Rise of the Seventh Moon: Heirs of Ash, Book 3 (8 page)

“It was still a gamble,” she said.

“I’m alive,” Zed said, shrugging. “I admit, I wouldn’t have tried it if I knew Draikus was their commanding officer. I think he had the town watch standing ready, waiting for me to do something stupid.”

“Your reputation precedes you?” Eraina asked, chuckling.

“I’m serious, Eraina,” Zed said, annoyed. “You know being recognized doesn’t help us at all. Marth knows who we are. Draikus knows I’m working with you. If Niam knows I came here with a Sentinel Marshal, especially one that’s hunting Marth on a murder charge, we’re going to have a lot of trouble. We might have a lead, but it turned out messier than I would have liked. Pursuing this is going to be tricky.”

“We knew this would be dangerous,” Eraina said.

“I wish the others were here,” Zed said. “As comfortable as I am working alone, it’s been good having them to back me up.”

“Agreed,” Eraina said.

“So what did you find out while I was in jail?” he asked.

“The Kenricksons have a wagon full of coffins outside their office,” Eraina said. “They’re loaded with dry rations and other supplies.”

“Coffins?” Zed said. “Smart way to sneak a lot of supplies out of the city without drawing any attention. Nobody is going to search a load of corpses.”

“I’m amazed no one would notice,” Eraina said. “The Kenricksons have to be moving out a lot more coffins than there are people dying in Nathyrr.”

“I think after the Last War, most people are perfectly happy not counting the dead,” Zed said. “Especially this close to the Mournland. Incidentally, Niam Kenrickson is a Cyran veteran. He was interested that I fought at Vathirond.”

“One of the last battles where Thrane knights and Cyran soldiers fought side by side,” Eraina said.

Zed nodded. “He wants me to go to his offices today. I think he intends to recruit me.”

“Or kill you,” Eraina said. “Depending on how much he knows about you.”

Zed took another drink, acknowledging the possibility with a deep nod.

“You don’t have to meet him,” she said. “We know the undertakers are up to something now. We just have to find out where they’re taking the coffins.”

“But who knows when they plan to deliver that wagon?” Zed said. “If I don’t show up for our meeting, they may get skittish and postpone their delivery. Worse yet, they may warn their superiors that someone has been poking around. That isn’t even entertaining the chance that the Kenricksons aren’t connected with Marth and this is another dead end.”

“And we’ve simply stumbled over a ring of Cyran morticians
smuggling beans into an uninhabited forest?” Eraina asked. “You’re giving yourself too much time to think about this, Zed.”

“I guess I’m letting my cautious nature get the better of me,” he said. “It happens when I spend too much time talking. I over-analyze things.”

“Then let’s get moving,” she said, rising and tossing a few coins on the table. “You have a meeting to attend. And you really need to bathe.”

S
IX

T
ristam sat up in his bunk, adjusting to the unfamiliar feeling of a clear head. He hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since … how long had it been? It had to have been when the
Mourning Dawn
arrived in New Cyre. At first he’d been too nervous about the journey through the Mournland and finding the
Dying Sun
to get any real rest. During their time in Metrol, repairing the airship took up most of his time. After fleeing the city, he became obsessed with keeping Omax alive until he had spread himself so thin that his body would endure no more. He’d grown used to having a pounding headache, burning hunger, and blurry vision. A bit of sleep had cured everything but the hunger. It felt almost strange to feel normal again.

Tristam peered through his cabin’s porthole, trying to get an idea of the time. The sky was tinged with yellow haze. Sunrise. He had slept through the entire day yesterday. He felt weak and a little numb from spending so much time in bed. He swung his legs over the side of his bunk and rubbed his eyes.

His homunculus sat amid the beakers, journals, and assorted equipment atop the desk. The lumpy little clay man watched Tristam with empty black eyes, waiting for any command. It pushed a tiny foot forward, nudging the edge of a plate heaped with a thick slab of bread, wedge of cheese, and two apples. Seren
must have brought it while he was sleeping.

“Are you standing guard over my breakfast?” Tristam asked.

