by James Wyatt
The sight of armored guards at the station sent a jolt of panic through him. He pulled Senya to a sheltered spot on the side of the street and stopped his headlong rush.
Senya fell into a ready stance, dropped a hand to her sword hilt, and stared around looking for enemies. “What is it?” she whispered.
“Relax. You’re drawing stares.”
She straightened and leaned close to him, transforming their appearance from nervous fugitives to amorous lovers. She brought her lips close and murmured, “What’s going on?”
Gaven felt his face flush, but passersby were averting their gaze, so he went along. He lowered his head to speak right in her ear. “It just occurred to me—what if Haldren gave up on finding us in Paluur Draal and came here instead? What if he had Cart or Darraun alert the authorities here? There could be Sentinel Marshals waiting for us in there. I don’t want to just stroll in.”
Senya reached behind his neck and started twirling her fingers in his hair, which seemed to him to be taking the ruse too far. “It’s not Haldren’s style,” she whispered. Her lips touched his ear, and her warm breath sent a tingle down his neck. “He’ll want to find us himself. I can’t see him relying on the Marshals or anyone else to do it for him. Besides, we know too much. If we’re captured, we could tell them about his plans and make his life very difficult. He doesn’t want us caught.”
“That makes sense. Let’s go, then.” He started to pull away.
She held him, keeping him close. “Not before you kiss me.”
“Senya.” He put his hands on her waist and pushed her back, a little less gently than before.
Her mouth was half pout, half smile as she followed him into the station.
* * * * *
“I’m sorry, master, but I can’t sell you a ticket without seeing your papers. If you’ve lost your papers, House Sivis has an outpost in the upper story where they will gladly help you replace them.”
The agent at the ticket counter was a human woman attached to the Transportation Guild, a branch of House Orien. The scions of House Orien carried the Mark of Passage, which enabled some to transport themselves instantaneously across great distances, making them ideally suited for courier work. The Transportation Guild operated caravan lines as well as the lightning rail, competing fiercely with House Lyrandar’s overseas shipping lines.
The woman was cheerful enough, but Gaven could tell that she was already calculating how to deal with him if the situation got ugly. It wasn’t until Senya produced her papers to buy her passage that Gaven had even considered this possibility, which irked him most of all. Securing new papers would be impossible. The gnomes of House Sivis, whose Notaries’ Guild issued important documents like identification papers, would send him back to Dreadhold in a heartbeat.
“Look,” Senya said beside him, tugging the neck of his shirt open, “he’s a dragonmarked member of House Lyrandar. Don’t you think you could make an exception?”
The Orien agent stared at Gaven’s huge, elaborate mark. “An heir of Siberys,” she breathed, not really speaking to them.
“Yes, I’m an heir of Siberys. I’m just trying to get to Vathirond to see my family. Can’t you help me?”
Her eyes narrowed. “House Lyrandar has an outpost here. Why not appeal to them?”
Gaven sighed, leaned on the low counter, and spoke in a low voice. “I came here to work for my cousin in the Lyrandar outpost,” he said. “But … well, it didn’t work out.” He looked meaningfully at Senya, hoping to convey some sense of scandalous behavior. “So now I’m not in any position to ask a favor from my house here—so I’ve come to House Orien.” He could see the young woman starting to soften. “And it’s not any great favor I’m asking. I’m paying for passage, after all.”
The agent’s eyes shifted between Senya and Gaven, then she gave a resolute nod. “Very well.”
Gaven smiled warmly. “Thank you so much. I’ll remember your kindness.”
Senya put down the money, and they walked toward the lightning rail. A row of decorated wooden carriages, strung together like pearls on a string, hung suspended in the air above a line of glowing blue stones set in the ground. Lightning danced between the stones and similar stones embedded in the bottoms of the carriages, giving the lightning rail its name. Even the empty air shimmered with magic.
