James Wyatt - Storm dragon

That’s strange, Vauren thought. Why didn’t I kill him?

“My descent into priggery is complete,” he muttered aloud. He pulled a dagger from his belt and bent to slit the unconscious dwarf’s throat, but again he found something staying his hand.

“Oh, Vauren, you weak-willed Thrane.” He dropped the dagger on the ground. “Only one thing to be done.” He rolled the dwarf over, looking closely at his face. He glanced toward the street, making sure he was well cloaked in shadow. Then he changed.

He pulled off his clothes as he worked on his face, transforming it into a perfect copy of the dwarf at his feet-chiseled features, neat beard, shaven pate. Then he pulled off the dwarf’s armor as he compressed his body to dwarven stature. He liked dwarf bodies-solid, strong. The skin firm, almost like marble.

He put on the unconscious dwarf’s armor and checked himself over. He found identification papers and traveling papers in a coat pocket and studied them carefully. He repeated the name softly to himself several times: “Natan Durbannek, Natan Durbannek.” He always preferred choosing his own names, but it was useful in this case: taking someone else’s name helped him become someone more unlike himself. He didn’t know Natan Durbannek, but he knew what House Kundarak’s elite agents were like. So as he shaped his body, he also sculpted his heart-hard, sharp.

Ruthless.

He picked up the battle-axe that lay at the dwarf’s side. Without a moment’s hesitation, he brought it down hard on Natan Durbannek’s neck.

The young Sentinel Marshal ran through the streets of Stormhome as fast as her feet could carry her. Watching Arnoth d’Lyrandar’s house had seemed like the most boring assignment imaginable, and before the lightning rail disaster she had spent countless hours in her hiding place, wishing that she was with Evlan d’Deneith instead of sitting on her ass. After the lightning rail disaster, she had spent hours wishing she’d never entered the Sentinel Marshals, wishing she could be anywhere in Khorvaire other than that street in Stormhome.

But the assignment suddenly seemed anything but boring. She had to get word to someone before it was too late. She only hoped that someone could act on the information in time. She burst into the little message station operated by House Sivis, out of breath, her legs and lungs burning.

“Quickly!” she panted. “Send a message to Karrlakton! The Lyrandar excoriate, the fugitive from Dreadhold-he’s here!”

He grew steadily weaker for a long time,” Thordren said, “but the end went quickly. The healers said they couldn’t do anything for him-his body just didn’t have the strength to go on. Then it was just a few weeks ago he took a turn for the worse. He could barely draw breath enough to speak. So we started making sure all his affairs were in order, making sure everything was legally transferred over to me. He slept most of the last two days, and this morning-he didn’t wake up.”

Gaven sat with his hands over his face, his elbows on his knees. His mind was filled with memories of a much younger man, still healthy and vibrant and-gruff, often angry, always busy.

“It sounds like it was a peaceful end,” Rienne said.

“Yes, very. I was actually asleep in the chair in his room when he died. We had a healer from House Jorasco here for about a week, I guess. She came in and woke me about dawn, and she observed how slowly he was breathing, and the next time I woke up he wasn’t breathing at all. Very peaceful.”

“Not very like him, is it?” Gaven said. “I would have figured he’d go out fighting, the cantankerous old-”

Rienne squeezed his knee, and he broke off.

Thordren laughed. “I can see what you mean.” He stared at Gaven for a moment. “Anyway, I’ve been handling most of the business, as he grew weaker. Though Aureon knows I couldn’t have done it without father’s guidance, at least not at first.”

“How is business?” Rienne asked. “Are you going to be all right?”

Thordren scoffed. “I’ll be fine. Father was a genius, and I’ve learned a lot from him. I have plenty of money, and shipping contracts enough to keep it that way for the rest of my life. That is, assuming we don’t end up back at war.”

“What?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“We’ve been at sea,” Rienne reminded him.

“Of course. Well, the rumor is that Aundair’s massing troops in Thaliost, or that’s what Thrane says. Aundair denies it, of course, but there’s a great deal of saber-rattling going on.”

“Haldren,” Gaven said, lifting his head from his hands.

Thordren gave him a quizzical look.

“Haldren ir’Brassek. He was in Dreadhold, escaped with me. Damn, he moves fast.”

“Are any other nations getting involved?” Rienne asked, gripping Gaven’s knee tightly again.

“Karrnath and Breland are making lofty proclamations about the importance of the Treaty of Thronehold and preserving the peace after so much tragedy, but otherwise keeping out of it. So far.”

“What about the Eldeen Reaches?” Rienne asked. “They’ve got to be nervous that they’re next on Aundair’s list.”

“As a matter of fact, just today I heard news of a skirmish on the Eldeen border. Some Reacher scouts had crossed into Aundair, presumably looking for signs of a troop buildup, and they tangled with an Aundairian patrol.”

Rienne shook her head. “More bloodshed.”

Gaven stood and walked to the window. Stormhome spread out below him, and the sea sparkled in the afternoon sun. In the distance, looming shadows were all he could see of Aundair.

… vultures wheel where dragons flew, picking the bones of the numberless dead…

Gaven started as though he’d touched fire, and stepped back from the window. He blinked, trying to get the image out of his mind, the sight of a battlefield strewn with corpses, a sky blotted out by the black wings of carrion birds, the earth torn open and violated.

Rienne was beside him, her strong hand between his shoulder blades. “What is it?”

Gaven sat back down, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut. “It seems that I no longer have to sleep to start dreaming.”

“You’re having visions?” Thordren asked.

Gaven looked up, studying his brother. That question was the first hint he’d given of concern about Gaven’s mental state.

Does he think I’m mad, or possessed? Gaven thought. Has he simply been trying to placate me until help can arrive?

He stood and stalked to the window again, this time searching the streets for a marching force of Sentinel Marshals or some other authority on their way to arrest him.

“Gaven?” Rienne was beside him again, her face full of concern.

“Tell me something, Thordren.” Gaven turned around, leaning back against the windowsill and crossing his arms. “Twenty-six years ago, House Lyrandar excoriated me and the tribunal threw me in Dreadhold. You’ve obviously gotten on with your life, and you’re doing well.”

“I don’t un-” Thordren began, but Gaven cut him off.

“Why did you welcome me back with open arms?”

Thordren looked as though he didn’t understand the question. “Because you’re my brother,” he answered.

“I’m an excoriate. Technically, that means I’m not your brother any more. You have no obligation to me. In fact, you’re prohibited from giving me aid or shelter. You could be arrested just for having me here. Why did you let me into your house?”

Thordren’s bewildered look changed as he gradually made sense of Gaven’s questions. “You don’t trust me,” he said. “You think I’ve already summoned the Sentinel Marshals and I’m just keeping you busy until they get here? Is that it?”