Dragon Forge: The Draconic Prophecies - Book Two (3 page)

Rienne’s brow crinkled and she looked away. “And what happens in the Time Between?”

“That’s the thing,” Gaven said, leaning against the bulwark. “I know some words of the Prophecy, a hint of their layers of meaning. But I don’t really know what they mean as a whole. When I was in Dreadhold, I dreamed all the time about the Storm Dragon and the Soul Reaver and the events of the Time of the Dragon Above. And I’ve had a few visions about the Blasphemer—terrible visions. The Time Between is a mystery to me.”

“What do you know of the Prophecy about the Time Between?” Rienne asked. Gaven could hear the trepidation in her voice.

“A great deal of blood,” he said. He closed his eyes, remembering the twisting tunnels of the Sky Caves of Thieren Kor. He could almost feel the stone beneath his fingertips. “‘Three drops of blood mark the passing of the Time Between.’ Three events involving bloodshed of some kind. ‘Ten eyes gaze brightly upon the City of the Damned,’ whatever that means. But I don’t know what it’s all about. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do any more.”

“So we’re going to Argonnessen to learn what the dragons say about the Time Between.”

“Right.” He looked back down at the water. The dolphins had abandoned their play, and there was only open ocean as far as he could see. “It’s strange,” he said. “For the better part of thirty years I was haunted by dreams—by nightmares about the fulfillment of the Prophecy. I lived the death of the Soul Reaver countless times, felt the monster’s tentacles clawing at my face and wriggling into my mouth—” He shuddered.

Rienne put a gentle hand on his back.

“Now the dreams are gone,” he said, “and some part of me misses them.”

“Because you were so used to them?”

“Not just that. It also gave me a much better sense of what I was doing—it gave me a purpose, a goal, even something like a plan, though I often felt—”

“Like you were writing the script as you went along?”

“Exactly. But at least I had an idea of where the play was heading. Now I don’t even have that.”

“So that’s what you’re hoping to find in Argonnessen?”

“I suppose it is.” He turned and smiled at her. “But this time without the nightmares.”

Even as the words left his mouth, he remembered a dream that had haunted his sleep on the lightning rail. A blasted canyon, a wound torn into the earth. Dragonfire fueling a great furnace. A blast of fire jetting up to engulf him.

“What is it?” Rienne asked.

“Just a headache,” he said, forcing the smile back on his face. “Too much glare off the water. Let’s go below.”

“Land ho!”

In the aft cabin, Gaven looked up from the charts spread out before him and smiled at Jordhan.

“Well done,” he said. “Your prediction was dead on.”

Jordhan walked to the hatch and peered out at the sailors on deck. “I told you, I know the sea,” he said, “and after all these years I hope I know how to read a chart.”

“As far as they go,” Rienne said, still frowning at the charts. They traced the outline of a large island and two smaller ones to its north, then a longer coast that Jordhan said was the mainland.

“We’re lucky to have these. House Lyrandar has done some trading with the people of the Seren Islands here. If anyone else has, I don’t know about it.”

“People?” Rienne asked. “Elves from Argonnessen? Or Lhazaarite colonists?”

“Neither,” Jordhan said with a frown. “They’re human, but they don’t look like Lhazaarites. Well, they act like Lhazaarites—they’re pirates and raiders.”

“Sounds like we should avoid the islands,” Gaven said. He leaned over the table for a closer look at the charts.

“Yes, I’d much rather head directly into the land of dragons than face pirates and raiders.” Sarcasm dripped from Rienne’s voice.

Gaven looked up at her. “Why invite more trouble than we’re already bringing on ourselves? Besides, if we head straight for the mainland, we don’t put Jordhan and his ship in as much danger.”

“Just yourselves,” Jordhan muttered. He had insisted on bringing them to Argonnessen, pointing out that only a Lyrandar galleon could make the journey—and no other Lyrandar would give aid to Gaven. Even so, he wasn’t happy carrying them on what he believed to be a suicidal journey.

Gaven clapped his old friend on the shoulder. “You’ve carried us into danger many times, and we’ve always emerged alive.”

