointless. What was done was done, and what his enemies had learned could not be unlearned. Zed Arthen and Eraina d’Deneith would almost certainly misunderstand what they had seen—or at least comprehend the truth too late. Marth would not betray Zamiel now—he could not betray him now—he had descended too deeply into madness. He would not stop until Sharn lay in ruins.

Marth’s success was unavoidable now—even if he died, the prophet’s ends would still be met. All that remained now was for Zamiel to prepare for the inevitable results.

The prophet whispered words of magic and took a step forward. The world rippled and faded around him. The tall trees of the Harrowcrowns were replaced with a gaping canyon paved with brittle shards of bleached white. The hollow eyes of gigantic inhuman skulls glared down at him. Twisted spires clawed toward the sky on each side of the rough path where he stood. A low, mournful wail hung upon the air though no wind moved the prophet’s robes.

Zamiel walked forward, looking up at the ancient, massive expressions with a strangely wistful expression. Some of them were almost familiar to him. He traced the fingers of one hand along a large rib protruding vertically from the earth. This place was at once comfortable and alien to him. Soon, all of this would end.

He felt a sense of dread and was bewildered by the feeling. For countless ages he had sought his destiny, but now that it was close at hand, he was strangely afraid. The prophet realized that had become too comfortable in this state of existence. He had almost come to enjoy the pursuit, the endless quest to complete himself. Now that victory was so near at hand, he was uncertain what to do.

The sound of shards of bone sliding against one another drew his attention. Zamiel chided himself once again for such pointless musings. He peered up at the shambling hulks lurching through the shadows beneath the bony towers. Their formless bodies oozed over the terrain, pushing showers of shattered bone in their wake. The earth itself softened and oozed out of their path. Dozens of bloodshot eyes and misshapen mouths gaped upon their putrid flesh. Rotten teeth chewed the air. A pitiful gibbering sound rose as they approached.

Zamiel winced, irritated at the sound. The gibbering tried to gain a foothold in his mind, to drive him mad. Zamiel ignored their feeble magic. Much like the bones, these creatures were oddly familiar to him. While the ancient remains inspired a sense of nostalgia, these mindless beasts simply disgusted him.

“This is all that remains of Khyber’s proud empire?” Zamiel said, deep voice echoing across the bony waste. “Where once a demon horde ruled this land, now only their mindless beasts lurch across the earth, seeking vermin to devour?”

The surging heaps of flesh moved toward the source of the voice. There were half a dozen of them, pushing one another out of the way in an effort to be the first to feed on this intruder. The prophet’s lip curled and his form flickered as he shifted back into the shape of a great copper dragon. The gibbering mouthers paused. Some fragment of their demented minds recognized the creature they now faced, and they were afraid.

Zamiel exhaled a cloud of boiling acid across the bleached path. The black liquid flowed over the aberrations, searing into their bizarre forms. Their gibbering changed to anguished shrieking, pitiful screaming, and finally—silence. In moments, the cloud dispersed. The creatures of Khyber had been reduced to smoking heaps of melted flesh. Zamiel returned to his human form and continued on his way, stepping carefully over their remains and paying them no further mind.

He explored for nearly an hour before finding what he sought. Zamiel occasionally heard more aberrations, hovering at the boundaries of perception. They gave him no more trouble, hurrying from his path each time he moved toward them. Even their simple minds now perceived the danger he represented, but they followed him nonetheless.

The prophet found what he sought near the center of the canyon, near a particularly large skull. Zamiel climbed onto its broad snout and seated himself between its gaping sockets. He extended one hand, reaching toward something in the air that only he could sense. There was nothing to see, nothing to smell, no obvious sign at all that this place was different from any other. Yet he knew this was it. His hand drew back sharply as he reached a certain point in space. He hissed and clasped his fingers as if he had burned himself.

Reality felt thin here. It was as if there was a wound in existence. Zamiel felt it, the tear between worlds left behind by the same ancient battle that created this graveyard. Zamiel grinned and folded his arms in his sleeves. He concentrated, extending his senses into the anomaly, probing, and sensing. He felt a terrible, shuddering pain deep within himself as the jagged boundaries between worlds sawed against his soul. He felt surging power, just out of reach. He felt a terrible, unknowable intelligence lurking just out of reach. The Timeless.

As Zamiel reached for that power, he felt it reach back toward him. He sensed that it did not comprehend what he was but that it wished to know. It wished no longer to be alone.

“Soon, my friend,” Zamiel whispered in a soothing voice. He knew the other could not hear, but it pleased him to say it.

Zamiel sensed the barrier between them, holding firm. But this time, he saw the cracks. It would not be long. He was almost strong enough. This was where everything had begun. This was where everything would end.

It was only a matter of time.

TWENTY-THREE

The Mourning Dawn soared across the night skies of Khorvaire, traveling as swiftly as she dared. For days they had sped across Breland without any pause, wasting no time in their pursuit. Tristam stared straight ahead, tense with impatience and worry. He knew that Marth now had nothing to lose. The changeling had no home to return to. From the way Marth had spoken earlier, Tristam suspected that he did not intend to survive his attack on Sharn. No doubt he would fly the Seventh Moon as swiftly as he dared—for she would never need to fly again. This was their last chance to stop him.

A shimmering haze was barely visible on the distant horizon. That would be the lights of Sharn, glowing in the night. Tristam hoped that they had moved swiftly enough. At one time, the Seventh Moon had been a much swifter ship than the Mourning Dawn over such long distances. With the Dying Sun’s elemental now powering the ship, Tristam truly had no idea how quickly Marth could reach Sharn.

Perhaps Zed was right, and they had been foolish to keep the Legacy a secret for so long. Tristam’s thoughts drifted back to Nathyrr. Captain Draikus seemed an honorable man, though he obviously disliked Zed. Tristam wondered what might have happened between the two men, but that was irrelevant at the moment. The Thrane paladin had listened intently to Tristam’s story, then urged him to hurry to Sharn with the Silver Flame’s blessings. He had even volunteered his soldiers to assist them, but the Mourning Dawn could not fly as swiftly as she needed with a large crew.

Tristam’s greatest regret in telling Draikus of their quest was that he had not trusted anyone sooner. Marth had counted on the fact that by attacking Sharn, the paranoid rulers of the Five Nations would blame one another. Old fears and hatreds would ignite into violence. The peace of the last few years would swiftly be forgotten. If they had not struggled to keep the Legacy’s existence secret, Marth’s entire plan would have been impossible. Tristam cursed himself for his stupidity.

At least now there was a chance. Even if they failed, perhaps someone in Thrane would listen to Draikus. Maybe the war could still be avoided.

Aeven sat on the ship’s rail beside her figurehead, guiding the winds that drove them onward. Her eyes were closed in deep concentration. Shaimin d’Thuranni stood nearby. He leaned nonchalantly against the rail and watched her, as he did quite frequently since boarding the ship in Nathyrr. Tristam looked at him curiously.

“Of all the possibilities,” Shaimin said, “I never suspected a dryad.”

“What are you talking about?” Tristam asked.

The elf grinned. “When I was hunting you, I sensed powerful magic protecting this ship. My careful observations revealed little about its nature, so I simply avoided boarding the Mourning Dawn altogether. I would never have guessed that you bound a fey spirit to your vessel. Incredible.”

“Aeven is not bound,” Tristam said. “She remains here of her free will.”

“Don’t say anything else, Tristam,” Zed said. The inquisitive emerged on the deck, hands stuffed in his pockets, smoke curling from the tip of his pipe. He glared coldly at the assassin. “Don’t give him anything. Let him wonder.”

“Zed?” Tristam asked, confused.

“I know how your mind works, Thuranni,” Zed said. “Everything is a job to you. Right now, you’re replaying different scenarios in your head. You’re wondering if, knowing what you know now, you could have breached this ship’s defenses. You might even be wondering if you could kill Aeven, if you had to. You’re wasting your time, d’Thuranni. I can tell you how that would go.”

“Impressive,” Shaimin said, sneering. “Your skill as an inquisitive is so great that you can see into another’s thoughts? Who are you to judge me, Arthen?”

“Someone who has dealt with your kind more than anyone should ever have to,” Zed said.

“My kind?” Shaimin asked.

“The kind that doesn’t belong on this ship,” Zed said.

“I find your tone boorish and insulting,” the elf replied. “You would speak to me in such a way when you need my help?”

“No,” Zed corrected. “We needed you back in Nathyrr, and you abandoned us. You gave your word you would help, ran at the first side of trouble, and then told everyone that Eraina and I were dead.”

“You’re overlooking the part where I saved Tristam and the others from the Seventh Moon,” Shaimin said coolly.

“I’m not keeping score here,” Zed said. “You can’t cancel out a betrayal by turning around and helping us. That doesn’t make you a friend—it makes you an unpredictable liability.”

“Oh please, Arthen,” Shaimin said, chuckling. “Did you really expect me to remain behind with Marth’s army chasing us? Dying beside you would have served no purpose. How was I to know you would escape such an impossible situation?”

“I guess someone like you wouldn’t,” Zed said. “You underestimated me. And that’s how things would play out in that little scenario you were running through your head. If you attacked Aeven, you’d just underestimate us again. Like you underestimated me. Like you underestimated Seren. You’d make a mistake—like you always do—but this time I’d kill you. So put it out of your head, elf. You’re wasting your time thinking about it.”

Shaimin gave a tight, bitter smile. “Thank you for your opinion, Arthen,” he said. “I shall note that accordingly. In the meantime, I don’t care how you feel about me. Dalan has given me permission to remain here, and this ship is his property.”

“Dalan’s good will carries you only so far with me,” Zed said. “If I think you’re up to anything, I’ll toss you over the side.”

“And I’ll bank the ship to help dump you off,” Pherris said from the ship’s helm. “Count on that.” The gnome looked at the elf in silent hatred. Tristam was taken aback; he’d never seen Pherris look at anyone like that before. The captain obviously hadn’t forgiven Shaimin for humiliating him in Stormhome.

The elf’s handsome face paled slightly. He glanced to one side, studying the long drop to the Brelish plains below. He offered a brief bow. “Perhaps I shall retire to my cabin for a time,” he said. “Things seem a bit tense up here.”

The elf sauntered across the deck and climbed down into the hold. All the while, his cold eyes never left Zed’s. Dalan’s cabin hatch opened as the elf disappeared. The guildmaster sighed uncomfortably as he stood beside Zed. Dalan’s shaggy dog followed, slumping on the deck beside his master and nestling his muzzle between his paws.

“Taking him along was a foolish risk, Dalan,” Zed said grimly. “You caution us all along that we should never let knowledge of the Legacy fall into the wrong hands and then you invite that killer into our confidence.”

“Bringing Shaimin along is no more a risk than telling our entire story to that Captain Draikus,” Dalan replied. “Not that it matters at this point. The Legacy’s secret is not nearly as dangerous as it once was. Shaimin, in his peculiar way, is as trustworthy as a knight. A Thuranni is at least predictable. I would wager that even when Shaimin abandoned you, he did not break whatever promises he made.”

“He swore our lives and honor were safe in his care, so long as his was safe in ours,” Zed said.

“So when you led him into danger, he left,” Dalan said with a chuckle. “I’m surprised you let him get away with such a promise. It has loopholes large enough to fly this airship through.”

“I realized that at the time,” Zed said. “We were desperate. Honestly I think I would have settled for ‘I promise not to kill you.’ We needed help that badly.”

“Then why waste energy being angry at Shaimin?” Dalan asked. “He only acted to save himself. You have only yourself to blame if you expected more.”

“I take it personally when people leave me to die,” Zed said.

“If Zed has grown accustomed to allies who would risk themselves on his behalf,” Pherris said, looking back at Dalan, “I would hardly count that as a weakness, Master d’Cannith.”

“A noble way of looking at things,” Dalan said. “I prefer to be more realistic. Shaimin d’Thuranni may be a self-centered murderer, but he knows Marth better than most of us. He is a worthy ally who could easily become a dangerous enemy. When we finish this, he’ll be out of our lives. Please don’t toss him over the side because of your bruised ego, Arthen. I don’t need his cousins hunting me in revenge.”

Zed scowled.

“How long until we reach Sharn, Captain?” Dalan asked.

“No more than an hour,” Pherris replied.

Dalan sighed. “I hope you have a good plan, Master Xain,” he said. “This ship still has no weapons. It would be tragic for us to follow Marth all this way only to watch him blast us from the sky.”

Tristam nudged a large barrel with his foot and lifted the lid. It was filled with several small clay bottles. “Alchemist’s fire, in pressurized flasks,” Tristam said. “When thrown against a solid surface, they should explode. If we can get close enough to the Moon, they’ll give us an edge against Marth’s lightning.”

“What about the Legacy?” Zed asked. “Won’t it just neutralize them?”

Tristam shook his head. “Magic is a necessary component in their creation, but they aren’t inherently magical,” he said. “They’ll explode even if the Legacy goes off right next to them.” He carefully replaced the lid. “Just be careful. The bottles are somewhat fragile.”

Zed and Dalan both took an unconscious step back. Pherris cast the barrel a wary glance from his place at the helm.

“That isn’t all I’ve been working on, either,” Tristam added. “When I fought Marth over Nathyrr, he was carrying a black sphere like the one Norra gave me back in Zul’nadn. It acted as a remote focus for the Legacy’s power but protected him as well. It allowed him to use his own magic. I couldn’t study the effect for long, but I think I’ve been able to duplicate it.” He reached into his coat and drew out two small black glass spheres. “Aeven, one is for you.”

The dryad looked at Tristam in surprise, then peered at the sphere suspiciously.

“Please,” Tristam said, offering it to her. “Hold it close, and the Legacy won’t harm you.”

The dryad took the sphere gingerly, clasping it between her small hands. “Thank you,” she said in a soft voice.

“The other one’s for Omax?” Zed asked.

“For me,” Tristam said, tucking the sphere back into his pocket. “Omax doesn’t need one. He was immune to the Legacy’s effects over Fort Ash.”

“How?” Dalan asked.

Tristam hesitated, running one hand through his unkempt hair. “I’m really not sure,” he said. “It has something to do with using the ship’s containment core to repair him. Somehow, a part of the Legacy’s power remained with him.”

“What about Eraina?” Zed asked. “I don’t suppose you had time to make crystals for her as well?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Tristam said. “I made Aeven’s first since she would die without one.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Zed said, shrugging. “A paladin who can’t cope without his magic is no paladin at all.” Tristam couldn’t help but think that Zed’s expression was faintly amused.

Tristam chewed his lip in thought, then turned suddenly to face Dalan. “Dalan, what did you mean earlier?” Tristam asked. “When you said the Legacy’s secret is not nearly as dangerous as it once was?”

“Precisely what I said,” Dalan said. “The Legacy was a terrible danger to the world because it was unknown, unpredictable, and unstoppable. Now we know that its power is not absolute. The Mourning Dawn proved immune, and now you claim you can protect others as well. Given more time, I’m certain similar counters would be developed. The Legacy is not the invincible menace it once was.” The guildmaster smiled cynically. “I speak of generalities, of course. At the moment it’s still quite dangerous enough. Thousands of Sharn citizens will discover that if we are not triumphant.” Dalan folded his arms behind his back, pacing across the deck. His dog rose and followed him, scampering to get out of his way each time his master turned.

“Nervous?” Tristam asked.

“Afraid,” Dalan replied with a small laugh.

“Afraid?” Zed asked in surprise.

“I savor the sensation of power,” Dalan said. “I enjoy being in control. Yet I am useless in a confrontation such as this. All preparations have been made. In the final battle … there is no use for me. All I can do is trust that the rest of you are strong enough. There is absolutely nothing more I can do—and that fills me with fear.”

“You could pray for us, Dalan,” Zed said.

“I thought you were no longer a religious man, Arthen,” Dalan said.

The inquisitive grinned.

Tristam looked toward the southwest. The soaring towers of Sharn were now clearly visible on the horizon, though still a long distance away. The city truly was an awe-inspiring sight. The towers reached so high that the city was taller than it was wide.

“So how will we find the Seventh Moon?” Zed asked. “I know Aeven can guide us when we get close, but Sharn’s a big place.”

