by Rich Wulf
Seren woke with a pounding headache and a knifelike pain in her back. All about her was darkness. She sat up awkwardly, feeling around for some sense of her environment. She did not remember this room, nor how she came to be here. She felt a pang of alarm when she realized the knife at her belt was gone. Had she been wrong to trust d’Cannith’s strange crew? Had they decided not to trust her after all and locked her in the brig? A thousand paranoid theories burned through Seren’s mind.
Fear swallowed all rational thought as two pale blue lights suddenly shone in the darkness. The dim light was followed a moment later by a small lantern flaring to life, held by the warforged, Omax. Seren lay on a narrow cot in a cramped chamber. The warforged knelt in the center of the room, holding the lantern in one hand. A small table stood beside the cot. Seren’s dagger lay atop it, still sheathed. She quickly snatched the weapon and huddled in the corner, as far away from the construct as she could. The weapon would do her little good if Omax was hostile, but some chance was better than nothing.
“Hello, Seren,” Omax said in his deep, measured voice. “Are you feeling better?”
“What am I doing here?” she asked. “What are you doing here?”
“The captain felt it best if one of us remained to watch over you,” Omax said. “Sky sickness can leave one confused and disoriented. We did not wish to see you come to harm. I apologize if I frightened you.”
As the initial terror passed, Seren began to remember the events of the previous day. The ship had continued her steady pace over the Brelish landscape. Seren had spent the better part of the first day helping Gerith and Omax tend to the ship, keeping the decks clean and preparing the meals. While helping scrub the aft deck, she had begun to feel unusually ill and could not remember anything after that.
“Sky sickness?” she asked, tucking the dagger into her belt. She felt rather foolish for her paranoia but saw little need to apologize to the construct.
Omax nodded. “The enchantments that keep a ship like this afloat also provide some modicum of comfort, but they are not perfect,” he said. “The air is much thinner and colder than you are used to. The movements of the ship itself can be disorienting. A human not accustomed to the conditions can easily be overcome with exhaustion without any warning.”
“I see,” she said. Seren climbed off her pallet. Her thighs felt rubbery and sore, and for a moment her legs threatened not to support her. Omax held out a metal hand and she seized it for support. She pulled away just as quickly, unnerved by the construct’s thick metal fingers. She had expected them to be cold, but Omax was warm, like a living creature.
The warforged lowered his gaze. When he spoke again, his voice was subdued. “I will leave you to your privacy, Seren,” he said. “If you require me for anything, I shall be meditating in the forward cargo bay.”
Seren did not reply. Omax rose, gave a strangely formal bow, and departed. She waited where she was, listening to the sound of the construct’s heavy metal footfalls receding through the ship. When she was fairly sure the warforged was gone, she opened her cabin door and tentatively stepped out into the hall. She was on the lower deck of the airship and could hear the steady hum of the ship’s elemental ring pulsing beneath her feet.
Small doors lined the narrow hallway on either side. This part of the ship’s lower deck was filled with these small cabins. As she continued forward, Seren heard movement inside the cabin closest to her own. She smelled a pungent, chemical smell from beyond the door, accompanied by a faint bubbling. She leaned closer to listen, and the bubbling grew more intense, followed by the sound of breaking glass and Tristam Xain swearing violently.
Seren moved on, climbing the ladder that separated the cabins and cargo bay, emerging on the main deck. She felt a chill as the wind rushed over her bare arms and cut through her thin breeches. Looking out over the rail it was difficult to tell how high the ship flew. All around was a vast sea of clouds, showing only a rare hint of green beneath. In the distance, she saw Gerith’s glidewing diving in and out of the clouds. She felt a detached sense of peace and safety. The flight of an airship was so calming, despite everything that had happened. She had no idea what lay ahead or what truly motivated Dalan d’Cannith and his strange crew, but somehow standing on the deck of Karia Naille she felt safer than she had since leaving Ringbriar so long ago.
“Good morning,” Captain Gerriman said blandly from the ship’s wheel. He peered pointedly at the sun, fixed precisely overhead in the noonday sky. “Glad to see your first day on board was such a productive one.”
