Rich Wulf - Flight of the Dying Sun

“Yes or no,” she said. “That’s all you need to say.”

“Why, so you can tell if I’m lying?” Zed said. “You need to drop this, Eraina. Is that clear? It’s not something I like to talk about.”

Eraina looked away. “Fine,” she said softly. “Then let us speak of something else.”

“How about something useful, then?” he asked. “We’re both investigators. Why don’t we try to figure out how Marth keeps following us?”

“He can’t follow us now,” she said. “His flagship is demolished.”

“Until he repairs the Seventh Moon , you mean,” Zed said. “Tristam is sure that’s only a matter of time. So let’s use the breather we have to figure out what’s going on. Ever since Wroat, Marth has known where the Karia Naille was going to be as soon as we did. We still don’t know how.”

“He is a powerful artificer,” Eraina said. “Could he not use magic to find us?”

Zed sighed. “You’re smart enough to know what a lazy answer that is,” he said. “Magic isn’t all-powerful. It isn’t infallible. Most important, magic is on our side too. If there was some way that Marth could predict our course with magic, don’t you think Tristam would have found some way to block it? Or at least warn us about it?”

Eraina nodded thoughtfully. “What other explanation could there be?” she asked. “A traitor?”

Zed sneered. “It has to be,” he said. “There’s a leak of information somewhere, that’s for certain. I can only think of one significant thing that has changed for the Karia Naille since she left Wroat, and that’s Seren.”

“No,” Eraina said, predicting Zed’s line of thought. “Seren Morisse is not responsible. My father would not have adopted a traitor. I have seen no deceit within her.”

“I don’t really believe she would do it, either,” Zed admitted. “I’m grasping at anything here. Maybe it’s Dalan? He’s worked with them before.”

“Whatever Dalan’s faults may be,” Eraina said, “I believe he is sincere in his desire to stop Marth. It is only his methods that I find suspect.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Zed said. “Dragonmark heirs are expected to send regular reports while on missions abroad, right? Just so their house knows that they’re safe. We already know Baron Zorlan d’Cannith has some sort of unusual interest in our mission. Maybe he’s been keeping tabs on Dalan and feeding information to Marth?”

“A bold leap of assumptions,” Eraina said. “Too many maybes, and Dalan is no fool. His ship does not even bear his House’s crest. I would be surprised if any other member of House Cannith knew where he was.”

“True,” Zed said. “It’s a terrible theory, but it’s the only one I could think of. The other members of the crew are trustworthy. You’ve vouched for Seren, and you …”

“I am an idiot paladin, incapable of betrayal,” Eraina said.

“I didn’t say that,” Zed said.

“Of course you did not,” she said with a small grin.

Zed stopped outside the door to a small tavern. “I think this is where I stop,” he said, looking at the sign above the door. “The Beaten Mule,” he read. “I wonder what poor mad poet dreams up the names of places like this.”

“I will return when I have attended my duties here, Arthen,” she said. “Perhaps we could discuss this further over whatever passes for drink here.”

“Water,” he said.

She looked at him curiously. “Temperance is not a virtue I expected you to retain.”

“It’s the only one I have left,” he said with a dry chuckle.

The inquisitive pushed open the door of the Beaten Mule and disappeared inside. Eraina looked at the door briefly, weighing some internal decision, then continued on her way.

The steady crystal song of trickling water filled the cavern. Pure streams cascaded down curtains of stone to fill deep, clear pools. Small motes of magical light hovered in the air, illuminating the natural beauty of the tunnels. The walls glistened with more colors than could be named, flowing like cloth in subtle patterns. It was amazing how something as simple as untouched stone could hold such beauty. A little time, a little moisture, and the mundane became extraordinary.

Coming here always brought him peace. There were other reasons to dwell upon this place, of course, but it was the sound, the shimmer, and the calm that somehow brought him some measure of balance. As the changeling knelt beside the pool and bound his wounds, he sought that balance now.

“Betrayal,” whispered a sibilant voice from the darkness. “Nothing stings quite as deeply.”

Marth peered over one shoulder. The pink scars that covered his right cheek glistened, as if freshly burned. A new light shone in the darkness, a sphere of copper flame that hovered in midair. A monk in robes to match the fire stood at the edge of the shadows, cupping the radiance in his hand. The light shone upon the walls deeper in the caverns, reflecting the twisting scripts painted there. He removed his hand from the flame and stepped away. It remained hovering where he had summoned it. The monk looked down at Marth with sympathy.

“Brother Zamiel,” Marth whispered. His voice was still dry with smoke, and he bowed his head in respect. Obviously his visitor could have been none other than the prophet. The guards would not have allowed anyone else this deep within his stronghold without violence.

“So cruel a barb,” the monk replied, inclining his head in recognition. “No matter how often it wounds us, it is never any less painful or unexpected. There is no defense, no prevention for betrayal save not to trust-and a soul that does not trust is truly lost. Would you not agree? I sense the weight of betrayal heaped upon your shoulders.” Zamiel gestured at the thick bandage that bound Marth’s upper back. “It has taken quite a literal manifestation, in this case.”

“I killed Kiris Overwood,” Marth said, his voice thick. “Tristam Xain and his allies turned her against us.”

“A shame,” the prophet said, nodding sagely. “Kiris was a fragile, foolish girl, but her insight was useful.” Zamiel frowned. “How did this happen?”

“We crippled the Mourning Dawn on her way to the Boneyard, but the ship escaped before she was destroyed,” Marth said. “You were right to put a spy among the Ghost Talons, Brother Zamiel. Not only were they monitoring Kiris’s activities on behalf of House Cannith, but they also made a deal with Dalan d’Cannith to repair his airship.”

“And Xain discovered Kiris,” Zamiel said. He sat at the edge of the pond, staring into the depthless water.

Marth bowed his head. “Obviously he poisoned her mind against me,” he said. “The only kindness I could spare her was a swift death, lest her knowledge be turned against us. I am uncertain what Xain learned from her, but apparently House Cannith was also using the Ghost Talons to monitor us. I took Dalan d’Cannith alive to use as leverage against his house, but the Mourning Dawn attacked and boarded us.”

Zamiel coughed in surprise. “Boarded you?” he asked, incredulous. “Ridiculous. Mourning Dawn is no match for Seventh Moon . I thought you said you had crippled her?”

“The fault is mine,” Marth said. “You were right to warn me against mercy. Xain is a great deal more resourceful than I imagined. He rescued d’Cannith, shattered the Moon ’s elemental containment core, and fled. Fortunately most of the crew survived the crash, and the elemental was dispatched after it had slain no more than a dozen soldiers. Repairs have already commenced. My own mobility remains unhindered, due to my magic, but not having a crew at my disposal forces me to act more cautiously abroad.”