by Rich Wulf
“He is a powerful artificer,” Eraina said. “Could he not use magic to find us?”
Zed sighed. “You’re smart enough to know what a lazy answer that is,” he said. “Magic isn’t all-powerful. It isn’t infallible. Most important, magic is on our side too. If there was some way that Marth could predict our course with magic, don’t you think Tristam would have found some way to block it? Or at least warn us about it?”
Eraina nodded thoughtfully. “What other explanation could there be?” she asked. “A traitor?”
Zed sneered. “It has to be,” he said. “There’s a leak of information somewhere, that’s for certain. I can only think of one significant thing that has changed for the Karia Naille since she left Wroat, and that’s Seren.”
“No,” Eraina said, predicting Zed’s line of thought. “Seren Morisse is not responsible. My father would not have adopted a traitor. I have seen no deceit within her.”
“I don’t really believe she would do it, either,” Zed admitted. “I’m grasping at anything here. Maybe it’s Dalan? He’s worked with them before.”
“Whatever Dalan’s faults may be,” Eraina said, “I believe he is sincere in his desire to stop Marth. It is only his methods that I find suspect.”
“That’s not what I mean,” Zed said. “Dragonmark heirs are expected to send regular reports while on missions abroad, right? Just so their house knows that they’re safe. We already know Baron Zorlan d’Cannith has some sort of unusual interest in our mission. Maybe he’s been keeping tabs on Dalan and feeding information to Marth?”
“A bold leap of assumptions,” Eraina said. “Too many maybes, and Dalan is no fool. His ship does not even bear his House’s crest. I would be surprised if any other member of House Cannith knew where he was.”
“True,” Zed said. “It’s a terrible theory, but it’s the only one I could think of. The other members of the crew are trustworthy. You’ve vouched for Seren, and you …”
“I am an idiot paladin, incapable of betrayal,” Eraina said.
“I didn’t say that,” Zed said.
“Of course you did not,” she said with a small grin.
Zed stopped outside the door to a small tavern. “I think this is where I stop,” he said, looking at the sign above the door. “The Beaten Mule,” he read. “I wonder what poor mad poet dreams up the names of places like this.”
“I will return when I have attended my duties here, Arthen,” she said. “Perhaps we could discuss this further over whatever passes for drink here.”
“Water,” he said.
She looked at him curiously. “Temperance is not a virtue I expected you to retain.”
“It’s the only one I have left,” he said with a dry chuckle.
The inquisitive pushed open the door of the Beaten Mule and disappeared inside. Eraina looked at the door briefly, weighing some internal decision, then continued on her way.
FOUR
The steady crystal song of trickling water filled the cavern. Pure streams cascaded down curtains of stone to fill deep, clear pools. Small motes of magical light hovered in the air, illuminating the natural beauty of the tunnels. The walls glistened with more colors than could be named, flowing like cloth in subtle patterns. It was amazing how something as simple as untouched stone could hold such beauty. A little time, a little moisture, and the mundane became extraordinary.
Coming here always brought him peace. There were other reasons to dwell upon this place, of course, but it was the sound, the shimmer, and the calm that somehow brought him some measure of balance. As the changeling knelt beside the pool and bound his wounds, he sought that balance now.
“Betrayal,” whispered a sibilant voice from the darkness. “Nothing stings quite as deeply.”
Marth peered over one shoulder. The pink scars that covered his right cheek glistened, as if freshly burned. A new light shone in the darkness, a sphere of copper flame that hovered in midair. A monk in robes to match the fire stood at the edge of the shadows, cupping the radiance in his hand. The light shone upon the walls deeper in the caverns, reflecting the twisting scripts painted there. He removed his hand from the flame and stepped away. It remained hovering where he had summoned it. The monk looked down at Marth with sympathy.
“Brother Zamiel,” Marth whispered. His voice was still dry with smoke, and he bowed his head in respect. Obviously his visitor could have been none other than the prophet. The guards would not have allowed anyone else this deep within his stronghold without violence.