The sound of a heavy foot upon the bay ladder was followed by a second. Tristam looked up as Omax heaved himself onto the deck. The immense warforged stared out at the city, blue eyes gleaming. His metallic shoulders were tense; his clawed hands were balled into tight fists. Omax did not seem to take notice of anyone on the deck, quietly watching and waiting for something.

“Omax?” Tristam asked.

“That way,” the warforged said, pointing.

“How are you sure?” Tristam asked, staring at Omax uncertainly.”

The warforged shifted uncomfortably and looked at the others. “Tristam, I must discuss something with you privately,” he said.

“What’s wrong, Omax?” Tristam asked, closing the hatch of his cabin. The warforged awkwardly moved the life ring that was taking up much of one side of the small chamber. Tristam had kept the device following their escape from the Seventh Moon, restoring its enchantment on impulse in case it was ever needed.

The warforged folded his arms and leaned against the side of Tristam’s narrow bookcase. His gleaming eyes stared at the floor, unfocused. “I feel different, Tristam,” he said, hesitating as if he could not find the proper words. “Since the battle over Fort Ash I am … changed.”

“Changed?” Tristam asked.

“Do you remember when Marth activated the Legacy?” Omax asked.

“I remember you collapsed to trick him into thinking he had killed you,” Tristam said.

“That was no trick, Tristam,” Omax said. “Do you remember what I told you after you repaired me? Of what I sensed within the Dragon’s Eye?”

“You said you sensed something ancient and boundless,” Tristam replied.

Omax nodded. “When the Legacy’s energies washed over me, I felt it again. But more clearly this time. A power unlike any I have ever experienced. I felt a connection to some primal realm of pure magic, infused with the very fires of creation.”

“I suspected the Dragon’s Eye was some sort of gateway an alternate plane,” Tristam said. “Maybe that plane is nothing but energy. Whatever lies there is more potent than any magic we possess in Eberron. That’s why it overrules dimensional gateways and destroys all enchantments.”

“But I sensed that destruction is not its true purpose,” Omax said.

“Well, no,” Tristam said. “That’s something I’ve thought about a great deal. If my vision in Zul’nadn holds any truth at all, whatever entity first created the Eye used it defensively—to preserve Eberron. It wasn’t until the dragons created the Legacy that it was used as a weapon. The fact that it saved your life proves that its power can do a great deal more than destroy.”

“There is more,” Omax said.

“Go on, Omax,” Tristam replied.

“I sensed a vast and primitive intelligence,” he said. “Only for an instant, but that was long enough to overcome my senses. The energy that fuels the Legacy is indeed a living being, like the elementals that power our airships.”

Tristam was silent for a long time, pondering what Omax had said. “That must be why the containment cores serve as such effective anchors in our world,” he said. “Did you sense anything else, Omax? Does it have a name?”

“Why would it need a name?” Omax asked. “It has never known anything other than itself.”

“Stupid question, sorry,” Tristam said. “Were you able to communicate with it?”

“I was able to hear it,” Omax said, “Its power is unimaginable, but it seemed almost …” He struggled to find the correct word. “Innocent? The existence of our world fills it with curiosity. It wishes to know more.”

“Did you say anything to it?” Tristam asked.

Omax shrugged. “I wouldn’t even know how to begin communicating with such an entity. Everything was emotion and color. It touched my mind but, seeing I was not the one it sought, moved on.”

“Moved on?” Tristam asked.

“I received the impression that each time the Legacy is used, a part of this infinite being escapes into our world,” Omax said. “I do not know what happens after it arrives here, but it wished nothing to do with me. I find that since that day I am strangely depressed.”

“How so?” Tristam asked.

“For a brief instant I was one with the infinite, but it decided it wished nothing to do with me,” Omax said. “For one who has spent so much of his life seeking meaning, I find that I now feel terribly inadequate.”

“Probably a side effect of the magic,” Tristam said. “I have no idea what sort of long-term effects the Legacy’s energy will have on you, Omax. I wouldn’t worry about this.” Tristam smiled sheepishly, hoping that the words comforted his friend somewhat.

“If you say so, Tristam,” Omax said. “On a more positive note, exposure to the Legacy has strengthened my connection to Ashrem’s airships. Much as the Karia Naille can sense her sisters, I can now sense them as well. Strangely, my ability seems a great deal sharper. I sensed Karia Naille soaring to our rescue in the Harrowcrowns long before we ever saw her. I sense Kenshi Zhann now. She speeds toward Sharn barely a mile away from us.”

Tristam’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t expect her to be so close,” he said.

“Kenshi Zhann’s new elemental has had difficulty adjusting to its ship,” Omax said. “Her speed is greatly reduced from what we know.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Tristam said. He leaned toward the cabin porthole, staring out into the sky. “If the Seventh Moon is so close, we should be able to see her elemental ring. I don’t see anything.”

“Look higher,” Omax said.

Tristam crane his neck, looking through the porthole at an angle.

High above the Mourning Dawn, the sparkling golden lights of the Ring of Siberys gleamed in the night sky.

And there, so high in the sky that it almost appeared to be a star, a red ring of flame traced its course toward Sharn.

“Captain Gerriman, take us higher!” Tristam shouted, bursting out of his cabin and running toward the deck. “All hands, prepare for battle!”

Seren appeared beside him as he ran through the corridor. She smiled at him, and he found it a little harder to be afraid. He squeezed her hand gently and hurried onward to the deck. The others were swiftly gathering there. Gerith was tightening the harness on his glidewing. Eraina distributed flasks of alchemist fire to the others. Pherris’s gaze was locked on the red ring high above them as Karia Naille began to climb. A cold wind cut across the deck as the airship ascended.

“Khyber, why’s she riding so high?” Pherris said. A thin line of sweat beaded on his brow as he pushed the ship higher. “These ships aren’t built to sustain that sort of altitude.”

“He’s flying above the clouds so that I can summon no storm to hinder him,” Aeven said.

“That’s not the only reason,” Shaimin said. “Skyway.”

“Eh?” Pherris said, looking at the elf.

Shaimin pointed at the clouds. “Marth is headed for Skyway. The noble district.” Lights twinkled among the clouds. From below, the lights had seemed to be stars.

“Buildings?” Seren said, astonished. “The people live in the clouds?”

“The rich ones do,” Zed said, studying the clouds beside the elf. A large central cloud was encircled by many smaller floating islands. “Though they won’t stay up there for long if Marth reaches them. I bet he plans to drop the Skyway district on the city, then work his way down.”

The Kenshi Zhann had nearly reached the closest of the cloud islands.

“Damn it, Gerriman, doesn’t this ship go any faster?” Dalan demanded.

“Doing my best, Dalan,” Pherris said. “She’s not doing well in this thin air. She’s going to freeze up and drop if we keep this up. Aeven, any help you can provide would be much appreciated.”

The dryad looked up suddenly. She had been staring into the depths of the black glass sphere. “Aye, Captain,” she whispered. The wind picked up behind them, pushing them to greater speed.

“I should go down there,” Gerith said, peering over the rail.

“What are you talking about, Snowshale?” Dalan said.

“All those people!” Gerith said, gesturing out at the city. “What if we can’t stop Marth? They need to know what’s about to happen! Someone has to warn them.”

“You want to fly through Sharn on your glidewing and tell people the sky is falling?” Dalan asked.

Gerith looked crestfallen. “When you put it that way, it just sounds stupid,” he said meekly.

Ahead of them, the Seventh Moon dove toward the nearest edge of the massive floating island. A squadron of airships burst from the cloud cover as he approached, speeding toward him. The Seventh Moon banked and climbed higher as bolts of flame and arcs of electricity erupted from the ships.

“Brelish warships,” Tristam said, running to the bow and staring out at the swarming vessels. “Draikus must have sent word ahead.”

“Maybe they’ll buy us time to catch up,” Pherris said.

“Or maybe they’ll just get themselves killed,” Zed replied.

The air, though already bitterly cold, grew even colder as a shockwave of white energy erupted from the core of Marth’s ship. The Legacy’s power washed over the attacking airships. The elemental fire that supported a dozen of the closest vessels vanished in an instant. The remaining ships scattered, the fleet thrown into disarray by the Legacy’s incredible power. Terrified screams drifted upon the thin air as airships plummeted toward the city below. A gleaming fissure appeared in the shining clouds of Skyway. Cracks began to spread through the floating island.

“Flame forgive us all,” Zed whispered. “We’re too late.”

“Not yet,” Tristam said. “Skyway was built to be self sustaining. If we can stop him quickly, the island will repair itself.”

“We aren’t going to catch him at this rate,” Pherris said.

Even as he spoke, the Legacy’s wave washed over them and the Karia Naille gained speed. The ship’s elemental ring burned pure white, crackling with raw energy. The airship surged higher, moving above and behind the Seventh Moon. Far beneath them, Tristam could see the Cyran soldiers on the deck shouting and pointing upward. Marth stood in their midst, his pale hair and face a marked contrast to the others.

“We need to get closer,” Tristam said, holding his wand in one hand and a flask in the other.

Pherris nodded, but even as the ship descended, the Moon banked suddenly to starboard. The Mourning Dawn soared on ahead, still descending.

“He’s coming around,” Zed said.

“Trying to get behind us so he can shoot us down,” Pherris muttered, fighting to mirror the Moon’s maneuver.

The smaller airship struggled to veer about as the Moon came around behind her. A searing blast of electricity erupted from the warship’s bow, singing the Mourning Dawn’s hull. Tristam cursed. The winds were fierce this high above Sharn, rendering their flasks and crossbows nearly useless. Marth could elude them forever, whittling them down to nothing with his lightning. The Mourning Dawn was forced to gain altitude, pulling out of the Seventh Moon’s range.

The Moon sped past them again, toward the heart of Skyway. Another burst of energy erupted from the ship’s heart as the Legacy activated a second time. The cracks that threatened the floating island began to spread. Tristam could see the taller buildings of Skyway tremble as a tremor shook the district.

“If we get close, he’ll just circle around and blast us again,” Zed said. “We’ve got nothing to stop him at this altitude unless we just plan to crash into him.”

Tristam looked up. An idea struck him.

“Get him behind us again, Captain,” Tristam shouted, running back below deck, “but stay above him!”

Pherris gave him a dubious look, but complied. The Mourning Dawn dove again. Moments later, another bolt of lightning narrowly missed its keel strut as the Moon moved to pursue again. Tristam emerged on the deck, holding the life ring he had taken from the Seventh Moon. He looked down at the pursuing airship and hefted the ring in one hand.

“What are you doing, Tristam?” Dalan asked.

“Jumping onto the Seventh Moon,” he said. “We have to stop Marth somehow.”

“How do you plan to come back?” Zed asked.

“I’ll worry about that later,” Tristam said with a crooked smile. “This can only carry four. Who’s coming with me?”

Omax had already seized one side of the ring. Seren quickly grabbed another. Zed, Ijaac, and Eraina all reached for the remaining handle.

Shaimin had already grasped it.

TWENTY-FOUR

The black sphere in Marth’s hand seethed with bitter cold. The smell of burnt ozone singed the air. Below him, the city of Sharn was thrown into chaos. Already he could see fires erupting in the lower reaches of the city from the crashed airships. Alarm bells echoed throughout Skyway. Lights flickered in the buildings ahead as citizens roused from their slumber. The Brelish airships, thrown into chaos, pursued the Seventh Moon at a distance. They were hardly even worth concern.

Only one other vessel could dare share the sky with him now. The Mourning Dawn soared high above, narrowly rolling to one side as another bolt of lightning erupted from the Moon’s bow.

A soldier laughed as he watched the Dawn dodge and weave high above them. “Why did she come back down?” he said, laughing to a comrade. “They don’t have any real weapons. They don’t have a chance against us.”

Marth looked sharply back up at the ship. That was an excellent question. Why would Pherris Gerriman put his ship in their range again? It wasn’t like the gnome to do something so suicidal.

It was a trick.

“Veer to port!” Marth shouted urgently.

The Seventh Moon rolled to one side. Marth staggered to keep his balance. In the starlight, he thought he saw something fall past the ship’s rail. He allowed himself a smile, wondering if Xain had attempted to board his ship. What a strangely ignominious end, to fall to his death over the same city he had hoped to save.

“Watch the Mourning Dawn carefully,” Marth commanded. “Keep her behind us, where she is useless. Captain Gerriman can watch us destroy Sharn if he so desires. He is no threat. Helmsman, take us to the center of Skyway.”

The ship gained speed again, soaring deeper into Sharn. Marth saw lights rising from the floating island like hornets stirred from their nest. Some were the burning rings of airships, flying out to reinforce the fleet. Others might be skycoaches attempting to flee the city or even the gleaming staves of wizards flying under the power of their own magic. A squad of swift Brelish airships darted up from the streets below, soaring toward the Moon in formation.

The airships attacked with a desperate volley of fire, lightning, and raw arcane power. The changeling’s hand tightened around the glass sphere, and the Legacy lashed out. The magical energy dissipated before ever reaching the Moon. The airships dropped from the sky like dead birds. Marth frowned. Wouldn’t the men and women aboard those ships have known their attack was suicide?

In their position, he supposed, he would have done the same.

The center of Skyway drew nearer. Once the Moon came into range, the end would begin. Once the Legacy had corrupted the magic that bound the heart of the district, an avalanche of twisted metal and stone would rain upon the city. The towers of Sharn would fall. This magical monument to Brelish power and arrogance would be no more.

Marth frowned as the Moon suddenly decelerated. “More speed!” he commanded.

There was no reply. The changeling sneered in irritation. There was no time for such stupidity.

“You six, come with me,” he said, gesturing at a group of nearby soldiers. Though he doubted there was any possibility of an attack, he would take no chances.

Marth turned and climbed below deck, heading down the narrow passageway toward the ship’s helm. He gripped his wand in one hand and the sphere that controlled the Legacy in the other. The shimmering crystal cast fitful purple light upon the walls. He opened the hatch and stepped inside, finding it pitch black, swallowing his wand’s light.

“None of that,” Marth muttered. He summoned the Legacy’s power again, filling the room with crackling energy.

The magical darkness vanished. Marth dodged to one side just as a dagger sliced the air where his throat had been. An blast of green fire erupted from his wand, hurling his attacker against the wall. The figure rose instantly and lunged at him again. A second blast threw him across the room, clothes still flaming from the attack. The Cyran soldiers looked on, stunned. Everything had happened more quickly than they could react.

“Shaimin,” Marth whispered, taking a step forward. He grimaced at the smell of scorched flesh.

The elf’s burned face twisted into a smile as he slumped to the floor beside the dead helmsman. Shaimin lay on one side, his left arm twisted uselessly beneath him. “Thardis,” he said, breathing irregularly. “You were always quicker than you looked.”

Marth pointed his wand at the fallen elf. “Why, Shaimin?” Marth asked. “I can understand, after everything I’ve done, why all the others turned on me—but you have always been a killer.”

“You still don’t see,” Shaimin said with a cackle. “That’s exactly it. Life means nothing, Thardis. Life ends, no matter what we do—but the names we leave behind are eternal. Do you want to be remembered like this?”

Marth sighed. “Are you still trying to talk me out of this?”

“No,” Shaimin said. He smiled. The burnt skin on his left cheek cracked. “I’m just stalling you while Tristam sabotages the ship’s core.” The assassin rolled onto his back, drawing his other dagger with his left hand and hurling it at Marth.

The changeling twisted to one side, but the dagger sliced the right side of his neck. He cried out in pain and unleashed another bolt of roiling flame, incinerating the fallen elf. Marth sighed and gestured curtly, dismissing the flames before they damaged the ship.

“Take the helm!” he ordered the soldiers. “Guard this room and take the ship to the main island of Skyway at full speed!”

The soldiers quickly obeyed, flanking out to cover the room while one took the controls. He could feel the Seventh Moon gain speed again. None of them was as skilled a helmsmen as Marcho had been, but that didn’t matter. All they needed to do was fly the ship in a straight line toward the center of the city. Marth pressed a handkerchief to his injured neck as he ran through the corridors toward the core chamber. The bodies of dead and incapacitated soldiers lay strewn in his path. Tristam and his allies had definitely been here.

The changeling passed through the ship’s original core chamber. The shattered floor still yawned dangerously over open sky next to the defunct core. A used life ring lay discarded in one corner. A grappling hook was tangled about the inert core; a rope still dangled through the hole. Marth had expected Tristam and the others to attempt to board his ship again, but he had not expected them to enter from below.

