Dragon War: The Draconic Prophecies - Book Three (28 page)

Harkin laughed. “It’s not, but that won’t stop them from talking. Particularly when they can see the dragonmark on your arm. I understand the baron is in a fury.”

“Jorlanna has already excoriated me. What else can she do?”

“You really don’t know what you’re in the middle of, do you?”

“Why don’t you spell it out for me, Harkin?”

“Very well, Ashara. Jorlanna has decided to cast aside the Korth Edicts and swear allegiance to the queen, turning her part of House Cannith into an Aundairian noble family and its enclave into a Ministry of Artifice, responsible for producing armaments for the crown.”

“I’m well aware of what Jorlanna has done,” Ashara said.

Cart nodded. When the first King Galifar united the Five Nations under his rule, he signed accords with the leaders of the dragonmarked houses that prevented such close ties between the houses and the crown, but in the chaos of the Last War those agreements had grown increasingly tenuous.

“Of course you are.” Harkin sneered. “But fourteen other dragonmarked barons are watching very carefully. Some of them have been stretching or outright breaking the Korth Edicts for years. There’s no way Lyrandar’s
operations in Valenar are legal—they have a standing army there, and a fleet of flying warships. Aurala even married an heir of House Vadalis—and now she’s gone and destroyed the city Vadalis calls home. No wonder some of the Houses are very nervous about what could happen if Aurala or some other sovereign starts getting ideas. House Orien’s headquarters are down in Passage, and I know they’re worried that Aurala’s going to annex them next. More than any other House, Orien needs to be able to operate across national borders—that’s the whole point of the Mark of Passage, right?”

“What are you getting at, Harkin?”

Harkin leaned over the table. “There’s a war brewing, Ashara, and we’re right in the middle of it.”

“The barbarians? What—”

“Not the barbarians. The Houses. Look around you. House Cannith is about to split like Phiarlan and Thuranni did, if it hasn’t already. The rest of the Houses are lining up on one side or the other, some trying to preserve the Korth Edicts, the rest trying to continue tearing them down until the dragonmarked rule Khorvaire.”

Cart shifted in his seat. Harkin’s words rang true, and Cart suspected that this dragonmarked war ranged farther than Harkin was aware. Did he know about the Dragon Forge and Phaine’s involvement in it?

“Where does House Thuranni stand in all this?” Cart asked.

Ashara looked at him thoughtfully, but Harkin seemed annoyed at his intrusion. “They haven’t made their position known,” he said.

“You’re thinking of Phaine,” Ashara said. Cart nodded. “He was part of Jorlanna’s plan, but that doesn’t mean his whole house was involved.”

“Phaine?” Harkin said. “A Thuranni?”

“Yes,” Ashara said, still looking at Cart.

Harkin snorted. “If one Thuranni is involved, you can be sure their baron knows about it.”

“But why was he involved?” Cart asked. He was trying to piece it together in his mind, but he felt as much adrift as he had when he was working with Haldren—caught up in political games far beyond his expertise. The night before, in the Ruby Chalice, Gaven and Ashara had been talking about what might happen if the dragonshard ended up in Phaine’s hands. Perhaps, he thought, House Thuranni sought to undermine House Lyrandar, or maybe they hoped to build more Dragon Forges and steal marks from all the Houses. He wasn’t sure if that had anything to do with the Korth Edicts, though. And he didn’t want to talk about it in front of Harkin.

Ashara seemed to share his reluctance, which made him strangely glad. She reached across the table and took Cart’s hand. “I still don’t see what this has to do with me and Cart.”

Harkin looked down at their hands as if he were regarding a dead thing on his plate. “Don’t you? Aurala and Jorlanna have just thrown the Korth Edicts out the window. The vigilant protectors of the Korth Edicts are the Sentinel Marshals of House Deneith. Or, as some people like to say, House Deneith uses the Marshals to make sure that nobody
else
violates the Edicts by creating an army that could challenge Deneith. So the Sentinel Marshals are looking for a way to interfere with Jorlanna, to get Cannith West back where it belongs—in a private enclave, and out of the government.”

Cart shifted uncomfortably at the mention of the Sentinel Marshals. At Haldren’s command, he had attacked the Sentinel Marshal who captured Senya. That was not one of his proudest moments.

