Skein of Shadows (dungeons and dragons)

by Marsheila Rockwell

  “You may leave us now, Hendra,” the halfling croaked, his voice reedy and tired. Hendra’s tight face registered surprise for a moment, but she quickly covered it with her habitual haughtiness. She inclined her head, but cast a warning glance at Sabira and Greddark as she left, closing the door quietly behind her. Sabira was sure the other woman was just on the opposite side of the door, ear pressed up against the wood as she strained to hear what went on inside the small room.

  “Come closer, Marshal.”

  Sabira complied, though Greddark hung back.

  “You, as well…?”

  “Greddark d’Kundarak,” the inquisitive supplied, apparently more willing to use his real name when there weren’t as many witnesses to impending mischief.

  “Ah.” Then the halfling’s eyes narrowed. “The same Greddark who was kicked out of the Tower of the Twelve after the death of-?”

  “Yes. The same,” the dwarf interrupted flatly, his face hard.

  Sabira had known that Greddark had been asked to leave the arcane institution founded by the dragonmarked Houses, but she’d never known why. She’d always assumed it had something to do with his gambling-or, more accurately, with his cheating.

  Well, now she had a better idea why he wanted to leave Khorvaire.

  “Cleared of all charges, as I recall, though Helanth d’Medani still bears a grudge.” At Greddark’s narrowed eyes, the halfling gave a small laugh that turned into a coughing fit. Wheezing, ir’Dayne continued, “You forget-the main House Medani enclave is just down the road from here, in Wroat. It was all over the broadsheets.”

  Wonderful. Sabira wondered how many of the half-elven House’s bounty hunters would be dogging their steps to Xen’drik.

  “Not what we’re here to talk about,” Greddark said brusquely.

  “No, but almost as entertaining,” the halfling replied with an impish grin that made his careworn face look surprisingly youthful. Though Sabira wasn’t entirely sure how she felt about him describing Tilde’s disappearance and the death of thirty Blademarks as entertainment.

  Ir’Dayne shoved some papers aside and patted the bed beside him. It was then that Sabira noticed there were no chairs in the room.

  “Sit, Marshal. It’s rude to make an old halfling crane his neck looking up at you.”

  Though Sabira didn’t relish being that close to either the halfling or his pipe, she once again complied. Breven had told her to humor the head of the Wayfinder Foundation, and though she wasn’t normally the humoring type, she had a feeling honey would work better with this particular fly than bile.

  She sat carefully on the edge of the bed, trying not to crush the maps and letters acting as a second blanket for ir’Dayne. She saw a map of the western half of the Menechtarun Desert, bounded on the north by the mountain chain known as the Skyraker Claws. A town was marked in red at the southern base of the mountains, the name “Trent’s Well” written beside it in small, precise letters. There were also manifests for an airship called the Seeker, a bill of goods from Riak’s, a Silver Flame prayer book and several old, yellowed parchments covered with strange writing that Sabira thought might be Draconic.

  “Now, I’m sure Hendra told you I’ve been easily fatigued of late-aptly named, that one-so I’m going to try to keep this as brief and to-the-point as possible.” Sabira bit her cheek at that; considering that two halflings could take an hour just to say, “Hello, hot enough for you?” on a warm spring day, succinctness wasn’t something she’d come to expect from the small but fierce race.

  “I’m assuming Breven gave you the pertinent facts?”

  Sabira nodded, listing off what the Baron had told her.

  “Brannan ir’Kethras discovered the caverns of Tarath Marad near an abandoned settlement on the edge of the Menechtarun-Trent’s Well, I’m guessing?” she asked, gesturing to the map. At ir’Dayne’s nod, she continued. “He was led there by a bit of Prophecy he’d unearthed on an expedition to the ancient giantish city of Tharkgun Dhak. The same Prophecy that indicated that a Deneith woman was needed to unlock a powerful treasure… though what exactly that ‘treasure’ might be is still a little unclear to me.”