“So cruel a barb,” the monk replied, inclining his head in recognition. “No matter how often it wounds us, it is never any less painful or unexpected. There is no defense, no prevention for betrayal save not to trust—and a soul that does not trust is truly lost. Would you not agree? I sense the weight of betrayal heaped upon your shoulders.” Zamiel gestured at the thick bandage that bound Marth’s upper back. “It has taken quite a literal manifestation, in this case.”
“I killed Kiris Overwood,” Marth said, his voice thick. “Tristam Xain and his allies turned her against us.”
“A shame,” the prophet said, nodding sagely. “Kiris was a fragile, foolish girl, but her insight was useful.” Zamiel frowned. “How did this happen?”
“We crippled the Mourning Dawn on her way to the Boneyard, but the ship escaped before she was destroyed,” Marth said. “You were right to put a spy among the Ghost Talons, Brother Zamiel. Not only were they monitoring Kiris’s activities on behalf of House Cannith, but they also made a deal with Dalan d’Cannith to repair his airship.”
“And Xain discovered Kiris,” Zamiel said. He sat at the edge of the pond, staring into the depthless water.
Marth bowed his head. “Obviously he poisoned her mind against me,” he said. “The only kindness I could spare her was a swift death, lest her knowledge be turned against us. I am uncertain what Xain learned from her, but apparently House Cannith was also using the Ghost Talons to monitor us. I took Dalan d’Cannith alive to use as leverage against his house, but the Mourning Dawn attacked and boarded us.”
Zamiel coughed in surprise. “Boarded you?” he asked, incredulous. “Ridiculous. Mourning Dawn is no match for Seventh Moon. I thought you said you had crippled her?”
“The fault is mine,” Marth said. “You were right to warn me against mercy. Xain is a great deal more resourceful than I imagined. He rescued d’Cannith, shattered the Moon’s elemental containment core, and fled. Fortunately most of the crew survived the crash, and the elemental was dispatched after it had slain no more than a dozen soldiers. Repairs have already commenced. My own mobility remains unhindered, due to my magic, but not having a crew at my disposal forces me to act more cautiously abroad.”
“Understood,” Zamiel said. “How soon before your flagship can be repaired?”
“Binding a new elemental is a long and difficult process,” Marth said. “Only the Zil’argo gnomes have truly mastered it, and coercing a skilled craftsman into assisting us could be difficult. It may be months before the Moon flies again.”
“But not an insurmountable problem,” Zamiel said. “What of Tristam Xain?” He looked at Marth curiously.
“Still alive, for now,” Marth said.
The prophet looked at Marth quietly, his question unspoken.
“I have called in a favor,” the changeling said. “Shaimin d’Thuranni has agreed to aid us.”
“A single assassin where your entire crew failed?” Zamiel asked, rising and pacing slowly about the cavern. “I do not like that.”
“He is a Thuranni,” Marth said. “They do not fail.”
“I know of his family’s reputation,” Zamiel said. “Even without their dragonmarks, their deadly cunning is without parallel. All the same, you must have a great deal of faith in this man to entrust an outsider with your enemy.”
“We have a history,” Marth said. “Thuranni House upholds its obligations. He can be trusted.”
“Very well,” Zamiel said, though
he sounded unsatisfied. “And what remains for us to do before the Legacy is complete?”
“It is already complete,” Marth said, his voice distant. He reached beneath the folded jacket that lay by his side and drew out a small cylinder.
It was an unimpressive, simple thing—an unadorned tube of pure black metal that seemed to absorb light. It was no longer than a foot, no thicker than a man’s wrist. Yet the prophet’s eyes widened when he sensed the power lurking within it.
“That is a working replica of the Legacy?” Zamiel said in a hushed voice. “How is that possible? I thought that Ashrem’s remaining notes were imperfect, that there were still pieces of the mystery that remained to discover.”
“There are,” Marth said. “Yet I am not completely bereft of skill with artifice. I have taken what we have learned and made deductions, filled the gaps with my own knowledge. I believe that I have reproduced the Legacy much as Ashrem intended. It is unstable, imperfect, but workable.”
“Then why are you still concerned with Xain and the others?” Zamiel asked with an excited chuckle. “They can no longer bar you from your destiny. Let us proceed to Sharn and remake the world as it should be.”
