Rise of the Seventh Moon: Heirs of Ash, Book 3

by Wulf, Rich

  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, Tri
stam,” 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 st
unning, 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.