Rich Wulf - Rise of the Seventh Moon

“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.