Such trickery demanded to be repaid in kind. Marth’s features shifted. His face became Shaimin d’Thuranni’s. Enchantments in his cloak wove illusions over his clothing to complete the disguise.

The ship’s new core was housed in a supplemental cargo bay in the rear of the airship, not far from the original core. The door hung open at an awkward angle. Marth could still hear combat from within. He whispered a few words of magic, bolstering his defenses as he entered. Within, Tristam Xain, Seren Morisse, and Omax were locked in combat with three of his soldiers. Two more lay unmoving on the floor.

Tristam glanced toward Marth. His eyes widened. “Seren, look out!” he shouted, ducking behind the ship’s core.

Marth scowled in irritation that Tristam had not fallen for his disguise, but he did not hesitate. Following the destruction of the ship’s original core, the new one had been warded to resist magical attacks. Thus Marth pointed the wand, filling the chamber with green fire without concern for anything within. Omax darted to shield Seren with his body as the fire washed over them. The flames cleared an instant later. Tristam peered around ship’s core, staring in horror at the charred corpses of Marth’s crew.

Marth paused for an instant, realizing what he had done. Then Omax charged roaring and swinging at the changeling with heavy fists. Marth summoned a shield of force, but it shattered against Omax’s attack. The blow sent him flying backward, skidding on his back down the corridor. Marth sat up and grasped the Legacy. A wave of white energy washed over the warforged. Omax dropped to his knees but continued glaring at Marth. The light in Marth’s wand dimmed as the Legacy glowed more fiercely.

“The Legacy doesn’t seem to kill you, but it weakens you enough to do the job,” Marth said. The white fire faded, and the changeling’s wand ignited again. Marth pointed the wand at Omax’s chest and blasted him backward through a cabin hatch.

Tristam charged out of the core chamber toward Marth. Seren rose and drew her dagger, but the changeling closed and locked the door with a gesture, sealing her inside. Tristam pointed his wand at the changeling, praying that his preparations had been sufficient to shield his magic from the Legacy. A bolt of white lightning lanced toward Marth. The changeling’s invisible shield absorbed the blast, and he replied in kind, unleashing green fire at Tristam. The fire was absorbed in the same manner. Tristam still flinched when the blast struck him, as if he wasn’t sure the spell would work.

“Your magic has improved a great deal,” Marth admitted, drawing his sword. “I wonder if your skill with a blade is still as weak as before.”

Tristam blanched but drew the shortsword that hung at his belt. He held it awkwardly in both hands. Xain’s grip was too tight, just as Marth remembered. He lunged toward Tristam, but as he did, the younger man straightened and dropped his sword into one hand in a low grip. Xain wheeled away from Marth’s thrust. A searing ribbon of pain traced up the changeling’s thigh.

Marth stumbled backward, surprised by Tristam’s sudden display of prowess. He quickly brought his blade to the defensive, parrying as Tristam slashed at him. Marth retreated down the hall into the ship’s original core chamber.

“How did you know it was me?” Marth asked.

“Thuranni promised to hold the helm,” Tristam said. “He told us that if we saw him again, there could only be one reason. Do not wear his face, Thardis!” Tristam lunged again, slashing furiously at the changeling.

“So be it,” Marth said as he dodged aside. He released control of his appearance entirely, letting all of his injuries show—even those he normally concealed. His face was a hideous network of scars and deep burns. His right eye was a milky, unhealthy yellow.

“Now you see?” the changeling said, noting Tristam’s revulsion. “You truly have no comprehension of what I’ve endured. Why do you make this so difficult, Tristam? You were never my enemy. All you ever needed do was to get out of my way. Surely you must find this world of peace as unnatural as I do.”

“I prefer it to the world that sent my family to the gallows and destroyed Cyre,” Tristam said, stabbing at the changeling as he retreated. “I prefer it to the world that made madmen like you.”

Marth’s ravaged features flushed with rage. “How dare you speak of my homeland,” Marth hissed, slashing out and leaving a red line across Tristam’s chest. “I gave everything for Cyre, and the other nations destroyed her.”

“Gave everything for Cyre?” Tristam asked. He circled the hole in the floor as he darted away, clutching his chest. “Are you talking about how you murdered your commanding officers?”

“Those men were no true sons of Cyre!” Marth roared. “Traitors, all. I did my homeland a service by destroying them.”

Tristam shook his head. “And those soldiers you killed in the core chamber?” he said. “Not true sons of Cyre either, I suppose. How deep do your delusions go, Marth? How much has Zamiel twisted you?”

Marth’s lips pressed into a firm line. He leapt across the gap in the floor, holding his blade high. Tristam brought his sword up to block. The two men crashed backward into the wall. Tristam rolled, punching Marth across the face with the hilt of his blade. The changeling reeled, sword falling from his hands. Tristam lifted his blade, the point hovering just above Marth’s throat.

Marth’s let his features shift. His face became the one he wore so many years ago, the face of Orren Thardis.

“Tristam, no,” he whispered.

Tristam hesitated. Something struck the side of the airship heavily, rocking the entire chamber. The Brelish were attacking again. Marth moved as Tristam was thrown off balance, stabbing the boy in the hip with a small knife from his belt. Tristam cried out in pain and sprawled on his back beside the gap in the floor, nearly sliding out into the void. Marth rose quickly, snatching his sword from the deck and kicking Tristam’s blade through the hole.

“You never listened to me, Xain,” Marth said sadly. “Opportunity won’t wait for you. Don’t wait for it.”

“Good advice,” Tristam said hoarsely, looking past him.

Pain seized Marth. He looked down to see the hilt of a dagger blooming from his chest. Across the chamber, Seren stood in the hatchway, another knife at the ready. A slow, bitter smile spread across the changeling’s face. The sword fell limply from his hand. A trickle of blood spilled from the corner of his mouth. The blade had not struck his heart, but it was close enough that the difference would amount to only a few seconds.

“Xain, stop the prophet,” he whispered. “Please.”

“I will,” Tristam said, struggling to his feet and backing away from Marth.

“Bury me in Cyre,” Marth begged. “With my family.”

“No,” Seren replied, glaring hatefully at him.

Marth’s eyes rolled back into his head and he fell forward, though the shattered floor, down into the City of Towers. As he fell, the face of Orren Thardis became the changeling’s scarred visage a final time.

The black crystal in the changeling’s hand erupted as he died, releasing one more wave of white energy over Sharn. The Legacy’s disruptive power washed through the center of Skyway.

TWENTY-FIVE

Revenge was a strange sort of thing. In the stories, the hero was often wronged by some hated enemy. He would swear revenge, and, after toil and sacrifice, there would be a final confrontation. The villain would fall, and the hero would come away with an empty feeling—a feeling that his vengeance served no purpose after all. In the stories, it was always the same. So that was what Seren expected.

To her surprise, seeing the man who murdered Jamus Roland plunge out of an airship was strangely satisfying. She watched Marth’s body drop until it vanished into the clouds below.

“Seren!” Tristam shouted, shaking her back to her senses.

She looked at him in surprise. “Sorry,” she said, composing herself.

“How did you get out of there?” Tristam asked, amazed. “Marth sealed the door.”

“And I’ve spent the last few years picking locks in a city full of wizards,” she answered.

Tristam smiled, but his happiness quickly faded. “This isn’t over yet,” he said. “The island is tearing itself apart.” He stared through the hole in the ship at the cloud below them. Shimmering fractures were swiftly spreading through Skyway. The bulk of the island was too large to disintegrate under a single burst from the Legacy, but Marth’s final attack had started a chain reaction that would inevitably destroy it.

“So we failed,” Seren said, afraid.

“No,” Tristam said. “We can still stop this. I have to get back to the core chamber!”

Tristam hurried back down the corridor. She followed, finding him kneeling beside Omax. Tristam summoned his magic to heal the fallen warforged as best he could. Omax sat up stiffly amid a heap of wooden debris. He looked from Tristam to Seren as he scrambled to his feet. “Where is Marth?” he said. He clenched his fists, prepared to fight, oblivious to the deep scorch marks on his arms and chest.

“Dead,” Seren said.

The warforged seemed surprised at that. The airship shook violently. A loud snap sounded from somewhere deep within the vessel, and the Seventh Moon listed to port.

“What was that?” Omax asked.

“From the way she’s handling, I’d guess she’s going down,” Tristam said. “The Brelish are trying to shoot us down. If we don’t land soon we’re going to crash. Can you and Seren make it to the bridge safely?”

“Yes,” Omax said. “Why?”

“I need you two to try to land the ship on the main island,” Tristam said. “There may still be time to save Skyway.”

“What are you going to do, Tristam?” Seren asked.

Tristam looked toward the ship’s core. “Use the Legacy,” he said. “Even without Marth’s control sphere, I should be able to control it from the core itself.”

“The Legacy will only make matters worse, Tristam,” Omax said.

“No,” Tristam replied. “Only if I use it as Marth intended. It’s like you said, Omax—destruction is not its true purpose. The magic that Sharn’s architects used to construct Skyway is intended to be self-sustaining, but the Legacy has started a chain reaction that has crippled that. If I can access the Legacy’s connection to whatever plane it draws its power from and release that energy in one focused burst of magic, the chain reaction will stop. The residual enchantments will feed off that power. Sharn’s connection to Syrania should regenerate, and the main island will stabilize.”

“What kind of focused burst are you talking about?” Seren asked.

“I’m going to power up the Legacy and then destroy the Seventh Moon’s containment core before it can activate,” Tristam said. “When the elemental escapes, it will release a burst of pure magical energy over Skyway. That should reverse what Marth has done.”

“That sounds incredibly dangerous,” Omax said.

Tristam shrugged. “I can’t let Sharn die while there’s still a chance I can help,” he said. He headed toward the core chamber. “You’ll have about five minutes before I can crack the core. Land the ship on the main island—or at least get it as close as you can!”

Omax grunted his assent and hurried off. Seren waited behind for a moment. Tristam looked back at her nervously.

“I’m sorry, Seren,” Tristam said, unable to meet her eyes.

“Sorry?” she said. “For what?”

“That I couldn’t finish it,” he said. “Even after everything Marth did, I was ready to forgive him. All I could see was my friend.”

Seren wanted to reassure him, to tell him it was all right, that to offer compassion to an enemy wasn’t weakness. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. She loved Tristam, but a part of her still hated Marth too much. Instead she just moved to him, pressed her lips to his, and smiled sadly.

“Good luck,” she said.

“Hurry up to the helm and help Omax and Shaimin,” Tristam said. “There still might be soldiers up there willing to put up a fight.”

Seren nodded and hurried off through the ship.

In the corridor adjoining the ship’s bridge, a Cyran soldier burst out of a cabin. He was only a year or two older than Seren. He held a sword in one hand and had a life ring slung over his shoulder. His eyes were wide with terror as he brandished the weapon at her.

“Please,” he whimpered, backing away from her. “I don’t want to fight. I just want out of here.”

“Go,” she said. She held out her empty hands to show she meant no harm. The man turned and ran away through the ship. She felt a strange sense of pity. So this was their enemy. These were the men who had served Marth. They weren’t monsters—just sad souls with nowhere else left to go. Had her life gone just a bit differently, she might have been in their place. She neither saw nor heard any other crew. Most of them had likely abandoned ship.

Seren pushed open the hatch to the bridge and stepped inside. Omax stood at the helm, his large hands grasping the controls. Unlike the Mourning Dawn, the Seventh Moon’s helm was contained inside a large bridge. One wall was clear glass, displaying the Sharn skyline. Beneath them, Skyway’s central island trembled. Glowing fractures continued to spread through the clouds like a spider’s web. Airships circled at a safe distance around the Moon, occasionally releasing bursts of lightning in their direction. The Brelish were clearly wary of the ship’s power but were afraid to approach too close.

The helmsman still lay on the floor where Shaimin had killed him. Next to him lay a second body, now covered in Shaimin’s cloak. A pair of familiar velvet boots poked out from beneath them. The pungent odor of burnt flesh hung on the air. She turned away, covering her mouth and gagging.

“He knew the sacrifice he was making, Seren,” Omax said. “I think Shaimin intended to return the life that he owed to Marth.”

She turned away, unable to look at the fallen elf. Why did it bother her so much? She had seen men die before, and she had hated Shaimin. The elf had almost killed her. He had been the last member of their makeshift crew that she would have expected to make such a sacrifice.

The Seventh Moon bucked again as another blast took her, throwing Seren off balance. Omax’s hands gripped the helm so tightly that she heard the wooden handles creak between his fingers. Skyway was so close now that Seren could see panicked people running through the streets.

“Do you know how to fly an airship, Omax?” Seren called out.

“No,” Omax said, “but I do not need to fly her. I need only find a place to crash her.”

“There!” Seren said, pointing ahead and to the left.

Behind a crumbling mansion, a grassy courtyard the size of a large park offered a relatively flat landing area. Omax nodded and fought with the helm, steering the crippled airship down. Seren glanced around for something on the bridge that she could hang on to when the ship crashed, but found only one thing. She clung to Omax. He removed one hand from the helm, holding her to his side.

With a deafening crash and a violent wrenching, the Seventh Moon collided with Skyway. Seren turned away as the forward wall shattered, showering them with broken glass and soft earth. The airship continued her forward motion, digging a deep gouge through the courtyard. A terrible shriek of tearing metal was the proud vessel’s death cry as she landed for the last time.

The ship’s bridge tilted at a wild angle. Omax’s grip on the controls had not wavered, nor did he even stagger when as the ship collided with the ground. He held Seren steady against him until the ship finally ground to a halt. He released her and backed away from the helm. The ship’s controls now had three grooves where the warforged’s hands had gripped them. Dirt from the ship’s nosedive now filled half the bridge.

“Tristam,” Seren said, looking back. The corridor leading to the bridge had partially collapsed, filled with flaming timber and twisted metal.

“Climb out through the porthole,” Omax said to her as he entered the corridor, shoving timbers aside. “I will find him.”

Seren moved as if to follow him, but Omax stopped her with a look.

“Please, Seren,” he said. “I will move more swiftly if I am not protecting you as well. Go.”

Seren clambered up the sloped heap of dirt and wreckage. She felt glass bite her hands and knees but ignored the pain as she heaved herself out of the airship. The ground beneath her feet trembled as Skyway began to crumble. She climbed out of the crater the Moon had left behind and looked back.

In the sky overhead, the Brelish airships had broken formation and spread out across Skyway. Seren reasoned that, with the attacker dealt with, they were hurrying to evacuate anyone they could before the island crashed. The Mourning Dawn was nowhere to be seen.

Half the airship had disintegrated on impact, leaving a trail of burning wood across the courtyard. The ship lay on her side. From here Seren could see the hole in her belly that Tristam had made during their first escape from the ship so long ago; the same room where Marth had died. Only one of the ship’s struts had survived impact. The tip of the arm still burned with a bright red fire; the ship’s elemental was still intact. As Seren watched, the red light grew brighter.

“Tristam, Omax,” Seren whispered as she watched helplessly. “Get out of there!”

The wreckage of the Seventh Moon shuddered. Plumes of red fire erupted from the hull. A loud, keening wail began from somewhere deep within the ship. It reminded Seren of the Fellmaw’s screams at Zul’nadn.

She caught a glimpse of a large figure leaping out of the hole in the ship’s belly with something heavy slumped over one shoulder, and then the Seventh Moon exploded in a sphere of brilliant white energy. Seren was thrown to the ground as the shockwave rolled over her. She could see nothing but white light. A sense of warmth suffused her, a sharp contrast to the bitter cold that always accompanied the Legacy’s use.

Then the light faded. The warmth subsided. Seren’s vision slowly returned. The ground no longer shook. The terrifying fissures that split the island receded and vanished entirely. Omax stood over her, beaten and scorched, but alive. He held Tristam’s body carefully in his arms.

“He is alive,” Omax said, “but only just.”

Seren nodded in relief, unable to speak. A familiar hum drew her eyes up. A burning ring of blue flame pierced the night above them.

