by James Wyatt
Vauren stared blankly at the ambassador, careful not to let any of his thoughts register on his face with even the slightest twitch of muscle. Some part of him—the Knight of Thrane part, he supposed—wished he could help the poor man, leap to his defense and Aundair’s, explain the whole situation. He wished he could put a stop to Haldren’s madness before it cost any more lives. But he knew that was not an option.
I’m as much a slave to my orders as Cart is, he thought.
He was surprised to realize that the thought of the warforged brought a twinge of sadness. Would Cart’s be one of the lives lost in Haldren’s scheme? What about Jenns? Had he survived alone in the wilderness, or starved to death, or perhaps been rounded up again by Haldren’s marching armies? And Gaven? Had the Sentinel Marshals tracked him down yet and dragged him back to
Dreadhold? Or killed him?
Vauren suddenly felt light headed. In his min d, the grand chamber became the center of a swirling vortex of history—events unfolding inexorably around him, dragging him and everyone whose life he had touched into annihilation. Haldren and his armies marched in the north, dragons winging overhead. He’d last seen Gaven far to the south, but he imagined Gaven and Senya making their way northward, drawn by some unalterable destiny to reunite with Haldren on the same terrible battlefield. The fate of Khorvaire seemed bound up in the strands of these people’s lives—caught in the maelstrom.
A pair of knights led the ambassador out of the room. Vauren assumed they were not escorting him back to the embassy. He’d be a hostage in the upcoming conflict, another life dragged under by the storm.
* * * * *
Vauren tried to relax. He was no longer dressed in the uniform of a Knight of Thrane, but he still felt the role constricting him. He leaned on the counter at a busy Flamekeep tavern, keeping an eye on the people coming and going without appearing to do anything but study his drink. He let the laughter and curses of the other patrons wash over him, hoping to absorb some of their freedom and coarseness. He felt altogether too clean and pure after his time in the Cathedral of the Silver Flame, and in danger of becoming a prig. Self-righteous morality didn’t sit well alongside a career built on duplicity.
He had considered simply discarding Vauren and starting afresh on a new identity, but something held him back. Perhaps it was just the fact that he’d been three different people in such a short span of time. He had barely had time to get to know Caura, and he didn’t want to discard Vauren so quickly. It was still early, he told himself—there was still time to shape Vauren’s personality and keep him from priggery.
There was little else he could do in Thrane. He’d stayed in the Cathedral just long enough to learn where Thrane’s generals expected to engage Haldren’s forces—an old battlefield called the Starcrag Plain—and the size of the force they expected to marshal. Of course, if Breland or Karrnath decided to get involved, the number of troops could increase significantly, but by the time Vauren had left the service of the Knights of Thrane, those nations had made no commitment to Thrane’s cause. If they did, that would be important information, but there were other spies who would probably hear the news first.
Finding Gaven, though, was something that no other agent was likely to accomplish.
A combination of a careful reading of the Korranberg Chronicle—the most widely read source of news in Khorvaire—and a thorough roundup of gossip had given him a sketchy idea of Gaven’s movements. There was the chase through the lightning rail station in Korranberg. The Chronicle hadn’t reported the identity of the fugitive, but it was easy enough to guess that it was Gaven. From Paluur Draal, Korranberg was the closest major city and lightning rail station. Then the lightning rail disaster in Breland. The Chronicle painted it as a freak storm, but the rumormongers spoke of Sentinel Marshals killed in the incident. Vauren had spoken to a pair of travelers who had been aboard when the carts stopped in Sterngate, who had told him about the Sentinel Marshals searching every cart, looking for someone. Clearly, Gaven had been traveling north from Korranberg.
The disaster had occurred near Starilaskur, he knew, which lay in northeastern Breland. The lightning rail line ran from there to Vathirond, then north into Thrane. But Vathirond also stood at the edge of the Mournland—not far at all from the Sky Caves of Thieren Kor, according to the map they’d found in Paluur Draal. And Vaskar had spoken, in Haldren’s tent, of meeting Gaven at the Sky Caves.
