Dandra drew a sharp breath as she realized what Ashi was describing. “The shard from the heart of Dah’mir’s device,” she said.
Ashi nodded.
Dandra sat back. “Il-Yannah! If the shard is real, then the story might be, too. If we can’t get back to the Bonetree mound, the place Dah’mir came from before might give us some answers.”
“Hold on!” Singe said. He looked across the fire at her. “We’re talking about a story—a story about some place Dah’mir might have been two hundred years ago.”
“The story is true,” Ashi told him stiffly. “How else would generations of storytellers have known about the shard? The Bonetree didn’t go inside the mound.”
Batul nodded in agreement. “Stories can hold much truth, Singe. The lore of the Gatekeepers tells little about Dah’mir, but it does tell that the Servant of Madness came to the Shadow Marches out of the east like a blight on the dawn.”
“We’d still be chasing a story two hundred years old on a hunch.” Singe looked to Geth for support, but shifter just shook his head.
“You’re asking the wrong person.” He patted the heavy, jagged blade of his Dhakaani sword. “I walked through a phantom fortress that’s been a story for thousands of years.”
“When I told you that Dah’mir had led the Bonetree for ten generations, you doubted me,” said Ashi. “That story was the truth.”
Singe grimaced and held up his hands in surrender. “Twelve moons! Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to look into it.”
New hope leaped in Dandra’s heart even as Tetkashtai shrank back further in her terror. “Where does the story say we can find the Hall of the Revered, Ashi?”
“Che Haranait Koa shenio otoio ches Ponhansit Itanchi,” the hunter said, the phrase rolling off her tongue like a formula. “The Hall of the Revered lies below the Spires of the Forge.”
“And where are the Spires of the Forge?” asked Singe.
Ashi opened her mouth, then froze and closed it again. She shook her head, the beads woven into her thick gold hair clacking softly with the motion. Singe cursed. “That’s not much help!”
“The Bonetree remembered the trials the hunters faced in their journey, not the route they took!” Ashi said between clenched teeth. “The story tells only Dah’mir’s instructions to the hunters: The Hall of the Revered lies below the Spires of the Forge. Enter the door above the tangled valley. Look neither left nor right. The riches there are not for you. Hold to the path that leads to the Hall and find what waits in the shade of the Grieving Tree.”
They all just stared at her. “Rat,” Geth grunted. “It’s like a riddle. I hate riddles.”
“It’s a start,” said Dandra firmly. She tried to think of something that might narrow their search. “Does the story say how long the hunters’ journey took? Did they cross open water at all? Did they cross mountains?”
Ashi shook her head again. “No, no water, no mountains. They walked. The story says they were gone for a season.”
“Half a season there and half a season back,” said Batul. “The Bonetree mound lies in the heart of the Marches. Travel half a season east and you’re in the west of Droaam.”
Geth’s eyebrows rose. “Grandmother Wolf. Dah’mir came to the Shadow Marches from the barrens?”
“It’s possible,” Singe said. “Go any further east and you would run into civilized lands.” He sat back, scratching the patch of beard that clung to his chin. “A place called the Spires of the Forge somewhere in the west of Droaam.”
Dandra looked at Batul. “Does Gatekeeper lore mention these Spires?”
The old druid shook his head. “No. But Gatekeepers of old had little concern for things outside the Marches.”
“We’d need to know where we were going,” said Geth. “We don’t want to just wander around in Droaam. That’s dangerous territory.”
Ashi grunted. “And the Shadow Marches aren’t, shifter?”
“We have you, Batul, Krepis, and Orshok to guide us here,” Geth growled back. “We’d need to find a guide who knows the land in Droaam, someone who might have heard of the Spires of the Forge.”
“A guide—or a historian,” said Singe. In spite of his earlier objections to the idea of seeking out the Hall of the Revered, Dandra recognized a gleam of curiosity in Singe’s eyes. “The story is two hundred years old.”
“Historian or guide, we’ll find someone in Zarash’ak,” said Natrac. “House Tharashk’s prospectors and bounty hunters often spend time in Droaam—and if they can’t help us, I know someone with an interest in history, who might be able to.”