TWENTY-SIX

Amazing,” Zed said. The inquisitive stood at the ship’s rail, staring out at Skyway. Far beneath them, the floating city district had completely stabilized. Bits of cloud that had vaporized when Marth had used the Legacy were beginning to regenerate. The Brelish fleet circled the district in a buzz of activity, making certain Skyway was stable and that no more attackers lay in wait. Above the Mourning Dawn, a massive Brelish warship hovered patiently. Its docking ladder hung only a few feet above their deck. Zed cast the ship a nervous look then turned to Omax.

“How did Tristam do it?”

“That which can destroy can also preserve,” the warforged said simply.

Zed looked at Omax curiously. The warforged paid him no mind, watching the skyline with rapt attention. Ijaac and Gerith stood at the rail watching in awe. Aeven’s head was bowed as she leaned against her figurehead. The dryad wept softly.

“Kenshi Zhann is free now,” she whispered.

“Where in Khyber is Shaimin?” Zed said, looking around the deck in irritation. “If that elf abandoned us again …”

“Shaimin perished on the Seventh Moon,” Omax said. “He sacrificed himself to delay Marth while we cleared the way to the ship’s core.”

“Oh,” Zed said, surprised. He wasn’t sure whether to be impressed by the elf’s final act of heroism or relieved that Shaimin wasn’t coming back. Either way, he’d never expected that sort of thing out of a Thuranni.

Dalan’s hatch opened behind them and a trio of Brelish officers emerged. They cast a cold, suspicious gaze over the crew before climbing the ladder and returning to their ship. The huge airship banked and soared away, joining her fleet in the patrol of Skyway.

“Pherris, get us out of here quickly,” Dalan said, appearing from within his cabin. “I have satisfied Captain Hoyt and his crew for the moment, but we should remove ourselves from the area while we are able.”

“What did you tell them?” Zed asked.

“I leaned quite heavily on my family name,” Dalan said. “That, combined with the fact that our ship has no weapons, Draikus’s warning that Marth was coming, and Tristam’s bravery have allayed their suspicions for now. Captain Hoyt and his men are keenly interested in the safety of the city. Rescuing survivors is his current priority. It is only a matter of time, however, before Hoyt’s superiors begin wondering what just happened here and direct him to conduct more … energetic investigations. So let us vanish before they find their curiosity.”

“Aye, Dalan,” Pherris said. “Where to?”

“We still need to rendezvous with Norra and find out what she’s learned,” Zed said. “Zamiel is still out there.”

“Morgrave University, then,” Dalan said. “Southern central Sharn, if memory serves.”

The Mourning Dawn banked and descended in a wide arc, leaving the floating district of Skyway behind as she dipped down into the City of Towers. The airship soared through narrow canyons between broad walls of buildings. People walked about the city on raised bridges and narrow catwalks, paying no attention to the ship as it flew past.

“Khyber, they all live in the sky,” Ijaac mumbled, terrified. “How can they stand it?”

“Not everyone is afraid of heights, Ijaac,” Gerith teased.

“Cautious!” the dwarf snapped, flushing. “I’m just cautious.”

“I’m going to check on Tristam,” Zed said, heading toward the ladder that led to the lower deck.

“He should be well enough in Eraina’s hands,” Dalan said. “I shall need you presently.”

“Me?” Zed asked, looking at Dalan. “Why?”

“Norra’s last post was curious, even for her,” Dalan said. “I suspect there may be trouble. You know this city better than the rest of us.”

“All right, but didn’t you live here as well, Dalan?” Zed said.

“I was an ambassador of a dragonmarked house,” Dalan said. “I came here as a tourist. You lived here as an inquisitive.”

“Details,” Zed replied.

“Ijaac, Omax, accompany us,” Dalan said.

“Expecting trouble?” Ijaac said. He rested one gnarled hand on the butt of his morningstar.

“Indeed,” Dalan replied. “This is not nearly over yet.”

The spires of Dalannan Tower rose before them, higher than any of the surrounding buildings. Karia Naille circled the tower that housed the University and descended to a small docking tower. Zed disembarked with the others, pausing only to glance back at the Mourning Dawn’s scorched hull.

“There is a small Tinker’s Guildhouse in northwestern Tavick’s Landing, lower level,” Dalan said to the captain as he walked down the gangplank. “Ask for Maris d’Cannith and give her my name. She will discreetly arrange for repairs.”

“Aye, Dalan,” Pherris said. “Good luck.”

“And to you,” Dalan replied.

With a steady crackle of magical fire, Karia Naille ascended and soared away through the city. Zed watched her depart without a word. When he turned to leave, he noticed Dalan watching the ship leave with an oddly pensive expression.

“Something on your mind, d’Cannith?” Zed asked as he started down the stairs toward the street below.

“I just had a rather troublesome thought,” the guildmaster replied, following.

“What is it?”

“Zamiel,” Dalan said. “We know that he guided and supported Marth, but we still don’t know why. What interest would a dragon have in turning the Five Nations against each other? I would think mortal politics would be beneath such a creature.”

“No way to know,” Zed said. “I just hope Norra turned up something that will help.”

“But we do know one thing for sure,” Dalan said. “If a creature with Zamiel’s power wished to foment rebellion, he could have done so in any number of ways. Instead, he chose specifically to aid Marth in rebuilding the Legacy.”

Zed turned to look at Dalan as they walked out into the street. “What are you getting at, Dalan?”

“I was just thinking that we could end all of this very easily right now,” Dalan said. “The Dragon’s Eye was destroyed. There’s only one way the Legacy could ever be rebuilt—and that’s using the Mourning Dawn’s elemental core.”

“So if we scrap the Karia Naille, he’ll be out of luck,” Ijaac said, completing the thought.

“Not scrap her so much as dismantle her core,” Dalan said.

“No,” Omax said bluntly. “The Legacy can do great good as well as great harm. You saw as much in Skyway.”

“I saw no such thing,” Dalan said. “I only saw Tristam abort a catastrophe that the Legacy itself created. Many people still died up there today. Without the Legacy, none of that would have happened.”

“And without the Mourning Dawn, we would never have stopped it,” Zed said. “What if we did destroy the airship, just to spite Zamiel? What would that accomplish? Zamiel’s not even mortal. He has nothing but time to find another way to rebuild the Legacy.”

“Perhaps not within our lifetimes,” Dalan said. “If the Legacy is irrevocably destroyed, Zamiel will have no further reason to pursue us outside of simple revenge.”

“I can’t believe I’m hearing this, Dalan,” Zed said, incredulous. “We can’t destroy our ship.”

“My ship, Arthen,” Dalan corrected. “I shall do what I like with it in the end, but I am soliciting your opinions lest I do something foolish.”

“Well this idea is pretty foolish,” Zed snapped.

“Is it?” Dalan said. “Try to remember that if Tristam had destroyed the Dying Sun instead of repairing her that none of this would have ever happened.”

“The Mourning Dawn is connected to a source of incredible power,” Omax said. “That power can accomplish great good or great evil. You would destroy something because you fear its evil rather than protect it to ensure its good?”

“I would,” Dalan said.

“And what about me?” Omax said tersely. “I was built to be a killer. Would you destroy me as well?”

“That’s entirely different, Omax,” Dalan said.

“I do not see how,” the warforged said, shaking his head sadly

“Well, I’ll say this, Dalan,” Zed said. “It’s your ship to do with as you like. Just let me know when you plan to try and destroy her, because I don’t want to be anywhere nearby when Aeven finds out what you’re planning.”

Dalan sighed. “Do not misunderstand me, Arthen,” he said. “I do not savor the idea of destroying Karia Naille. That airship is more of a home to me than Wroat or Metrol ever were. I have treasured my time among her crew despite the fact that most of you despise me. The fact remains that she can destroy entire cities.” He swept one arm toward a distant tower that had fallen when the island began to shift. “We have no idea how powerful Zamiel is. If he finds us, we may have no hope of stopping him from taking what he desires. If we destroy the Legacy, we may hamper his plans indefinitely.”

“We may,” Zed said. “I don’t think we should take that kind of risk on a maybe.”

Dalan glowered at Zed. The inquisitive met his gaze squarely.

“And I was still excited that we’d saved the city,” Ijaac said glumly. “You lot have a way of ruining a dwarf’s good mood.”

“I have decided on nothing,” Dalan said. “With luck, Tristam may have a way to separate the Legacy from the ship’s core without harm, or Norra may have discovered something important. I merely try to prepare for the worst.”

They strode up the steps of Morgrave University and passed through the gates into a large courtyard. Small groups of students stood here and there amid the trees. All of them were talking anxiously among one another and watching the sky. Zed felt as if the heavy stone walls were watching him, pressing down around him. The ancient campus resonated an aura of importance. The courtyard was thick with the hushed silence that fills all houses of learning, even more muted today following the terrifying sights that had filled the sky.

“Remember, none of these people have any idea what just happened up there,” Dalan said as they continued. “Try to appear as confused and terrified as they are.”

Zed chuckled. That should be easy enough to pull off. After all that they had been through, he felt as confused and terrified as anybody else here.

As they approached the main library, a guard in a slate gray uniform approached them with one outstretched hand. He looked at Omax suspiciously, then turned to Dalan.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” he said. “The campus is closed to all visitors at the moment.”

“Closed?” Dalan asked, surprised.

The guard looked up, then back at Dalan. “Everyone has been advised to remain indoors,” the guard said.

“They’re not indoors,” Dalan said, gesturing at the students.

“They’re stupid, rebellious children,” the guard said, sighing. “No reasoning with them. Seriously, it’s not safe in the streets and I can’t let you in. Go back wherever you came from.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Dalan replied, looking nervously at the sky. “We arrived just as this strange crisis began, and have nowhere else to stay. We are guests of the university. You can’t possibly turn us back out into the street with rubble falling from the sky.”

Zed looked at Dalan blankly, wondering what the man was planning.

The guard folded his arms and gave Dalan a sidelong look. “I wasn’t aware of any arriving guests,” he said.

Dalan looked at Zed insistently. “Did you remember to post ahead and tell them when we’d be here?”

Zed looked at Dalan.

Dalan sighed. “Did you?” he asked.

“What kind of question is that?” Zed snapped. He enjoyed the slightly annoyed look in Dalan’s eyes as he wondered if the inquisitive would play along. “Of course I did. I have the receipt here somewhere.” He began digging in the pockets of his coat.

“That shouldn’t be necessary, Zed,” Dalan said with a chuckle. He smiled and looked at the guard again. “There you have it. There’s no problem on our end. We told Master Ghein well in advance of our arrival.”

“Ghein?” the guard asked, looking mildly revolted. “Petra Ghein?”

Dalan nodded. “We had arranged with Master Ghein to conduct a series of lectures. Our appointment has been in place for months.”

“That explains it,” the guard said, rolling his eyes briefly. “Listen, Master Ghein isn’t exactly the keenest member of the faculty. If you wished to arrange a lecture, you really should have contacted one of the—”

“He seemed keen enough when I spoke to him,” Dalan interrupted, puffing out his chest as if the guard had personally insulted him. “He informed me that the headmasters were most eager to hear what the Wayfinder had to say. If you feel differently, then perhaps we should take it up with your supervisors.”

“Listen, I never said …” The guard blinked. “Who is the Wayfinder?”

“Wayfinder Ijaac Bruenhail,” Dalan said, gesturing at Ijaac. The dwarf bowed, beaming proudly. “Famous archaeologist and explorer. One of the few men living to visit the Frostfell and return.”

The guard looked at Ijaac blankly.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of him,” Dalan said.

“You saying you’ve never heard of me, boy?” Ijaac repeated dangerously. “I don’t have to take this kind of abuse. I’m a public figure! I’d wager I’m in a few of the textbooks these rugrats are carrying!” He stepped toward the guard, one hand tightening on the haft of his morningstar.

The guard glanced around the courtyard, looking for anyone else who could get him out of this. “My apologies, Master Bruenhail,” he said softly, hoping not to draw attention from any of the students. “Please don’t make a scene. I don’t know who made the mistake, but perhaps you should take it up with Master Ghein. I’m sure he can resolve everything.”

“Ah!” Dalan brightened. He placed one hand on Ijaac’s shoulder, pulling the dwarf back a step. “At last we make some progress. And where can we find Master Ghein?”

“This way,” the guard said, waving for them to follow.

“Are you sure he’ll be in his office today?” Zed asked.

“What do you mean?” the guard asked.

“All the trouble going on,” Zed said. “I wouldn’t be sitting around reading on a day like this. I’d want to go check on my family.”

“University rules are strict,” the guard said bitterly. “In times of crisis, the headmasters believe it is even more important that we continue traditions as usual. And Ghein doesn’t have any family that I know of. He’s a reclusive sort.”

Zed noticed that the guard walked very briskly as he led them on their way. He frequently looked back to make sure they hadn’t become separated. He finally arrived at a small office deep among the bookshelves and knocked on the door.

“Yes?” came a voice from inside.

“Some visitors to see you, Master Ghein,” the guard said.

“Thank you, good sir,” Dalan said to the guard. “You’ve been most helpful.”

The guard mumbled something unintelligible and fled into the maze of shelves without another word.

“He was eager to be rid of us,” Zed observed.

“I can’t imagine why,” Dalan said with a smug grin. He opened the office and stepped inside.

A small, middle-aged man in a dull gray robe sat behind a desk within the small office. He pulled off his spectacles and studied them calmly. His eyes widened when Omax entered.

“Master Ghein,” Dalan said. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“Who are you?” the librarian demanded nervously. “If you work for Radcul, I already told him I don’t know anything.”

“Radcul?” Dalan asked. He was visibly annoyed to be thrown off track.

“Local crimelord and mercenary boss,” Zed explained. “Listen, Master Ghein, we don’t have anything to do with Baron Radcul and we don’t have a great deal of time. We’re the crew of the Mourning Dawn, and we’ve come looking for Norra Cais. She has information that we might need, and she told us you would know how to contact her.”

“The Mourning Dawn?” Petra asked. His face turned ashen. “I’m sorry … So sorry.”

“What is it?” Dalan demanded. “Why are you sorry?”

“Norra is dead,” he said. “She was found in her apartment several days ago. Her neck was broken. Radcul’s thugs have claimed responsibility. I know she owed them a great deal of money …”

“But you have your doubts,” Dalan said.

“Norra was too smart for Radcul,” Petra said. “I’m sure she could have avoided him forever. I’m sure he only claimed responsibility to save face.”

“So who killed her?” Omax asked.

“She was researching something,” Petra said. “I don’t know what it was, but I could tell it was important. She was scared. For Norra, that’s saying something. She was never scared of anything. It was the same thing that drove her to journey to the Frostfell.”

Zed frowned. “Damn,” he said with a sigh. “She never told you anything?”

Petra shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. His eyes glistened, and he stopped for a moment to catch his breath. “I think she was trying to protect me from whatever ended up killing her.”

“Useless,” Dalan grumbled. “How entirely useless.” He turned and stormed out of the office. Ijaac and Omax followed, but Zed lingered behind.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Master Ghein,” Zed said. “I knew Norra. She must have cared a great deal for you to trust you so much.”

Petra gave a wry smile. “That sort of thing was always relative where Norra was concerned,” he said. “I fear what I felt for her was not mutual, but yes—she trusted me more than most.”

“I wish we could have helped her,” Zed said. He turned to leave.

“Wait,” the librarian said. “Did Norra have anything to do with what happened over the city today?”

Zed looked over his shoulder.

“It’s just that it’s such a strange coincidence,” Petra said. “A bizarre magical weapon attacks the city and you show up almost immediately, looking for her. After everything else, I find it strange.”

“You’re safe here in your libraries, Master Ghein,” Zed said. “Do you really want me to tell you the truth?”

“I suppose not,” the librarian said, looking away sheepishly. “It’s just that …” He looked at Zed intently again. “Were you friends with her?”

Zed smirked. “That sort of thing was always relative with Norra,” he said. “Honestly, I didn’t like her. She was arrogant, abusive, and short-sighted. But when it came down to it, she did the right thing. That’s more than a lot of people can say. I wish I could have been here to help her.”

Petra ducked under his desk to retrieve something, then quickly stood. He moved toward Zed, carrying a thick book. “Here,” the librarian said. “Take this with you.”

“A book?” Zed asked, accepting the thick volume carefully. “What is it?”

“Some obscure thing,” he said. “I’m the only one who remembers it; the library will never even know it’s gone. Norra spent a great deal of time reading it. After a while, she began leaving it here in my office so that no one else would check it out of the library. Maybe it’s important?”