  The halfling puffed on his pipe for a moment before answering, his eyes having taken on a far-away expression. Sabira wondered if he was thinking of his own ill-fated expedition in the jungles of Xen’drik-maybe in Tharkgun Dhak itself. Ir’Dayne shook himself, his thin, wispy hair floating about his head in response. Sabira noticed the halfling wore a stud in his right ear, a dark bluish black gem that could have been a sapphire, but was more likely a Khyber dragonshard. Her distaste for the Wayfinder grew. While she understood their value, after her experiences with the murdering Nightshard in the Mror Holds, she tended to distrust anyone who would actually choose to wear the dark stones on their person.

  “Not just any Deneith woman, as I’m sure you know. But, yes, a great treasure, one that could change the balance of power both under the surface and above it.”

  He rummaged around for a moment on the bed, then found a stone tablet with more strange writing on it.

  “Soon after Brannan made contact with the Umbragen-drow who fled into the depths of Khyber to escape slavery, though we still know very little about them-he discovered more of the Prophecy, which he and I both believe is related to this same treasure.” The halfling’s voice had taken on a lecturing tone, and she and Greddark exchanged longsuffering looks.

  “Bound by eight locks

  Her Heart breaks free

  And bathes both worlds

  In tyranny

  “ ‘Heart’ is often another word for treasure, and the likelihood of there being more than one treasure with eight locks is very slim, so I think you’ll agree that our conclusion is the correct one.” As the Wayfinder continued, his voice grew stronger and a bit of color returned to his cheeks. He really was in his element playing the role of professor of antiquities. Sabira almost felt guilty for being utterly uninterested. Almost.

  “The reference to ‘Her’ also correlates to the first bit of Prophecy,” he said, briefly holding up another chunk of stone with more of the same writing on it, though it was black and glossy where the first was a dull gray. “Though we’ve yet to fully understand who or what ‘She’ is, though ‘Spinner of Shadows’ would seem to indicate a weaver of some sort. A female spider deity peculiar to the Umbragen, perhaps-or at least to a splinter group thereof? My guess-”

  “I thought the drow in Xen’drik worshiped scorpions, not spiders?” Greddark interrupted with a frown.

  Ir’Dayne shrugged. “Well, scorpions and spiders are in the same class of animals, so it’s not as much of a stretch as it might appear. Add into that the fact that worship of an exclusively male deity like Vulkoor would naturally tend to alienate the female portion of the population, and it isn’t too surprising that worship of a similar, but more feminine aspect of the divine arachnid would gain a foothold among some of the drow. Those that worship the genderless Umbra are actually the most interesting of the three, since-”

  The halfling caught himself, realizing he’d gone off on a tangent. He took another pull on his pipe before righting his course.

  “In any case, though we don’t know the exact form this artifact takes, it seems clear it can only be unlocked-and probably wielded-by a female member of House Deneith, so we informed Baron Breven of our findings, and offered to help him recover it-for a small fee, of course.”

  Of course.

  “And I believe you know the rest.”

  Sabira highly doubted that, but she figured she knew enough, at least.

  “Although there is one more thing…,” he added, digging again at the mound of papers, coming up with an old tattered bit of cloth pressed between two thin sheets of glass. “Ah, yes. Here it is.

  “This was recovered in Waterworks beneath the Stormreach harbor. I believe it’s variant of the same Prophecy.”

  He brought the glass-encased strip of fabric up to his face and squinted to rea
d it. Sabira could see it was part of an ancient tapestry, though the writing was different from that of the other bits of Prophecy she’d seen.

  “Then again,” ir’Dayne said, as if reading her mind, “since it’s written in a little known dialect of the ancient giants, I can understand why some of the others think differently. But I thought you should know about it, since it may change the nature of your mission.

  “Her fate known e’re she graced the womb

  Her birth signals her people’s doom

  Her blood that both of stone and shield

  The world will be her killing field.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Wir, Barrakas 4, 998 YK

  Stormreach, Xen’drik.

  It doesn’t necessarily mean what you think it means, you know.”