And there was the lost airship. A man attached to House Lyrandar had gotten too far into his cups and told Vauren that an airship had failed to return after leaving Vathirond under unusual circumstances. Someone had bribed or persuaded the captain to take the ship on an unscheduled voyage, and she had flown out of town to the east, toward the Mournland.
Could Gaven have persuaded members of his family to let him borrow a ship, or to carry him into the Mournland? It seemed unlikely. He was an excoriate as well as a fugitive. By aiding Gaven, the captain would have been risking excoriation himself, as well as criminal charges. Someone very close to Gaven might have taken that risk, Vauren supposed. Perhaps Gaven had seized control of the airship? Again, unlikely—but not impossible.
He pondered the mystery of the lost airship as he ordered another cup of wine—or the vaguely wine-flavored water this place served. On a positive note, though, he could drink it all night without worrying about clouding his wits. While he waited, he leaned back against the bar and surveyed the crowded tavern.
A group of dwarves tramped in, and Vauren studied them. They were travel-worn, their cloaks dusty and their boots caked with dried mud. That wasn’t unusual—at least half the patrons of this tavern looked much the same. Vauren had chosen a tavern near the southern gate of the city for just that reason: it was popular among travelers newly arrived in Flamekeep. He turned back around as the barkeep set his wine down with a grunt.
Something caught Vauren’s eye as he turned, and he considered the implications as he sipped his wine. One of the dwarves, sporting a fine silk shirt of brilliant red, had revealed a signet ring as she pulled off her gloves. If Vauren’s brief glimpse had been accurate, it was the snarling manticore seal of House Kundarak.
That could mean many things. House Kundarak maintained banking operations across Khorvaire, so some of its members traveled constantly from enclave to enclave. These dwarves did not look like bankers, though—they were battle hardened and armed to the teeth. Well, Vauren supposed that traveling bankers would have to be well armed and ready for combat, to protect against the threat of bandits. Still, House Kundarak also operated Dreadhold. Who would House Kundarak employ to track a fugitive from Dreadhold?
Vauren closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the tavern, trying to locate dwarf voices amid the din. No luck, but that didn’t surprise him—they hadn’t struck him as a boisterous group. Holding his cup, he turned around on his stool, leaning against the bar again, to all appearances a handsome elf searching the crowd for companionship. He saw them arranging themselves around a table across the room. There were five of them, and they grumbled as they tried to fit their broad bodies comfortably at a hexagonal table. Vauren spotted burn marks on the clothes of at least three of the five.
There was no way Vauren could hear their quiet words at six paces, not with four other tables full of much rowdier drinkers between him and the dwarves. He concentrated on watching their lips. That meant he had to stare more intently than he would have liked, but the dwarves weren’t looking around much. It was a risk he was willing to take.
The table’s attention seemed fixed on the one in the red shirt, so Vauren pegged her as the leader. Unfortunately, Vauren stared at her back, watching the heads of the others bob in agreement but getting no idea of what she had said. Finally one of the other dwarves said something Vauren could read, and he knew he’d found a trail to follow.
“Couldn’t we seize her family land in Stormhome?” the dwarf said.
That question told Vauren a great deal. Although House Lyrandar owned t
he island of Stormhome, the dwarves were clearly discussing a noble, not an heir of the house. Even House Kundarak couldn’t seize an estate that belonged to another dragonmarked house. The question probably related to someone who had aided a criminal or a fugitive—seizing land would be a way of putting pressure on such a person. It was by no means a certainty, but it seemed probable that they were talking about Rienne ir’Alastra, Gaven’s former betrothed.
He watched for a while longer without attracting the dwarves’ attention, but he couldn’t make out any more words to confirm his hunch. He needed closer access to these dwarves. When one of them got to his feet and made his way outside, Vauren saw his chance.
He left his drink on the bar with a silver coin, and slipped through the crowd to the door. Stepping outside, he looked up and down the street. Dark and quiet—perfect. Light spilled out the tavern windows, forming little bright pools on the cobbled street, but the other buildings were dark, and no one else walked the street. A splashing sound from the alley next to the tavern alerted him to his quarry’s location. He wrinkled his nose in disgust—he expected better manners from House Kundarak.
