Don Bassingthwaite - The Killing Song

Vennet d’Lyrandar stood with his eyes closed and surrendered himself to the wind. He let it buffet him, cool against the bare skin of his torso, let it pull at his long hair and push on him until he leaned. The breeze whistled into his pointed ears. You grow stronger every day, Vennet!

The half-elf, former captain of the elemental galleon Lightning on Water , smiled and answered. “Just wait,” he said. “The power of my dragonmark grows. Soon I’ll have you dancing to my will.”

Dancing? the wind asked in polite disbelief.

Vennet’s smile grew sharp. “Do you think you could resist the Siberys Mark of Storm?”

The wind had no answer for that. Its force eased. Their conversation was over for now. The wind was fickle. Sometimes it would answer, sometimes not. But Vennet had told it the simple truth. When his mark had grown into its power, the wind would be compelled to obey him. An early flush of power warmed him. He opened his eyes.

At his feet, the edge of the rough terrace on which he stood dropped away. He looked straight down into the dark depths of the canyon between Dura and Northedge, two of the plateaus on which Sharn had been built. The City of Towers soared high overhead-reaching up and up toward a narrow sliver of sky that had turned red with sunset. Across the width of the canyon and up and down its length as far as he could see in the gloom, the huge bases of the towers spread out like the roots of an enormous forest. Night had already fallen in the lower city. Lights shone in a swarm of bright specks, lit by those who needed lanterns and cold fire to see. Around Vennet, the district of Malleon’s Gate, inhabited mostly by goblins, hobgoblins, and other creatures who were at home in the night, remained conspicuously dark.

He would rather have been amidst the heights of the towers, up in the open air where the wind was at its strongest, where the other members of House Lyrandar moved with the wealthy and powerful of Sharn and Breland. He belonged among their number. Soon, he told himself. Soon I’ll be with them.

He flexed his arms and felt the hot skin across his back and shoulders stretch tight. He could feel his dragonmark growing, transforming into a powerful Siberys mark. Such a thing was supposed to be impossible-centuries of lore said that a Siberys mark never manifested on anyone already carrying a lesser mark. Vennet almost laughed. He’d joined the cults of the Dragon Below in search of power, and power he’d received. Nothing was impossible for the dark lords of Khyber. The mark of Siberys was a gift from the master. When it had completed its transformation, there would be no more hiding. He would come forward and take his place as the greatest scion of Lyrandar that the house had ever-

“Vennet! Vennet, where are you?” Dah’mir’s voice interrupted his reverie. There was an edge to the oil-smooth tones. Dah’mir wasn’t pleased with something.

A lesser creature might have been afraid, but the Master of Silence had burned fear out of Vennet’s heart. “Here!” he called back. Only a few moments later, Dah’mir settled out of the shadows onto the terrace beside him. As he had for most of the time since they had arrived in Sharn, he wore the form of a black heron. His majestic true form would have caused too much excitement and attracted too much attention when his plans required stealth and discretion. The bird was still a dragon, however. Vennet bent his head to his master.

Dah’mir’s acid-green eyes flashed. “Speaking with the wind again, Vennet?”

Vennet was abruptly aware of his naked torso. He turned away from the canyons and reached for his shirt, weighted down by a rock so it wouldn’t blow away. “Yes, master,” he said. He winced as the fabric of the shirt, as fine as he’d been able to get his hands on, scraped across his irritated shoulders. His growing dragonmark might have been a gift, but it also itched unbearably. “What do you need? What do you want me to do?”

When he’d first met Dah’mir, the dragon had possessed a human form that allowed him to walk easily among the lesser races. With the same power that had granted Vennet his Siberys mark, the Master of Silence had taken Dah’mir’s human form away from him as a punishment for failing the daelkyr. Vennet had become Dah’mir’s emissary to the world, his face and hands in Sharn. It was a role he played with relish, a service to the Dragon Below-a step on his path to glory.

“I want you to go to our host,” said Dah’mir. “Tell him to prepare.”

Vennet’s heart caught in anticipation. “We’re ready? So soon? But the plans-”

“Plans can be adapted. Give our host the details he needs. I will wait no more than a few days. My master waits for his new servants, and I will wear this body no longer than I must.” Dah’mir shook his wings. “Nothing must go wrong now.”

“What could go wrong?”

Dah’mir fixed him with a glittering eye, and Vennet felt his elation vanish. “Never ask that question in jest,” Dah’mir said. “I thought myself invulnerable and I was wounded. I will not allow it to happen again.”

“But Geth, Dandra, and Singe must be dead,” Vennet protested. “Hruucan or Tzaryan Rrac-”

“There’s been no word from Hruucan and no news of him either. If Hruucan failed, then Tzaryan Rrac wouldn’t have thrown his life away.”

“But we don’t know they’re alive-and they couldn’t know we’re in Sharn.”

Dah’mir’s bill clacked. “We don’t know they’re dead. And they seem to have a way of knowing things they shouldn’t. Learn, Vennet. Learn and make plans. I have made arrangements for our enemies.”

He spread his wings and hopped up onto the crumbled remains of a wall, lifted his head and gave a whistling call. Within moments, another heron flapped out of the shadows and settled beside him. It looked similar to Dah’mir’s heron form-black feathers and green eyes-but it was subtly smaller and its feathers were ragged with a greasy sheen to them. Perhaps a dozen of the birds had accompanied them to Sharn, the remnants of a once larger flock. Vennet had often wondered if the herons’ similarity to Dah’mir was more than just coincidence. They were no ordinary birds; the one perched beside Dah’mir met the dragon’s gaze fearlessly, and it looked as if the two black birds were conversing. After a moment, the heron let out a call, spread its wings again, and flew off into the night. Other winged forms followed. Vennet watched them fly out over the raw canyon, then up among the towers until they vanished from sight.

“Plan carefully, Vennet,” Dah’mir said. “I will not fail now.”

From the surface of the Dagger River, among the wharves that lined the base of the cliffs on which it was built, Sharn was a sight to inspire awe. When the sun shone, the City of Towers was a shining monument, soaring into the heavens, the unthinkable height of its massive spires pointing like spears at the underbelly of the sky. As the ragged ship that carried the name White Bull came alongside one of the wharves and mooring lines were thrown to waiting dockworkers, however, the sun wasn’t shining. The sky was heavy with clouds the color and weight of lead, and Sharn was less a monument than a warning. It was a looming, titanic thug, waiting to crush anyone who came within reach of its bulk.

Singe stood on the deck of the White Bull , stared up at the dark stone of the cliffs and the city, and let out his breath slowly. “This is it,” he said. “We’re here.”

To his right, Natrac grumbled and dug the point of the long knife strapped over the stump of his right wrist into the sun-bleached wood of the rail. “I didn’t think I’d be coming back here.”