“No one warned me about sky sickness, Captain,” Seren said.
The gnome looked at her, stroking his bushy white moustache with one hand. “I think you misunderstand me, Miss Morisse,” he said. “I meant what I said. A crewman willing to work herself to a stupor on the first day is exactly the sort of person who leaves a lasting positive impression on me. Just don’t do it again. I respect determination, but I am not a great admirer of stupidity.” He returned his attention to the ship’s controls, turning the wheel idly with one hand.
“Well,” Seren said with a small laugh, “then I should get back to work.” She looked around at the deck. “What needs to be done?”
“Nothing, really,” Pherris said with a shrug. “Gerith can be a little obsessive, always finding something to clean or polish, but she takes care of herself just fine most of the time. Sit and rest for a bit. If you plan to stay on my ship, I’d appreciate coming to know you better.”
“I thought you said you preferred ignorance,” Seren said.
“About how you came to know Dalan, yes,” he said. “But what sort of person you are and what sort of things you’ve done, while not entirely unrelated, are separate affairs. It is the former that interests me.”
“It isn’t much of a story,” she said. She climbed to the upper deck and sat cross-legged in the bow of the ship. “I come from a little village called Ringbriar. After the end of the war, I just thought I’d be better off somewhere else.”
“Ah,” Pherris said. “Did you lose your family, then? Parents dead in the war?”
“My father died in the war,” she said. “My mother was alive, the last time I saw her.”
“You don’t know for sure if your mother is alive?” he asked, incredulous.
“I haven’t seen her in years,” Seren said. “She’s better off without me.”
“Hrm,” Pherris said. He studied the clouds off to the left. His thoughts were elsewhere.
“You seem much different today, Captain,” Seren finally said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “A lot calmer than you were when we first met.”
Pherris wrinkled face twisted in a grin. “When you met me, I had just been commanded to fly my ship unauthorized into the Brelish capital in the dead of night to rescue my employer from unknown enemies. Today I have the luxury of patience. My patience is not an infinite commodity, and I find it is expended more often than not in Master d’Cannith’s service.”
Seren glanced quickly toward the door of Dalan’s cabin, then back at the captain.
“Oh, trust me, Miss Morisse, he is well aware of my opinion of him,” Pherris said. “I am a gnome who speaks his mind, and he knows the ship would fall apart without me.”
“If you think so little of him, why do you work for him?” she asked.
“Because Karia Naille once belonged to Dalan’s uncle, a good and honorable man,” Pherris said.
“Ashrem d’Cannith built this ship?” Seren asked.
Pherris looked extremely shocked. “Built her?” he said, scoffing. “Ashrem didn’t build Karia Naille. He improved her, certainly, and he understood what drives her better than most humans. I’ll argue none of that, but Karia Naille and her sister ships are products of gnomish ingenuity. The Canniths would have you believe they build everything, but I assure you that is not the case!”
“I didn’t mean any offense,” Seren said. “I don’t know much about airships.”
“A
h,” Pherris said, his tone softening somewhat. “Well, if you ever wish to know more, I am at your disposal. But to answer your original question, Ashrem once had three airships, Karia Naille, the Kenshi Zhann, and the Albena Tors—or, translated, the Mourning Dawn, the Seventh Moon, and the Dying Sun. If you ask me, this one is the finest of the three, fastest at a sprint and prettiest by far. Ashrem had her built for Kiris—the young wizard who stole his heart. Of course Kiris spent most of her time with Ashrem on the Kenshi Zhann and left the ship under my able command. When she shared Ashrem’s fate, the Mourning Dawn passed to Dalan. I can’t imagine why Ashrem would bequeath such ship to his nephew—the two were not particularly close—but he did. I offered Dalan my services on the day the will was read. I could not envision Karia Naille in the hands of another captain. Master d’Cannith knew better than to refuse. We have our differences, but on professional matters we recognize one another’s talents. He leaves the ship in my hands. I leave the rest to him.”
“And what of the others?” she asked. “Gerith, Tristam, Omax. How did they end up here?”