He untied the length of silk rope he wore as a belt and tied a knot in it as he hurried to the alley. The dwarf leaned his forehead against the wall of the tavern as he relieved himself. In one smooth movement, Vauren stepped behind the dwarf and slid the rope around his neck, pulling it tight.
He cursed the hardiness of dwarves as he waited for the air to give out and the body to fall limp. The dwarf struggled hard, trying to work the fingers of one hand under the silk as he reached behind him with the other to gouge at Vauren’s eyes. Vauren kept the pressure constant while keeping his own vulnerable spots out of reach, and finally his patience was rewarded—the dwarf fell first to his knees, then face down in his own puddle of urine. Vauren released the rope, and a wracking breath reassured him that he hadn’t killed the dwarf.
That’s strange, Vauren thought. Why didn’t I kill him?
“My descent into priggery is complete,” he muttered aloud. He pulled a dagger from his belt and bent to slit the unconscious dwarf’s throat, but again he found something staying his hand.
“Oh, Vauren, you weak-willed Thrane.” He dropped the dagger on the ground. “Only one thing to be done.” He rolled the dwarf over, looking closely at his face. He glanced toward the street, making sure he was well cloaked in shadow. Then he changed.
He pulled off his clothes as he worked on his face, transforming it into a perfect copy of the dwarf at his feet—chiseled features, neat beard, shaven pate. Then he pulled off the dwarf’s armor as he compressed his body to dwarven stature. He liked dwarf bodies—solid, strong. The skin firm, almost like marble.
He put on the unconscious dwarf’s armor and checked himself over. He found identification papers and traveling papers in a coat pocket and studied them carefully. He repeated the name softly to himself several times: “Natan Durbannek, Natan Durbannek.” He always preferred choosing his own names, but it was useful in this case: taking someone else’s name helped him become someone more unlike himself. He didn’t know Natan Durbannek, but he knew what House Kundarak’s elite agents were like. So as he shaped his body, he also sculpted his heart—hard, sharp.
Ruthless.
He picked up the battle-axe that lay at the dwarf’s side. Without a moment’s hesitation, he brought it down hard on Natan Durbannek’s neck.
* * * * *
The young Sentinel Marshal ran through the streets of Stormhome as fast as her feet could carry her. Watching Arnoth d’Lyrandar’s house had seemed like the most boring assignment imaginable, and before the lightning rail disaster she had spent countless hours in her hiding place, wishing that she was with Evlan d’Deneith instead of sitting on her ass. After the lightning rail disaster, she had spent hours wishing she’d never entered the Sentinel Marshals, wishing she could be anywhere in Khorvaire other than that street in Stormhome.
But the assignment suddenly seemed anything but boring. She had to get word to someone before it was too late. She only hoped that someone could act on the information in time. She burst into the little message station operated by House Sivis, out of breath, her legs and lungs burning.
“Quickly!” she panted. “Send a message to Karrlakton! The Lyrandar excoriate, the fugitive from Dreadhold—he’s here!”
CHAPTER
40
He grew steadily weaker for a long time,” Thordren said, “but the end went quickly. The healers said they couldn’t do anything for him—his body just didn’t have the strength to go on. Then it was just a few weeks ago he took a turn for the worse. He could barely draw breath enough to speak. So we started making sure all his affairs were in order, making sure everything was legally transferred over to me. He slept most of the last two days, and this morning—he didn’t wake up.”
Gaven sat with his hands over his face, his elbows on his knees. His mind was filled with memories of a much younger man, still healthy and vibrant and—gruff, often angry, always busy.
“It sounds like it was a peaceful end,” Rienne said.
“Yes, very. I was actually asleep in the chair in his room when he died. We had a healer from House Jorasco here for about a week, I guess. She came in and woke me about dawn, and she observed how slowly he was breathing, and the next time I woke up he wasn’t breathing at all. Very peaceful.”