“Yes, and in all that time, how many dragons have you faced?”

“Two.”

Jordhan’s eyes widened in amazement. “Two?”

“There was a young red that attacked our airship as we neared the Starcrag Plain. It wouldn’t have been too much trouble if it hadn’t thrown Rienne overboard. Before that, I fought Vaskar in the Sky Caves of Thieren Kor.”

“But you didn’t kill him,” Rienne pointed out.

“I drove him off. If he hadn’t fled, I would have killed him.”

Jordhan gave a low whistle. “Two dragons is more than most people can claim.”

“But we’re about to journey into the dragons’ homeland,” Rienne said.

“As I said before, no dragon will find me an easy meal.” Jordhan forced a laugh. “Perhaps some will relish the challenge.”

Gaven had enough of Jordhan’s dire predictions, and he turned back to the charts. “The coast here is marked as Totem Beach. Do you know what that means?”

“They say that great stone statues are arrayed along the beach—enormous dragon heads looking out over the sea. The Serens come to the beach to worship the dragons.”

“Another place to avoid,” Rienne said. “Perhaps we should just avoid the whole continent. What happens if we just keep sailing south?”

“No idea,” Jordhan said. “Probably we freeze to death.”

“Will you two stop it?” Gaven snapped. “I wouldn’t lead either of you into the jaws of the Keeper. It looks like Totem Beach is the only place we can safely make land. I’m not going to ask you to sail beyond what’s on this chart in hopes of finding a safer harbor. Totem Beach is our destination.”

“Any particular location strike your fancy?” Jordhan asked.

“The closest.” Gaven pointed at a spot on the charts. “Here.”

Jordhan nodded and gathered up the charts. “I’ll show the helmsman.” He pushed his way out the hatch.

“I’m sorry, Gaven,” Rienne said, running a hand down his
arm. “I got caught up in Jordhan’s gloom, I suppose.”

He circled her in his arms and held her to him. “Do you trust me, Ree?”

“Of course I do,” she murmured, returning his embrace.

“And you understand why I’m doing this?”

“I think so.” She paused. “Actually, I’m not sure I do. I know what you want to accomplish. But I don’t understand why.” She pulled free of his grip and turned away. “Why should the Time Between have anything to do with you?”

Gaven scowled. “True. The Storm Dragon might not have any part to play in the Time Between.”

“The Storm Dragon.” She turned back to look into his eyes. “Is that how you think of yourself now? You filled that role in the Prophecy, but has it consumed who you are?”

Gaven pulled a chair away from the table and sat down, staring blankly at the charts.

Rienne moved behind him and ran her fingers through his hair. “Sometimes I look into your eyes or lie in your arms and we’re young again—it’s almost as though none of this had ever happened. I feel you right there with me, and I see all the things I love about you.” She kissed the top of his head. “Other times, though, I don’t know who you are. You’re off in the world of the Prophecy and destiny, the schemes of dragons—a world I don’t understand. You look at me and I’m not sure you even see me.”

“For twenty-six years—”

“I know, love. All the years you were in Dreadhold, the Prophecy consumed you. You dreamed about it at night and pondered it during the day. But you’re free now. You have to free your mind as well.”

Gaven turned to face her and shook his head. “You don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t. I wasn’t there. I haven’t endured what you have. But look.” She slid her sword from its sheath and ran a finger along the edge. “We balance on the razor edge between past and future, but that edge is what matters. Where is your blade in this instant, and where is your enemy’s blade? You can’t spend your life worrying about the mistakes of the past and the mysteries of the future.”

“I have to think of the future.” He stood up and turned to face her. “I know the Prophecy better than any person alive—probably better than most dragons. I have the power of the Storm Dragon at my command. If the world is careening toward disaster, I have a responsibility to try to stop it. No one else can.”

Rienne’s gaze dropped from his eyes to his neck, to the top of his dragonmark emerging from his shirt. Gaven saw a weary sadness settle onto her face, and his heart ached.

“Perhaps I’m fated to be the supportive wife after all, trailing behind you and helping in any way I can.”

Gaven cradled her cheek in his hand. “No, Ree.”