The carriages in the rear were meant for passengers—passengers of means, who would ride in luxurious comfort. At the front of the long line, the crew cart held the bound elemental that would propel the coach in the same manner as bound elementals propelled the galleons of House Lyrandar. The conductor stones kept the carriages suspended in the air, but the elemental moved it forward, unhindered by wheels grinding against the earth.
Senya clung to his arm as they walked, evidently enjoying the ruse they had adopted, but Gaven noticed that she kept glancing behind them. After a moment, she stretched up and planted a kiss on his cheek, then whispered in his ear, “There might be a problem.”
Gaven kept walking without looking back. “What is it?”
“The agent has summoned a pair of men, half-elves I think, which might mean your house.”
“Or House Medani, which could be worse.”
“And they’re coming after us now. Pretty quickly. Yes, they’re Medani. I see the basilisk emblem now.”
Gaven quickened his pace, seizing Senya’s hand as he hustled to the waiting coach. Senya showed their tickets to the coachman as Gaven looked back. They were close—two half-elf men, as Senya had said, with the basilisk emblem of House Medani on the lapels of their long coats. The coats billowed behind them as they walked, showing the long, slender blades both men wore at their belts. Medani’s Warning Guild provided a wide range of services, from tasters employed to detect poison to inquisitives trained to root out lies. Assuming these two were the latter, Gaven hoped to avoid any contact with them.
Making sure the Medanis were watching, Gaven boarded the lightning rail coach. He saw them start to run toward the coach, then he hurried in after Senya. “Quick. Get to the front of the coach.”
Senya obliged, pushing her way past a handful of other passengers who were waiting politely to get into their private compartments. Gaven followed her, peering into the compartments they passed. Each was like a small but elegant sitting room, with three lushly upholstered chairs, a small table, and walls paneled with matching mahogany.
At the far end, a door led into the next coach forward. Gaven checked over his shoulder again. One of the Medani agents caught his eye and held up a hand. Gaven nudged Senya forward, and they went through the door.
“Master Lyrandar!” Gaven heard the agent call.
“Off the coach,” Gaven told Senya. “Now.”
She pushed her way through more boarding passengers then paused at the bottom of the stairs, looking back at Gaven for more instructions.
“Stop them!” one of the agents shouted.
Gaven took off at a run. He moved toward the crew cart at the front of the lightning rail. Senya’s boots clomped on the marble tile behind him, and shouts arose farther behind them. Seeing Gaven’s size and bulk, the passengers and House Orien workers in his path stepped out of his way, rather than obeying the Medani agents’ orders to stop him. One man looked like he might try to stop Senya, but Gaven heard Senya’s sword slide from its sheath, and her footfalls didn’t falter behind him.
They reached the cart immediately behind the crew cart, and Gaven threw himself beneath it, hoping Senya would follow. He scurried forward on his hands and knees, crawling between two columns of sparking lightning that danced between the conductor stones, then Senya crashed into him. Lightning erupted around him, connecting the two conductor stones and arcing up around the cart. The force of Senya’s body sent him hurtling forward along the underside of the cart, propelling him between two more pairs of orbs, sending up three more bolts of lightning before he managed to roll free to the other side of the cart.
The lightning had knocked the w
ind out of him, and he lay on the hard floor for a moment trying to catch his breath. Senya ran and fell to her knees beside him.
“Ten Seas! Are you hurt?”
He still couldn’t speak, but he sat up in answer. She scrambled to her feet and grabbed his arm to help him stand.
“Now what?” Senya’s voice was frantic, and there was a commotion coming from the other side of the cart.
Gaven pointed weakly at the cart they’d come under. Senya seized his hand and dragged him to the door of the cart.
His nerves started to reawaken, and they screamed in protest.
They had climbed aboard the steerage cart, where dozens of people—gnomes, goblins, orcs, humans, and a very subdued-looking minotaur whose horns had been sawed off—squeezed onto narrow benches. These were people who couldn’t or didn’t want to pay standard fares, which would have entitled them to comfortable seats, sleeper bunks, and meals in the galley cart. Here they could get where they needed to at a fraction of the cost, but they had to endure close quarters—increasingly close as the lightning rail made its way through Zilargo and into Breland, picking up more passengers on the way—and sleep in their seats.
