Rise of the Seventh Moon: Heirs of Ash, Book 3 (5 page)

“Wait here,” she said. “I’ll lower the stretcher we used to unload Omax.”

“You don’t have to do that, Seren,” he said, grabbing a rung in one hand. “I can climb.”

“You’ll do Omax no good if you fall off that ladder and
break your leg,” she said. Her grip tightened on Tristam’s arm, eliciting a pained yelp. He let go of the ladder and stepped away, looking at her with an expression that was somehow both hurt and grateful.

Seren swiftly pulled herself up the ladder and into the
Mourning Dawn
’s cargo bay. After a quick search, she found the stretcher. It was lashed together from the flattened remains of a rail car coach seat, fortified with iron struts, padded with thick blankets, and secured to a steel hook. It looked unstable, but if it had supported Omax without difficulty surely it could be used to draw Tristam back aboard. Seren checked to make sure the ropes connected to the stretcher were still secured to the cargo winch, then glanced down to make sure the ground beneath was clear to lower the stretcher.

She saw Dalan d’Cannith emerge from the healer’s tent. The portly guildmaster was dressed in somber earthen tones. He held his small black cap against his round belly. He exited the tent with a slow, measured pace, stopping to stand beside Tristam. Dalan rested one hand on Tristam’s shoulder, drawing a confused look from the artificer. Curious, Seren crouched against the crates in the cargo hold and listened.

“Dalan?” Tristam said. “Is something wrong?”

Dalan looked quickly back the way he had come, then at Tristam. He gestured and stepped away from the healer’s tent, into the scaffolding of the docking tower where they would not be overheard. Or, rather, where only Seren would overhear them.

“Did they tell you anything, Dalan?” Tristam asked. “Did they say how Omax is doing?”

Dalan looked at Tristam with a shocked, angry expression. “How do you
think
he’s doing, Tristam?” he whispered sharply. “Marth shattered his torso. These people are used to healing flesh and bone, not wood and metal. There’s only so much they can do
for him. You know they are only delaying the inevitable. Omax is dying.”

Tristam’s jaw hung open silently. His lips moved to form words, but none came.

“What are you going to say, Tristam?” Dalan asked. “Were you going to issue a pointless apology? Swear petty revenge against Captain Marth? Perhaps you were going to cast blame on someone else? Find your voice if you have something to say, boy.”

Tristam grasped the lapels of Dalan’s coat, his face red with a mix of anger and shame. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to speak again. Dalan pushed him away. Tristam fell to his knees in the dust, sobbing softly.

“Get up,” Dalan said. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”

“I’ve killed my best friend,” Tristam said, voice choked.

“No, Tristam,” Dalan said. “You’ve killed us all. Not just Omax. The crew. These halflings. You. Me. All of Khorvaire. You know what Marth is capable of. You know what you’ve given him. Your foolishness has given him victory.”

Tristam looked up at Dalan. His eyes were tormented, but hopeful. “We haven’t lost yet, Dalan,” he said. “Zed and Eraina are still out there. Norra—”

“Does any of it matter?” Dalan said. “We had already won, Tristam. The
Seventh Moon
was crippled, destroying his army’s mobility. We could have destroyed the
Dying Sun
and crushed all of his hopes. You gave all of that back to him with a single arrogant mistake. He will use the
Dying Sun
to repair his warship and complete his monstrous weapon. Do you really think anything that Zed, Eraina, or Norra will find can help us fight Marth, his army, the
Seventh Moon
and the Legacy?”

It hurt Seren to hear Dalan say such things to Tristam, but it was nothing that had not weighed upon her own mind. Tristam had been more erratic of late, culminating in the madness that
consumed him in Metrol. Instead of destroying the
Dying Sun
and sealing off Marth’s last real chance to complete the Legacy, Tristam had repaired the shattered vessel. Then Marth had come, nearly killing Omax and escaping with the repaired airship.

“Why did you let him go, Tristam?” Dalan demanded. “The
Dying Sun
had no weapons. Marth was alone. We could have run his ship into the ground and defeated him.”

