Rich Wulf - Rise of the Seventh Moon

Norra laughed. “How is it possible you’re still a junior librarian?” she asked.

“I spend too much time trifling over records and not enough time playing university politics,” he said. He looked back at his book. “Now, do you remember roughly what month and day Ashrem arrived in Sharn?”

As the cell’s stone ceiling slowly came into focus, Zed Arthen concluded that he had acted rashly.

He sat up on his wooden pallet, rubbing the back of his skull and looking around the cell with bleary eyes. What had gone wrong? He was a good judge of character, typically. He had carefully observed those three knights the other day. When he saw them coming to introduce themselves to Eraina, he quietly withdrew and watched from a safe distance. He had no quarrels with the Knights of Thrane. He just knew from experience that it was better to avoid them. If they saw his sword, they would ask questions. He preferred not to relive that part of his past for the sake of nosy strangers. It would be even worse if they recognized his name.

They hadn’t spoken to Eraina very long, but nonetheless he thought he had a pretty good gauge of them. Knights of Thrane were a little better trained than the average soldier, but they were the same as any young soldiers. They usually fell into one of three categories-those who fought, those who panicked, and those who waited. Arthen thought he’d had them pegged.

Aden, the one he had hit with the bottle, was a typical hothead. He’d entered the knighthood for the thrill. He was ready and eager for violence. He had probably never seen any fighting during the Last War. Predictably, Aden drew his sword first so Arthen had taken him out quickly with as little violence as possible before the situation escalated.

Knocking out Aden had the added benefit of throwing Nialin, the youngest of the three knights, into a state of panic. When Aden went down Nialin didn’t even think to defend himself; instead he fell back to make sure his friend wasn’t seriously injured.

That left only Rane, the leader. He had faced Zed calmly, waiting for him to make a mistake. Zed had planned to finish out his drunken tantrum and stagger into an alley, ranting against the knights and the Last War. Zed figured Rane would let him go, expecting he could quickly catch up to an exhausted drunk. Then, once out of sight, Zed would have discarded the charade and ran for it.

Zed realized too late that Rane wasn’t watching him at all, and the mistake he was waiting for had already been made. Rane’s eyes were locked on something behind Zed. When the inquisitive peered over his shoulder to see what was happening, he saw several members of the watch moving up quickly with their cudgels drawn. One struck him hard across the face. Then another. Darkness swam over his vision, and he woke up in this cell.

Footsteps paced the stone floor outside, slowly approaching. A key clanked in the heavy iron lock. The door creaked open, admitting a tall man in the gleaming armor emblazoned with symbols of the Silver Flame. A heavy sword, identical to Zed’s blade, hung behind one shoulder. The knight’s face was stern, weathered by the years, framed by a thin blond beard. His gray eyes glared down at Zed with an unforgiving gaze.

“I knew you would do something stupid the moment you entered my town, Arthen,” the knight said.

“Well, that explains how those novices caught me,” Zed said. His heart sank. He had hoped he could leave Nathyrr without anyone recognizing him. This would make things a lot more complicated than they needed to be. “How have you been, Sergeant Draikus?”

“Captain Draikus now,” he said. “And I’ve been joyous. I am always joyous during times of miracles. I had heard you were dead, but here you are, restored to flesh.”

“Praise be to the Flame!” Zed said wryly.

“Blasphemy,” the knight said, folding his arms across his chest and glaring down at Zed. “Charming.”

“It’s only blasphemy if the gods are offended, Draikus,” Zed said. “The Silver Flame stopped listening to anything I say a long time ago.”

“I am saddened that you appear to believe that,” Draikus replied. “The Flame never abandons its children, Arthen. The Flame watches over all of us-even a failure like you.”

“You had better hope that isn’t true, Draikus,” Zed said. “If it’s seen the things you’ve done in its name, you’re going to have a lot of explaining to do.”

Draikus lunged forward, shoving Zed against the wall, pinning him there with an armored gauntlet against his throat. His eyes seethed with hatred, daring Zed to push him further. Zed gave a weak grin.

“What we did in Vathirond was cruel, but it was necessary,” Draikus said. “The war with Breland had gone too far. Commander Kalaven didn’t deserve what you did to her.”

“Those priests didn’t deserve what we did to them,” Zed replied.

Draikus’s voice shook with fury. “If you doubted her honor, you should have faced her with courage and decried her to her face, not dispatched your Cannith politician to blacken her name. She was a hero.”

“I had nothing to do with what Dalan d’Cannith did,” Zed said, “but I wish I had. There were no heroes at the Battle of Vathirond, least of all Therese Kalaven. The Brelish offered a hand of friendship to us. When she saw they were weak, she turned on them. You remember, Draikus.”

“I should kill you, Arthen,” Draikus said, tightening his free hand into a metal fist.

“Killing a defenseless prisoner?” Zed asked. “Well done, Draikus. Therese would have approved.”

The knight’s lips pressed into a white line. He closed his eyes and looked away, lowering his hand. He stepped back, releasing his grip on Zed’s throat. “Why, Arthen?” he said, his voice choked. “Commander Kalaven was ruthless, yes, but war made her that way. She only desired to end the fighting. She did what she had to do. What use is mercy against enemies who see mercy as weakness?”

“Draikus, I know all of that,” Zed said. “I was closer to her than you were. After seeing what she did, I’ll choose idealism over betrayal and murder any day.”

Draikus chuckled. “Judge Commander Kalaven if you will,” he said, “but she carried the Flame’s blessings till the day she was executed. How long has it been since you heard its whispers? That is all the proof I need of her righteousness.”

Zed frowned but gave no other reaction.

“I don’t understand you, Arthen,” Draikus said. “I’ve been monitoring you, as much as I have been able. You walk into Nathyrr with a Sentinel Marshal. You vanish into the Harrowcrowns for hours at a time. Then you show up alone, wearing some feeble disguise, ranting about a dead brother you never had, and assault one of my officers. What in Khyber are you up to?”

“Do you really want to know?” Zed asked. “Or do you just want me out of your town?”

“I tire of this,” Draikus said. “If you will not cooperate, then you may as well leave. Your fines have been paid in full, Arthen. Get out. Cause trouble again and you won’t find me as reasonable.”

Zed’s brow furrowed as he rose, but he tried not to show undue surprise. Who would have paid his fine? Eraina certainly would not. She would have demanded his release or, embarrassed by his stupidity, left him to serve his time.

Draikus cleared his throat as Zed reached the cell door, causing him to look back. The knight’s eyes were grim. “You may be pardoned in Flamekeep, but you are not welcome in Nathyrr,” he said. “Finish your business and be on your way. My knights and the watch will be instructed to show you no mercy.”

Zed nodded. “No mercy,” he said. “Very important to maintain the order’s traditions.” He stepped out of the cell.