Zed looked at the cover. The Wanderings of Morien Markhelm: A Journey into Argonnessen.

“Maybe,” he said. “Thanks, Master Ghein.”

The librarian said nothing. He returned to his desk and watched with a hollow stare as Zed closed the door. Zed hurried to catch up with the others as they walked out of the library.

“Do you think it was Zamiel who killed her?” Dalan asked.

“I’m almost positive,” Zed said. “Radcul is vicious but stupid. Norra could have evaded him forever. Zamiel tried to kill Eraina and me when we found out he had been altering the Draconic Prophecy. He boasted about killing others who had learned too much as well. Maybe Norra discovered something he didn’t want us to know.”

“To tell the truth, I’m having a hard time feeling sorry for her after what she did to my crew,” Ijaac said. “Feel like a right bastard for admitting it, but there it is. If she hadn’t treated everyone like rubbish, maybe someone would have helped her when she needed it.”

“Ijaac, that isn’t helping,” Zed said.

The dwarf shrugged.

“I blame myself for this,” Dalan said as Zed reached him. “Seren worried that Norra might be in danger, but I chose to fly to Nathyrr first instead.”

“There was no way you could have known, Dalan,” Zed said. “Sharn was much farther away. You only did what seemed logical. Not to mention that Ghein said she was found days ago. You wouldn’t have arrived in time to help her.”

Dalan shrugged, finding little solace in Zed’s words.

“I’m surprised you care so much, Dalan,” Zed said.

“I am not incapable of compassion or regret, Arthen,” Dalan said sharply. “Do you find it so odd that when I cause someone to die it troubles me? What is that you’re carrying?”

Zed held open the book and flipped through pages filled with a mad, jumbled scrawl. “Not sure,” he said. “The librarian gave it to me. Maybe Tristam can make sense of it. To tell the truth, I almost hope it’s useless.”

“Why do you say that?” Dalan asked.

“Looks like a book about the Draconic Prophecy,” Zed said. “I hate prophecy. I hate being told that I have no choice, that what I do doesn’t matter.”

“They say that the Prophecy is never wrong, only misinterpreted,” Dalan said. “To me, that only means the Prophecy is sometimes wrong, but the scholars are too embarrassed to admit it.”

Zed laughed. “I hope you’re right, Dalan.” He considered that for a moment. “Unless the Prophecy says we’re destined to stop the prophet and have long, happy lives. Then I’ll support every bit of it.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Tristam opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of his cabin. For several minutes, he couldn’t remember what had happened or how he came to be here. The last thing he could recall was leaping from the Mourning Dawn, clutching the life ring and narrowly missing Marth’s warship, only to see Shaimin’s grapple catch the bottom of the Seventh Moon as she passed overhead.

He sat up slowly. His left arm hung in a sling and felt entirely numb. His lower right leg was bound in a splint. He gasped in pain when he tried to turn his head; fire burned in the muscles of his neck and down his left shoulder. The rest of his body throbbed with a general ache. His homunculus sat at the edge of the bed, offering him a small cup of water. Tristam accepted it and drank gratefully.

Memories of the battle on the Seventh Moon slowly returned. He remembered Marth’s fall from the Seventh Moon. He remembered setting the ship’s core to overload and explode in a desperate attempt to save Sharn. He remembered being thrown into the bulkhead and buried in wreckage as the ship collided with Skyway. He remembered praying that the others had escaped as his vision began to dim. Then he remembered the wreckage being torn away by thick metal fingers and a pair of shimmering blue eyes staring down at him.

“How do you feel, Tristam?” Eraina asked. The paladin sat on a stool in the far corner of the cabin, watching him carefully. Her face was wan and exhausted.

“Amazed to be alive,” he replied, passing his cup back to the little construct.

“You very nearly weren’t,” Eraina said. “You still have a broken arm, and your ankle is sprained badly. I did what I could. Only time can do the rest. Zed left you the crutch he made back in Talenta.” She nodded at the crude shaft of wood leaning against the bookcase.

“Thank you, Eraina.”

The paladin smiled. “Omax was the one who carried you out of the Moon,” she said. Her face hardened. “Is what Seren said true? Is Marth dead?”

“He fell out of the Seventh Moon with Seren’s dagger in his heart,” Tristam said.

“Are you sure?” she pressed, unconvinced. “Couldn’t this be another one of his tricks?”

“I don’t think so,” Tristam said. “He was badly weakened. He’d used most of his defensive magic to protect himself from Omax. He didn’t have anything left to protect himself. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have given up so easily. He would have done everything he could to stop us from saving Sharn.”

Eraina gave him a long, piercing look. “So this is the end, then,” she said. “Bishop Grove’s killer has finally met justice.”

“Does that mean you’re leaving?” he asked.

“That depends on you,” she said. “This is the last clue remaining.” The paladin took a thick book from atop Tristam’s desk and handed it to him.

Tristam looked at the cover curiously. The Wanderings of Morien Markhelm: A Journey into Argonnessen.

“What is this?” Tristam asked.

“The book that Norra Cais was studying shortly before she was murdered,” Eraina said. “Zed found it.”

Tristam blinked. “Murdered?” he asked. “By who?”

“Zed thinks that Zamiel is responsible, and I agree,” Eraina said. “At this point, we may never know for sure.”

Tristam set the book to one side and rubbed his eyes roughly with his good hand. He suddenly felt weak and alone. He and Norra had often had their differences, but that changed nothing. Another part of his past, another friend, was gone forever. When he closed his eyes he saw Marth staring up at him with Orren Thardis’s face, falling to his death.

“I wish I’d never heard of the Legacy,” Tristam whispered hoarsely. “I wish I had never heard the name Ashrem d’Cannith. I wish I had never been a part of this.” He looked up at Eraina. “So many people have died because of this, Eraina. Where does it end?”

Eraina knelt beside him, clasping his hand in both of hers. Her dark blond hair fell over one eye. She looked at him with a strange, sad smile. “The last few months have been a difficult time for me, Tristam,” she said. “To a paladin, an adventure such as this is not easy. We must see the world in absolutes, but the world is rarely so simple. We must always do what is just. What is right. We must seek out evil and destroy it without hesitation. But who is evil? Is Dalan d’Cannith evil? He manipulated us all from the start, but his ends were just. Was Kiris Overwood evil? She wanted nothing more than to save the man she loved. Was Norra Cais evil? She led her crew to their doom but did so in a mad gamble to save all of Eberron. Was Shaimin d’Thuranni evil? He was the portrait of a soulless killer, but in the end he sacrificed all. Was Marth evil? As mad as he was, he believed he was a patriot until the end, restoring the world to its natural state. It has been difficult for me to find absolutes.”

“I don’t think there are any,” Tristam said.

“But you are wrong,” she said. “This dragon, the prophet Zamiel, is a being of incredible evil. Every obstacle we have faced, every trial we have overcome, has been of his design. We do not know why or how he has orchestrated all of this, but I can tell you this, Tristam. For the first time since I boarded this ship, my path is clear. I recognize evil, and I know what we must do. We must face him and end him—or all of this has been for nothing. You wish to know where all of this ends? I can tell you.” She released his hands and stood, looking down at him from her full height. “It ends with us.”

“What if I can’t find him?” Tristam asked. “Or what if I do, but I can’t find a way to beat him?”

“Then do not fail,” she said. “May Boldrei’s wisdom be with you.”

The paladin turned and exited the cabin, leaving Tristam alone with the strange book. He stared at the cover for a long time. Crude Draconic runes covered its surface. The volume looked truly ancient. Tristam plucked his spectacles from his desk and placed them on his nose as he opened the book and began to leaf through the journal.

The pages were covered with cramped scribbling in three languages. Tristam’s eyes hurt just looking at them. From what he could determine, Markhelm was some roguish explorer of his age, determined to unlock the hidden mysteries of the dragon continent.

Tristam leafed through the pages impatiently. To his eye the book read as nothing more than bad fiction written by an unsteady hand. Why would Norra be interested in such a thing? Why would this be the last remaining evidence of her existence?

As he leafed through the book, he noticed something strange. A Draconic rune on a certain page was circled in bright red ink. He noticed nothing strange about it until he read the word in his mind.

Tristam’s stomach turned as the room changed. He was now standing in the center of a shadowy study. His splint and sling were gone. A map of Khorvaire was painted on the floor, with colored chalk marking name and boundary changes. Tristam peered about in confusion.

A pale, gaunt man in loose, tan robes stood beside him. It was Ashrem d’Cannith, but younger than Tristam remembered him. Beside the resemblance to his master, the image was strangely familiar.

“Who is there?” Ashrem demanded, glaring at a shadowy corner. “I told your headmaster I preferred to use these chambers for private study.”

“And the headmaster has respected your wishes,” replied a calm, sibilant voice. “But I am not a student of this campus.”

“You,” Ashrem said in a low voice. He turned to face the speaker, hands balled into fists within his wide sleeves. “Step into the light.”

There was a shift in the darkness as the speaker nodded in compliance. He stepped forward, revealing a small bald man in robes of burnished copper. His face twisted in a bemused grin.

“Who are you, monk?” Ashrem demanded.

“I am a lie,” the man said.

Tristam stared, confused. The voice was no longer Zamiel’s.

It was Norra’s.

“This is a trap,” Ashrem said, also speaking with Norra’s voice. “Left behind by the prophet, in hopes that you would find it, Tristam.”

“But I have altered its purpose,” she went on, speaking through Zamiel’s lips again. “I do not know who or what this prophet is, but he is powerful. He uses tools such as this book to manipulate mortals into rebuilding the Legacy—for though he understands its purpose better than any other, he does not possess the expertise necessary to recreate it.”

“He uses those who wish to prove themselves,” Ashrem continued. “Those who wish to be heroes and are arrogant enough to believe it is their destiny to be so.”

“Though Ashrem read this book, he never saw this vision,” Zamiel said.

Ashrem glared at the prophet. The two men still moved as if they were having whatever conversation Norra had replaced.

“He was never intended to see this vision,” Zamiel continued. “This vision was left for you, Tristam. I think that Zamiel predicted that you would defeat Marth and go on to research the Legacy on your own.”

“He knew that you would follow the same path Ashrem did,” Ashrem added. “And the traps were ready—as they were in Zul’nadn.”

“Remember your vision there,” Zamiel grinned, showing perfect white teeth. “The white dragon expected you, remember? Such visions were intended to dupe you into believing this was your destiny. That you, like Marth and Ashrem, were a conqueror.”

“Why?” Tristam asked.

“To what benefit?” Ashrem asked.

“I do not know,” Zamiel said, smirking.

“But I believe this is not the only time he has done this,” Ashrem continued.

“I believe that Zamiel manipulated or even forged passages of the Draconic Prophecy itself,” Zamiel said, looking at Ashrem with sudden eagerness. “He knew that most of his pawns would be too eager to grasp their ‘destiny’ than look too closely.”

“But this time he erred,” Ashrem said.

“And I think that is why Ashrem truly chose you,” Zamiel added, an eager light in his eyes.

“Because, in the end, Ashrem began to see the pattern,” Ashrem said with a scowl. “After Vathirond, he began to suspect he had been manipulated. That was why he dismantled the Legacy.”

“But he knew that Zamiel would try again,” Zamiel said. “Most likely with one of his students.”

“Much simpler, after all, to use pawns he already knew,” Ashrem added.

“But Zamiel’s knowledge of the Prophecy is not entirely fiction,” the prophet said. “Somehow he knew of the Day of Mourning before it came. He forced Ashrem to make an impossible choice—leading to his doom.”

Ashrem folded his arms tightly against his chest and paced across the map. He gazed at the dark continent in the southeast corner, then stared out at Sharn’s cityscape. “This leads me to wonder who or what this prophet truly is, and how he could do what he seems to have done.”

“This isn’t possible,” Tristam whispered. “How can someone alter the Prophecy itself? Someone would know.”

“The more ridiculous the lie, the more likely it will be believed,” Zamiel said, seeming to answer his question.

“It is human nature,” Ashrem said.

“We all wish to believe it is our destiny to be great,” Zamiel added. “The prophet feeds his pawns just enough truth to gain their trust.”

“Then destroys them with lies,” Ashrem finished.

“From references in this journal it seems even its author was a pawn,” Zamiel said. “Morien Markhelm was guided by an old scholar who told him what to expect in Argonnessen.”

“Without the scholar’s guidance,” Ashrem said, “he would surely have perished in the depths of the dragon lands and be unable to say where to find caverns inscribed with the Prophecy.”

“But how could any mortal scholar know what to expect in Argonnessen?” Zamiel said. “No one has ventured deep within its reaches and returned. But somehow, the scholar knew where to find what he sought, yet was loath to journey there. Instead he sent Markhelm to do his research. He convinced Morien it was his destiny to be the first to see the dark continent.”

“I wonder how many others ‘destined’ to be the first died on that foolish quest,” Ashrem said.

“Before Markhelm finally returned with what Zamiel sought,” Zamiel added. “This raises a disturbing question—if Zamiel is old enough to have lived a century ago and knows the secrets of Argonnessen, what manner of creature is he?”

“Guess I finally figured out something before you did, Norra,” Tristam said wryly.

“A dragon, I think,” Ashrem said.

Tristam sighed.

“It would explain why the one in Zul’nadn served him,” Zamiel said. “So be extremely careful, Tristam.”

“For if Zamiel can weave such an illusion,” Ashrem said.

“He could be capable of anything,” Zamiel finished.

“He may even be aware that I have viewed this,” Ashrem said.

“In which case,” Zamiel said, “I will soon be dead. I have dispatched a Speaker Post asking for help, but I do not believe it will arrive in time. I cannot rely on Petra. I will not drag him into this. I leave you this message, for I believe this is one place that Zamiel may be too arrogant to check.”

“Perhaps I am too paranoid,” Ashrem said, shaking his head slowly, “but that trait has served me well so far.”

“What do I do, Norra?” Tristam whispered, though he knew she could not answer.

“Look to the Prophecy,” Zamiel shrugged, surprising him. “The true Prophecy. Whatever Morien found in Argonnessen—Zamiel wanted to know. It must be important.” Zamiel’s eyes flickered away across the map.

“It is inscribed in this book,” Ashrem said.

“I have found the passages,” Zamiel said. “They mark the last seven pages of this book, but the dialect is so obscure that even I cannot read it.”

“Zamiel would surely have translated it for you in time,” Ashrem said. “Once it served his purposes.”

“Whatever is held within is his true goal,” Zamiel said. “Among all the lies and manipulations, it is the one bit of true destiny you will find in this mad scrawl. You must find someone who can read it.”

Ashrem’s frown deepened. He turned his back to the prophet, walking swiftly toward the door. Wizened fingers rested upon the brass handle. Ashrem stood there, unmoving, for a long moment.

“Such knowledge is rare in this day,” Ashrem said. “Even many wizards and artificers find little use in reading this rare and ancient dialect.”

“Even Ashrem …” Zamiel said.

“… could not read it,” Ashrem finished.

Tristam glanced back and forth between the two illusory figures. He understood that Norra had to do what she could to hide her message within the prophet’s illusion, but hearing them both speak in her voice was becoming unsettling.

“But he occasionally encountered such things,” Zamiel said. “And that was why, among Ashrem’s most trusted colleagues, he retained one that was an expert on ancient languages—especially those most commonly used in prophetic texts which were so significant to the church.”

“Brother Llaine Grove,” Ashrem said.

“Who is dead now,” Zamiel said. “Llaine’s knowledge, however, did not die with him. There was a girl, a ward of the church, whom he personally raised and trained. He loved her like a daughter.”

“And she loved him,” Ashrem said. “So much that she chased his murderer across Khorvaire.”

“Eraina,” Tristam whispered.

“Show the book to the paladin, Tristam,” Zamiel said. “Perhaps she will find what you seek.”

“Tell Ijaac I am sorry for the deaths of his friends.” Ashrem sneered. Though it was obviously a reaction to whatever dialogue Norra had replaced, it struck Tristam as strange. Ashrem pulled the door open with a creaking wooden cough.

“Farewell, Tristam Xain,” Zamiel said. “Good luck.”

Ashrem’s fingers tightened on the brass handle. He glared over his shoulder at the prophet.