“Dalan …” Tristam said softly.

“What?” Dalan snapped, his voice growing even more heated. “What are you going to say, Tristam? What excuse would you make? I hired you to fix things. How will you fix this?”

“Damn it, Dalan!” Tristam growled. He glared at Dalan. His exhaustion had faded, at least for now. “When we left Metrol, you told me the decision was mine.”

“And that was obviously a mistake,” Dalan said. “Omax will most likely die despite your efforts, and Marth remains at large.”

“No,” Tristam said, seizing Dalan’s silk jacket again. The guildmaster’s eyes widened. “The
Mourning Dawn
is still your ship. Captain Gerriman still obeys your orders. I have made my mistakes, but do not pass command to me and then moan that the results are not to your liking. I made my mistakes, but at least I didn’t aid a murderer, then hide it from the world. Hypocrite!”

Tristam shoved the man away. Dalan stumbled and collected himself, smoothing one hand over his jacket with a disdainful grimace. Tristam climbed up the boarding ladder, anger filling him with renewed energy. Seren looked up at him as he climbed into the cargo bay. He staggered, face flushing with embarrassment as he realized Seren had witnessed his breakdown. He leaned heavily on a large barrel as the energy of his tirade drained from him.

“I’m so tired,” he said in a weak voice. “I’m sorry, Seren. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want you to see that.”

She moved to his side, wrapping an arm around his waist to
support him. “Let’s get you back to your cabin,” she whispered. “Rest, so when you wake up you can help Omax.”

He pulled away from her. “I can walk on my own,” he said.

She watched as he staggered down the corridor, leaning heavily against the bulkhead as he walked. He fumbled with the hatch to his cabin and disappeared inside. The tiny clay face of Tristam’s homunculus peered out through the hatch, looking at Seren with a worried expression. It closed the cabin with a creak.

Seren looked at the hatch for a long time, then climbed back down the ladder. She found Dalan leaning against the tower’s main support beam. The guildmaster chewed absently on a stick of dried meat, not looking at her. He didn’t look the least bit upset by Tristam’s insults.

“If my guess is right, you heard most if not all of that,” Dalan said.

“Yes,” she said, her voice hoarse.

“So what now?” Dalan asked, looking at her. “Are you going to threaten me again? Tell me to leave Tristam alone? Insult my cowardly self-interest? Any of that nonsense?”

Seren said nothing.

“Master Xain is ruled by emotion,” Dalan said. “Pride and arrogance rule him. Courage drives him. His brilliance makes him special, but it is his emotions that make him strong, Seren. Since we left the Mournland he’s been changing, growing more reserved. He blames himself for what happened in Metrol.”

“So do you,” Seren said.

Dalan chewed his lunch in silence and stared blandly out at the plains.

“Don’t you?” she asked.

“Now that really would make me a hypocrite, wouldn’t it?” Dalan said. “If I really wanted to stop Tristam from repairing the
Dying Sun
I could have done so any time while we were in Metrol. Maybe the Mournland was blurring my judgment as well, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. I have no problem with the decision Tristam made, though I regret the outcome.”

“Then why did you say what you said?” she asked.

“Because Tristam’s emotions deserted him,” Dalan said. “He was exhausted. With no enemy in sight, he had nothing to dwell upon but his failure. But you know Tristam. You know there’s one thing that will always fire his sense of righteousness.” He looked at her shrewdly.

“You want him to hate you,” Seren said.

“He needs it,” Dalan said. “He has to draw strength from something. If he cannot draw it from within, then let him draw it from hate.”

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked.

“Because sometimes I
am
motivated by cowardly self-interest,” he said, looking at her alertly. “The last time you perceived me as a danger to Tristam, you threatened to kill me.”

“I remember,” Seren said. She met his gaze, unflinching.

“Then you do not intend to kill me?” Dalan asked.

“Not at the moment,” Seren said.

“Excellent,” Dalan said. “You’ve made my day, Miss Morisse.” He bowed to her, popped his cap back atop his head, and began to walk away.

