Don Bassingthwaite - The Grieving Tree

The druid looked vaguely disappointed. “You would have?”

“A clever man is most vulnerable when he’s trying to be clever. Someone wise told me that.”

“Who?” asked Orshok suspiciously.

“Robrand d’Deneith, the man who recruited me and Singe into the Frostbrand company of the Blademarks when we were your age. One of the greatest commanders to ever lead a Blademarks company.” Geth let out a little snarl of satisfaction. “He had Singe figured out. The old man could keep him in knots if he wanted to.”

Ashi’s face darkened. “So we fooled Singe by doing exactly what he wanted us to do?” She looked down at Geth. “How is that outwitting him?”

“Because we chose to do this ourselves.” He stretched his arms out in the bright sunlight. His ancient Dhakaani sword was a weight at his side, but he’d left his great gauntlet behind. There was no need for it and the day was too pleasant to worry about armor. “I like House Tharashk-they tend to be more honest than other dragonmarked houses-but I don’t want to spend all day going from tavern to tavern talking to them.”

“That was Singe’s argument, too,” said Orshok. “We’re doing what he wanted for exactly the reason he said we should.”

Geth opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. He gave Orshok another glare. This time the orc smiled. So did Ashi. Geth glowered. “Come on,” he grumbled, “Let’s see what we can see.”

They followed the crowds, less out of any random choice than out of another principle handed down by Robrand d’Deneith: where there were people, there would be something interesting. Geth’s old commander’s wisdom didn’t fail them. They wandered through a market where merchants from beyond the Shadow Marches offered the finest items from across Khorvaire. They passed a theater where criers called out the coming evening’s bill, while mummers on the other side of the street gave a show for thrown coins. At a shrine dedicated to the Sovereign Host, they stopped and went inside so that Orshok and Ashi could marvel at a faith unfamiliar to both of them. Geth stood by the door, nodding to the priests tending the shrine, as the druid and the hunter stared at the shining images of the nine gods.

Orshok gave him a solemn look as they left the shrine. “When the daelkyr came from Xoriat to invade Eberron during the Daelkyr War, the Gatekeepers fought them. We sealed the gates to Xoriat and bound the surviving daelkyr in Khyber. What did the Sovereign Host do?”

“I don’t-” Geth ground his teeth together. “Ask Singe. He’s the clever one. Who’s hungry?”

The streets of Zarash’ak were dotted with vendors selling cheap food that people bought and carried with them, eating as they walked. Geth had seen the process when they had been in Zarash’ak before: he led Ashi and Orshok to one stall where they bought thick rounds of ashi bread, then on to another to buy roast vegetables or spicy grilled meat to stuff inside. The meat was snake-Orshok insisted on checking stalls until he found some that he declared fresh enough to eat. The orc tending the grill gave them a hearty grin and extra slatherings of the hot and sour sauce that spiced the meat.

The sauce numbed Geth’s mouth and brought tears to Orshok’s eyes, but Ashi just ate her meal in solemn silence as they wandered. Geth recognized this area of Zarash’ak-they were heading toward the deep water docks where ships coming up from the ocean found berths. If they wanted news of the world beyond the Shadow Marches, this would be a good place to find it. His eyes were on Ashi, however. Her body was tense, her posture guarded. Geth frowned over his food, “Is something wrong?” he asked her.

The tall woman’s face twisted. She answered with blunt honesty. “I don’t like cities.”

Geth look around them as he took another bite of food. For all that Zarash’ak was an isolated island of civilization, it was also the only city of any size in the Shadow Marches-in the whole southwest of the continent of Khorvaire, in fact-and attracted an astounding diversity of inhabitants and visitors. The crowd on the street was made up mostly of humans, orcs, and half-orcs, but there were also elves and halflings and bandy-legged goblins. He could even spot another shifter on occasion, striding confidently among the other races. Their trio of orc, shifter, and human savage wasn’t at all out of place.

“It’s the crowd, isn’t it?” Geth said. “So many people in one place?”

Ashi nodded tightly. “Having so many strangers around me-so many outclanners …”

She bit off her words, but Geth understood. Shifters were descended from the mingled bloodlines of humans and shapechanging lycanthropes. Their lycanthropic heritage gave them useful gifts, but also a predator’s instincts. Crowds weren’t that much different from herds and herds were either prey or a threat. It had taken him time and effort to ease the edge of being around strangers. Ashi was a hunter. She had the same instincts. He grunted. “You’ll get used to it,” he told her. He looked at Orshok. “What about you?”

The orc wrinkled his thick nose. “I like Zarash’ak,” he said. “I miss Fat Tusk, though.”

“At least you’re welcome to go back to it,” said Ashi.

“Do you miss the Bonetree?” Geth asked her. “Do you regret turning against your clan?”

“Do you miss your people?” she snapped at him in return.

Geth’s gut knotted as Adolan’s face flickered before him: his friend had died under a Bonetree hunter’s axe. His lips twitched back, baring his teeth reflexively, and he growled at Ashi. The hunter jerked back and her hand went instantly to her sword-then fell away as a flush crept up her face.

“I’m … sorry,” she said. “Blood in my mouth, it was not a good thing to ask.” She hung her head. “I miss friends among the Bonetree. If they were dead, I wouldn’t miss them as much.”

Other faces joined Adolan’s in Geth’s memory, the faces of people he-and Singe-had served with in the Frostbrand. People he’d last seen in the northern Karrnathi town of Narath. People who were dead because of him. He clenched his jaw tight. “I understand,” he said through his teeth.

Ashi’s hand dropped back to her sword, though this time only to rest on it. The weapon had belong to her grandfather, absorbed into the Bonetree clan after being found wounded in the marches. Singe had identified the weapon as an honor blade of the Sentinel Marshals of House Deneith. That Ashi carried the blood of Deneith was one of the surprises they had discovered among the Bonetree. “Singe says that I’ll have a new clan in House Deneith,” she said. “Do you think that they’ll take me in?”

“Ashi,” Geth said, “I think House Deneith is going to be as surprised to learn about you as you were to learn about it.”

The crowd thinned around them as the street they had followed opened onto the docks. Orshok’s eyes went wide at the sight of the sailing ships gently rising and falling with the water. “Kuv!” he said in awe.

“You didn’t see these last time you were in Zarash’ak?” Geth asked, turning to saunter along the docks.

“No.” Orshok shook his head. “I stayed where Batul directed me to go, watching for the Servant of Madness. I didn’t see much of the city.” The druid stared at the ocean-going vessels they passed. “I’d heard they were big, but I did really imagine …” He looked ahead of them and his eyes grew even wider. “Look at that! What kind of ship needs no sails?”

“A Lyrandar elemental galleon,” mumbled Geth as he stuffed the last of his bread and meat into his mouth. He looked up to follow Orshok’s gaze-and the food in his mouth seemed to turn dry and tasteless.