“No,” Marth said, shaking his head vigorously. “Not yet. The time is not right. The Legacy is not yet ready to use on the scale we intended. Even more curious, its purpose remains unclear.”
“You know its purpose, Marth,” Zamiel said. “You know better than anyone, save Ashrem himself.”
“Yes,” Marth said, “but I still don’t know why a man like Ashrem d’Cannith would ever create such a thing. It does not seem right. It makes no sense. I do not trust it, and an untrustworthy tool cannot be put toward such an important task. If the Legacy has a hidden purpose, something other than what I expect, then how can I rely upon it to perform as I desire?” The changeling sighed. “I suppose my babblings must not make a great deal of sense to you, prophet.”
“More than you realize.” Zamiel chuckled. “Perhaps you are right to be wary. A test may be in order.”
“Agreed,” Marth said. “Though I must be cautious. I cannot test the Legacy in an uninhabited area, or there will be no way to determine if it truly produces its effects on the scale we intend. Yet if I reveal its power too recklessly, the threat it represents would be diminished. If others are aware of what the Legacy can do, they might prepare against it and find ways to defend against it.”
“True,” Zamiel said. “But Eberron is a vast place, populated with many ignorant fools. Surely there must be some area where you could test the Legacy and no one of consequence would witness it, or have any reaction other than pointless panic.”
“Surely,” Marth said quietly, but his voice was troubled.
“I leave it to you,” Zamiel said. “The appropriate opportunity will present itself in time.”
The prophet bowed and receded into the darkness without a sound.
Power.
Power was a commodity that wavered under scrutiny and invariably waned when it was revealed. True dominance could not be measured merely by the possession of power but also by one’s willingness to keep that power in secrecy until it was needed. Such was a lesson Zamiel had long ago learned, and thus he was cautious, even in Marth’s presence. The prophet valued Marth—as much as he was capable of valuing anyone other than himself—but that was no reason to be lax. Caution was key. The Prophecy appeared to favor Marth. The Prophecy was never wrong. However, it could be misread. Zamiel had no illusions about his own fallibility. He had been wrong too many times before to indulge such arrogance. Entrusting too much faith in fickle mortals was a waste of time, and thus he concealed the extent of his knowledge and abilities even from allies such as Marth.
And so it was that the prophet walked a good distance from the caverns before drawing upon his magic. He spoke a single word, and then was somewhere else. Zamiel stood in the shadows of a dirty stone building, leaning slightly off balance from the passage of time and shoddy construction. Cities were a curious thing. There were too many sights, sounds, smells, all colliding at once. With so much clamoring for attention, to even try to pay attention was pointless. Focus on one thing and it would quickly be supplanted by another, equally meaningless sensation. It was all so … temporary. Zamiel squinted his nose in annoyance and ignored it all.
A presence close behind drew the prophet’s attention. He peered over his shoulder just as a heavy wooden board collided with the back of his head. The prophet fell to one knee from the force of the attack. A second blow struck him across the back before he recovered his senses enough to turn and pluck the weapon from his assailant’s hand. An unshaven man in shabby clothing stared in blank surprise, his hands now grasping empty air. Zamiel rose unharmed, looming much taller than he had only seconds before.
“Why did you attack me?” Zamiel asked, his voice shining with curiosity. His eyes gleamed with a strange eagerness.
The dirty man turned and ran. Zamiel smiled faintly and watched him depart. He weighed the possibility of stopping the vagrant, perhaps even killing him for the unprovoked attack, but what purpose would that serve? It wasn’t as if the man had accomplished anything, and it was not Zamiel’s duty to remove garbage from these human streets. He dropped the wooden bludgeon amid the piled refuse and stepped out of the alley.
Better to be done with his business and be gone than to waste undue time. He strode through the city with a purpose, his sharp eyes flicking from one person to the next, analyzing their worth and then discarding them. The crowd unconsciously parted around him, never taking note of his presence and returning to their business after he passed.
The prophet turned a corner and entered a broad thoroughfare, sloping upward to the north. The streets were cleaner, more orderly. Marble representations of the Sovereign Host loomed over the passing citizens, looking down with expressions of love, determination, or patient indifference. Zamiel paused to study the craftsmanship, allowing himself a small smile as he approached the man who waited in the shadows of Kol Korran’s sculpture.