“There’s a marshal in town right now,” Harkin continued, “quietly asking questions about this whole affair, and by now I expect she’s heard quite an earful about the Cannith heir seen walking through the streets this morning, hanging on the arm of a warforged. The key question, I think, is whether she knows that the baron declared you excoriate. If she doesn’t, she might try to use you to trap Jorlanna. If she does, she might be asking for your help.”

“I don’t want to talk to a Sentinel Marshal.” Ashara groaned.

Harkin smirked. “That, my dear, is why you should have kept a lower profile this morning. Now, it’s too late. The Sentinel Marshal I spoke of has just walked into this bakery.”

Ashara looked at the door, over Cart’s shoulder, and her eyes widened. Cart turned in his seat and saw them as well. A tall human woman wearing gleaming chainmail beneath a leather overcoat, resting a hand on the basket hilt of a rapier, cast her eyes around the room until they fell on Cart. She gestured to her companion, a female dwarf whose scarlet silk shirt provided stark contrast to her deep brown skin, and the two of them made their way to the table where Cart and Ashara sat.

S
enya tucked her feet under her and smiled. “So why did you come here?” she asked.

Gaven leaned back in his chair and sighed. Why had he come? “I’m not sure, actually.”

“Really?” Senya shifted forward slightly. She wasn’t mocking him—she seemed genuinely intrigued.

“Well, I got to thinking about what your ancestor said to me in Shae Mordai. ‘The third time, you will finally find what you seek.’”

Senya nodded. “‘Twice you have come to me now,’ she said. You never did explain that.”

“The first time, it wasn’t me. A dragon disguised in human form went with Mendaros to see your ancestor.”

“What? If it wasn’t you …”

“That dragon’s memories took root in my mind. That’s why—well, basically that’s why I went to Dreadhold. So when you took me before your ancestor, she recognized the dragon in my mind. That was the second time.”

“The dragon’s second time.”

Gaven frowned. “Sort of.” It didn’t make sense, as he thought about it. The dragon had visited Senya’s ancestor once, four or five hundred years ago. If Gaven’s visit was the second time, then the ancestor had been talking about the dragon, not Gaven. Perhaps he’d been fooling himself to think that Senya’s ancestor could give him anything he sought.

“So that’s why you asked about Mendaros,” Senya said.

“Yes. When we were in Shae Mordai, I was overwhelmed with the memory of being there before, walking up those stairs with Mendaros beside me. I remembered him as a good friend.”

“A good friend to a dragon. Hence his disgrace in our family.”

“Yes. You said that he opened the door for an invasion of dragons.”

“He did. I have learned more about him in the last few months, if you’re interested.”

Gaven leaned forward. “Quite interested. Please.”

Senya smiled. “Well, Mendaros Alvena Tuorren was born in 398, in Galifar’s reckoning, just over six hundred years ago. He was born in Shae Cairdal, but by the mid-four hundreds he was wandering around Khorvaire, already sort of an outcast from the family. He was evidently very interested in the Prophecy of the dragons, and in 512 he was involved in the construction of an observatory in the Starpeaks.”

“King Daroon’s observatory?” Gaven said. As ruler of Galifar, Daroon had grown obsessed with predicting the future by studying the moons and stars.

“I suppose so, yes. It’s not clear to me what his involvement with it was, and I don’t know what his connection to the king was.”

“I might have known once.” Gaven wasn’t sure how he knew about King Daroon. Was that something he had learned in his studies, or the echo of the dragon’s memories in his mind? He shook his head.

“Mendaros only exercised his Right of Counsel once,” Senya said, “and he brought a friend from Khorvaire—a human, or he seemed to be—with him. I assume that human was actually the dragon you described. Mendaros asked questions about the Storm Dragon, and received answers similar to what you and I heard on our visit. They went on to ask about the Time of the Dragon Between, and the Time of the Dragon Below. Mendaros, apparently, was particularly interested in the Blasphemer.”

“The Blasphemer?”

“My ancestor, in her wisdom, perceived that, while Mendaros’s human companion fancied himself the Storm Dragon, Mendaros imagined himself to be the Blasphemer.”

“Dragons fly before the Blasphemer’s legions,” Gaven said, and visions of bone-white banners danced in his memory.

“And apparently, as dragons winged across the sea to attack Aerenal, Mendaros commanded a fleet of warships full of his mercenary legions.”

