Dragon War: The Draconic Prophecies - Book Three (11 page)

“I know. I’ll contact you tomorrow night. I have to get out of here before too long. I don’t want barbarians at my doorstep just yet.”

Where was she? He had a vague memory that she’d retired to the west after the war, perhaps to Wyr, north of Varna on the Wynarn River. “How long until they reach the river, do you think?”

“Two or three weeks, I expect. But they’ll be driving the Reachers out of their villages soon, and we’ll see a flood of refugees across Aundair’s borders. With Varna destroyed and all.” Something about her smile sickened him—that was part of her plan. She’d arranged for the destruction of Varna so that the Reachers couldn’t take shelter in its walls when the barbarians approached. Why?

“Until tomorrow, then, Kelas.”

He still didn’t know how to address her. “Tomorrow, then.”

The light in the globe faded, and the distorted reflection of the room replaced Nara’s image in the glass. Aunn dropped his head to the desk, taking comfort in the cool stability of the oak against the pounding in his temples.

“What was that all about?” Gaven said.

Aunn looked up. He’d all but forgotten Gaven was there. “I have only the vaguest idea,” he said. “But one thing is clear—this plot doesn’t begin and end with Kelas. I need to learn more.”

“You could just disappear. We could all get far away from Fairhaven, out of Aundair entirely—”

“No.” His eyes met Gaven’s, and he smiled. “We have to prove Bordan wrong.”

“What?”

“I was trying to tell you before that it’s not your fault—that you’re not responsible for the crime they sent you to Dreadhold for.”

“But I am,” Gaven said.

“You are. Just as I’m responsible for all the things Kelas made me do. We’ve both done some evil, Gaven. But together we’re going to make it right.”

Gaven returned his smile. “Does that mean you’re not going to lock me up, then?”

“I wouldn’t dare try. I saw what you did to Malathar.”

*  *  *  *  *

Cart had never feared a city street at night. He understood that fear—he’d known other soldiers who never made it back to camp after revels that went too late in the wrong parts of town. A drunk soldier was unable to defend himself and made a tempting target.

But a warforged was never drunk. A warforged soldier during the war was the army’s property and didn’t go into town for rest and recreation. And even a lone warforged was a daunting opponent, sure to be a tough fight for a group of thugs, and rarely in possession of enough coin to make the risk worthwhile. The worst he’d had to face in the past had been taunts, the derision of people who thought of warforged as inferior beings. Sometimes they threw garbage at him with their insults, but he just walked on in silence.

Havrakhad, it turned out, wasn’t concerned about thugs, either. He carried himself through the dark streets like a proud warrior, though he held
no weapon. Still, there was fear in his voice, fear that took root in Cart’s mind as well.

“The turning of the age draws near,” Havrakhad said. His eyes scanned the sides of the street. “The dreams of your people grow dark indeed.”

Cart shrugged. “I don’t sleep,” he said. Ashara’s tight grasp on his arm, though, suggested that the kalashtar’s words resonated with her.

“But you have felt the tumult of fear when those around you dream in darkness,” Havrakhad said.

Cart remembered long nights during the construction of the Dragon Forge, and he nodded.

“Are you saying there’s some kind of epidemic of nightmares?” Ashara asked.

“You do well to compare it to a disease,” Havrakhad said. “It’s a symp-tom—a sign, a harbinger of the evil that is coming.”

“What do you see in your dreams?” Cart asked him.

“My people, like yours, do not dream, though we sleep. We are exiles from the Region of Dreams, for the masters of that place are our enemies.”

“Who are they?”

“The quori. Ensconced in human vessels, they rule Riedra. But in their true form, as creatures of nightmare, they are the lords of Dal Quor. My people are kin to them, but we have chosen to fight against their tyranny and guide the world into the next age of light.”

“Are they responsible for what happened to Gaven?” Cart asked. “These nightmare lords?”

“No—at least not directly. There was a fragment of an evil presence in the dragonshard that bound him. But without question the quori were aware of it and drew sustenance from it. Just as they are feeding now on all the nightmares in this place.”

Something in the way the kalashtar’s eyes ranged over the city around them, just above the streets, set Cart on edge. The fear that had gnawed at his mind seized him in a surge of panic, and he felt suddenly beset by enemies on all sides—foes he couldn’t see. He drew the axe from his belt, just to feel the comforting weight of it in his hand. Havrakhad chuckled.