  Sabira didn’t look over at the inquisitive, instead keeping her gaze on the city of Stormreach spread out below them. As the Seeker skimmed through the air toward Falconer’s Spire, Sabira couldn’t help but marvel, as always, at the architectural medley that was Stormreach. Remnants of giantish ruins, scavenged hulls from sunken ships, floating towers reminiscent of Sharn, Thrane curves and Karrnathi angles all coexisted in a surprisingly cohesive tapestry of colors, textures, and shapes. It was, in its own very peculiar way, beautiful.

  Though she’d only been gone a couple of months, it still seemed as if the city had reinvented itself entirely in that time, with walls and buildings springing up where she didn’t remember there being any before. But that was the way of Stormreach, as it was of the inhabitants who lived here-constantly changing, ever growing, always surprising. It was what attracted so many explorers and adventurers to this vast continent, and what kept them coming back. No matter what it had been like when they left, they could be guaranteed it would be different when they returned.

  In many ways, the city was the exact opposite of places like Krona Peak and Frostmantle in the Mror Holds, which prided themselves on constancy, and even some of the older human cities like those in Karrnath, too steeped in tradition to change easily, let alone willingly. Natives of Sharn, on the other hand, might find the city’s growth a bit too staid for their tastes, which probably explained why it had taken so long for groups like the criminal Boromar clan to find their way to Xen’drik’s shores. But that was changing now, too, and the city that had once been little more than an outpost for outcasts was becoming a metropolis in its own right. Where would the castoffs go when that happened? Farther south, into the jungles and desert? Even farther, to the edges of civilization, like Everice and Frostfell?

  It wasn’t just idle musing on her part-the farther those who’d broken the law ranged, the farther Marshals like her would have to go to find them, wherever they were in Eberron.

  Or under it.

  The Lyrandar piloting the Seeker swung her expertly over the harbor, giving his passengers a magnificent view of both the lighthouse and the giant Emperor Cul’Sir with his double handful of light spearing up into the heavens. They passed over the Marketplace with its iconic red tent and then docked smoothly at Falconer’s Spire under the watchful eye of Zerchi the Spire-Keeper.

  As they waited for the gangplank to be lowered, Sabira turned to Greddark, finally deigning to respond to his comment.

  “And what do I think it means?”

  The dwarf cocked a blond brow at her tone.

  “Oh, I don’t know… that you’re destined to destroy everything and everyone?”

  “Well, see, that’s the funny thing. First the Prophecy was referring to Tilde, and then Tilde failed to regain the artifact-or only partially succeeded, at any rate-and now suddenly it refers to me. And if I don’t make it back, then they’ll find someone else… Granite d’Deneith from Lakeside, maybe. That’s how prophecies and oracles and auguries work-they predict what someone in power decides they’re going to predict, and even if they don’t, they’re made to. It’s all a bunch of superstitious nonsense-something I’d think a self-proclaimed inquisitive and artificer would know.”

  Greddark frowned.

  “Prophecy is just another form of magic, which both artificers and inquisitives use quite liberally. Why wouldn’t I believe in its power?”

  “Precisely. You use magic and make it do what you want it to. Just as people like ir’Dayne and Breven use Prophecy to do what they want it to.” She looked at him askance. “If the Prophecy is real, then whatever it predicts is going to happen regardless of what we do, so why bother with it at all? Unless you want to use it to control what other people do.”

  Greddark laughed and shook his head in mock amazement.

  “Aggar was right about you. You are a dwarf in a human body.”

  Sabira snorted.

  “Better than a human in a dwarf’s body, Sir Shortbeard. And what was that back in Sharn, anyway? ‘Make mine tea.’ Tea? Really?”

  After ir’Dayne had dropped his “end of the world” bombshell, he’d succumbed to a long coughing fit, making further conversation impossible. When he’d recovered, he’d summoned Hendra, who’d taken them to a small sitting room while the Wayfinder wrote out a quick letter of introduction to his cohort, Brannan ir’Kethras. Hendra had offered them drinks while they waited. Sabira had requested Frostmantle Fire. Greddark had asked for Silverleaf tea.

