Rise of the Seventh Moon: Heirs of Ash, Book 3 (3 page)

“How much will I regret this?” Eraina said.

“Only a bit,” he said. “On a positive note, if it doesn’t work, you’ll have another reason to call me an idiot.”

Eraina chewed her lip. She gave Zed a long, cold look. He answered with a patient grin. The inquisitive’s clothes were rumpled and torn. His hair was unkempt. Had the man even bothered to groom himself this morning? It almost seemed as if he was inventing new ways to offend her.

“What do I need to do?” she asked with a sigh.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just follow me at a distance and try not to get involved.”

“Fine,” she said.

“I’m serious,” he said. “Even if I look like I’m in trouble.”

“I said fine.”

“Eraina, look at me,” he said firmly.

She turned to face him. His blue eyes were sharp, focused. There was no more laziness or carelessness about him.

“I’m serious,” he said. “Don’t get involved. Just let whatever happens to me happen and keep your eyes open.”

She was silent for a moment, wondering what the man planned. “Agreed,” she said at last.

“And hold this,” he said, offering her his sheathed sword.

She looked at him in mild surprise.

“I don’t want to be armed,” he said. “That’ll just cause more trouble than it’s worth, and I’d rather not lose that sword. It’s also pretty recognizable. I’d prefer to remain anonymous here if possible.”

“Fine,” she said, taking it from him.

Zed grinned and kicked his horse to a gentle gallop.

Eraina frowned and followed him at a safe distance. The streets of Nathyrr were busy this evening. Travelers and townspeople bustled in the streets. A trio of Thrane Knights noticed Eraina and gave a short salute. She returned the gesture with respect. They quickly moved on, not sparing her a second glance.

Eraina smiled. She had met the knights shortly after her arrival. They had been curious about the presence of a Sentinel Marshal in their city, but Eraina recognized their curiosity as the boredom of young men tired of their assignment in a remote city. She overwhelmed their curiosity with technical discussions of jurisdiction and international authority until their eyes glazed and they excused themselves with a politely insincere offer to help if needed. She had convinced them that, whatever she was doing in Nathyrr, it was clearly even more boring than their own duties.

It was strange. A few weeks ago she would not allowed herself even such a harmless half-truth. It was better that the knights mind their own business. Such inexperienced and overzealous allies would only interfere with her investigation and perhaps end up harming themselves. Nonetheless, it was obvious that her time with Arthen and the
Mourning Dawn
’s crew was affecting her judgment.

They were good people. When things looked worst, the crew generally did the right thing. Even Dalan, as manipulative as he
was, seemed to care for his crew. Perhaps there was a greater purpose to this adventure. Perhaps she had been following her vows too strictly. Perhaps Boldrei had intended for Eraina to learn from the
Mourning Dawn
’s crew—and perhaps to teach them in turn? It seemed as if a few of them had adopted a stronger sense of honor since her arrival. Even Zed Arthen listened to her sometimes.

Her self-indulgent fantasies faded as she realized she had lost track of Arthen. She had been watching him the entire time. The man didn’t seem particularly stealthy, but he had somehow slipped away.

At the far side of the town square, the doors of a tavern burst open. Arthen staggered out into the street. He clutched a glass bottle in one hand as he leaned against the door frame unsteadily. A few passersby paused, wrinkling their noses in disgust before continuing on their way. Zed ignored them, scanning the crowd with a glassy stare till he found what he was looking for. He moved swiftly, pushing his way through the crowd and moving toward the three knights, staggering as he greeted them in a boisterous voice.

Eraina couldn’t hear the words from where she stood, but she guessed his intent. All three knights whirled to face Zed, their eyes wide with outrage. The largest knight’s hand moved to his sword. Zed broke his bottle over that one’s head, sending him sprawling in the street.

The crowd scattered quickly, though a handful stopped a safe distance away to watch the fight. Eraina sighed and began shoving her way through the chaotic mob. She hoped she could make it close enough to help Zed in case his reckless plan failed and he was hurt—though she couldn’t help feeling that the idiot deserved whatever happened to him.

“You call yourselves servants of the Flame?” Zed roared, his voice slurring. “My brothers died fighting your damned war. Where was the Flame when they died at Vathirond?”

One of the knights knelt to help his unconscious brother. The other glared at the broken bottle in Zed’s hand with extreme calm and spoke in a low voice. Eraina could not hear what the man said from this distance, but he was clearly trying to talk Zed down from his madness.

Eraina stopped, remembering her promise not to interfere. What did Arthen hope to accomplish by picking a public fight with the authorities in the center of town? To Eraina’s eyes, everything about Zed radiated falsehood. It was all an act, albeit a convincing one. She looked at the townspeople who had paused to watch the fight, studying their reactions. Most watched with detached, if morbid, curiosity. A few laughed at the spectacle, though not loudly enough to offend the knights. Two city watchmen shoved their way through the crowd with determined expressions, unseen by Zed.

There.

At the back of the crowd, two men watched the conflict with keen interest. They wore dark clothing and nondescript gray cloaks. One turned to whisper to his comrade, who quickly vanished into the crowd. Eraina followed the stranger as quickly as she could. The man jogged swiftly through the streets, glancing over his shoulder but taking no note of her. Though wary that he might be followed, he was unskilled at noticing a tail. The paladin pursued him at a safe distance, casually weaving through crowds to avoid drawing notice. She hoped that this random hunch didn’t amount to nothing.

The man ducked into a large building, closing the door behind him. Eraina quickly read the sign above the door.

K
ENRICKSON
B
ROTHERS
U
NDERTAKERS

There were few windows in the building. The ones she could see were tightly drawn and covered by black shades. A large wagon waited in a deserted alley beside the building, loaded with wooden coffins.

