Rise of the Seventh Moon: Heirs of Ash, Book 3 (18 page)

“Good,” Dalan said. “Mind that we do not land close enough to the city to be seen. If Marth has agents in the city, they will recognize our ship.”

“Aye,” Pherris said.

Dalan nodded and marched across the deck into the galley. Seren watched the captain quietly for several moments. He peered back at her, squinting slightly. “Something on your mind, Miss Morisse?” he asked.

“Are you all right, Captain?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said brusquely. “I am not the sort of gnome to display my grief outwardly. I intend to honor Haimel by completing our mission. Then I’ll have time to mourn.” He winked. “Now. Shouldn’t you be waking Master Xain or something?”

“Aye,” she replied, hurrying back below deck.

Omax still sat in the shadows of the hold, meditating on whatever mysteries occupied his mind. Seren took care not to disturb him. When she reached Tristam’s cabin, she found the door open. He sat at his small desk, poring over stacks of hastily scrawled notes.

“Seren,” he said, smiling warmly when he saw her. The smile quickly faded. “Have you been crying?”

“I’m fine,” she said, wiping her cheeks with the back of one hand. “I finally worked up the courage to tell Pherris about his son.”

“Oh,” Tristam said, his voice subdued. He looked confused, uncertain what to say.

“Everything is fine, Tristam,” Seren said, clasping one hand over his. “We should be in Nathyrr soon.”

“Already?” Tristam said, surprised. “I’ve lost track of time. I had no idea we would be arriving so soon.”

“That normal, healthy sleep schedule you’ve been practicing lately probably threw off your sense of time,” Seren said.

“Clearly,” Tristam said. “I’ll have to cut that out.”

She frowned. Her hand tightened painfully over his.

“A jest,” Tristam said, wincing. “I’m joking, Seren.”

Tristam sorted his notes, stashed them in a drawer, and shrugged into his coat. He nearly dropped his shortsword from its scabbard as he strapped it onto his belt.

He noticed her stern look and grinned. “I put on a façade of clumsiness to lure opponents into a false sense of security,” he said, adjusting the sword at his hip.

“Whatever,” she said. “You really need more practice with that thing.”

“I’ve been practicing,” he countered meekly.

“With who?” she demanded.

“Ijaac has been helping me,” he said. “He’s the one who gave me the sword.”

Seren frowned at him.

“What?” he asked.

“I can’t believe you’ve been cheating on me with another sparring partner,” she said, her tone terse and clipped.

“Are you serious?” he asked, confused.

“No, now I’m jesting,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Come. The others are waiting.”

Tristam followed Seren back to the ship’s deck. Ijaac and Omax had already gathered there with the others. Dalan stood at the railing, cupping a bowl of thick stew in one hand and chewing contentedly. Dalan’s old dog lay at his master’s feet, eyes sharp for any morsels that might fall from the bowl. Gerith delivered an identical bowl to each of them and then retired to the far corner of the deck to eat his own breakfast.

“Do you think there’s any hope Marth might actually still be in the Harrowcrowns?” Dalan said without preamble. He looked intently at Tristam.

“I really don’t know,” Tristam said. “Even given that the
Dying Sun
needed to take on a new crew, he had a large head start on us.”

“
Karia Naille
is faster,” Pherris offered.

“That counts for something,” Tristam said. “Even if he did arrive before us, he shouldn’t have much of a lead.”

“Do you think Zed and Eraina are all right?” Gerith asked.

“We shall see,” Dalan said. “I am eager to see what they have learned. If the Harrowcrowns are truly the heart of Marth’s operation, then I might be able to answer a question that has disturbed me for some time.”

“What’s that?” Seren asked.

Dalan smiled. “Answer me this, Seren,” he said. “Why, ultimately, do the rest of you endure my presence?”

Tristam frowned. “Let’s not start this again, Dalan. Let the past remain in the past. You’ve proved yourself time and again.”

“I do not seek pity or validation, Tristam,” Dalan said, cutting him off. “Merely an answer to my question. From the very start, each member of this crew had a part to play in this adventure. Ignoring for a moment that the quest for the Legacy
was my idea, why was I included among this crew?”

“Because you own the ship,” Pherris said.

“Precisely,” Dalan said, pointing at the captain, “and because my fortune finances the considerable expenses of our adventures.”

“What’s your point, Dalan?” Tristam asked. “If you’re looking for thanks …”

“Put it into context, Xain,” Dalan said, exasperated. “Without wealth earned from a lifetime in service to House Cannith, our own exploits would be impossible. Now consider Marth, a nameless, penniless exile from a dead nation. Yet he boasted an airship larger than ours, with a crew ten times the size. Mercenaries do not feed and arm themselves. How, I wonder, has Marth funded his own campaign and yet remained so carefully anonymous? That, I think, is an even more crucial question than what he intends to do with the Legacy. Marth
owes
someone.”

“Zamiel,” Tristam said.

“A good guess,” Dalan said. “Prophecy and promises of greatness will only lead a soldier so far. Food and gold, however …”

“Who in Khyber is this prophet, anyway?” Seren asked.

“Perhaps we shall finally find out,” Dalan said.

The
Mourning Dawn
flew on for some time in silence. Plumes of smoke in the distance marked their final approach to the city of Nathyrr. Pherris brought the ship into a smooth descent, soaring just over the rich green treetops.

“Dalan, Ijaac, Seren, and Gerith, you’ll come with me down into the city,” Tristam said. “We’ll check that inn that Zed mentioned first. The Kindled Flame. Hopefully he’s still there.”

“And me, Tristam?” Omax asked. “I am more than well enough to stand by you again.”

