James Wyatt - Storm dragon

“One can never be certain,” Vaskar responded. “Your century of war is not the only desolation this world has known. You humans are too quick to assume everything in the Prophecy applies to your works. Some dragons would argue that the Prophecy doesn’t even acknowledge your existence, though of course I think they are mistaken. Nevertheless, we will seek the Sky Caves in the Mournland.”

Gaven watched as Haldren and Vaskar dissected the Prophecy, ignoring him now. He was glad for the respite from questions. He stared at the dawn as it reddened the sky.

“But first we need the Eye of Siberys,” Vaskar rumbled. He looked at Gaven again. “The City of the Dead in Aerenal, when Siberys turns night into day.” He turned his beaked snout toward the sky.

Another image flashed in Gaven’s memory, another dream-yellow crystal pulsing with veins of golden light, carved to a point and bound to a blackened branch, plunging into a body that was shadow given twisting form. He shuddered.

“What is it, Gaven?” Haldren had seen the shudder. “What did you see?”

“The Eye of Siberys,” Gaven said. “A dragonshard, a huge one, the size of my hand. Formed into a weapon, a spearhead.” He shook his head, trying to dispel the image from his mind.

Haldren looked up at Vaskar, who lowered his head close to Gaven again.

“A weapon?” the dragon said. “To be used against what foe?”

The endless dark, Gaven thought, where he waits. “The Soul Reaver.”

A look of triumph flashed onto Haldren’s face, and Gaven suddenly understood what was happening. The dragon knew a great deal about the Prophecy already, and he wasn’t sure Gaven was worth the trouble. Haldren had probably used Gaven as a bargaining chip in negotiating his own rescue. And Gaven had just proven his worth, providing their first glimpse of a real hope of victory. Probably they knew the Storm Dragon would have to face the Soul Reaver, but this was the first they had heard of a way to win that fight.

The part of his mind that had kept him alive in Dreadhold reminded him to dole out such valuable insights slowly, to keep himself useful as long as possible.

“So the Eye of Siberys will raise the Sky Caves of Thieren Kor under the dark of the great moon,” Vaskar said. “And it will serve as a weapon against the Soul Reaver.” His eyes narrowed. “Is there anything else?”

Gaven didn’t want to remember any more. He wanted to taste the smoke in the air, savor the fish Darraun had cooked, smell the sea and its freedom, watch the sunrise. Those things were real and present, not vague memories that might not even belong to him. He shook his head.

“That’s enough for now, Gaven,” Haldren said. “You’ve already helped us a great deal.”

Gaven stared at the line of blood spreading across the horizon, trying to see nothing more than a beautiful sunrise.

“What is he?” Senya asked, staring at Gaven. She picked at her fish with her fingers, gingerly placing a small piece in her mouth and sucking the oils off her fingertips.

Darraun watched her with amusement, not sure how to answer her question. “Just a man,” he said.

“How doe’s he know so much about the Prophecy?”

I wish I knew, Darraun thought. But Senya didn’t need to know the extent of his curiosity. “Vaskar thinks he learned it from another dragon.”

“But why would a dragon teach him?” She tried to take a bite of the hard bread, but couldn’t find a way to do it delicately. She balanced the plate on her knees and used both hands to break the bread into smaller pieces.

Why, indeed? Darraun shrugged, wanting to drop the conversation. To his relief, the warforged lumbered over to stand beside them. “Hello, Cart.”

“Darraun, Senya,” Cart said. “How’s the fish?”

“Delicious,” Senya said, looking back at Darraun as she said it. “Best I’ve ever had on the road.”

“Thank you,” Darraun said with a small bow of his head. “I take pride in my cooking.”

“I hope your wands and scrolls will be as useful when we start fighting,” she said, her face clearly indicating that she doubted they would be.

Cart rubbed his chin, a mannerism he’d certainly learned from a human sergeant during the war. “Are we spending the night here, do you know?” he said. “The general didn’t tell me to set up the tents, but if we’re camping I want to do it before it gets any darker.”

Darraun looked back over at Gaven, Haldren, and the dragon. “I suspect we’ll be moving on tonight,” he said. “Forty miles is still too close to Dreadhold for anyone’s taste, I expect.”

Senya grimaced, looking over her shoulder at the wyverns. “I don’t think I can begin to say how much I dislike those things. I feel like the stinger could stick down into my back at any second.”

“It certainly could,” Darraun said. “I hate the way they bounce with every flap of their wings. But I have a feeling we won’t be flying anymore tonight.”

“What?” Senya said. “You just said-”

“I said we’d be moving on. Not flying.”

Gaven enjoyed a respite from questions as Haldren ate and conferred quietly with Vaskar. He took that opportunity to look around this strange group, his new companions. He’d had plenty of time to examine Cart as they rode their wyvern to this shore, and he knew Haldren’s appearance well from Dreadhold, though the cleaned-up, well-dressed version beside the dragon bore little resemblance to the disheveled character he remembered from their neighboring cells.

Darraun was the blond man who had helped Cart get him out of his cell. Gaven had seen the man work some magic with his cell door, which probably meant he was an artificer, skilled with the magic of items and constructs. Scrolls and wands protruded from the pouch at the man’s belt, confirming that impression. His fair hair was short and fine, and he had a day’s growth of beard. His skin was tan from travel, and his cloak carried the dust of many roads. He wore a hardened leather cuirass and carried a large metal mace with a flanged head. Still, something about the way Darraun carried himself made Gaven suspect that he would not be in the forefront of any battles.

The elf woman-he’d heard Haldren call her Senya-was about as different from Rienne as Gaven could imagine a woman being. Her black hair was curly and cut short, in contrast to the way Rienne’s flowed like silk. Senya’s skin was pale despite all her travels outdoors, where Rienne’s was a rich mahogany. The lids of Senya’s eyes were heavy and tinted with a bluish black powder, and her full lips were painted red. She wore a leather coat that hugged her chest before flaring out around her legs. It was cut to reveal more of her throat and breastbone than was probably safe. He noted an amulet at her throat, shaped like a shield and studded with adamantine, that probably more than made up in magic for what her coat lacked in protective value. She wore soft leather leggings and boots that rose to her knees. The heels of her boots made them better suited to a social function in Fairhaven than walking on the rocky shore of the Lhazaar Sea.

Finished with his meal, Haldren got to his feet and lifted a hand to the others. They rose at his summons and walked quickly over to where Gaven sat studying them.

“My dear friends,” Haldren said, taking Senya’s slender hand and including the warforged with a smile, “and more recent acquaintances,” he added with a gracious nod to Darraun and then Gaven, “this day you have done a great service to Aundair and, indeed, to the world. And, of course, you have done a great favor to me, in liberating me from Dreadhold, the prison they said was impregnable.”

Haldren laughed, and Senya laughed with him. Gaven glanced at the others, but kept his attention on Haldren.