The homunculus cocked its head and stared at him. It picked up the chunk of cheese and held it out between tiny hands. Tristam laughed and accepted the food. He picked up a satchel of tools and reagents, slung it over one shoulder, and made his way into the corridor as he chewed.

The ship’s interior was quiet. The hatch to Seren’s cabin was closed, as was Pherris and Ijaac’s. The cargo hold, though laden with supplies, seemed oddly empty without Omax’s presence. Tristam climbed up onto the deck, cool morning breeze mussing his long hair.

“Aeven?” he whispered.

Instantly, she was there. The dryad appeared perched on the gunwale beside the figurehead that was her perfect likeness. She watched Tristam silently with wide, green eyes. She hugged her slim legs against her chest, pointed chin perched upon her clasped fingers.

“Aeven, I need you to talk to
Karia Naille
for me,” he said.

“Why?” she asked coolly.

“I have an important question,” he said. “I can find the answer with my magic, but it would be … more polite”—he smiled—“to simply ask the elemental directly. Do you think she would do that?”

“Unlikely,” Dalan grumbled, stepping out of his cabin. He rubbed one eye and looked from the artificer to the dryad. “Elementals aren’t a part of this world. They don’t like being bound. They hate mortals and don’t want to help us voluntarily.”

“Usually that’s the case,” Tristam said, “but it’s entirely a matter of communication. Mortals and elementals have difficulty understanding each other.
Karia Naille
is different, isn’t she, Aeven?”

“Yes,” Aeven said. “I have helped her to understand this world, and her place in it, to a degree far greater than most elementals. She feels she has gained more than she has lost by being bound to this ship. She wishes to aid us.”

“Interesting,” Dalan said, settling himself on a barrel to watch.

“Ask your question,” the dryad said.

“Marth accidentally revealed something to me in Metrol, but I wanted to make sure it was true,” Tristam said. “Ashrem d’Cannith made a lot of modifications to his ships after the gnomes built them, but there’s one in particular I’m interested in—one that no one would know about except the ship herself. Did Ashrem infuse
Karia Naille
with the power of the Dragon’s Eye?”

Aeven closed her eyes and lowered her head, fine blond hair spilling over her face as she communed with the airship’s elemental. The ring of burning blue flame that surrounded the vessel pulsed a warm, brilliant white.

“He did,” Aeven said.

“What?” Dalan said, astonished. “Impossible. Ashrem never took this ship to Zul’nadn.”

“The power flowed from Zul’nadn to the
Dying Sun,
” Aeven said, “and from the
Dying Sun
to her sisters, never diminishing, just as water taken from a stream cannot diminish it. It is a primal flame, born of another plane of existence. As such only a similar power—such as the elementals—can anchor it in our realm. The power of the Dragon’s Eye burns within
Karia Naille.
”

“Why didn’t you tell us this earlier, Aeven?” Dalan asked.

The dryad glared at him. “I did not know,” she said. “Even to me,
Karia Naille
can be cryptic and distant. She wishes to help but does not always comprehend what is of importance—just as you rarely comprehend what is of importance to her.”

“That’s why the other airships fell out of the sky in Stormhome
but we didn’t,” Tristam concluded. “It wasn’t luck. She’s fueled by the same otherworldly power as the Legacy.”

“So the entire time we’ve been hunting the Legacy, we’ve been riding inside it,” Dalan said, astonished.

“Yes and no,” Tristam said. “I think Ashrem did all he could to make certain the Legacy wouldn’t be used again, scattering and destroying the components, but he couldn’t bring himself to destroy the airships he loved. Zul’nadn’s fire is the power source, and that will always be a part of the ship’s elemental core, but the Legacy is more than that. Still, this is important. I’ll need to see if I can work on a way to extend the ship’s immunity so that Omax and Aeven won’t be as badly affected by the Legacy if we encounter it again.”

“
Karia Naille
is worried for the warforged,” Aeven said.

“Oh?” Tristam said, looking at the dryad in surprise.

“He is woven from elemental forces, bound together by magic, just as she is,” Aeven said. “She feels his pain. She fears she did not fly him here swiftly enough and that he may pass from this world. She does not understand death, but she is sorry that Omax may soon experience it.” The elemental ring burned a dark, somber blue.