“You sense it, though you can’t possibly understand it,” he said, resting a hand on Cart’s shoulder.

Then Cart saw what Havrakhad’s eyes had seen. The buildings that lined the streets rose from solid foundations but faded into smoke and mist as they approached a nightmare sky. The stars were gone, along with the Ring of Siberys that stretched between them, and in their place was
a roiling storm of angry red and violet clouds. Blue and green lightning streaked in silence across the sky, shedding lurid flashes of light on scenes of nightmare.

Mobs of people screamed and ran through the haze, falling beneath the swinging clubs and cleaving swords of onrushing barbarians. Shadowy buildings erupted in flames, adding pale firelight to the underbellies of the clouds. Close by, an unspeakable horror crouched over a trembling human form, clutching one arm in an enormous claw as glittering insect eyes examined the body.

“That is a quori,” Havrakhad whispered in Cart’s ear. “It must not see me. Come!”

The kalashtar removed his hand, and the city returned to normal. At Cart’s side, Ashara looked at him with wide eyes as the kalashtar started along the street again.

“Did you see it too?” he asked.

“You have seen it, I believe,” Havrakhad said over his shoulder. “You visit the Region of Dreams nightly.”

Ashara nodded. “I have seen it. I don’t need to see it again.”

Cart took a few quick steps to catch up with Havrakhad, shaking his head in a vain effort to dispel the memory of his vision. “Why?” he said. He wasn’t sure what he meant.

“The turning of the age draws near,” Havrakhad said again. “The light must die before it can be reborn.”

Ashara fell into stride beside him and clutched his arm, and Cart decided not to ask any more questions.

W
ith Havrakhad safely returned to his little apartment, Cart and Ashara walked in silence back to the Tower of Eyes. Ashara’s hand on his arm was a comfort, but her furrowed brow told him that her thoughts were as troubled as his.

“Ashara!”

Cart felt Ashara jump and her grip on his arm tighten, and he yanked his axe from his belt. They had almost reached the tower, but the shout had come from behind them, near the palace. Cart whirled, planting himself between Ashara and whoever had called out to her.

A man hurried toward them. The hood of a cloak hid his face from the glowing dragonshard lamps that bathed the broad street in pools of golden light. His hands were empty, but Cart saw a scabbard slapping against the man’s legs as he ran.

“Do you know him, Ashara?” Cart asked. He glanced over his shoulder and saw her shrug. “Stop where you are and announce yourself,” he called out.

“Tell your warforged to stand down,” the man said, but he stopped and lowered his hood. Cart recognized him from the Cannith enclave—one broad streak of white hair identified him as the man who had tried to persuade Aunn to hand Ashara into his custody. The man held up his open palms. “It’s Harkin. I just want to talk.”

“He’s not my warforged,” Ashara said. “He’s my friend. And we’ll relax when you’ve shown you’re not a threat. Last night you tried to hand me over to Jorlanna.”

Harkin took a few slow steps toward them, keeping his hands up. “I’m sorry about that, Ashara. I had to keep up appearances.”

“Hand Cart your sword and your wands,” Ashara said, “and we’ll talk.”

Harkin chuckled, but started unbuckling his sword belt as he walked closer. “Cart, is it? I suppose you used to carry your squad’s whole camp on your back?”

Cart expected some condescension from members of House Cannith, and as recently as a few months ago he would have accepted it without a second thought. Meeting Ashara had changed that. He decided he didn’t like Harkin at all.

“They called me Cart because I always brought the wounded back,” he said. “Alive.”

“Fancy yourself a war hero, then?” Harkin said. He tossed his sword at Cart’s feet and started on a second belt, the one that held a quiver full of wands.

Cart didn’t answer. He had never thought of himself as a hero, but as a dutiful soldier. Ashara had changed that, too.

“Listen, Ashara.” Harkin was close enough now to hand Cart his wands, treating them much more carefully than he had his sword. Cart took them but left the sword where it lay. “I never wanted to hand you over to Jorlanna. I want your help.”

Ashara stood with her arms folded across her chest, no hint of a smile in her eyes. “My help with what?”

“Stopping Jorlanna.”

Ashara stared at him for a long moment.

“Look, this isn’t the time or place to talk details. But I’ll tell you that I’ve been talking to Merrix, and he’s promised his support as well.” Cart recognized the name of Merrix d’Cannith, one of three barons who vied for control over House Cannith. Merrix oversaw the House’s operations in the south, from his headquarters in the Brelish city of Sharn.