“A fitting place for us to meet,” Zamiel said, looking up into the eyes of a broadly grinning dwarf. “God of wealth, commerce. Patron of merchants, bankers, thieves, and all those who desire more than they deserve. I can only wonder why the Host would allow someone like Kol Korran in their midst. Like mortals, I can only assume they will allow any manner of devil in their midst as long as he proves sufficiently useful, and fear that he would be far more dangerous as an enemy.”
“Does your brotherhood encourage such blasphemy, monk?” the man said, eyes widening in surprise.
“The members of my brotherhood, for lack of a better name, think for themselves,” Zamiel replied with some amusement. “We respect the gods, as we respect all things powerful and ancient, but we do not fear them. The gods are content to remain distant from the world, seeking nothing more than the adoration of small minds. They did not create this world. They do not control this world. Their wrath cannot be predicted or assuaged. There is no more sense in fearing them than there is in fearing a thunderstorm—the storm will do as it wishes whether one fears it or not. Likewise, there is no reason to cower before divinity.”
“You should not say such things,” the man said, glancing at Kol Korran nervously.
Zamiel chuckled darkly. “My words make you uncomfortable, spy?” he asked. “Then let us speak of something else.”
“Yes,” the other man agreed, glancing about quickly, “but not here.” He ducked into the alley between the statues of Kol Korran and Boldrei. The prophet followed, shrugging his arms into his thick sleeves as he walked.
“There is little point in such measures,” Zamiel said as he stepped into the shadows. “If I do not wish us to be overheard, it will not happen.”
“If you say so,” the man said. “Forgive me if I’m a little more careful than you. I have a reputation in this city.”
“Naturally,” Zamiel said, with an indulgent smile. “Now share with me what you h
ave learned.”
“The Karia Naille makes her port in Vulyar,” the man said.
“Vulyar?” Zamiel replied. “Why such a remote location?”
“The ship was badly damaged in battle,” he replied. “They put in for repairs lest it collapse upon itself. I don’t know for sure how it became damaged. I was not told.”
Zamiel frowned thoughtfully. “Do you think they suspect your betrayal?”
“I am beyond suspicion,” the man said with an arrogant laugh. “The last message was short because there was little need for an in-depth report.”
The man fell silent. Zamiel sensed he was waiting for him to inquire further, keeping a valuable revelation in reserve, savoring it. The prophet resisted the urge to roll his eyes and indulged the game a bit further. Tools like this were easier to use when they felt some measure of control. “Why no need for a report?” he asked.
“Because my contact will soon be arriving personally,” the man said.
The prophet smiled. This was good news. “The Karia Naille is coming to Korth?” he mused.
“As soon as she is relatively airworthy,” he said. “Several of her crew members, including my contact, have business here. She should be in port here for at least a week.”
“Very interesting,” Zamiel said. He reached into the pocket of his left sleeve and drew out a small, dense bag. He pressed it into the spy’s palm, and he accepted it eagerly. “May your house prosper,” he said.
The spy nodded eagerly. “How soon?” he asked. “When will the war begin anew?”
“You will know when I do, my friend,” Zamiel said, allowing himself a small smile.
Zamiel’s contact nodded eagerly and stepped away, pausing only to glance around for eyes and ears that were not there. The prophet watched him go with a bored, patient smile. As soon as he was alone in the alley, he spoke another word of magic and was gone.
FIVE
If there was a word to describe the city of Korth, it was “uninviting.” Centuries of building and development had turned the streets of Korth into a meandering, confusing mess. Recent attempts to rebuild and restore order to damaged parts of the city had only made matters worse. Massive square buildings stood in even rows along well paved streets only blocks away from snarled webs of dead end streets. Karrnathi pride was obvious in its architecture, as all buildings, old and new, featured the grim statuary and delicately twisted wrought iron so common in this land. Compared to Wroat, Seren was amazed at how dark the city was. Her first impulse was that it seemed to be a very cold, unyielding place. The murky gray clouds and steady drizzle of rain cast the city in a mournful light. This was a place of strict, unflinching law.
