Don Bassingthwaite - The Grieving Tree

“Vennet, be silent,” said Dah’mir in reprimand. The heron stood atop a table piled with books and charts. He cocked his head and his eyes flashed. “Tzaryan?”

“It appears my general found them in Vralkek and escorted them here to keep an eye on them,” the warlord said. “They want access to the ruins. Just as you said they would.”

“You’ll grant it to them?”

“There’s not much to see unless they’re willing to dig.”

“They’ll dig. If they don’t, I’ve overestimated them.”

The ogre mage smiled, showing black teeth. “The human you named Singe tried to bribe me by offering to name me as his patron in a book.”

“Promises are as poor a currency as lies,” said Dah’mir. “Real knowledge is gold to those who value it.” He tapped a book with his beak. “Open this one and I’ll continue my payment for your services, Tzaryan. There is a secret written on the moons of Eberron if you know when and where to look.”

“Dah’mir!” called Hruucan from the scorched corner where he had squatted for much of the last few days. Vennet turned to look at him. His voice was a weary rasp and the tentacles that lashed the air were dim. “I feel him! He’s close. I want him!”

“In good time, Hruucan!”

“I hunger now.”

Dah’mir clicked his beak in frustration, then looked at Tzaryan. “Could you spare another slave?”

The warlord smiled again. “Knowledge is gold and you’ve paid me well. Is one slave enough?”

“More than enough.” The heron ruffled black feathers. “My enemies have proved clever. I’m sure they’ll find what they came here to learn quickly enough-and after they do, they’ll fall knowing the truth of how pathetic they are.” His voice sank into a snarl deep into his scrawny chest. “We’ll be your guests for another day, Tzaryan, no more.”

Tzaryan bent his head. “Your presence in my home is an honor, Dah’mir.”

Vennet turned away as the two lords resumed their discussion of moons and stars and secret knowledge and looked out of the observatory onto the night. Far below on the valley floor, a shadow moved against the pale stripe of the road. A lone rider was approaching Tzaryan Keep on a horse with muffled hooves. A breeze brushed against Vennet and murmured in his ear. Now who do you think that is?

“It doesn’t matter,” he whispered in reply. In his head, he was flying as Tzaryan had flown.

Tzaryan Rrac’s reply was waiting when Singe descended from his bed chamber to the dining hall below the next morning. An orc woman wearing the blue star of Tzaryan Keep hurried to meet him as soon as he appeared on the stairs. Without speaking or meeting his gaze, she extended a silver tray on which rested a folded note, then darted away as soon as he had taken the note from her.

Dandra was already up and sitting at one corner of a long, empty table. Her face was drawn and her eyes were dark. “Is something wrong?” he asked her.

“I didn’t sleep well.” She rubbed a hand across her face. “Tetkashtai doesn’t like Tzaryan Keep. She was fretting all night. It kept me awake.”

Singe unfolded the note and scanned it. He smiled in triumph. “I think I know something that will make you feel better,” he said, then read aloud “Master Timin, your request is granted. You’ll find the ruins to the northeast of Tzaryan Keep. You may explore them as you wish, so long as you and your party return to join me for dinner and share your discoveries. I will see you this evening-I regret that my stargazing has left me with a nocturnal schedule. Speak to the General if there’s anything you require. With respect, Tzaryan.” He looked up to find Dandra smiling as well, weariness washed away.

“We’re in?” she said. “You’ve done it?”

“We’ve done it.” He looked around the hall. “Which way is northeast?”

Dandra pointed down the length of a hall, directly toward a shuttered window. Tzaryan’s note crumpled in one hand, Singe strode to the window and flung open the shutters.

Robrand must have placed them in these quarters deliberately. The view from the window looked across a short stretch of Tzaryan Keep’s roofs-their tiles a glossy green by daylight-and over the outer wall. The landscape around the keep was dry, choked with thorny bushes and brittle grass, but a short distance away, the scrub growth broke around heaps of rock, weathered by time but still too squared and regular to be natural. One stretched out across the land in a straight, narrow line, like a toppled tree. Another looked to have crumbled inward not so very long ago. It didn’t take much imagination to picture them reassembled and standing tall.

“The Spires of the Forge,” he said.

“Taruuzh Kraat.” Dandra stepped up beside him, hesitated, then added, “Singe, about what I said through the kesh last night-”

Singe felt the stinging shock of her rejection again, the sudden emptiness after her withdrawal of the kesh . It hurt almost as much as his anger toward Geth. Almost, but not quite. “Don’t say anything,” he said. He turned away from her. “If we’re expected back for dinner, we should wake the others and try to get out to the ruins as soon as we can.”

They were out of the keep by mid-morning. They saw no one on the way apart from orc slaves-lean, frightened-looking creatures much reduced from the proud tribes of the Shadow Marches-and a few ogre guards. The grand upper levels of the stronghold, all polished dark wood and shining green tiles, were mostly empty. Tzaryan had built a fine palace, but no one came to his court. Singe thought he could guess one reason why. While the keep was impressively majestic in design, it was just slightly too large. Everything had been designed around Tzaryan Rrac’s towering frame. Doorways were intimidatingly tall and wide, chairs and tables oversized, stairs awkward in the strange height of each step. In a grand inn or a great house, the bed in which Singe had spent the night would have been luxuriously large. In the surroundings of Tzaryan Keep, it just made him feel like a child, weak and helpless. The effect was disconcerting.

And the upper levels of the keep were all that visitors normally saw. Robrand had described to him the chambers hidden behind the thick stone walls of the keep’s lower portion. Tzaryan’s ogre troops had their quarters there. The orc slaves, too. The dungeons of Tzaryan Keep were down in the dark as well. When he and the others wanted to talk to Ekhaas, they’d find her there. Singe had considered going to her before heading out to the ruins, but decided against it. Even with Tzaryan’s threat of torture hanging over her head, getting the hobgoblin to talk could have taken a long time and he didn’t want to spend any longer in Tzaryan Rrac’s fortress than he needed to.

Walking down the broad stairs to the gates was like walking through a canyon-a deadly canyon. Invaders forcing their way up the stairs would be vulnerable to attacks both from above and through murder holes in the thick walls. A broad landing halfway along the length of the stairs might have seemed like a haven, but Robrand had confided that it was actually a trap. The entire landing could be collapsed, dropping anyone on it into a deep natural chasm that waited beneath. As they passed out of the gates and between the still smoking fire-bowls, Singe let out a soft breath of relief and glanced back over his shoulder. The dark maw of the keep seemed even more intimidating by day than it had by night.

They skirted the wall of the keep, circling around to the northeast, then striking out for the heaps of stone he and Dandra had seen from the window. Robrand had been right when he’d said it was almost impossible to avoid ruins in the hills. It seemed that for every few paces they walked, Singe’s eyes fell on the broken line of an ancient wall or some buckle in the earth with weathered stones protruding. Maybe they had been the outbuildings of Taruuzh Kraat, Singe guessed, maybe protective walls. Maybe stables-he wondered if the Dhakaani had kept horses or other mounts? The hobgoblins of Darguun used huge muscular antelopes called tribex as beasts of burden. Maybe the Dhakaani had, too.