  “It’s a drink that stimulates without dulling the senses or loosening the tongue,” he responded haughtily. “Something quite beneficial in my line of work-and in yours, too, I would imagine.”

  “Like I said,” Sabira replied smugly. As far as she was concerned, the dwarf had just proven her point for her.

  She was saved from having to hear his response by the airship captain, another Lyrandar.

  “Wayfinder Kupper-Nickel can take you the rest of the way from here, if you can afford him. He’s the warforged lurking around the base of the docking tower-can’t miss him.”

  Sabira nodded her thanks to the fair-haired half-elf, then headed down the gangplank, Greddark in tow, fuming.

  Wayfinder Kupper-Nickel was not, as it turned out, lurking at the base of Falconer’s Spire, but Loghan d’Deneith was. The mustached and goateed lieutenant called out to her as she and Greddark passed by.

  “Sabira! Change your mind about helping me with my little problem?”

  She paused, considering. She wasn’t going to help him, of course-the idea of leaving the Gladewatch garrison undefended in an attempt to lure the area’s raiders into an ambush was lunacy, and not something she wanted any part of. But Loghan might know where the warforged Wayfinder had gotten off to, so it might actually be worth a few moments of her time to speak to him, just this once.

  “Still not interested in leading soldiers to their untimely deaths just so you can try to jump ranks, no. But if you help me with something, I might be able to recommend a few men who are a little more suicidal than I am.”

  “Done!” he said, a little too eagerly for her taste. “What do you want to know?”

  “Have you seen Kupper-Nickel?”

  The Deneith man arced a curious brow.

  “Headed out to the desert? What for?”

  “My dwarf friend here’s spent a little too much time underground; Rhialle over in the Jorasco enclave prescribed some sun. Now, do you know where the Wayfinder is or not?”

  “I’m pretty sure he headed over to the Cannith enclave, probably the Burnished Bull. Warforged seem to like it there; I guess because it’s where all the artificers go to drink.”

  “Probably because they serve tea,” Greddark muttered, but Sabira pretended not to hear him.

  “Thanks, Loghan. Try down at The Rusty Nail. Ask for a fat halfling named Gurobo, or find him at the bar. He’s got a long brown goatee and wears spectacles-I think he thinks they make him look smarter. Anyway, don’t let his appearance fool you; he’s actually a very accomplished wizard and he’s got a lot of friends. I’m sure he’ll be happy to help you out.” Well, for a price, but she’d let Loghan do his own haggling. And then Gurobo would help himself to
a little more while the lieutenant wasn’t looking. Which would serve him right for going ahead with this ridiculous plan in the first place.

  “Obliged,” the Deneith man said, nodding at them both as he headed off for the tavern.

  “Come on,” Sabira said to Greddark after the lieutenant had left. “Let’s go get you some tea.”

  Sabira was wary as they walked the short distance through the Marketplace toward the Cannith enclave. It was a little too close to that of House Kundarak, and if Thecla had already been released from custody, it was a fair bet that Arach had, as well. If he’d ever actually been arrested at all. She would have preferred to wait for the warforged Wayfinder to return to his post, but there was no telling how long that would take, and Sabira could well imagine every hour they delayed being tallied on Tilde’s skin with a bloody stylus.

  She could have gone to the Phiarlan enclave and found Iosynne. The fair-haired elf archer led a caravan out to the desert on a fairly regular basis, but that would take days compared to hours on the airship. Sabira simply couldn’t afford the delay.

  Or rather, Tilde couldn’t.

  She tried not to think about the fact that Ned’s sister might already be dead. Or what it would mean for Sabira-and Elix-if she were.

  The gates to the Cannith enclave were emblazoned with a stylized bull overlaying a tower that represented the House’s Manufactury, a vast complex that was home to all the enclave’s offices, warehouses, laboratories, and workshops. The foundation of the Manufactury was a golden gear, and three golden houses floated in the background-one each for Cannith South, Cannith East and Cannith West. The House had fractured after its ancestral forgehold in Cyre was destroyed on the Day of Mourning and the House patriarch was killed, leaving no direct heir.