“Not very like him, is it?” Gaven said. “I would have figured he’d go out fighting, the cantankerous old—”
Rienne squeezed his knee, and he broke off.
Thordren laughed. “I can see what you mean.” He stared at Gaven for a moment. “Anyway, I’ve been handling most of the business, as he grew weaker. Though Aureon knows I couldn’t have done it without father’s guidance, at least not at first.”
“How is business?” Rienne asked. “Are you going to be all right?”
Thordren scoffed. “I’ll be fine. Father was a genius, and I’ve learned a lot from him. I have plenty of money, and shipping contracts enough to keep it that way for the rest of my life. That is, assuming we don’t end up back at war.”
“What?”
“You haven’t heard?”
“We’ve been at sea,” Rienne reminded him.
“Of course. Well, the rumor is that Aundair’s massing troops in Thaliost, or that’s what Thrane says. Aundair denies it, of course, but there’s a great deal of saber-rattling going on.”
“Haldren,” Gaven said, lifting his head from his hands.
Thordren gave him a quizzical look.
“Haldren ir’Brassek. He was in Dreadhold, escaped with me. Damn, he moves fast.”
“Are any other nations getting involved?” Rienne asked, gripping Gaven’s knee tightly again.
“Karrnath and Breland are making lofty proclamations about the importance of the Treaty of Thronehold and preserving the peace after so much tragedy, but otherwise keeping out of it. So far.”
“What about the Eldeen Reaches?” Rienne asked. “They’ve got to be nervous that they’re next on Aundair’s list.”
“As a matter of fact, just today I heard news of a skirmish on the Eldeen border. Some Reacher scouts had crossed into Aundair, presumably looking for signs of a troop buildup, and they tangled with an Aundairian patrol.”
Rienne shook her head. “More bloodshed.”
Gaven stood and walked to the window. Stormhome spread out below him, and the sea sparkled in the afternoon sun. In the distance, looming shadows were all he could see of Aundair.
… vultures wheel where dragons flew, picking the bones of the numberless dead …
Gaven started as though he’d touched fire, and stepped back from the window. He blinked, trying to get the image out of his mind, the sight of a battlefield strewn with corpses, a sky blotted out by the black wings of carrion birds, the earth torn open and violated.
Rienne was beside him, her strong hand between his shoulder blades. “What is it?”
Gaven
sat back down, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. “It seems that I no longer have to sleep to start dreaming.”
“You’re having visions?” Thordren asked.
Gaven looked up, studying his brother. That question was the first hint he’d given of concern about Gaven’s mental state.
Does he think I’m mad, or possessed? Gaven thought. Has he simply been trying to placate me until help can arrive?
He stood and stalked to the window again, this time searching the streets for a marching force of Sentinel Marshals or some other authority on their way to arrest him.
“Gaven?” Rienne was beside him again, her face full of concern.
“Tell me something, Thordren.” Gaven turned around, leaning back against the windowsill and crossing his arms. “Twenty-six years ago, House Lyrandar excoriated me and the tribunal threw me in Dreadhold. You’ve obviously gotten on with your life, and you’re doing well.”
“I don’t un—” Thordren began, but Gaven cut him off.
“Why did you welcome me back with open arms?”
Thordren looked as though he didn’t understand the question. “Because you’re my brother,” he answered.
“I’m an excoriate. Technically, that means I’m not your brother any more. You have no obligation to me. In fact, you’re prohibited from giving me aid or shelter. You could be arrested just for having me here. Why did you let me into your house?”
Thordren’s bewildered look changed as he gradually made sense of Gaven’s questions. “You don’t trust me,” he said. “You think I’ve already summoned the Sentinel Marshals and I’m just keeping you busy until they get here? Is that it?”
“I’m really hoping to rule out that possibility right now. Tell me why you took me in.”
Rienne held his arm. “Gaven, why—”
“No, Rienne,” Thordren said. “I understand why you’re suspicious, Gaven. If I were in your position, I would be too. Well, I hope I would have the presence of mind to be suspicious. I’m not sure I would.”