“An ‘interest’ in history?” Singe asked doubtfully. “Natrac, the City of Stilts isn’t exactly well-known as a center of learning.”
Natrac gave him a dark look. “You underestimate Zarash’ak. It’s worth the try though, isn’t it? We’re going to be there anyway.”
There was a brief silence as faces around the campfire blinked at him. Natrac looked at them all and asked cautiously, “We are going back to Zarash’ak, aren’t we?”
“I don’t know,” said Dandra. In the rush of their escape, she hadn’t even thought about it. Her only concern had been getting away from the Bonetree mound and Dah’mir. The great river eventually flowed all the way to Zarash’ak though—all they had to do was follow it downstream. She looked to Batul once more. The old druid spread his hands.
“You’re all welcome with the Fat Tusk tribe,” he said, “if that’s what you want. But Fat Tusk’s territory lies to the west and you won’t learn anything about the Hall of the Revered or the Spires of the Forge there.”
“Zarash’ak it is,” said Singe. He raised an eyebrow. “What about you, Batul? If we’re following Dah’mir’s trail, I wouldn’t mind having a Gatekeeper with us.”
The old druid shook his head. “Fat Tusk needs me,” he said. “Come back when you’ve done what needs doing and tell me the story.”
Across the fire, Orshok shifted. “I’ll go, teacher.” Batul turned his head to regard his younger student and Dandra saw Orshok swallow before spitting out a rush of words. “When you sent me to Zarash’ak to watch for the Servant of Madness, I saw a world I’d never seen in the marshes. When we fought the Bonetree clan and the creatures of Khyber, I felt an energy I’d never felt before. When we faced Dah’mir, I felt—”
Batul held up his hand. “Enough, Orshok. I understand. My place wasn’t always with Fat Tusk.” He gave him a thin smile. “If Geth, Singe, and Dandra will have you, you can go.”
“We’ll have him,” said Geth. “I’ll watch over him.”
One hairy hand strayed to the collar of polished black stones that he wore around his neck, and Dandra knew that he was thinking of the last Gatekeeper to wear it: his friend Adolan, who had died protecting her from the Bonetree hunters in the Eldeen hamlet of Bull Hollow. That night seemed so long ago now—and the decision that she, Geth, and Singe had made to find Dah’mir afterwards so simple and naïve.
Suddenly she wondered what consequences were going to come of the decision they had just made. Within her, Tetkashtai shuddered in dread.
“Dandra,” said Natrac, “you look like something is still bothering you.”
She forced herself to push aside her new doubts. It felt good to know that they were once again doing something and not just fleeing blindly from the dragon’s power. Whatever happened, it was better than doing nothing. “I haven’t had the best experiences when I’ve visited Zarash’ak before,” she said. It might not have been what she was really thinking, but it wasn’t a lie, either.
Natrac shook his head. “This time,” he reassured her, “will be different. You’ll stay at my house. I’ll show you the best side of the City of Stilts while you’re there.” He rose to his feet and executed a grand, flourishing bow.
The sight of the half-orc—dressed in ragged, blood-stained clothes and standing in the middle of a wild, dangerous swamp—bending low like some pompous dandy was too much for even her exhausted mind t
o resist. Dandra’s lips twitched and curved, and, for the first time in what felt like weeks, she laughed.
CHAPTER
2
Looking out over the rooftops of Zarash’ak under the bright light of morning a little more than a week later, Dandra had to concede that Natrac was right. So far, this visit to the City of Stilts was different from her previous experiences. The first time she’d been to the city—as a psicrystal—Tetkashtai, Virikhad, and Medala had fallen to Dah’mir’s waiting power within an hour of their arrival. The second time, she and Singe hadn’t even made it off Vennet d’Lyrandar’s ship before the treacherous half-elf had attacked them in an attempt to capture her for Dah’mir.
This time, they’d simply paddled up to one of Zarash’ak’s public water landings the previous day and walked away from their boats without even looking back—Batul and Krepis had left them several days before, striking west for Fat Tusk territory on a swiftly built raft. Once he’d set foot on the raised wooden streets of Zarash’ak, Natrac had become a changed man, resuming the role of the confident, brash merchant they’d first met on Lightning on Water and shedding the aura of grim survivor he’d taken on in the swamps. “By Kol Korran’s golden bath,” he had sworn, looking around with satisfaction, “I am never leaving Zarash’ak again!”
