James Wyatt - Dragon forge

“You have found the Siberys mark,” Yavvaran said.

Malathar glared at him, and the red dragon actually stepped back from the baleful magic of the undead dragon’s burning eyes. He would have the satisfaction of announcing his triumph. “I have found the Siberys mark,” he said.

For a moment Gaven thought he was in Dreadhold and his taste of freedom had all been one fevered dream. He lay in a stone cell, crumpled on the floor where his captors had thrown him. There was no bunk, no furnishing of any kind. A high window let in some feeble light, but shadows pooled in the corners of the room and closed in around him.

He ran a hand over the bumps on his head, still tender, and slowly the events of his capture came back to him. Lissa had betrayed him-but why? Why bother winning his trust at all? And Rienne-the dragonborn hadn’t seemed to have any interest in her. That suggested to him that either his facility with Draconic or his dragonmark had drawn their attention, and he strongly suspected it wasn’t his language skills.

Gaven got to his feet, aching in every joint, and stumbled to the door. It was windowless and almost perfectly joined to the wall. He sagged against it and turned to take in the whole cell. He could touch the walls on either side by stretching out his arms, and the far wall was only three paces away. A blast of lightning might knock the door open, he reasoned, so he stepped forward.

Before he reached the opposite wall, the shadows took shape. A slender man loomed in the corner where no one had been a moment before, then he emerged to face Gaven. The shadows seemed to cling to his long, dark hair and black clothing, contrasting with his pale skin. His long, pointed ears and high cheekbones marked him as an elf, but his eyes were lifeless pools of darkness. The Mark of Shadow began on his cheek, ran down his neck, and disappeared beneath his leather armor.

“Welcome to Rav Magar, Gaven,” the elf said. “I have waited a long time for the privelege of meeting you.”

Gaven didn’t move. The elf was either a Thuranni or a Phiarlan, and either way he had good reason to hate the man who had helped orchestrate the schism between the two dragonmarked Houses. He fully expected a knife to appear in the elf’s hand.

“I am Phaine d’Thuranni,” the elf continued. He watched Gaven’s face closely-did he expect Gaven to recognize his name? Or did he expect some reaction to meeting a Thuranni?

“What’s a Thuranni doing in Argonnessen?” Gaven said, still on his guard.

“One might ask the same about a Lyrandar. Or perhaps not, when the Lyrandar is an excoriate and a fugitive. You thought you could hide here, did you? Safe from all pursuit?”

“Pursuit? Are you telling me you followed me here from Khorvaire? Just to put me back in Dreadhold?”

Phaine chuckled, and Gaven’s eyes dropped to the elf’s hands again.

“You’re going to kill me, then?” Gaven asked. “Get your revenge for what I did to your House?”

“I will kill you-eventually. But not until I’ve seen you suffer. And not until you’ve played your part in this drama.”

Gaven felt blood rush to his face in anger. “My destiny is in my own hands, Thuranni. I won’t be manipulated.”

“Tell me that again when you’ve found your way out of this cell.” As he spoke, Phaine faded into the shadows again. His mocking grin and cruel black eyes were the last to disappear.

Too late, Gaven lunged at him, but his hands hit the wall. Wheeling in frustration, he let a blast of lightning flow through his body to the door. It hit with a resounding crash, scouring the stone wall, spraying gravel in all directions, and rebounding to course harmlessly through his body. The door didn’t move. He slid down the wall to sit on the floor, his dragonmark stinging and fury burning in his chest.

In fits of rage, he blasted the door and the walls with lightning until he collapsed in exhaustion. He slammed his fists against the door until they left trails of blood along the stone. He summoned a wind to lift him up to the window, but he found it barred with adamantine that proved as resistant to his lightning as the door was. He slept only moments at a time, propped in a corner or curled on the stone floor. He stood poised, waiting for the door to open so he could blast his way out.

The door didn’t open. Out of either fear or cruelty, his captors gave him neither food nor drink, and he didn’t see another guard after Phaine’s brief appearance. Phaine had said he wasn’t interested in killing him, but after what must have been four or five days, Gaven sat in the corner-arms limp at his side, legs splayed out in front of him, eyes half-closed. If the door had opened, he couldn’t have responded except perhaps to beg for water.

Rienne seemed to step through the door then. Lines of concern creased her lovely face, and she fell to her knees beside him.

“Oh, Gaven,” she said. “Please don’t leave.”

“I didn’t mean to, Ree.” His throat was parched, and his voice was little more than a harsh croak.

She cupped his cheek in her hand, but he couldn’t feel anything. “You need to stay alive, love.”

“Why?”

“You have to save the world, remember? That’s why we came here.”

“I could have been immortal, Ree. I could’ve stepped into the Crystal Spire and been a god. Do you know why I didn’t?”

“Tell me.”

“Because of you, Ree. I wanted to be with you.”

Tears streamed down her face, and she clutched him to her. “So don’t leave now. I love you.”

He still couldn’t feel her touch. “You’re not really here, are you?” he murmured, his eyes drooping.

“No, love. You’re all alone.”

A dragonborn stood in the open door, and Gaven waited for his latest hallucination to deliver its message. Chains rattled in her hands, and she stepped close, cautiously, to clap a manacle on Gaven’s wrist. When he didn’t move, she rolled him over and pulled his arms behind him, binding his hands together. A longer chain went on his ankles, then Lissa tried to pull him to his feet. He couldn’t stand.

She breathed a hiss or a sigh from the corners of her mouth. “Stop the river, and the city will fall,” she said. “Perhaps we let the siege go on too long, but we thought you a worthy and dangerous foe.” She lifted him over one shoulder. “We couldn’t risk your escape.”

Gaven’s head turned enough as she walked to give him a vague sense of stone halls, dimly lit with oil lamps, but mostly he saw her back or closed his eyes, expecting at any moment to wake up in his cell.

Lissa set him down on his feet, but he slumped back to the floor-smooth, polished marble, rich black laced with veins of purest white. He saw Lissa drop down beside him, pressing her face to the floor.

“He is weak.” The voice sounded like bones rubbing together, a whisper.

Lissa raised her head only slightly, still facing the floor. “He has been denied food and water for six days,” she said. “We had to be sure he would not try to escape.”

“There certainly seems to be no risk of that.”

Gaven tried to raise his head to see the one speaking, but he couldn’t.

“Is he strong enough to endure the Dragon Forge?” the whisper asked.

Lissa brought her face lower again. “I fear he is not.”

“My lord.” Another whispery voice, this one familiar-the Thuranni. It took Gaven a moment to remember his name and his face. Phaine. “If I may be so bold, I suggest that we transport him to the Forge in his weakened state and bring him back to a semblance of health once we arrive.”

“You may not be so bold.” The whisper grated harshly. “You suggest nothing I have not already planned. You will remember your place, randravekk.” Giant-slave-a harsh word recalling the ancient history of the elves among the giants of Xen’drik. Phaine didn’t respond.