“I’m not worried about that, Omax,” Tristam said, grinning. “I am worried about Marth’s agents recognizing you. You tend to stick out.”

“Ah,” Omax said, unable to argue. “Yes.”

“Captain, I’d like you to patrol the forest while we’re in the city,” Tristam said.

“Patrol for what?” Pherris asked.

“If the
Dying Sun
is hiding somewhere in this forest,
Karia Naille
may be able to sense her like she did in Metrol,” Tristam said.

“What if Marth’s ship senses us back?” Pherris asked.

“Irrelevant,” Aeven said, appearing beside the figurehead. “Marth does not possess any sort of rapport with his vessel’s elemental. If he did, he would have tracked us through the ship itself rather than through the ring Tristam destroyed.”

“I don’t like it,” Pherris grumbled. “What if you get in trouble down there? You won’t be able to signal us if we’re moving around out here.”

“Blizzard can find you,” Gerith said. The glidewing looked up and squawked at the sound of his name. “He always finds his way home.”

Pherris gave the halfling a steady look, then turned back to Tristam. “Be careful down there, Master Xain. All of you. I’ve a feeling we’re headed into something dangerous.”

“Considering what I’ve been through since I came on board, that’s quite a statement, Captain,” Ijaac said. “I’ll look after ’em.”

“See that you do, Master Bruenhail,” the gnome replied.

The ship banked, turning to hover over a small clearing in the forest. The docking ladder spilled from the ship’s belly as she pulled to a halt. Tristam, Seren, Ijaac, and Dalan climbed down. Dalan cursed as he dropped off the ladder, annoyed at the unaccustomed physical exertion. Ijaac helped the fat guildmaster steady himself, gather what he could of his dignity, and lead them off toward the road.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been to Thrane before,” Tristam said.

“I know I haven’t.” Seren laughed.

“Haven’t missed much,” Ijaac said, chuckling under his breath. “Bunch of zealots. Rude and obnoxious braggarts far too full of themselves for their own good, every one of them. Save Master Zed, of course. Apple fell a bit far from the tree in his case.”

“I wouldn’t judge the Thrane too harshly,” Dalan said. “Extreme circumstances have forced them to take extreme measures for their survival. If they seem cold and aloof, it is only because they face enemies on every border. If they seem obsessed with the will of their god, it is only because the Silver Flame has been the only constant source of support in their dark history. They are a grim and unforgiving people, but they possess a determination and nobility unmatched in all of Eberron. Look at Arthen. Though he may not be as rigid as his countrymen, in every way that matters he is Thrane. I would not want such a man as my enemy.”

The city of Nathyrr soon lay before them, nestled at the edge of the Harrowcrowns. The architecture held a cold, surreal beauty, worked in graceful white stone engraved with symbols of curling flame. Tall white towers stood like sentinels over the city walls. Though visually stunning, it was unmistakably a place that would brook no trouble from outsiders.

At the gates, Dalan presented his d’Cannith seal and dragonmark, introduced the others as his employees, and continued walking. Seren was nervous that the guards would become suspicious, but they made no move to stop them as they passed.

“Strange,” she said, looking back as they continued on into the city. “They didn’t even ask for your name.”

“The guards know better than to interfere with a dragonmarked heir,” Dalan explained. “This nation has many debts to repay. Thrane didn’t rebuild itself after the war. Now, let us find this Kindled Flame inn.”

After pausing briefly for directions, they wandered the city for a confused hour. Nearly every inn in Nathyrr, it appeared, had some variant of a flame motif in its title. Even the local residents frequently confused one with another. At last they found the inn they sought, a ramshackle structure near the southern wall. Several vagrants lingered outside, panhandling for loose change from any who passed.

“I see Arthen’s tastes have not changed,” Dalan said, sneering.

Tristam studied the inn warily. “Gerith,” he said. “Wait out here and keep an eye on things.”

The halfling nodded, falling behind them and vanishing into the crowd. Seren hadn’t seen the little scout’s glidewing since they had landed, but she doubted Blizzard would wander far from his master.

Ijaac paused to throw a silver into a beggar’s cup as they entered. Dalan arched an eyebrow at the dwarf, but he only shrugged.

“Never know when it’ll be me on the other side of that cup,” he said.

The inside of the inn smelled of sour sweat and old smoke. The paint curled from the walls. A gaunt, unshaven man sat at the front desk, carving an intricate pattern in the wood with a stubby knife. He looked up as they entered, straightening and tossing the knife aside when he noticed Dalan’s fine clothing. His eyes were so large they nearly bulged from his head.

“May the Flame keep you on fine this day, Master,” the innkeeper said, showing poor dental hygiene in a wide grin. “How may I be of service?”

“I’m looking for an associate of mine,” he said. “A Sentinel Marshal named Eraina d’Deneith. I believe she is staying here?”

The innkeeper’s smile vanished. His fish eyes blinked several times. “Not sure,” he mumbled, patting about his desk for a ledger. He found it underneath several dirty plates. “Not sure if I recall that name. Let me see.”

“Take your time,” Dalan said in a soothing voice.

Seren looked around the room cautiously. The mention of Eraina’s name had obviously spooked the innkeeper. Something was wrong here. Seren gave Tristam a warning look. He just peered back in confusion, not noticing anything amiss.

“Wrong ledger,” the innkeeper said. “Just let me check in back.”

“No need,” Seren said. “We have the wrong place.”

Dalan looked at her keenly. “Wait,” he said to the innkeeper. The bug-eyed little man glanced nervously from them at the rear door. “My niece is correct. We were looking for the Kindred Flame, on the other side of town. Sorry to waste your time.”