Gaven led Senya to the empty seats near the minotaur, and he felt the cart lurch forward as the lightning rail started its journey. He collapsed on a bench, while Senya crouched beside him.
“Well, they didn’t keep us in the station,” she whispered. “So did we leave them behind? Or did they come back aboard to search for us on the carts?”
“I guess we’ll find out,” Gaven said. Pain started to cloud his vision. He closed his eyes, feeling consciousness swirling and slipping away.
* * * * *
“Gaven?” Senya’s voice was close and urgent. Gaven fought to open his eyes. The pain had diminished, though one shard of it seemed to have traveled to between his eyes and taken up residence there. His dreams had been echoes of what his body had endured—lightning coursing through his body—though in the dream there had been a taste of exhilaration in the midst of the pain.
Senya had disguised herself as best she could—her leather coat was stowed somewhere, replaced by a more or less formless linen shift. She had pulled her hair back into a short ponytail that made her look almost like a young human girl—except for the shape of her ears and eyes. Her sword was nowhere to be seen, though Gaven couldn’t imagine that it was far from her reach.
“How are you feeling?” she said.
“Well enough. Head’s pounding a little.” He winced as he spoke. “A lot.”
She held a waterskin to his mouth and poured some water in. It was warm but clean, and it helped the pounding in his head.
“I’ve walked every cart,” she said. “I didn’t see the men who were chasing us. Vond says that a couple of Orien men came in here while I was gone, but he made sure they never laid eyes on you.”
“Vond?”
Senya pointed behind him, and Gaven turned slowly around. The minotaur was planted on the bench behind him, staring fixedly at the door that led to the next cart back.
“This is Vond,” Senya said. “Vond, this is Gaven.”
“Know that,” the minotaur growled, not shifting his eyes from the doorway.
“Nice to meet you,” Gaven said, feeling awkward. Vond didn’t respond in any way, so Gaven turned back to Senya, arching an eyebrow at her.
“Vond has been very helpful, keeping an eye on you while you slept,” Senya said. “Not to mention scaring the Oriens away.”
“I can imagine,” Gaven muttered.
“Anyway, I think we’re safe.”
“Safe? Maybe until we get to Zolanberg. Then they’ll send a team of inquisitives or Sentinel Marshals or gnome soldiers or something to search every cart until they find us. Seems to me we’re trapped. But at least we’re safe here in this cozy little cage.”
“How far to Zolanberg?” Senya asked.
CHAPTER
18
The only reason the village of Bluevine appeared on maps of Aundair was its wine: a fine vintage with a distinctive indigo color. That claim to fame made it perfect for Haldren’s purpose, Darraun reflected, which seemed to be getting all his old friends drunk enough to pledge their support to his cause.
Ten people gathered around a table in the back room of a Bluevine winery might not seem like much to a casual observer, Darraun thought. The guests Haldren had gathered, however, represented a significant concentration of power in Aundair. If he wanted to start another war, he could do worse.
Darraun sat at the foot of the table, trying to avoid drawing notice. That was easy enough, as Haldren commanded attention—preaching his vision of a new Galifar reunited under his rule as if it were a message of salvation. Many of the assembled notables received the message as if their salvation did depend on it, nodding or grunting or sometimes shouting their approval of the Lord General’s words. Darraun was almost certain Haldren had woven some magic into his words, though subtly. Sometimes even he felt swayed by the rhetoric.
Looking around the table, Darraun made sure he had fixed every participant in his mind. Most were officers who had served under Haldren in the war. None of these were a surprise. Colonel Kadra Ware, Lord Major Parron ir’Fann, Major Rennic Arak, and Lord Colonel Deina ir’Cashan. Ir’Fann and ir’Cashan were not old noble families—the officers or their parents had earned titles during the war. All four of them had lost any importance they might have had when Haldren was stripped of his rank and imprisoned, so they all had good reasons to support Haldren’s return to power. Ware and ir’Fann were the most vocal in their approval of Haldren at this gathering, but all four nodded at times and seemed very receptive to his message.