“I apologize, Master d’Cannith,” Zamiel said, bowing his head. “I did not mean to insult your good works. I did not anticipate that you would be the sort to shy away from knowledge. I cannot believe you would fear this opportunity.”

“Knowledge does not frighten me,” Ashrem said grimly.

It took Tristam a moment to realize that Ashrem and Zamiel were speaking in their own voices again. Whatever message Norra had left for him, it was over now. He felt a lump rise in his throat. In a way, this illusion had been Norra’s last words. Again, he wished he could have done something to save her.

Instead, he would ensure her death had not been for nothing.

Tristam extended his senses outward, piercing the illusion that surrounded him. He watched as Zamiel and Ashrem moved around him, seeing through their forms until he found what he sought. The weave of the magic was nearly identical to the illusory Ashrem that Tristam had encountered in Metrol. All of it had been a lie, meant to manipulate Tristam into taking up where Marth and Ashrem had left off.

But why? To what purpose? Why did Zamiel seem to wish mortals to create and use the Legacy?

The illusion faded, leaving Tristam in his bed again. There was only one person who could answer that question now.

“Eraina!” he called, struggling out of his bed. He grabbed Zed’s crutch, struggling to find his balance and hold the thick journal in the same hand. He limped down the corridor to find Eraina’s cabin open, but she was not inside. Instead he found her in the hold, kneeling in meditation beside Omax and Ijaac. They opened their eyes as he entered.

Tristam looked at Ijaac with some surprise.

“What?” Ijaac asked, blushing slightly. “A dwarf isn’t allowed to seek inner peace?”

“Tristam, are you all right?” Eraina asked, looking at him in concern.

Omax rose and grasped Tristam’s hand with one shoulder. In his excitement, the wounded artificer hadn’t even realized how close he was to falling over.

“The book,” Tristam said, flipping the pages open and holding it out toward her. “Can you read this?”

Eraina looked at the journal warily as she took it from Tristam’s hands. “What is this about, Tristam?” she asked.

“I’ll explain later,” he said. “Can you read it?”

“I think so,” she said. “It looks like the same dialect in the caverns beneath Fort Ash. I …” Eraina trailed off as she studied the text. She sat down on a barrel and stared at the pages more intently.

“Eraina, what is it?” Ijaac asked.

“I’m not sure,” Eraina said. “That all depends on if what I’m reading is true or not.”

“I thought you could tell what was true from what wasn’t,” the dwarf said, worried.

Eraina read in silence for several more minutes, ignoring the dwarf’s comment. Tristam leaned against a crate of rations, propping his injured foot on a barrel. Omax watched impassively. Ijaac returned to his meditation.

“It’s a transcription of the Draconic Prophecy,” Eraina said. “From the notes in the margins, this passage was originally discovered in a cavern guarded by a powerful flight of copper dragons. The author repeatedly expresses his thanks for a friend’s aid in informing him how to slip past the guards and magical protections. He doesn’t say who the friend is.”

“Zamiel,” Tristam said.

Omax looked at him in surprise. “Zed said that the book is over a century old, Tristam.”

“That’s really not surprising,” Eraina said. “Dragons are effectively immortal. They tend to live until something kills them.”

“What else does it say, Eraina?” Tristam asked.

“The actual prophecy is rather simple,” she said. “It begins by speaking of the past, recalling the battle between dragonkind and the demons, where the Legacy would be born on the plains of bone.”

“The battle that created the Boneyard,” Tristam said.

“But it also says that in creating the Legacy, the dragons awakened something powerful and ancient and drew its attention to this world,” Eraina said. “It is referred to as the Timeless, but it is a being with no true name. Its strength could be seen through the Dragon’s Eye. Each time the Legacy is used, a piece of its soul becomes trapped in this world forever. Though it has all the power any being can desire, it wishes for more.”

“More?” Ijaac asked. “What more could it need?”

“An end to solitude,” Omax said. “The Timeless must be the same being that I have sensed each time the Legacy is used. What becomes of the pieces of its soul after they enter our world?”

“It does not say,” Eraina said, glancing from page to page. “It jumps abruptly. I think a page has been removed.”

“Zamiel wanted to keep the rest of the truth for himself,” Tristam said.

“The next part sounds quite a bit like the vision you had in Zul’nadn,” Eraina said. She frowned. “A few details are significantly different. You won’t like this.”

“Tell me,” Tristam said.

“It speaks of a conqueror, wise, powerful, and immortal,” she said.

Tristam frowned. “In Zul’nadn, the conqueror was mortal.”

“I warned you,” she said. “The conqueror will be one who has walked long in shadow, one who has denied his own kind and been cast out from his homeland. Though he has never touched the Legacy, he has witnessed and mastered its power.”

“So Zamiel isn’t looking for a conqueror,” Tristam said. “He is the conqueror. He was just looking for a pawn to craft the Legacy for him so he could fulfill his own destiny.”

“When the Legacy burns the sky,” Eraina said, “the Timeless will begin to awaken.”

“Referring to Marth’s attack on Sharn,” Tristam said.

“The veil between our worlds will grow thin,” she continued. “The last Heir of Ash will take up the Legacy and restore what has been shattered as the moon burns around him.”

“Hm,” Ijaac said grimly. “Sounds like that part has already happened, too.”

“What happens next?” Tristam asked.

“One moon must pass for each that has fallen,” Eraina said.

“Seven days,” Omax said. “For the Seventh Moon.”

“Then the plains of bone will know the touch of the Timeless,” she continued. “The conqueror will seek him, and they shall become one. The conqueror’s enemies will recognize their weakness and be forever laid low.”

“Ouch,” Ijaac said. “Sounds like we’re destined to lose.”

No,” Tristam said fiercely. “Zamiel has lied to further his own ends before. Khyber, you already said part of the transcription is missing. We have no way of knowing what the missing section says.”

“Or if what we have seen is even genuine,” Omax said.

“Omax is right,” Eraina said. “All of this could be a trap, Tristam.”

“Maybe,” Tristam said, “but right now we have nothing else. Zamiel didn’t expect me to find that book just yet. He killed Norra to keep it a secret. He probably didn’t expect the prophecy to be fulfilled so soon, either. If the Boneyard really is manifest zone bordering on whatever realm this Timeless dwells in, maybe we can use the Legacy the same way we did in Zul’nadn. Maybe we can close it off from our world forever. We have one last chance.”

The others looked at Tristam dubiously.

“At this point we have nothing left to lose,” Tristam said. “If the prophecy is true, then it will resolve itself with or without us and we’ve already lost. I don’t believe that. I believe we still have a chance to stop Zamiel. It’s just as you said, Eraina. It ends with us.”

Ijaac looked at Tristam dubiously. “We have less than seven days, Tristam,” he said.

Tristam stood and limped toward the ladder. He climbed to the upper deck with some difficulty. Pherris looked up from where he had been napping beside the helm.

“Master Xain,” he said, beaming happily. “Good to see you on your feet.”

“Captain,” Xain said, nodding respectfully. “Can we fly from Sharn to the Boneyard in seven days?”

“If we leave now, fly full speed without any breaks, keep the wind behind us, and cut directly through the Mournland,” the gnome said dubiously.

“Good,” Tristam said, nodding eagerly. “When can we leave?”

TWENTY-EIGHT

Zed was no expert where matters of airship maintenance were concerned. He preferred to leave those sorts of matters to Pherris and Tristam. Though he trusted their judgment, he was beginning to worry. The elemental ring that surrounded the ship had subtly begun to shift, day by day. What once burned a brilliant blue slowly changed. The flames now seethed a murky indigo. The deck rattled noticeably under their feet. Tristam often hurried around the deck, checking the struts and adjusting things.

Passing over the Mournland without incident was a small blessing. The creatures that roamed that place appeared, for the most part, to be bound near the earth. Zed sometimes noticed shifting spirits swimming in the mists far below them, but nothing attacked them directly. Dalan spent that entire day locked in his cabin, unwilling to look upon his homeland again. In contrast, Omax had stood at the rail the entire time, staring down at the thick mists. Once they crossed the border into the Talenta Plains, Omax returned below deck to meditate.

Now the vast homeland of the halflings stretched below them. It would not be long before they arrived at their goal. With this sunset, it would be seven days since the battle over Sharn. Zed was silently impressed. He hadn’t thought even the Mourning Dawn could make this trip so swiftly. He avoided saying anything on the matter. Pherris was too occupied on their course. Any distraction, even praise, was likely to upset the gnome.

Zed had taken his evening’s dinner to the deck to enjoy a Plains sunset. His massive sword hung over one shoulder; he knew he would need it soon. As Zed looked for a barrel or crate to sit on, he noticed Gerith huddled in the corner of the deck. The halfling quietly stroked his glidewing’s neck and sang quietly to himself. Zed didn’t recognize the words, but the tone was moody and oddly heartbreaking. Zed sat quietly and listened. Near the end of the song, Seren climbed onto the deck and sat beside him, listening as well.

“That was beautiful,” Seren said when Gerith was done. “What was that?”

“A song of good-bye,” Gerith said. “A song for friends who will never come home again. My grandfather taught it to me.”

“Who are you singing for?” Zed asked, taking out his pipe and stuffing the bowl.

“For Norra and Shaimin,” Gerith said. “For Marth.”

“Marth?” Seren asked. “Why?”

The halfling looked at her with haunted eyes. “I know you did what had to be done, Seren,” Gerith said. “I hated Marth for what he did to the Ghost Talons … but when I learned what happened to his family, I started to wonder. How easy would it be for a good man to become what he became?”

“Too easy,” Zed said.

Gerith nodded. “I sing for them, and for myself.”

“Listen, Gerith, if you’re afraid of entering the Boneyard …” Zed said. “Everyone understands your tribe’s beliefs. You can take Blizzard and fly away before we land. No one will think any less of you.”

“I’m not talking about the Boneyard,” Gerith said vehemently. “I already decided I was coming with you. I wouldn’t be able to face myself if I didn’t help. I’m not afraid of the curse.”

“Oh,” Zed said, taken aback by the fire in the halfling’s words. On their last visit, Gerith and the other halflings had been terribly suspicious of the Boneyard, believing any halfling who entered would die far from home, unmourned.

“You both know about my promise,” the halfling said. “I told my grandfather I wouldn’t return until I found a story greater than any of his. In Sharn, I realized that would never happen.”

“What do you mean?” Seren asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” the hafling said, waving them away. “It isn’t important.”

“Master Xain!” Pherris called from the helm. “We’re nearly there. Make ready.”

Tristam limped onto the deck, still unsteady on his crutch. He steadied his new sword on his belt as he stared out to the east. The jagged white spires of the Boneyard were already visible.

Eraina, Ijaac, and Omax emerged as well. Eraina stared at Zed for a long moment.

“What?” he asked, looking up at her uncomfortably.

“There is something different about you today, Arthen,” she said. Her eyes moved to his throat. A Silver Flame amulet now hung there openly.

“Just something I picked up in Nathyrr,” he said. His eyes flicked away nervously.

“Of course,” she replied.

“I still cannot believe we’re doing this,” Dalan said, stepping out of his cabin and standing beside Tristam. “I can state without reservation or hyperbole that this is your most ridiculous idea yet, Tristam.”

“It’s your ship, Dalan,” Tristam said. “Order her to turn about if you don’t want to do this. Or scrap her. That’s what you wanted to do back in Sharn, wasn’t it?”

Gerith looked at Dalan curiously, then returned to his course. Dalan’s dark eyes flicked toward Zed.

“Do not hurl my words at me out of context,” Dalan said. “From the very start of this, Zamiel’s hunger for the Legacy has caused no end of violence and pain. We could dismantle Karia Naille’s core, release her elemental to return to its home world, and bind a new one. The ship would still fly but the Legacy would be no more. Zamiel’s plans would be halted and we wouldn’t be throwing our lives away attacking a dragon.”

Aeven turned her cool gaze on them from the bow of the ship. “Karia Naille feels privileged to share in our adventures,” the dryad said, “but she would like nothing more than to be rejoined with her sisters.”

“There! Even Aeven agrees with me for once!” Dalan said. “We can still turn the ship around, Tristam.”

Tristam ran a nervous hand through his hair as he stared at the Boneyard. “What do you think, Zed?” he asked, looking at the inquisitive.

Zed coughed on his pipe, surprised that Tristam had asked for his opinion. “Hard to say,” Zed said, gathering his thoughts. “If that prophecy you read was a fake, then Dalan is right. We’re probably better off dismantling the Legacy and making Zamiel start from scratch. We don’t even know what he can do. Remember how tough Mercheldethast was? He was a baby compared to Zamiel.”

“This is what I’m talking about!” Gerith shouted fiercely, rising to his feet. His eyes glistened with tears. “I started this adventure because I was looking for a great story to tell my grandfather—but now I know I’ll never find it. Real stories don’t have happy endings. We fought Marth. We stopped him—but people still died. I saw them falling in Skyway. I heard them screaming for help … but I couldn’t help. It’s always been the same. For every victory, there’s a tragedy. For every hero who defeats a villain, there are ten people the hero couldn’t save in time. Now here we are, at the end of this, and we’re going to let Zamiel escape?”

Zed tapped out his pipe on the rail and tucked it back into his coat. Suddenly he didn’t feel much like smoking anymore. The sun finally vanished behind the horizon. Gentle moonlight illuminated the plains.

“It isn’t that simple, Gerith,” Dalan said.

“Oh?” the halfling said, glaring up at the guildmaster. “Why isn’t it, Dalan? It seems pretty simple to me.”

“Gerith is right,” Zed said, standing up straight and steadying his sword over his shoulder. “We have to make a stand.”

Dalan glanced at Zed, looking quizzically at the amulet that hung around his throat. “Peculiar time for you to find your faith, Arthen,” Dalan said. “This is a time for logic, not emotion.”

“No, Dalan,” Zed said fiercely. “This is the perfect time for emotion. Don’t you remember why you got involved in all of this?”

“Because I wanted to claim my uncle’s research for myself and use it to seize control of House Cannith,” the guildmaster said. “I’ve confessed to my reckless ambitions and done my best to atone.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Zed said. “When you learned what Marth was doing, why did you keep hunting him? Seren, when Dalan told you to go home, why did you refuse? Eraina, when your superiors told you that searching for Grove’s murderer was a waste of time, why did you argue?” He looked at each member of the crew. “I could go on with this for each one of you, but the answer is always the same. We’ve all faced times when it would have been easier to stand aside, but we didn’t. Why?”

“Sometimes the worst thing you can do is nothing at all,” Seren said.

“We are close now,” Omax said. All eyes turned to the warforged. “As we draw nearer to the Boneyard, the more certain I am that Markhelm’s journal is at least partially true. I can sense the Timeless, as I could each time the Legacy was activated. Deep in the Boneyard, he stirs. He seeks the missing parts of himself.”

“The power that was released each time the Legacy was used,” Tristam said. “We still don’t know what happened to it.”

“Zamiel has been gathering it, somehow,” Omax said. “I can sense … a swell. The dragon is nearby. He has used the energy he has gathered to draw the veils between the planes wider. He intends to guide the Timeless as it enters this world.”

“And twist it the same way he twists everyone else,” Seren said.

“So it’ll be Marth all over again, but with the power of a god this time,” Ijaac said. “Marvelous.”

“If we’re going to do this, we all need to be together,” Tristam said. “We can still land long enough to drop off anyone who doesn’t want to fight.”

“I’m with you, Tristam,” Zed said.

“As am I,” Omax said. “We cannot allow this to happen.”

“It ends with us, Xain,” Eraina said. “I am with you.”

“I’m still your dwarf, Tristam,” Ijaac said gruffly.

“Me too,” Gerith said. “Well, not a dwarf, but you get the point.”

“Can’t fly the ship without its captain,” Pherris said with a smirk.

“I will help put this right,” Aeven promised. “The ship’s elemental wishes to see this through as well. She does not comprehend the details, but she knows Zamiel is a danger to her friends. Karia Naille only wishes there was a way to fight by your side.”

“Can’t turn back once you start, or you’ll never finish,” Seren said, attempting to smile bravely.

Tristam turned to Dalan.

“I don’t see what help I’ll be,” Dalan said quietly. He plucked the cap from his head and rubbed his eyes with one hand. “I’m just a fat old politician. I’m certainly no hero, and I’m more than a little afraid.” He looked up at Tristam, his gaze steady. “But I’m staying.”