She leaned into the wagon, grasping the lid of a coffin. It was securely nailed shut. Peering around to make sure she wasn’t watched, she grasped the lid more firmly with both hands. She whispered a short prayer to Boldrei, importuning the goddess to bolster her strength and simultaneously praying that she wasn’t making a terrible mistake.

A surge of divine power issued through her limbs. The coffin’s lid popped loose with a dry crack as the nails pulled free. She looked back at the mortuary, worried she might be heard. The windows remained drawn tight.

Eraina eased the coffin’s lid open. Heavy burlap sacks and small barrels filled the coffin. She opened the nearest, finding it filled with dried beans. Another held rice. A third was filled with strips of dried beef. So this was how Marth supplied his troops. Who would search a wagon full of coffins?

Eraina closed the coffin and turned her attention to the mortuary. She wondered what other secrets lay within, and exactly how far Marth’s grip extended.

She also wondered whether Zed Arthen had been beaten unconscious by the city guard yet.

T
WO

T
o stand on the deck of this ship again was at once both familiar and strange.

Marth’s slender hands rested lightly on the gunwale of
Albena Tors
, or the
Dying Sun
in the language of the elves.

In younger days, Marth had rarely worn his natural face. Most changelings did not, preferring to slip from one alias to the next. Marth saw no reason to uphold such illusions among his own crew. They would accept him as he was or not at all. Though his scarred white face showed no expression, he was preoccupied with how different the ship felt since he had reclaimed her in the ruins of Metrol. The way the vessel carried herself in the air, the hue of the flaming ring that surrounded her, the vibration of the deck beneath his feet, he couldn’t quite isolate what bothered him—but something deep and significant had changed.

At first Marth thought it was merely the unfamiliar sensation of piloting the vessel alone. In all his dimly remembered years at the airship’s helm, he had never flown her without a crew before. Though Ashrem’s extensive modifications made such piloting possible, the loss of speed and maneuverability made it impractical to do so. He had limped to Nathyrr as swiftly as he could after escaping the
Mourning Dawn
, taking on a supplementary crew. Their presence didn’t alter his nagging feeling.

“The mist is ahead, Captain,” the helmsman called out. He pointed at the horizon, where a murky gray fog consumed the land. “Do we veer north or south?”

Marth looked at the man evenly. “Neither,” he said. “Continue our course east to the Talenta Plains, Mister Draen. The rest of you, see to your duties. We must make all possible speed.”

The crew did not argue, but Marth saw several of them look at one another with fearful expressions.

“The
Seventh Moon
waits for us,” Marth said. “We must not alter our course.”

“Aye, Captain,” the helmsman said, the doubt clear in his voice.

Marth turned to face the helmsman. The other soldiers quickly went about their duties. The helmsman concentrated upon the ship’s controls, trying not to look afraid under his captain’s scrutiny.

“Have you never entered the Mournland?” Marth asked. His white eyes stared out at the horizon.

“No, Captain,” the helmsman admitted, “but I have heard terrible stories.”

“All of those stories are likely true,” he said. “The Mournland teems with horrors beyond imagination. Most of the wild magic that consumes the place prefers to stay near the earth—we should be safe enough if we keep a high altitude and a steady speed. Do not allow fear to conquer you. Let Cyre’s grave stand as a reminder of why we fight beside one another. Remember that this was once our home.”

“Aye,” the helmsman replied contritely. “We shall make all possible speed.”

“See that you do,” Marth said. He walked past the others, climbing down the ladder that led to the heart of the ship. He felt a sense of nostalgia to be in his old ship, his old home, once more.
To know that the
Dying Sun
would soon be stripped down and abandoned seasoned his mood with sadness. There was no other way. The
Dying Sun
was a small ship, designed to support a small crew. For what Marth planned to do, he required a warship. He needed the
Seventh Moon
to rise again, her damaged elemental core replaced with that of her sister vessel. The idea of cutting out his first ship’s heart to power his warship pained him—but it was necessary.

Marth opened the hatch that led into the ship’s core chamber, closing it behind him so that he would not be interrupted. A large cylinder of black metal dominated the small room. He stepped inside and touched the ship’s heart. The metal was warm, heated from within by the bound elemental.

Tristam’s repairs to the damaged airship had been significant. Marth was impressed at the miracles the boy had performed in such a short period of time. When Marth had abandoned her in Metrol, she seemed irreparable. Yet even Tristam’s modifications were not what bothered him. It was something deeper.

The mystery could wait. He had urgent matters requiring his attention.

Marth reached into his long, black coat and drew out his amethyst wand. He passed it in a complex pattern, chanting words of power. Motes of stuttering, sparkling light projected from the end of the wand and scattered like insects. Marth gave another sharp command, and the energy froze in midair as if trapped by an invisible force.

“Reveal yourself,” Marth commanded.

The shining bits of light stirred, swirling around one another as they wove shapes in midair. The image of a humanoid figure formed, resembling an elderly human man. It was nearly transparent. Its arms and legs faded into nothing. The vision’s face was more haunted and lined with worry than Marth remembered, but it was still the face of Ashrem d’Cannith.

“I thought I had been destroyed,” Ashrem’s visage said. “I thought I was free.”

“I absorbed the magic that sustains you into my wand,” Marth said. “Destroying you would have been rash. You pose too many questions.”

“Let me fade,” the vision whispered, his voice hoarse. “I have served my purpose.”

“Then serve my purpose now, or linger in pain forever,” Marth said. “Tell me what I wish to know, and I will grant you the oblivion that you desire.”

The changeling’s pale eyes shone green for the briefest instant. He stared deep into the illusionary figure, probing the threads of magic that bound it together. After nearly a minute, he was satisfied that his suspicions had been correct. The changeling’s shoulders slumped. Marth’s eyes filled with pity.