“Of course he has,” Ashara said. “With Jorlanna out of the way, he’ll have two-thirds of the House under his thumb, and Zorlan won’t be able to oppose him.” Zorlan was the eastern baron, who lived in the Karrnathi capital.

“Would that be so bad? Better that than to be a ministry of the Crown, or divided like the Phiarlans.” Harkin took another step closer to Ashara, ignoring Cart entirely, and put a hand on her shoulder. “Listen, Ashara. We were friends once, and more than that. Can I count on your help, for the sake of that old … friendship?”

Ashara looked at Cart, her face a little flushed. “We’ve already set ourselves against Jorlanna’s schemes,” she said.

“I knew I could count on you,” Harkin said. He had assumed Ashara was still talking to him, Cart realized, liking Harkin even less. “I’ll be in touch again soon.”

Harkin snatched his wands from Cart’s hands and held out his hand for his sword, still smiling at Ashara. Cart turned his back on the Cannith
and walked toward the Tower of Eyes. A moment later, Ashara’s hands were on his arm again, and he felt his anger ebb.

*  *  *  *  *

Aunn sat in Kelas’s chair with his feet on the desk and his chin on his chest, but Gaven didn’t want to sleep. He paced the small room, feeling trapped, his mind circling around thoughts of his father and Kelas, his disturbed dreams, and Havrakhad’s parting words: Use your freedom as if you deserved it.

Aunn had spoken of making restitution for the wrongs they had done, but how could he do that? He couldn’t bring the Paelions back, not any more than he could bring his father back.

A gauntleted fist knocked at the door, and Gaven pulled it open. Cart shuffled inside with Ashara leaning on his shoulder, looking too tired to support her own weight. Gaven glanced at Aunn and saw him fighting to open his eyes, still surfacing from his dreams.

“You all need sleep,” Cart said.

“I don’t,” Gaven said. “There’s enough room in here to put two bedrolls on the floor. You and I can keep watch, Cart, while these two sleep.”

“Don’t try that on me,” Cart said. “Sleep is no weakness, and you’re not some kind of great hero if you can fight it off for a few hours or days.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I used to see it all the time in the army—soldiers would decide that they were as tough as a warforged, try to go without sleep, and nearly every time they ended up dead.”

“I don’t need to sleep now—I’ve been dreaming for the better part of a day.”

“And you’re afraid of dreaming again, is that it?”

“I’m not—” Gaven broke off. Actually, he realized, Cart was exactly right. He didn’t want to dream again of Paelion ghosts, or of Rienne. And after being trapped in his dreams, he was afraid he might not wake up again.

“We can go to Kelas’s home,” Aunn said. “In fact, we should. It’s what Kelas would do.”

“Does he have any family?” Ashara asked.

“No. There’ll be a servant or two, but I can handle them. And we can all get a good rest in a warm, soft bed.”

A bed. Gaven hadn’t slept in a bed since he and Rienne boarded the Sea Tiger in Sharavacion. Without Rienne, though, he feared a bed would seem painfully empty.

“How far is it?” Ashara asked. She looked as though her only concern was whether she could make it all the way to a bed before she fell over.

“Not far,” Aunn said. “A few blocks.”

“I’ll help you,” Cart said, and Ashara smiled up at him.

Aunn stood. “Let’s go, then, before the sun rises.”

Gaven lifted the sheaf of papers from Kelas’s desk, his fingers scrabbling to get the bottom page off the smooth wood. He glanced around the room to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything, but his only possessions were on his person—the armor and sword that Cart and Ashara had secured for him while Phaine held him captive. He clutched the papers to his chest.

Aunn led the way out of the quiet white tower and onto the street. Crown’s Hall rose in stately majesty just off to the left, and Gaven saw a pair of royal guards watching as Aunn led his friends away from the palace. Gaven imagined that the guards stared particularly keenly at him, though he knew it was unlikely they’d recognize him. Following Aunn’s lead, he ignored them and walked with the others down the wide street, kicking at the dry leaves on the cobblestones.

Kelas’s house was everything his study in the Tower of Eyes was not—large and well lit, with tall, glass-paned windows offering a pleasant view of the tree-lined neighborhood. Aunn produced a key, but the door swung open before he could turn it in the lock, and a pretty young woman smiled at him.