“Good,” Tristam said, smiling broadly.

“So what’s the plan, Tristam?” Zed asked.

Tristam nodded. “If we can’t stop Zamiel, maybe we can at least use the Legacy to close the veils and shut the Timeless away from this plane forever. Omax, can you guide us where we need to go?”

“Yes, but I’m not sure that—” The warforged cocked his head suddenly. His eyes shone bright.

“Omax?” Seren said.

“Beware,” he said.

The airship shook violently with the explosive sound of shattered wood. Zed staggered against the rail, nearly falling overboard. Eraina caught his arm, steadying him.

“Pherris?” Dalan cried out. The guildmaster lay sprawled upon the deck. “What was that?”

“Something hit us,” the gnome said. He struggled with the ship’s controls. Around them, the ship’s elemental ring flickered an angry purple. “We’re losing altitude!”

“Port!” Gerith said, pointing at the sky behind the ship and to the left.

Zed looked up and immediately wished he had not. A large, reptilian beast soared through the sky away from them. Its skin was covered with coppery scales, burning brilliant red in the sunset.

Zamiel.

As the Mourning Dawn began to plummet, the dragon circled about and soared toward them once again.

TWENTY-NINE

If there was a single thing in all the world that irritated Dalan d’Cannith more than anything else, it was panic. Panic ruined the finest plans and laid the most confident individuals low. No matter how hopeless things became, he always struggled to keep a cool head. Whenever his schemes veered from his original track, he always tried to make the best of it, to fight to keep his nerve and turn failure into victory.

But now, seeing the enormous copper dragon soar toward his crippled airship, Dalan felt panic rising inside him. He huddled among the barrels stacked on the airship’s deck and clasped his hands around his head, shivering in terror.

“Tristam!” Pherris cried out. “Damage report!”

“Aye, Captain,” Tristam said, limping toward the ladder. “Dalan, help me!”

Dalan looked up at Tristam weakly. In the distance, he heard the dragon roar.

“Dalan, help me, damn it!” Tristam swore. “I may need your dragonmark!”

Zed hauled Dalan to his feet by one arm. The guildmaster mumbled apologetically as they led him to the ladder.

“Aeven, we need a storm!” Pherris cried. “Slow that beast down any way you can!”

The sky above them crackled with a sudden peal of thunder.

Dalan stumbled into the cargo bay. Tristam opened the bay hatches and leaned out. The expression on the boy’s face told the guildmaster everything he didn’t want to know.

“We’re going down,” he whispered, “aren’t we?”

Tristam glared at Dalan. “Pherris, the keel strut is barely hanging on!” he shouted. “I can’t fix it from here. We need to land!”

“Tristam, the dragon is coming back again!” Gerith shouted.

“Damn.” Tristam slammed the bay hatches closed and climbed back up the ladder.

“What do we do, Zed?” Dalan asked, looking at the inquisitive. “How do we fight something like this? We aren’t even going to make it to the Boneyard.”

“Get it together, d’Cannith,” Zed said through clenched teeth. “I know you’re not as weak as you make out.”

The inquisitive climbed up the ladder. The guildmaster stood alone in the shadowy hold, still clutching his cap in one hand. He should have remained behind. He was no use to them anymore. All his wealth, all his cunning were nothing against an enemy like this. He was only getting in the way.

“Don’t hide down here and wait to die, Dalan,” he chided himself. “That drunkard paladin is right. A Cannith is better than this.” He plucked up a sharpened pick from a stack of supplies, likely part of Ijaac’s extensive weapon collection.

Dalan climbed back on deck just in time to feel the airship bank heavily to one side, followed by another violent crash. He saw the dragon’s massive wing—big enough to eclipse half the deck—as it flew past. The airship’s elemental ring took on a red hue. A dreadful wail rose from deep inside her.

“He missed the strut that time but still got the hull,” Pherris said. The gnome’s face shone with sweat. His eyes were wide as he watched the dragon soar away. “I may still be able to crash us safely at the edge of the Boneyard, but we won’t survive another hit like that.”

“How do you crash safely?” Ijaac demanded. The dwarf clung to the ship’s rail with one hand and his morningstar with the other.

Dalan watched as the dragon soared ahead of them, moving more swiftly than their airship. The skies rumbled and churned overhead, but Aeven’s storm would not arrive quickly enough to matter. Zamiel soared about in a wide, lazy arc. He was heading back to finish them off. Though the Mourning Dawn was diving as quickly as she could without breaking apart, Dalan knew they would never reach the ground in time.

Gerith tore the lid off a barrel next to Dalan and began digging through its contents, stuffing them into a sack at his hip. He looked up at Dalan and offered him a crooked grin.

“Tell Seren good-bye for me, Dalan,” the little halfling whispered, and leapt over the rail.

“Gerith?” the Captain called out. “Where is he going?”

A moment later the little scout soared up over the ship, mounted on his glidewing. Dalan envied Snowshale; he wished he had a way to escape as well. As soon as Dalan had the thought, he dismissed it. Gerith wouldn’t abandon them now. But what was he doing?

Dalan looked down at the barrel at his feet. It was still a third full of Tristam’s alchemist fire flasks.

“What is he doing?” Eraina said, watching Gerith’s departure helplessly.

Gerith’s glidewing soared directly toward the oncoming dragon. At the last moment he turned and veered to the left, hurling his satchel at Zamiel. The sack exploded against Zamiel’s chest in a brilliant burst of flame.

The dragon faltered in its flight but did not fall. Instead it turned, chasing Gerith, falling behind them as the halfling led the dragon away.

“Gods, no, Gerith,” Pherris whispered.

“Master Snowshale has bought us time, Captain!” Dalan shouted. “Take us down, now!”

The gnome nodded and pushed the controls harder. Karia Naille’s ring roared, leaving a sizzling trail of flame as she soared toward the earth.

“Brace for impact!” the captain cried.

Dalan grabbed the nearest rail, still clutching his pick in one hand. He risked a glance back. He saw the dragon turn sharply in mid air. He saw Zamiel snatch something in his front claws and twist, wrenching it apart. Dalan looked away, closing his eyes tightly.

Karia Naille struck the plains with the torturous cry of torn metal and shattered wood. Dalan clutched the rail with all his strength but was still nearly thrown free. Roots grew from the wood at Aeven’s call, holding him and the others fast. For half a minute, the ship skidded and jolted, ripping a flaming gully through the grass.

At last, she came to a halt.

Dalan sat up and looked around, afraid to see what damage had been done. The Mourning Dawn had broken in half at her center. Both the struts that once held her elemental rings in place were entirely shattered. The front half of the ship was quickly catching ablaze. Dalan now sat at the edge of the shattered rear half of the ship, his feet dangling over the edge of the deck.

The roots released Dalan, dropping him to the singed grass. He staggered awkwardly to his feet as he adjusted to the unmoving ground. Turning around, he looked up in awe at the dead airship. He could see half the cargo bay split open before him, as well as the shimmering black cylinder that was the ship’s core. He knelt to take his pick from the ground, only to watch the head slide off the broken haft.

“Captain Gerriman?” Dalan called out, looking for any other survivors. “Tristam?”

Then Dalan saw the tiny, limp form of Pherris Gerriman lying on the earth between the shattered halves of the airship. He still held the ship’s wheel in one hand. Dalan ran to the old gnome’s side and knelt, pressing one hand to Pherris’s throat. The captain was alive, but only barely. His left leg was twisted badly and blood streamed from his nose.

“Marshal!” Dalan called out. “Arthen! Someone help!”

“Dalan!” came the reply. Zed Arthen ran around the far side of the wreckage toward him. The others followed. They appeared mostly unharmed, though Tristam had lost his crutch and leaned on Omax for support.

“We have to get away from the wreck before the dragon comes back,” Ijaac said. “Can we move Pherris, Eraina?”

“Don’t rush me,” the paladin said, kneeling beside the fallen gnome. Tristam limped up beside her, digging through his pockets for any potions that might help.

Wait. Dalan looked at the group again. One was missing.

“Aeven,” Dalan said, looking around desperately. “Where is Aeven?”

“The figurehead,” Zed said, running toward the burning half of the ship. “She can’t leave her tree behind!”

Ijaac and Omax followed. Dalan looked around desperately for any sign of the dragon. That he saw nothing worried him even more. They needed to leave more quickly than this.

And then the prophet was among them.

The dragon appeared with startling speed, blocking Zed’s path. The inquisitive lifted his sword, but Zamiel knocked him aside with a swipe of his claw. Omax charged fearlessly, but the dragon slammed his claw down upon him heavily, driving him into the ground.

Dalan felt the dragon’s aura of fear wash over him, and he huddled among the wreckage, clutching his shattered pick.

Ijaac swung at the prophet with his morningstar. The weapon made a noisy crack as it struck Zamiel’s claw. The dragon winced, snatched the dwarf up, and threw him away to one side.

There was nothing left to do, Dalan realized as he leaned back amid the scattered wreckage. They had lost.

Eraina ran at Zamiel, hurling her spear and trying to lead him away from Pherris. The dragon batted the weapon from the air with its forearm and strode lazily toward her.

Dalan noticed his back was uncomfortably warm. He looked over his shoulder and his eyes widened. He was leaning against a thick column of black crystal—Karia Naille’s elemental core. The guildmaster grinned.

Dalan leaned close to the ship’s core, pressing one hand against the crystal. The surface was cracked and pitted, but still solid. It felt uncomfortably warm. With his other hand, he took up the broken halves of his pick. He focused the power of his dragonmark. The weapon became whole once again.

The dragon snatched Eraina from the ground in one claw, grinning eagerly as he listened to her scream in pain.

Listen to me, Dalan focused the thoughts in his head as he pressed one hand against the glass. Aeven is in danger. We are all in danger. Now is your chance to fight.

Tristam fired a bolt of lightning from his wand, striking the dragon in the back. The dragon turned, glaring hatefully down at the artificer. Its chest puffed out as it took in a deep breath.

Dalan brought the pick down hard on the cracked core. He wasn’t a strong man. He didn’t expect such a thing to break in a single blow—but he didn’t know the strength of the elemental fighting to get out. As soon as the pick struck the glass he leaped aside, narrowly avoiding the blast of searing heat that issued forth. He rolled across the thick grass, dousing the flames that singed his robes.

A plume of roaring blue flame billowed out from Karia Naille’s broken hull, washing over the dragon. Zamiel roared in pain and irritation, dropping Eraina. The elemental screamed as it burned the dragon’s flesh. The prophet hissed angrily and fled into the sky.

“Khyber, what just happened?” Zed asked, watching the flaming dragon soar away across the sky. He staggered to Eraina’s side.

“No time to worry about that,” Dalan said, running toward the flaming half of the ship. “We need to gather everyone and get out of here. Help me save Aeven’s figurehead!”

Zed found the figurehead lying on the ground near the burning ship. The wood was cracked and scorched from the crash, but otherwise unharmed. Aeven lay in the grass near it, barely breathing. Zed heaved the heavy statue over his shoulders while Dalan picked up the slim dryad. She weighed almost nothing, as delicate as the winds she commanded. After relying on her magic so many times to save them all, it was strange to see her so helpless now.

They returned to find the others still alive, though badly injured. Pherris was still not moving, and Ijaac was unconscious as well. Omax, as usual, looked oblivious to any damage he had taken. They gathered up their wounded and fled into the night.

But as they ran, Dalan felt Aeven stir against his chest. He looked down to see her eerie green eyes staring into his own.

“Karia Naille thanks you, Dalan d’Cannith,” she whispered. “She will return to her sisters soon.

Dalan kept running, carrying the dryad in his arms.

THIRTY

Seren could still hear Zamiel’s defiant roars somewhere high above them. The ship’s elemental was probably no match for a dragon, but with luck it would give them time to escape.

Every one of them was helping someone else who was injured or unconscious. Eraina carried the captain’s limp body. Dalan still held Aeven while Zed hauled her livewood figurehead. Omax carried Ijaac and even Seren helped Tristam limp along, his crutch lost somewhere in the crash. They had to find a place to hide. They wouldn’t find one on the plains—so they ran into the Boneyard.

The ancient bleached bones crunched beneath their feet as they ran. Seren’s eyes scanned the shadows for any sign of the creatures that had attacked them on their last visit. There was nothing.

“There!” Zed said, pointing at a hollowed bone cavern beneath a large ribcage, filled in with centuries of shifting dirt and withered vegetation. “We can regroup there.”

They hurried inside. Tristam pulled away from her at the mouth of the cave, stopping to draw a pouch from his coat. He threw a handful of dust on the ground and whispered a quick transfusion. The dust swirled over the cavern mouth, forming an illusionary wall that matched the bony landscape.

Once she was safe inside, Seren collapsed in the corner. She hugged her arms against her chest and fought the urge to scream. How could things have gone so badly? The image of brave little Gerith flying out alone to delay the dragon replayed itself over and over in her mind.

“Is everyone all right?” Tristam asked.

“Pherris is badly injured,” Eraina said. Her left arm hung limp and bloody, but the paladin was more concerned for the gnome’s injuries than her own. She set Pherris gently on the ground and removed her cloak, rolling it into a pillow and tucking it beneath his head.

“Will he live?” Zed asked.

“I do not know,” Eraina said. She clasped her blessed octagram in one hand as she leaned over Pherris, summoning the healing power of Boldrei. “We should not have moved him.”

“I do not think Ijaac is badly injured,” Omax said, putting the heavy dwarf beside the captain.

“Let’s hope,” Zed said, leaning the figurehead against the back wall. “How is Aeven?”

“Badly stunned but otherwise all right,” Dalan said. The guildmaster knelt, placing the dryad on the ground near her statue. He moved with extreme care, as if he feared she might shatter.

“Move me near Pherris,” the dryad said. She pointed at the captain with a trembling hand. “I can help heal him.”

Dalan nodded and lifted the dryad, moving her to the captain’s side.

“What do we do now, Tristam?” Seren asked.

“I … don’t know,” Tristam said.

Seren felt despair wash over her. She hadn’t felt this helpless since the night Jamus died. They had done their best but had accomplished nothing. The Mourning Dawn was gone. Gerith was dead. Pherris and Aeven were nearly so. Ijaac was too badly injured to fight. The prophet was too powerful.

“The Timeless stirs,” Omax said, looking out toward the Boneyard.

“We can’t stop it now,” Tristam said. “We can’t close the veil without the Legacy.”

“You closed the Dragon’s Eye without the Legacy,” Omax said.

“I had Norra’s artifact then,” Tristam said. “It was designed to react to the Legacy’s energies and turn them upon themselves. If I had more time, I could build something similar, something attuned to that unique power signature.”

“What about me?” Omax said.

The warforged waited for an answer. Tristam stared up at his old friend silently.

“I still carry a small fraction of the Legacy,” Omax pressed. “Can that not be used to your purposes?”

“Maybe,” Tristam said. “I could alter the magic that binds you to the Timeless. If you got close enough it would turn the manifest zone upon itself, just like we did at Zul’nadn.”

“Then let us do so,” Omax said.

“Omax, what you’re suggesting is incredibly dangerous,” Tristam said. “The resultant energy could tear you apart—or even destroy the entire Boneyard the way Zul’nadn was destroyed. Except this time we don’t have an airship to make our escape.”

“Is there any other way?” the warforged asked.

Tristam frowned. “No,” he said.

“Then let us hurry,” Omax said.

The artificer stepped toward Omax, placing one hand on the warforged’s chest. He spoke words of arcane power under his breath as he channeled his magic into the warforged, altering the enchantments that animated Omax. After a few moments, it was done.

Omax turned to leave.

“Everyone else stay here,” Tristam said, limping awkwardly after him.

Seren moved beside Tristam, pulling his arm around her shoulders.

“Seren, no,” he said. “This is too dangerous.”

“Don’t be stupid,” she chided him. “You can barely walk.”

“I’m coming too, Xain,” Zed said. “Will you be all right here, Eraina?”

The injured paladin nodded. She drew her attention away from her patient for a moment, looking up at Zed with clear eyes. “May Boldrei and the Flame fight beside you,” she whispered.

The inquisitive smiled.