“Gerith’s tale is simple enough,” Pherris said. “He was looking for work, and I’d flown with him a few times before. His experience as a scout, explorer, and translator speaks for itself. He’s lived half as long as I have and seen twice as much of the world. I was afraid he might get bored and leave again until we hit Wroat. Now we’re moving again, so he’s interested, and I’m sure a pretty young human girl joining the crew didn’t hurt. Tristam and Omax are a bit more complicated.”
“Complicated?” she asked.
Pherris looked back at the door of Dalan’s cabin, then back at Seren. His voice became much softer, as if concerned he would be overheard. “It all goes back to Dalan,” he said, “and his uncle, of course.”
“How?”
“You ask a great deal of questions, Miss Morisse,” Pherris said shrewdly. “You are quite fortunate that gossip is the Zilargo national pastime.”
Seren laughed.
“Dalan is obsessed with his uncle’s work, and rightly so,” the captain said, answering her question.
“The Legacy is some sort of ticket to promotion to him with his house,” Seren said.
“Well, it would be ironic, wouldn’t it?” Pherris said. “It was Ashrem’s work that crippled Dalan’s career.”
“Crippled?”
Pherris sighed. He cast another look toward Dalan’s cabin, but this time his gray eyes shone with sympathy. “It’s a sticky sort of story, all blood and politics,” he said. “Let’s just say that old Ash earned his share of enemies in House Cannith right before the end. He was such a genius that few would ever really oppose him, but when he vanished, his rivals shifted their resentment onto Dalan.”
“Dalan said Ashrem disappeared?” Seren asked. “I was told he died.”
“Died, vanished, it’s all the same,” Pherris said. “Near the end of the war, Ashrem packed up his flagship, the Dying Sun, and left Zilargo for Metrol, the capital of Cyre. Kiris went with him. She told me that Ash intended to make peace with his family, to make peace with everyone—whatever that meant. That was two days before the Day of Mourning. Ashrem’s ship hasn’t been seen since, but House Cannith proclaimed him dead. That was bad news for Dalan, as it meant all of Ashrem’s enemies had to find someone new to focus their hatred on. Dalan isn’t exactly popular in his House these days.”
“Hard to believe,” she said wryly. “He’s such a charmer.”
Pherris’s bushy brows furrowed. “You’d be surprised,” he answered. “Dalan is coarse when he has to be, but he has a way of getting what he wants out of people. It’s to his credit that despite all his enemies, he managed to remain the Tinkers’ Guildmaster in Wroat.”
Seren cocked her head at the gnome, surprised by the words of praise.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” the captain said quickly. “I don’t like Dalan much, but even I won’t deny his talents. Dalan is clever; he knows how people think. He knows how to make them think. He knows what you’re about to say before you say it. He knows how to make you change your mind, and you’ll believe it was your own idea. But for a Cannith, even that gets you only so far. Wordplay and manipulation have a place, but the Makers want results. Other than a few dragonmark tricks, Dalan has no magical talent. He knew if he wanted to earn a place in his House it would be through his uncle’s accomplishments, but he had no chance to understand Ashrem’s work alone. So he sought out Ashrem’s apprentice.”
“Dalan said that Ashrem’s colleagues and students were missing or dead,” Seren said.
“Oh, not all of them,” Pherris said. “Just the most important ones. Kiris vanished with Ashrem. Orren Thardis disappeared not long after. Bishop Llaine Grove and Emil Harek were murdered last year. Norra Cais has been missing for months. Those five were the ones who helped Ashrem with his most critical research. Tristam was just an apprentice, and he left Ashrem two months before the Day of Mourning.” Pherris frowned at Seren. “Ashrem refused to sponsor Tristam for membership in House Cannith, and Tristam resigned in outrage. The boy came to work in my shipyard after that, and Omax followed him like he always does. Just on about a year ago, Dalan came to us with his grand quest. Tristam was eager for a chance to prove himself, to reclaim his master’s work and earn a place in the House of Making.” Pherris sighed. “Poor Tristam. He’s a bright lad, but he’s such an idiot.”
“I’ve had somewhat the same impression of him,” she said.