“Dalan,” Seren called to him.

He looked back over his shoulder.

“Is Omax really dying?” she asked. “Or was that another lie?”

“The halflings said no such thing, but I have known enough healers to recognize when they can do no more,” Dalan said, “but if anyone can save Omax, it is Master Xain.” He smiled at her,
tipping his hat as he walked away through the village. “Good day, Miss Morisse.”

Seren watched Dalan go, uncertain what to say or think. Part of her wanted to climb back onboard the ship, to tell Tristam that Dalan hadn’t meant what he said so that he wouldn’t feel so terrible. The stronger part of her knew that Dalan was right, that Tristam needed to be angry right now, needed to push through his weakness. In either case, Tristam wouldn’t believe her if she told him. He was so used to being abused and manipulated by Dalan. The idea that the guildmaster was now manipulating Tristam for his own good would be inconceivable.

And as much as Seren hated to admit it, part of her felt that Tristam deserved Dalan’s barbs. They had been so close to finishing this. With the
Dying Sun
destroyed, Marth would have been unable to complete the Legacy. The race to stop the changeling from completing his mysterious plan of revenge against the Five Nations would have ended.

It seemed the closer he came to understanding Ashrem’s work, the more Tristam changed. At first, it was small. He became more impatient and cynical. After leaving Zul’nadn he had grown even more withdrawn, less idealistic. Everything came to a head in Metrol. What had happened back there? It was strange, like a haze had fallen over everyone. Looking back, repairing the
Dying Sun
instead of just destroying her and escaping the Mournland had been foolish. Yet, at the time, no one disputed it but Ijaac. It had seemed like the right thing to do.

The dwarf warned that the Mournland created illusions to make people crazy. Maybe that was it, and maybe Tristam wasn’t the only one to be affected. Ashrem d’Cannith’s “ghost” didn’t want the Legacy to be destroyed. Had it influenced them all, somehow?

Seren slid a hand into her boot and drew out the golden badge
Ijaac found in Metrol. It had belonged to Haimel Gerriman, the
Dying Sun
’s first mate. Two of Ashrem’s ships had vanished into Cyre just before the Day of Mourning. Neither ship crashed, but only Marth and Kiris Overwood survived. What had happened to the rest of the crewmen?

Seren sighed and tried to stop thinking about it. If she kept agonizing over unsolvable mysteries, she was going to drive herself mad. There was no purpose to worrying about what might have been when there was so much gone wrong that still needed fixing.

She stepped toward the conical canvas tent. The gryphon seal of House Jorasco was painted in bright colors above the entrance. The soothing pattern of chanting and woodwinds continued from within. She pushed the tent flap open just enough to peek through. The gentle scent of sandalwood incense hung in the air. A quartet of halflings knelt in circle around a pallet in the center of the tent.

Omax lay upon the pallet, covered with a thin blanket knitted in a riot of color. Seren couldn’t help but smile at the odd sight. The blanket did a warforged no good, but Omax was too polite to remove it. The warforged’s head turned slightly as she entered. His face was, as always, an expressionless mask of scarred metal. The flicker of blue light in his eyes brightened when he saw her. At least both his eyes now shone again and had lost the sickly red light they radiated after Marth wounded him. Seren was no expert in warforged anatomy, but that seemed to be a good sign.

“Seren,” he said. His once rumbling voice was now cracked and hollow.

One of the halfling healers followed Omax’s eyes, looking at Seren. The little man smiled warmly and gestured for her to enter.

“Omax,” Seren said. She hurried into the tent and knelt beside the warforged.

“You may visit him, but do not tarry. He needs his rest,” said
Mother Shinh, the elder halfling kneeling at Omax’s right side. She rose, as did the others. The flutist slid his instrument into a leather case at his hip. “If you need us, we will be nearby.”

Seren murmured her thanks as the healers filed out of the tent.

“I keep telling them that I do not rest,” Omax said. “They do not listen.”

Seren laughed softly.

“Mother Shinh has done what she can, Seren,” the warforged said, “but she can do nothing more.”