Seren was surprised to see Dalan still carrying a scorched pick he had found somewhere in the wreck. The guildmaster clutched his weapon tightly as stood guard over the wounded. He noticed her attention and looked at her sharply.

“Go, Miss Morisse,” he said. “I’ll stay and watch over them.”

“Good luck, Dalan,” she said. She stepped away from Tristam and hugged Dalan impulsively. He stood stiff in confusion for a moment before embracing her in return.

Dalan d’Cannith’s face split in a rare, sincere smile.

“Go finish this, Seren,” he said.

The four stepped through the illusionary wall into the Boneyard. The dragon’s roars had faded, though the sky rumbled with the approaching storm. The entire area was eerily silent. Zed drew his blade with a metal hiss.

“This way,” Omax said, leading them deeper into the canyon.

Seren followed the warforged. Tristam leaned heavily upon her, his foot still badly injured. His eyes stared straight ahead, glazed and unfocused.

“Tristam?” she whispered.

The artificer said nothing.

“Angry, Xain?” Zed asked.

“That’s something of an understatement,” Tristam said.

“Good,” Zed said. “You’ll need that. Staying angry is more useful than giving up. We’ll have time to grieve later.”

They pressed on as night fell around them. Fortunately, with so few cities in the Talenta Plains, the skies were so clear that ample moonlight and starlight illuminated their path. The ancient bones that loomed around them shone a faint blue.

“Stay alert,” Seren whispered watching the bones around them. “There were monsters here when we came looking for Kiris.”

“I wouldn’t worry about them,” Zed said. “Dragons are fiercely territorial. Zamiel probably frightened them off.”

“You have a way of putting people at ease, Arthen,” Omax said.

The inquisitive chuckled.

The pass they followed through the bony ruins took a sudden turn to the left. Seren peered around the corner. The Boneyard opened into a large clearing, lined with draconic skeletons larger than any she had seen before. In the center of the clearing, a ball of brilliant blue flame seethed in midair. Seren felt a strange sensation as she stared into its depths, as if part of her was forever falling into something vast and infinite.

“I hope that’s what we’re looking for,” Zed said.

Omax nodded. His eyes now shone the same color as the flame.

Seren noticed the stars flicker as a shadow passed overhead. She grabbed Omax’s arm, stopping the warforged as he began to move forward. The ground shook as a heavy shape struck the earth in the clearing. The dragon landed with his back to them. His broad copper wings fanned the night air. Many of his scales were blackened, but he was otherwise unharmed by his battle with the elemental. The dragon took no notice of them, leaning low to stare into the flame.

“What must I do?” Omax asked.

“Just touch the fire,” Tristam said. “The rest should work itself out.”

“Will we have time to run or will this be like Zul’nadn?” Zed asked.

“I don’t know,” Tristam said. “I’m not even sure it will work.”

“So we don’t need to beat Zamiel,” Seren said. “Just distract him long enough for Omax to touch the flame.”

“Wait here, Omax,” Zed said. “We’ll circle around and distract him.”

“Hurry,” Omax said. “Not much time remains.”

They made their way back into the maze of bones. For several minutes they picked their way around until they reached another pass that entered the clearing. They were at the dragon’s left side now. Zamiel still stared patiently into the blue flame, front claws cupped around it. Seren felt the urge to run, to cower and hide until the prophet went away. She began to tremble. Tristam, still leaning against her for support, shook as well.

“Dragons radiate magical fear,” Tristam said. “I’m not sure what to do about that.”

“Same thing we do about the regular sort of fear,” Zed said, hefting his sword. “Try not to think about it. Tristam, you’re no good to us with that leg. Stay here and back us up at range.”

Zed charged first, but Seren was faster. She darted in toward the dragon, drawing her daggers. The dragon wheeled about the moment she entered the clearing, looking down at her with dull hatred. She barely dodged aside as its claw drove into the ground, shattering rock and bone. She hurled her dagger at the dragon’s face. It stuck harmlessly in his right cheek, like a pin lodged in a piece of thick wood. Zamiel did not appear to notice.

Zed was behind her, slashing at its arm with a heavy blow from his sword. His sword gleamed white as it struck, and the dragon hissed in pain. It pulled away, blood streaming over its claw.

“Paladins,” the dragon growled. “Always paladins.”

Zamiel reached for Zed, but a silver bolt of lightning from Tristam’s wand scorched his injured hand. The dragon roared in irritation, lumbering toward Tristam. Behind him, Omax dashed into the clearing toward the flaming sphere. As he reached the edge the dragon turned suddenly, lashing out with his tail. Omax was hurled backward across the bony plain. The dragon rounded on him.

“Idiot warforged!” Zamiel roared. “I can sense your connection to the Timeless as clearly as you sense mine. Did you believe you could thwart me? I have planned this for centuries.”

Zamiel pinned the warforged to the earth with one claw and leaned close, taking in a deep breath. Omax reached out and snatched Seren’s dagger from his cheek, slashing it across the dragon’s eye. Zamiel roared, his acidic breath spraying randomly across the clearing. Zed lunged toward Seren, grabbing her as he rolled, ducking behind an outcropping of bone as the deadly breath washed over them.

She risked a glance around her cover and saw Omax rushing toward the flame. His body steamed from the dragon’s breath; the adamantine plates that covered his left arm were fused and melted. The dragon recovered itself just as Omax reached the fire. It lashed out with one claw just as Tristam fired another burst of lightning at his face. The dragon’s claw impaled the warforged. Seren thought she saw Omax’s fingers touch the tip of the fire, but she wasn’t sure.

Nothing happened. Omax lay beside the flame, pinned to the earth by the dragon’s claws. The blue light in his eyes flickered and went dim. Zamiel looked at the rest of them, a slow grin spreading across his face. His remaining eye shone with malevolent green light. Zamiel’s chest swelled as the dragon inhaled deeply, looking down at Tristam. He released a cloud of boiling acid over the artificer.

“Tristam!” Seren cried out.

The cloud cleared. Tristam stood unharmed. He stared up at the dragon in surprise.

Zamiel’s eye widened. “No,” he growled. “How?”

“Prophet, hold your wrath,” said a deep voice.

Omax rose slowly to his feet. Twin plumes of bright blue fire now blazed in his eye sockets. He stared at his open hands in wonder, as if seeing them for the first time. An eerie silence fell over the clearing, broken only by the distant gibbering of the Boneyard’s inhabitants.

“No!” Zamiel roared, spinning to face the warforged. “How is this possible?”

Omax tilted his head. “Is this not what you sought?” he said in the alien voice. “Is this not what you desired? To help me find an end to my solitude?”

“Yes, but I was to be the vessel!” the dragon snarled. “Me! This is my destiny!”

“I am confused,” the voice of the Timeless replied. “I thought you only wished to aid me.”

The dragon’s snarl faded. “Of course, Timeless,” he said, speaking with excessive calm. “But this one is not suitable to be your avatar. He is flawed. Imperfect. My ancestors created you—I know how to control your power.”

The warforged’s hands closed with a sharp metal click. “I do not wish to be controlled,” the Timeless said. “I wish only for an end to my solitude.”

“But you do not know this world,” Zamiel said. “You will require the guidance of one who is wise.”

“Don’t listen to him!” Tristam cried.

“Quiet,” the Timeless said. Omax’s body gestured at Tristam. The artificer was thrown backward, scattering bone shards as he slid across the ground. A chorus of mad shrieks echoed from the creatures of the Boneyard. Zed could feel them huddling at the edges of the shadows, gathering to watch what was happening.

“Well done, Timeless,” Zamiel said. He circled behind the warforged, glaring at Zed and Seren. “Now deal with the other mortals as well so that we can discuss the future of this world without interruption.”

The warforged opened one hand and stared at its surface. “How peculiar,” the Timeless said. “Why does it sadden me so much to harm something so temporary?”

“It is as I have said,” Zamiel said. “You have chosen an unworthy vessel. Abandon it!”

“No,” the Timeless said. “I am intrigued.”

“Intrigued?” the dragon asked. “By what?”

“The memories of him with whom I share this body,” it said. “I see a soul who forever doubted his purpose, who turned his back upon the fate others would thrust upon him. I see one who walks a path marked with loneliness and regret.” The warforged looked up at Zamiel. “I see a soul that treasures these fickle mortal creatures, though he has no reason to do so. I find it intriguing.”

“No, Timeless,” Zamiel said. “The mortals are a pestilence, nothing more. We have nothing to learn from them.”

“You are wrong, prophet,” the Timeless said. “I have much to consider. I am not yet ready for this world. I have too much to learn.”

“You are ready!” the dragon roared. “We are ready! We shall rebuild this world as we deem fit. The mortals are beneath our consideration.”

“Sad,” the Timeless said. “I think you have much to learn as well, my friend. Let us retire to consider things anew.”

The warforged gestured. Zamiel’s draconic form vanished, replaced by a humanoid figure in coppery robes. The brilliant fire in Omax’s eyes faded. A metallic groan issued from deep in his chest as the warforged fell to his knees, then toppled face first into the bone-strewn earth.

Seren ran to Tristam, helping him limp to Omax’s side. The artificer rolled Omax onto his back. The usual blue light shone in his eyes again.

“He’s not hurt,” Tristam said, awed. “He’s not hurt at all.”

Beside them, the swirling blue flame diminished and then vanished altogether. The Timeless was gone.

“No!” Zamiel screamed, rushing toward them. Zed moved into his path. The prophet backed away fearfully, tripping over his own robes. Zed lifted his sword.

“Let him live, Arthen,” Omax said, sitting up. “The Timeless wished him to learn what it means to be mortal and powerless.”

“Mortal,” Zamiel said, patting his own chest in horror. “Human, even. Disgusting and weak. This is impossible! This was my destiny!” He rushed at Zed again. The Inquisitive seized him by the collar of his robes and threw him back on the ground. “The Prophecy is never wrong!”

“It wasn’t wrong,” Zed said. “You just weren’t as important as you thought. Looks like Omax is the immortal conqueror—and you’re the one he conquered.”

“Let’s find the others and get out of here,” Seren said, pulling Tristam’s arm around her shoulders.

“Good luck with your new life, Prophet,” Zed said, sheathing his sword. “What’s left of it.”

Zed, Omax, Tristam, and Seren hurried back the way they came. Seren could hear the prophet’s enraged shrieks for several minutes afterward, until the gibbering shrieks of the Boneyard’s monstrous inhabitants eclipsed them.

Then there was only silence.

EPILOGUE

One Year Later

Was Omax all right?” one of the children asked, worried.

“A little dented. A little sadder,” Seren said, “but still strong. Still Omax. We gathered up the others and escaped the Boneyard.”

“Did Tristam fix the airship?” a second child asked.

“Did Captain Gerriman survive?” another asked.

“What happened to the dog?” a third called out, deeply concerned.

“Please, please!” Seren laughed and held out her hands to calm the mob of eager little halflings. “I’m not done with the story yet. Keep interrupting and you’ll never hear the rest.”

The children quickly calmed down. They stared at her with sullen, impatient expressions. When she had begun the tale, there had only been two listeners, but word spread quickly through the village. Now the entire tribe was here, including thirty of the most eager and impatient little listeners she had ever met.

“As brilliant as Tristam was, even he could never fix the Karia Naille again,” Seren said. “Instead, we took what was left of the airship and built a memorial to Gerith at the edge of the Boneyard. We left his crossbow, his stewpot, and Blizzard’s perch there—a tribute to the bravest and wisest halfling we had ever known. When we set out for the long walk home, I looked back one last time. I thought I saw a glidewing with a sky blue belly sitting on Gerith’s shrine … but I guess I’ll never be sure.”

The children cooed in approval.

“And how could Captain Gerriman not survive, with Eraina and Aeven tending his wounds?” Seren asked, grinning at her audience. “He was awake by the time we returned, and in as foul a mood as ever. ‘I suppose we’ll be walking back to Zil’argo, Master Xain?’ ” Seren spoke in a deep voice and puffed out her chest in impersonation of the little captain. The children laughed.

“Wasn’t Pherris sad to lose his airship?” a child asked. Some of the others glared at him, afraid that Seren would follow through on her threat to stop telling the story.

“He was,” Seren said. “Very sad. All of us were. The Mourning Dawn was our home, and the crew was our family. Even though we had stopped Zamiel and saved Khorvaire, it looked like the end. Would the world pull us apart and leave us to wander alone again?”

She stopped to slowly gaze over her audience, all waiting to see what she would say next.

“But Dalan saved the day,” she said.

“Mean old Dalan?” one child said, wincing in distaste. The guildmaster was clearly not one of her favorite characters.

“Mean old Dalan,” Seren replied. “Dalan went to Zil’argo and paid the gnomes to build him a new airship, as beautiful as the Mourning Dawn and faster than the Seventh Moon. Tristam helped them build her, just like Ashrem helped build the sister ships, so that she would be better than any other airship in the world. Pherris stayed on as the new captain, and Tristam became his first mate. Omax and Ijaac stayed on as the crew, and I stayed with them. Aeven, as always, guided our way.”

“And mean old Dalan?” the same little girl asked.

“Mean old Dalan went back to Wroat, though he wasn’t quite so mean anymore,” Seren said. “Eraina returned to Karrnath to be with her church and her family. Zed was sad to see her say good-bye. Sadder than I think he’ll ever admit.”

“And what happened to Sir Arthen?” an older child asked excitedly. “Did he ever really get his magic back?”

Seren thought about her answer for a moment, then smiled sadly. “I don’t really know what happened to Zed Arthen,” she said. “He set off on his own shortly after we arrived in Zil’argo. I guess that’s another story entirely.”

A few of the children clapped excitedly. The halflings began to file out of the tent, but she noticed that one of the children was still watching with a strangely forlorn face. She suddenly remembered an important detail.

“And the dog was fine,” Seren said. “Dalan knew that the trip to the Boneyard would be very dangerous, so he left Gunther behind in Sharn.”

“You should have said that earlier,” the worried child said urgently.

“It didn’t seem to fit into the story,” Seren said.

“It was the dog,” the child said, completely outraged by the omission.

“Sorry,” Seren said.

The child pouted and stormed out of the tent.

“She was right, you know,” the old man in the back of the tent said. “Never forget the dog. You can kill all the heroes you like, but the audience will never forgive you if you hurt the dog.”

“Sorry,” she said, grinning at the old halfling. “How was it?”

The old man grunted. “It’ll do, I guess,” he said. “The language was a little rough, but the plot seemed all right. I could polish it up, I suppose. Helps that you wore that short skirt, too. That made the slow parts interesting.” The old halfling leered at her legs.

Seren folded her arms across her chest and gave Mannis Snowshale a disapproving look. He was as incorrigible as his grandson.

The old halfling burst into a fit of cackling, laughing so hard that he was forced to dab his eyes with his sleeve. When he finished, his eyes still glistened. He looked up at Seren seriously.

“Did my grandson really do what you said?” he asked hoarsely. “Was he as brave as you said?”

“My words don’t do it justice,” she said. “Pherris named the new ship after him.”

“The Lunatic?” Mannis asked hopefully.

“The Reckless,” she said with a laugh.

“Eh, close enough,” he said. “Thank you, Miss Morisse. I proclaim my grandson’s quest a success.” The old halfling rubbed his nose with the same sleeve, sniffling a little. “I think I need some time alone to write all of this down.”

“Of course,” she said softly.

Seren stepped out of the tent and back into Snowshale village. The sun shone brightly over the plains. The people went about their lives happily, with no worries for the future. She could hear some of them already trading their favorite bits of Gerith’s story.

“How did it go, Seren?” Tristam asked.

The young artificer wore a new coat, slick black with red trim. His sandy hair was tied back in a ponytail and he carried a new sword at his hip. The ring on his hand bore the Cannith house seal.

He smiled at her hopefully. Behind Tristam, in the plains beyond the village, the airship’s green elemental ring hovered peacefully.

“They liked it,” Seren said.

Tristam’s grin broadened. He reached out and clasped her hand in his.

“Let’s go home,” he whispered.

WHO
NEEDS
SHELF
SPACE?

Now you can find the Forgotten Realms®, Dragonlance®, Eberron®, and Dark Sun® novels you’ve been searching for as ebooks.

Hundreds of titles are available now, with more titles available every month.

Add them to your collection at
DungeonsandDragons.com