“You don’t know the half of it,” Pherris said. “So much potential ruined by so much doubt. Makes me want to toss him over the rail and be done with him some days. But he has his moments. Omax is proof of that.”
“Did Tristam build the warforged?” Seren asked.
Pherris laughed. “No, no, no,” he said, then paused. “Well, actually, yes, I suppose he did but only in a sense. Nobody builds warforged anymore, not since the end of the war. No, Tristam saved Omax’s life, gave him purpose when he had none. Beyond that, I’m not at liberty to say.”
“More secrets,” Seren said ruefully.
“Not my secret to share,” Pherris said. “Some of us prefer to leave the past where it is. Omax follows Tristam because the boy gave him a chance to become something better. Omax is not what he used to be. He’s some sort of holy man now, calls himself a seeker on a path of enlightenment. If you want to know more, you’ll have to ask them yourself.”
“Tristam doesn’t seem an inspiring sort,” she said.
“Well, like I said, he has his moments,” Pherris countered. “Everyone on this ship has their moments. I suppose you do, too.”
Seren stood up languidly and frowned at the gnome. “How do you know for sure?”
He only laughed and nodded at the figurehead. “Because she likes you,” he said.
Seren looked at the gnome for a long moment. He only smiled at her intently.
“How far to Black Pit?” she asked, changing the subject as she looked out at the clouds once again.
“Six hundred and eighty-two miles,” he said.
Seren looked back at him, eyes wide. Her home village was almost as far from Wroat, and the trip had taken her a month on foot. “How long will we be airborne?” she asked.
“Three days,” he said. Seren said nothing for several moments, and Pherris shrugged uncomfortably. “I’m allowing time to take on supplies, of course. I don’t see any point in rushing.”
Seren looked back down at the clouds. There was no sense of such speed, only a timeless sea of sky. The airship actually felt as if she were moving very slowly. The tiny black shape of Blizzard shot up out of a cloud and dove back down. “I’m going to lie down again,” she said.
“Suit yourself.”
She climbed down the ladder into the cargo bay. She noticed Omax sitting among the piled crates. She stepped forward carefully, trying not to make any sound, studying the warforged’s massive shape. He looked disturbingly human. His head was almost featureless, still c
apped with the incongruous woolen hat. Flesh and bone were replaced by sculpted adamantine metal and polished dark wood. Yet the creation was not flawless. As she stared at him, she saw a network of dents and scars laced through his body, a history of battle and conflict. Omax’s head was bowed. The construct repeated a low chant, almost a whisper, and Seren moved closer to hear. To her surprise she recognized the words. It was a hymn often sung by the monks of Dol Arrah in the fishermen’s quarter—the prayer of a warrior seeking redemption.
The song stopped.
“I am sorry, Miss Morisse, I did not notice you,” he said. “Did you need something?”
“No,” she said. “Sorry to disturb you.”
His blue eyes pulsed as he peered over one shoulder.
Seren returned to her cabin, leaving the warforged in peace. The door of Tristam’s cabin stood open now, and the hall was filled with acrid, oily smoke. Fearing a fire, Seren looked inside. It was as small as her cabin, but where hers was empty this one was stuffed with clutter. It featured a small pallet and a table, but also contained a narrow bookcase stuffed with leather-bound tomes, loose journals, and yellowing scrolls. A model airship hung from the ceiling, a perfect reproduction of Karia Naille with an elemental ring sculpted of silvered steel. The table was covered with vials, crystals, and other pieces of alchemical equipment. The oily smoke rose from a bubbling retort filled with clear fluid. A lumpy clay man the size of a small cat sat on the table nearby, waving the smoke toward the nearby porthole as best it could. Tristam sat on the pallet nearby, reading a book, seemingly unconcerned.
“What is that?” she asked.
“Distillation,” Tristam said, peering up at her over his spectacles. “I’m purifying some basilisk humors I picked up in the city. They’re useful for potions of leaping, though a lot of people don’t like the chalky flavor. If you mix it with a bit of rum, it’s fine. I apologize about the smoke; it’s sort of a necessary …”
“No, that,” she said, interrupting him.
