James Wyatt - Storm dragon

“I’m trying to help you,” Senya said. Darraun had expected her to cower in the face of his wrath, but she stood her ground and met his gaze. “Abandon Vaskar, Haldren. He’s doomed to fail. It’s not too late! If we work with Gaven-”

Senya broke off as Haldren turned his gaze back to Gaven, fury burning in his eyes. Gaven had dropped his head again and was staring at the ground. Haldren shook his head.

“No,” he said. He grabbed Senya’s hand and yanked her toward him, then reached out for Cart’s hand. “Take hands. We’re leaving.”

Cart took Darraun’s hand, and Darraun bent over Gaven, helping him to his feet and holding on to one hand. Senya gently took Gaven’s other hand in hers.

Haldren began the words to his spell, and Darraun found himself lost in the rhythm of them. He looked around the troubled little circle. Haldren’s eyes were closed as he focused on his spell; he was suppressing his anger in order to keep his mind clear. Cart stared impassively ahead. Senya’s eyes were on Gaven, her brow furrowed, and she clung to his hand. Gaven’s head hung down, and Darraun couldn’t see his eyes.

The spell built to its conclusion, and Darraun felt the first tugs that would carry them across hundreds of miles. In that instant, Gaven’s hand wrenched free of his. Haldren shouted the last syllable of the spell as if he couldn’t choke it back, and they were gone.

In the Time of the Dragon Above, when Siberys turns night into day, and showers of light fall from the sky, the Eye of Siberys falls near the City of the Dead. A fragment of celestial light, the Eye sees, and in it all is seen. The Eye of Siberys lifts the Sky Caves of Thieren Kor from the land of desolation under the dark of the great moon, and the Storm Dragon walks in the paths of the first of sixteen. The shard of heaven falls to earth a second time, and its light brightens Khyber’s darkness.

Rienne stood at the railing of the small airship and gazed at the churning waters of Scions Sound far below. An unnatural storm blew out of the Mournland, churning the dead gray mist that marked the borders of that desolate wasteland into a roiling frenzy and sending long tendrils of smoky gray reaching for them. So far, the skill of the ship’s windwright captain had kept the air around them calm-and free from the grasping reach of the mist. Rienne shuddered. The mist stood in her mind as a symbol of the mystery that cloaked the destruction of Cyre near the end of the Last War. It was impenetrable, inscrutable, and deadly. Within its embrace, nothing could survive for long. Wounds did not heal, plants did not grow, and horrible creatures born of flesh and metal warped by magic stalked the deserted ruins of the nation that had once been the jewel in Galifar’s crown.

Securing the use of the Morning Zephyr had been a little tricky, but she’d managed it. It was primarily a matter of convincing her friends in House Lyrandar that Arnoth had authorized it, without letting Arnoth know that she’d borrowed the vessel. If Gaven’s father knew that she was looking for Gaven, he’d want to be involved. And if he was involved, that Sentinel Marshal who had barged into her house would be involved soon after.

She told herself she would probably get the Sentinel Marshals involved soon enough anyway. After all, Gaven was a fugitive from Dreadhold. Whatever reservations she had about her role in getting him captured and convicted, the fact remained that he was a criminal. For all she knew, he might prove dangerous-even to her. Perhaps especially to her-the one responsible for turning him in to House Deneith in the first place. She might have to call in another favor once she reached Vathirond, to ensure her safety in case she actually found him.

“Lady Alastra?” The first mate’s voice stirred her from her thoughts. She turned to see that the young man’s face, normally smiling broadly, was creased with worry. “The storm is growing worse, and the captain isn’t sure she can fend it off much longer. We might need to alter our course slightly, which could delay our arrival in Vathirond.”

Rienne sighed. “A slight delay will probably not matter,” she said.

“Yes, lady. In the meantime, the captain suggests you take shelter below.” The young man smiled briefly, nodded a small bow, and disappeared back into the wheelhouse.

Rienne looked around the deserted deck. She had not even realized that the crew had left her alone, either in deference to her or in fear of the brewing storm. She turned around again and stared into the gray mist. Something stared back, she thought-something powerful and malevolent. She shuddered and made her way below.

Back in her cabin, the bundle of silk propped against her bed caught her eye immediately. She lifted it and sat on the bed, tenderly resting the bundle on her lap and carefully pulling at the wrappings. Beneath the silk was a fine leather scabbard tooled in gold, and she drew out the gleaming blade of her sword, the weapon she called Maelstrom. She removed a scrap of silk that caught on the blade as she drew it, and ran her finger carefully along the razor-sharp edge.

Rienne had not wielded Maelstrom in battle since the Sentinel Marshals had taken Gaven into custody. She had adopted the dress of a noblewoman and settled down in Stormhome. She had made herself useful to her family and lived a quiet and profitable life, making the most of her connections to House Lyrandar despite what she had done to Gaven.

But at least once a week, sometimes every night, she had closed the door to her chambers and brought out Maelstrom, polishing the blade and oiling the leather that wrapped its hilt. She kept it carefully wrapped and secure, in case she ever needed it. She hoped this journey wouldn’t be such an occasion, but she was glad to have Maelstrom with her. Some part of her soul sang as she touched it again.

The storm threatening from the Mournland diminished as they made their way farther south, though their route took them alongside the dead-gray mist all the way to Vathirond. Rienne watched the city as it came into view-stone buildings forming tiers and bridges at the bases of its many tall towers, a gray metropolis set in stark contrast to the surrounding green hills-but her mind was consumed with thoughts of how she might find Gaven.

She started her search in the docking tower. A larger airship had docked at roughly the same time as her vessel, and she scanned the disembarking passengers carefully, on the off chance that Gaven was among them. She tried to anticipate the effects of twenty-six years in Dreadhold on his appearance, as well as any magic he might use to hide his face. More than a few passengers responded with nervous stares or angry rebukes as she tried to peer into cowls and under the wide brims of hats meant to conceal.

After one passenger drew steel, Rienne abandoned that approach, making her way through the crowds to the city streets. She ran down her mental list of contacts in Vathirond-distant relatives, people who owed favors to her family, and a few very old friends-and chose the most likely suspect. Looking around the streets, she quickly got her bearings and made her way to Subsidence, the neighborhood perched along the stream that flowed alongside the city, carrying its filth into the Brey River.

Krathas was a half-orc she believed had some connection to House Tharashk, though he didn’t carry the Mark of Finding. His residence in Subsidence suggested that he didn’t benefit much from this connection, and Rienne wondered if he were an excoriate like Gaven. She had never met Krathas, but Gaven had spoken of him a few times, and she had the impression that Gaven trusted him.

Setting foot in Subsidence reminded her of descending into Khyber. Danger was near-she could feel it-and she loosened Maelstrom’s silk wrappings.