He’d escorted them through the city as if they were visiting dignitaries, pointing out the sights and parting crowds with shouted commands. His house, a tall structure in a well-cared for section of the city, looked like it was shut up when they arrived, but more shouts and a fist pounding on the door had brought an old, gray-haired servant to the door. The man had almost fallen down at the sight of Natrac—and then recoiled at the sight of the stump of Natrac’s right wrist. “Dol Arrah, master—the rumors were true!” he’d gasped.
“It depends what those rumors were, Urthen,” Natrac had said, throwing his good arm around the servant’s shoulders and drawing him inside. “Now come to your senses. We have guests to look after!”
Like Natrac, Urthen had seemed to undergo a transformation as he’d opened up windows, set rooms to airing after his master’s absence, and rushed to accommodate five unexpected guests. He’d apologized extravagantly for a hasty dinner of rough food—chickens spread with a spicy sour paste and crushed flat to make grilling them easier—fetched from a nearby tavern, lukewarm baths with hard soap, and beds improvised from cushions, but after so long traveling, Dandra felt as though she was surrounded by luxury.
Waking in the morning without the dawn sun shining in her face was even better, and when she had finally risen, it was almost as if she’d woken in a palace. Urthen had taken her clothes away while she’d slept and had them laundered overnight; they’d been returned smelling of herbs and flowers. She’d sought out the old man in the kitchen to thank him and had been directed up several long flights of stairs to a wooden platform built across the flat roof of the house. Under a canopy of white canvas, he’d served her a breakfast of cool mint tea, fruit, and fresh golden ashi bread smeared with honey.
Maybe, Dandra thought as she sat back and stared out over the railing around the platform, there was something to be said for Zarash’ak.
“Twelve moons, you look like the lady of a great house.”
“I feel like the lady of a great house.” Dandra turned and smiled at Singe as he stepped out onto the platform. The wizard’s clothes had been laundered as well, and his freshly washed blond hair shone as bright as the rooftops of Zarash’ak.
In her mind, Tetkashtai made a noise of annoyance. Stop that! she said in waspish tone.
Dandra held back a grimace. The presence had slowly shed her persistent state of fear during their journey downriver. Unfortunately, much of that fear had transformed into stinging bitterness. She hadn’t quite forgiven Dandra for breaking the great shard and ruining Dah’mir’s device, her only hope for regaining her body. Dandra had tried to make her understand that Dah’mir would never have reversed what he had done to them—that in fact he might not have been able to—but Tetkashtai had settled into a deep resentment.
For the sake of peace within her own mind, Dandra turned her thoughts away from Singe as he sat down. Urthen came hurrying up from inside the house with another tray laden with bread and tea. “How was your breakfast, Mistress Dandra? I wasn’t certain what kalashtar preferred.”
“It was very good, Urthen,” she assured him.
It was coarse, said Tetkashtai. She spun out a memory of her favorite breakfast: taslek broth taken with an egg swirled into it.
That sounds so bland, Dandra said.
It wasn’t bland, Tetkashtai replied. It was subtle.
Dandra fought her instinct to crinkle her nose for fear of offending Natrac’s servant.
The others joined them slowly, all looking well-rested and—except for Ashi—well-scrubbed. The Bonetree hunter had splashed water over herself and her clothes, but no more. Natrac arrived last to the table. The half-orc wore robes of fine fabric with full sleeves that fell to cover his missing hand. “Urthen,” he said as the old man poured cold tea for him, “there’s a wright in Drum Lane who’s supposed to be particularly talented at making artificial limbs. I think I’d like to call on him tomorrow.”
“I’ll make the arrangements, master.” Urthen handed Natrac a note that had been folded and sealed with a dollop of yellow wax. “A response to the message you sent last night.”
Across the table, Singe raised an eyebrow. “Is this from your would-be historian, Natrac?”