General Jad Yeven was also not a surprise, though he had been Haldren’s equal rather than his subordinate. The two had collaborated a great deal during the war—sometimes in actions that, while showing initiative and ability, landed them in trouble with the crown. Unlike Haldren, though, Yeven had reined in his insubordinate streak at the end of the war, which had probably saved him from Dreadhold. Yeven sat with his arms crossed and a thoughtful scowl on his face—clearly, he would need more convincing, but he was willing to listen.
The other two were the interesting ones, and Darraun watched their reactions carefully. Darraun knew of Arcanist Wheldren only by rumor. He was supposed to hold great influence among the researchers of the Arcane Congress. Any involvement of those wizards was interesting, not least because Queen Aurala’s brother, Lord Adal, maintained close ties with the Congress in his role as minister of magic. Adal was also the chief warlord of Aundair, however, and was well known to want the throne of Aundair—and, indeed, of all Galifar—for himself. Wheldren’s involvement in Haldren’s schemes could mean that Adal was also involved, or there could be a personal connection between the two that Darraun wasn’t aware of, perhaps dating back to Haldren’s magical education. The wizard was completely inscrutable. His face didn’t move as Haldren spoke, and he never uttered a word.
And then there was Ashara d’Cannith. By law and longstanding tradition, the dragonmarked houses generally stayed out of political affairs. Their neutrality allowed them to pursue their activities across national boundaries—and to avoid too much government interference in their business. House Cannith was in a fragile state, though, with three branches of the house working almost independently. There was some speculation that the house would split the way House Phiarlan had during the war, with Merrix d’Cannith of Sharn going his own way. Jorlanna d’Cannith led the northern branch of the house from an enclave in Fairhaven, and Darraun had heard rumors that Jorlanna was interested in seeking closer ties with the throne of Aundair. Darraun had no idea what Ashara’s relationship to Jorlanna was, but she had warmed quickly to Haldren’s speech.
“Dragons.”
Darraun realized he’d been so caught up in gauging the reaction of Haldren’s audience that he had barely heard a word Haldren had been saying. Someone had asked Haldren a question, and that ha
d been his answer—and it had left the rest of the table speechless.
“That’s right, friends,” Haldren went on. “At this moment, a flight of dragons is making its way from Argonnessen to a rendezvous point in the Starpeaks. The dragons are coming to Khorvaire to fight at my command. And no army will stand in their way.”
Arcanist Wheldren spoke for the first time. “The dragons of Argonnessen do not fight for human causes.”
“Do you doubt my words, Arcanist Wheldren?” Haldren said, smiling. He gestured around the table. “Those who know me will attest that I do not make idle boasts.”
“I have no doubt that the dragons are coming as you claim. I question only their reasons for doing so.”
“You prove yourself as astute as your reputation suggests,” Haldren said. “You are correct, Wheldren. The dragons have their own reasons for fighting in our cause. Will that make their breath less deadly, their teeth and claws less sharp, their presence less fearsome to our foes? No.” He slapped the table for emphasis. “They will drive our enemies before us in terror.”
Colonel Ware shouted her approval, and Darraun noticed a smile behind General Yeven’s hand as he stroked his chin thoughtfully.
Haldren leaned forward, planting his palms on the table, and a conspiratorial tone entered his voice. “But in the dragons’ view, greater events are afoot than the reunification of Galifar. The dragons act in accordance with their understanding of a great prophecy, which they see revealed in the movements of the stars and moons, in the bones of the earth, and even in the flesh of the races of Khorvaire, in dragonmarks. They would not be coming to fight on our behalf were it not for their belief in the Prophecy.”
“Our victory is foreordained!” Lord Major ir’Fann laughed, pounding his fist on the table.
Darraun noted how carefully Haldren responded. He smiled and laughed slightly. He did not confirm the Lord Major’s interpretation of his words, but neither did he correct it.
