by Wulf, Rich
“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.
“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 s
chool’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.