Natrac had been coy about the contact he thought might be able to help them. He’d kept his or her identity a secret, but had hinted that it would be someone likely to impress them—or at least to impress Singe. Dandra was certain the half-orc wanted to prove to him that Zarash’ak was more than just a collection of buildings built on stilts above a swamp. It seemed that he was determined to draw the suspense out until the last minute. His only answer to Singe’s question was a cryptic smile as he struggled to open the folded note with one hand, a smile that turned into a growl as the paper defied his efforts. He raised his right arm, shook the knife mounted over his wrist clear of his sleeve, and slit the paper neatly.
Dandra caught a glimpse of careful, clean handwriting before Natrac held the note up and away from the rest of them. His smile returned and he folded the note once more, tucking it into his robe. “Urthen, we’ll be out for dinner. You know where.” He winked at his servant.
The old man smiled back and bent his head. “Master.” He picked up his tray and moved away.
“You’re still not going to tell us?” asked Dandra.
“You’ll find out.” Natrac sipped his tea. “We shouldn’t waste the day though. Shall we find out what House Tharashk can tell us about the Spires of the Forge?”
Dandra and Singe nodded, but Geth growled and tore into a thick piece of bread. “Not for me,” he said. “You do what you need to do—I’m not going to be stuck inside talking all day.” He looked to Orshok and Ashi. “Do you still want to see the sights of Zarash’ak?”
“Dagga!” said Orshok eagerly.
Ashi shrugged, but gave a little nod.
Natrac set his tea down and spread his hands wide. “If you’re sure,” he said. “It probably would make things easier if there weren’t six of us looming over someone, but …”
“I’m sure,” Geth said flatly.
“If you insist.” The half-orc reached for bread. “We’ll be spending most of our time near the herb market. Why don’t you meet us there around mid-afternoon? The market is easy to find. There’s a shrine to Arawai and Kol Korran in the heart of it. Look for us there.”
“Done.” Geth took another bite of his bread and gave Dandra and Singe the grin of someone who had just escaped from an onerous task.
“That was easier than I thought it would be,” Singe muttered as he stepped out from Natrac’s house and onto the street a short while later.
“Let someone think an idea is their own,” said Natrac wit
h satisfaction, “and they’re more likely to follow it.”
Dandra felt the slightest twinge of guilt as she followed the two men out into the morning sun. “I’m still not sure I like tricking Geth and Ashi,” she said—then held up a hand as Singe looked back at her and raised an eyebrow. “I know,” she added. “It’s for the best.”
While the human and half-orc members of House Tharashk often spent much of their time in the wilderness, Tharashk was still one of the great dragonmarked houses. Its most talented members carried the Mark of Finding. Getting answers from them was going to take respect, diplomacy, and a certain amount of charm. Geth and Ashi, on the other hand, had a tendency to act before they thought. Even Dandra could see that their absence was likely to make their search smoother—and that simply telling them that they should find something else to do wasn’t likely to work. Instead they’d enlisted Orshok in their scheme of persuading the rough pair that the search would be tedious and time-consuming.
The druid had taken to the lie eagerly. Dandra was fairly certain that he had no desire himself to be engaged in talk when he could be exploring Zarash’ak, but she still felt as though she was somehow corrupting the young orc.
Natrac reached out and patted her shoulder as they walked. “Don’t worry, Dandra, they won’t get into trouble. Zarash’ak isn’t as dangerous as all that.”
She gave him a level look. “You told us to carry our weapons.” She shifted her spear in its harness across her back.
The half-orc smiled. “You’re less likely to get trouble if you look like you can give trouble back. That’s just common sense.” He drew her after him. “Come on—we’ve got a lot of the city to see ourselves.”
Dandra had spent the first part of her existence in Sharn, but as Natrac led them deeper into Zarash’ak, she began to think that even the vertical neighborhoods of the City of Towers were nothing compared to the tangled streets of the City of Stilts. Built up from individual stilted platforms and raised walkways, Zarash’ak was a confusing sprawl of a city. The wooden streets turned and crossed seemingly at random. New sights appeared without warning around corners, between buildings, and across bridges.
The Grieving Tree: The Dragon Below Book II Page 3