“It’s what I’m born to, really. An heir of the Alastra family, which has always served the Lyrandars and always will. I followed you through all those adventures into Khyber. And when you were gone I did my family duty.”

Gaven dropped his hand to the hilt of her sword, but she grabbed his wrist.

“What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Let me see your sword.”

“See it or hold it?”

“Just see it.”

Rienne released her grip on his wrist, took a step back, and lifted Maelstrom for Gaven to see. She held it delicately with both hands, almost reverently. It was an exquisite blade, the finest example of an art that had long been forgotten. Intricate patterns wove across the flat of the short blade, complementing the faint blue damask of the steel. Both sides carried razor-sharp edges, and it tapered gracefully to a deadly point. The guard was carved in the stylized form of a dragon’s head, as though the blade emerged from its mouth. A pair of wings arced down around the blade. The hilt was wound with smooth leather, and the pommel resembled the dragon’s tail, curled around an enormous blue-white pearl.

“It’s a beautiful weapon,” Gaven said.

“Yes. What about it?”

“Is this the weapon of a supportive wife?”

Scowling, Rienne swung the blade around—dangerously close to Gaven’s face—and slid it into its sheath in one smooth
motion. “It’s my sword, so perhaps it is. What’s so damned important about Maelstrom? You said something about it before.”

“The day you first touched that sword, you set a course for a much greater destiny. It’s a sword of legend, Ree. Great things have been done with it, and more greatness will yet be accomplished. Can’t you feel that?”

Rienne slid the sword, still in its sheath, out of the silk sash wrapped around her waist. She ran a hand lovingly along the leather scabbard and its gold tooling. “Of course I can. But the greatness of my sword says nothing about me. If I fall in battle tomorrow, some other hand will wield this sword—perhaps the greatness will be theirs.”

Gaven shook his head. “It’s the sword of a champion. No lesser hand could wield it. You won’t even let me touch it.”

She clutched the scabbard to her chest and looked down at the floor.

“You and Maelstrom are linked in destiny,” Gaven said, “as surely as you and I are.”

“There’s comfort in that, anyway.” She looked up and met his eyes, and a smile spread across her face.

Just as Gaven bent to kiss her, Jordhan appeared in the hatch.

“Are you two still in here?” the captain said. “We’re starting to circle the Seren Islands—you should come see. There are precious few who have ever laid eyes on these shores.”

K
auth stared out the window as the coach approached Varna. The Wynarn rushed past in the opposite direction, gray with the grime and muck of the city, carrying it north to Eldeen Bay. Across the river was Aundair, the stretch of woodland that stood on the banks of Lake Galifar. He found himself wondering if he would ever lay eyes on Aundairian soil again. Then he shook his head to dispel that thought and looked around the carriage again.

His travel so far had gone exactly according to plan. He rode an airship from Fairhaven, Aundair’s capital, to the last town on Aundair’s side of the river, Wyr. Under cover of darkness, he walked a few miles upriver and found another agent—he didn’t know the woman’s name—who rowed him across on a small raft. The rather sudden appearance of heavy clouds to blot out the moons made him suspect his accomplice had ties to House Lyrandar.

He had made camp on the Eldeen side of the river and walked into Riverweep with the farmers bringing their goods to market. By luncheon, he had secured a seat on a coach bound for Varna. A wagon the size of a small house pulled by a team of magebred draft horses. And the next morning, as the coach pulled out of whatever farming village it had stopped in for the night, he had spotted the shifter.

The descendants of werewolves and other lycanthropes, shifters looked like hirsute, somewhat savage humans—most of the time. In the heat of battle, they showed their heritage. Some grew sharp claws, and the jaws of others grew into muzzles full of deadly teeth. They were more common in the Eldeen Reaches than anywhere else in Khorvaire. There, they lived in bands,
almost packs, in the wilder lands, coming into more settled areas to trade furs and meat for grains and cheeses. A shifter traveling alone, though, was exactly the kind of person Kauth was looking for—a man with no ties, with plenty of experience surviving in the wild, and tough enough to survive the journey into the Demon Wastes.