Rich Wulf - Flight of the Dying Sun

“Repair?” Eraina asked. “You blew up her elemental core and crashed her into the plains. The ship is dead.”

Pherris chuckled. “Don’t underestimate Zil’argo craftsmanship,” he said. “Remember that you’re standing in a ship that survived a similar catastrophe only a few days ago. The Moon will fly again.”

“But not soon,” Tristam said. “The damage was extensive, and binding a new elemental will take time. We’ve crippled Marth’s mobility for the time being.”

“If Marth is as powerful as he’s shown himself to be, does he really need an airship to follow us?” Zed asked.

Tristam said nothing. Zed’s words only reflected his unspoken thoughts.

“Those men were not Cyran soldiers.” Dalan spoke from deep within his cabin. “Do not call them that. They wear the Cyran crest. They shout Cyran battle cries. They may have been born in Cyre, but they are no countrymen of mine.”

Dalan stepped out of his cabin, his scowl deepening as he squinted at the morning sunlight. He held a thick ledger tucked under one arm. “Cyre was a proud nation, with a tradition of honor and courage. Marth and the murderers who serve him should not cheapen Cyre’s memory by calling themselves her sons.”

“Dalan,” Tristam said, looking at the guild master coldly.

“Xain,” Dalan replied, gesturing curtly at the artificer. “Step into my cabin. I wish to speak.” Dalan disappeared into his chambers.

“Not in there, Dalan,” Tristam said. “Out here, where everyone can hear.”

Dalan stepped back out, scowling at Tristam in irritation. “Tristam, this isn’t the time to be rebellious.”

“No more secrets, Dalan,” Tristam said, his voice heated. “Either you talk to me here and now, or I leave the ship.”

The galley hatch creaked open and Gerith peered out curiously. Omax climbed up from below deck, watching with interest as well. Eraina folded her arms and leaned against the rail.

“Me, too,” Seren said.

Dalan looked from Seren to Tristam, his scowl deepening. Zed laughed softly, drawing a withering glare from d’Cannith. Dalan’s shoulders slumped, and he gave a deep sigh as he sat upon a small crate.

“I owe you my life for rescuing me from the Moon ,” Dalan said in a quiet voice. “I can at least offer you my candor.”

“Tell me what you know about Marth,” Tristam said.

Dalan looked at Tristam blankly.

“Pherris, take the ship down,” Tristam said. “I am disembarking.”

“Belay that order, Captain,” Dalan said. “If Master Xain chooses to leave us, I insist on depositing him in a civilized land. No offense, Snowshale. I am sure the plains are lovely for halflings.”

“Civilization is a crutch,” the halfling said.

“I’m not bluffing, Dalan,” Tristam said. “I’m done with your lies.”

“I believe you,” Dalan said in a tired voice, “but why do you insist on me telling you something you already know? Does it please you to hear me recite my mistakes and failures? Obviously Zed has already told you most of it and you have surmised the rest.”

“I want you to tell everyone,” Tristam said. “Tell them about Marth.”

“Very well,” Dalan said. “After my uncle disappeared, I determined to seek out his lost research. At the time, admittedly, my ends were no nobler than my own promotion within House Cannith. After a brief search, I came into contact with a skilled artificer who also possessed the cunning, discretion, and manpower to help me acquire the information I sought.”

“Marth?” Eraina asked, a dangerous edge to her voice.

“How was I to know the sort of man he was?” Dalan asked. “Over the years, as I surmised the true purpose of Ashrem’s Legacy, I began to suspect Marth’s motives were not as base and simple as my own greed. He is afflicted with a peculiar mix of patriotism and madness. That is when I sought your aid, Tristam. Like Marth, you possessed knowledge of artifice that I did not. When Llaine Grove died, I severed my association with the changeling. There was no doubt in my mind that he was responsible for the bishop’s murder.”

“You aided a killer, then simply stepped away when your status as his accomplice became uncomfortable?” Eraina asked.

“I did nothing to assist him in Grove’s murder,” Dalan said. “I had no idea what he planned. My contact with Marth was more limited than you believe. We merely met from time to time so that we could exchange information. Why do you think I have been so careful to keep Tristam close under my observation? I did not wish to repeat the same mistakes. I did not pursue Marth because I could not. However, I did not intend to aid him any further. Quite the opposite. I made it my primary objective to interfere with his quest as much as possible.”

“I don’t understand,” Seren said. “When I stole your fake journal, you said that you left it as a trap, to lure out whoever else was searching for the Legacy. But you already knew who was searching for it-Marth was.”

“An uncomfortable detail that was irrelevant at the time of our first meeting,” Dalan said.

“Why would you try to draw him out when you already knew who he was?” Zed asked.

Dalan sighed. “I will be blunt.”

“This is a first,” Zed murmured.

Dalan ignored him. “I am a man of position and power,” he said. “I cannot simply step forward and tell the world, ‘I was assisting a murderer, but now I am sorry,’ especially when the man in question is as elusive as Marth. He would have fled and my numerous enemies would have exploited my admission of weakness to destroy me. Any aid I could have offered in Marth’s capture would thus have been wasted, and my life would be consumed by petty political battles. Honesty, in this case, would have accomplished nothing.”

“And this is blunt?” Zed asked.

“I am coming to a point, Arthen,” Dalan snapped. “While a straightforward admission of guilt might be outside my scope, there are other alternatives. Such as producing a false manuscript, one that I know Marth would be too tempted not to investigate, and ensuring that knowledge of that manuscript’s existence fell into the hands of certain authorities who would find the information useful.”

Dalan looked meaningfully at Eraina.

“Such as the Deneith Sentinel Marshals,” he said. “Bishop Llaine Grove was, after all, under their protection. They would have a vested interest in pursuing his killer.”

“Ridiculous,” she snapped. “My father, not you, told me about that book, and only after Marth hired him to help steal it.”

“You don’t find it terribly convenient, Eraina?” Dalan asked. “Your prodigal father, who had not contacted you in years, spontaneously visits you with a clue to the same murder you were already investigating? Did it not seem strange that Marth, who has proven himself to be cautious and secretive in his dealings, would seek out an unknown like Jamus Roland for help with a petty theft? Come now, Eraina, you’re a better investigator than that.”

Eraina said nothing.

“I knew your father since the Last War,” Dalan continued. “We were information brokers. Seren, did Jamus ever mention Fiona Keenig to you?”

“She was one of King Boranel’s spies,” Seren said. “Jamus worked for her for decades.”

“And I was one of the lovely Miss Keenig’s most highly paid informants,” Dalan said proudly. “Cyre and Breland had many mutual enemies. I was pleased to aid her when I was able. Jamus and I were thus well acquainted. When Fiona disappeared, Jamus was shattered. The man fell into a sad state. He became a common street thief. I knew he had a daughter in House Deneith but was too proud to contact her. I was all too eager to give him a reason to better himself and serve the cause of peace again.”