Gaven sat back and ran his fingers through his hair. “And when was that?”

“That was in 537.”

“So more than four hundred years ago. What happened? You said it was a devastating invasion.”

“It was. Taer Senadal was burned to the ground, and both Var-Shalas and Shae Thoridor were in flames before the dragons were routed.”

Gaven had studied maps of Aerenal before, but the names meant little to him. Taer Senadal was a fortress—he could figure that much from the name. He nodded for her to continue anyway.

“Mendaros made land near Var-Shalas,” Senya continued, “and tried to bring his legions upriver to the town, but they didn’t get very far. He was killed in the battle.”

Gaven rested his forehead in his palm and tried to make sense of this information. The dragon had sought to become the Storm Dragon more than four hundred years ago, and then, when its memories found their way into Gaven’s mind, he had followed along a similar path. Mendaros had set himself up as the Blasphemer four centuries ago, and now a new Blasphemer had arisen out of the Demon Wastes. Was the Prophecy fulfilled in cycles, so that every age had its Storm Dragon and its Blasphemer? Or were Mendaros and the dragon deluded, pursuing the Prophecy when the time of its fulfillment was still far off? Or perhaps they were all deluded—neither Gaven nor the dragon actually fulfilled the Prophecy of the Storm Dragon, and the warlord from the Wastes was no more the Blasphemer than Mendaros had been.

Senya got up and stood before Gaven, filling his nostrils with the smells of incense and spice. She held out a hand, and Gaven took it.

“Why did you come here?” she asked again.

Gaven’s eyes stung. “I was hoping someone could tell me what it is I’m supposed to be looking for.”

Senya nodded. “Come with me.” She squeezed his hand, and he stood beside her.

Senya led him out of her room and back down the stairs, her hand soft and warm in his—so alive, in contrast to the death mask on her face. She led him to the tall doors across from the entrance, and there she released his hand.

“Just a moment,” she whispered.

Gaven watched in silence as she busied herself around one of the braziers outside the doors. Scented smoke billowed up from the coals, and she moved to the other and sent another offering of smoke into the air. Then she stood before the doors and sang softly in Elven. Gaven caught only a few words speaking of honor, reverence, death, and wisdom. She touched a few of the carved images as she sang, and when she was finished with the song the doors swung open like arms reaching to enfold her.

She was smiling when she turned back and extended a hand to him. He stepped forward and took her hand, and she drew him into the
interior of the temple. The doors swung shut behind him, and he was in darkness.

His eyes, growing accustomed to the dark, found the dim glow of coals just before they flared to life at Senya’s touch. The tiny fires did little to illuminate the cavernous room, though. Gaven wasn’t sure what he had been expecting—something more like the small tomb where Senya’s ancestor had granted them an audience in Shae Mordai, he supposed. Instead, the room was the size of a grand temple of the Sovereign Host.

Senya took his hand again and led him to the center of the room. “Kneel,” she whispered, and he obeyed. A woven mat of dried reeds offered a meager cushion between his knees and the stone floor.

As Senya drifted away again, Gaven found himself wondering how old the temple was. Shae Mordai was ancient—the elves had started its construction more than twenty thousand years ago, although surely not every building could be that old. But when had the population of Aereni in Fairhaven grown sufficiently large to support a construction project on this scale? It felt old, but he suspected that had as much to do with the burning incense and the presence of the deathless than with the actual age of the building.

Two more braziers flared to feeble light in front of him, where Senya stood in front of a carved altar. The altar looked as old as anything he’d seen in Shae Mordai, and Gaven wondered if it had been brought from Aerenal, perhaps as sort of a foundation stone for the whole community of Aereni here.

Senya turned and smiled at him, then sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the altar and closed her eyes. In the half-light of the flickering braziers, her face was an ornately decorated skull floating above her shoulders. When her eyes were closed, they could easily have been gaping sockets. He watched her chest rise and fall three times with slow, even breaths, and then her eyes shot open.

Her eyes, though, were no longer sparkling orbs of sapphire blue, but pale yellow flames that seemed to dance in empty sockets. And when she spoke, her voice had become the cold, clear voice of her long-dead ancestor.

“Gaven, Storm Dragon, dishonored child of Lyrandar, what do you seek?”