Tristam looked past Aeven at the shimmering fire. He saw images within the bound energy, reflections of his vision at Zul’nadn. He witnessed an ancient giant struggling to hold creation together through sheer force of will. He saw the Dragon’s Eye form as a reflection of the ancient being’s desire to preserve Eberron.

“That brings me to my next question,” Tristam said. “A favor, actually, if
Karia Naille
is willing.”

“For all the times you have saved her, Tristam, she is pleased to help you,” Aeven said.

“Good,” Tristam said. “I’ll be right back.” He dropped into the cargo hold.

Dalan hurried down the stairs after him. “What is this about, Tristam?” he asked. “What are you up to?”

“Fixing my mistakes,” Tristam said, seizing one end of Omax’s stretcher. “Or maybe making another. Either way, this should be interesting to you. Help me with this.”

Dalan quickly moved to the winch, turning the handle to lower the stretcher as Tristam pushed it out through the cargo bay doors with a clatter.

Gerith Snowshale peered down into the hold from the deck above, blinking sleepy eyes. “What’s going on down there?” he asked.

“Wake Captain Gerriman,” Tristam said. “Tell him to set a course for Korth. And wake Ijaac, too. I’m going to need his help.”

“Korth?” the halfling said, confused. “Dalan?” He looked at the other man.

“Do it,” the guildmaster commanded.

Gerith nodded and vanished. His frantic shouting could be heard deep in the ship moments later. Tristam lowered the boarding ladder and climbed down through the tower, Dalan following. Mist clung to the lush plains. Most of Gatherhold still slept. A few halfling hunters were setting out on clawfeet. One yawned sleepily and waved as he rode out.

Mother Shinh sat just outside the entrance of the healer’s tent, head bowed as she sipped from a skin of water. She looked up as Tristam and Dalan approached. Dark rings hung beneath her eyes. She smiled weakly. The halfling healer was extremely tiny, with wrinkled skin and fine gray hair. Halflings, even elderly ones, usually had a youthful appearance—suggesting that the healer must be ancient indeed.

“How is Omax?” Tristam asked.

“It is difficult to say,” Mother Shinh said, glancing away
evasively. “I’ve never seen a real warforged before, and certainly never treated one. Our normal medicines don’t do anything. Only my magic affects him and even that doesn’t heal him as wholly as it would a normal person.”

Dalan raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t mean your friend isn’t normal,” she amended. “I mean he isn’t a flesh and blood creature. I thought it was odd, at first, you people going to so much effort to keep a construct alive …”

“But then you spoke to him,” Dalan said.

“He is a gentle soul,” Shinh said, smiling fondly. “And so very wise. I’ve been trying to get him to sleep, but he’s stubborn.”

“Warforged don’t sleep,” Tristam said. “They don’t heal on their own, either. They can only be repaired.”

“I see,” Shinh said, a little embarrassed. “This is all new to us. We’re learning things every day, but I honestly don’t know if we can save him. Our healing spells are not replacing the broken metal quickly enough, and we have no one skilled enough to repair him.”

“You’ve done enough, helping him hold on this long,” Tristam said. “I’ll take things from here. Thank you.”

Mother Shinh looked at Dalan, confused. Dalan quickly drew a small pouch from his pocket and pressed it into the old halfling’s hands, clasping them warmly. “Your fee and more, Mother,” Dalan said. “If you require the aid of House Cannith, do not hesitate to call on me.”

Tristam pushed through the tent flap, Shinh and Dalan following him. Tristam knelt beside the warforged and slung the leather bag from his shoulder. He pulled the blankets away to inspect Omax’s injuries.

“You’re some sort of wizard, aren’t you?” Shinh asked.

“Artificer,” Tristam corrected.

The warforged turned his head weakly to face Tristam. His
eyes shone only dimly. He looked a great deal better than he did after their escape from Metrol, but he was still seriously damaged. Large chunks of adamantine were missing from his torso. The smooth darkwood that granted his body flexibility was burned and splintered. A hoarse rumbling echoed in his chest.