Zed stopped outside the door to a small tavern. “I think this is where I stop,” he said, looking at the sign above the door. “The Beaten Mule,” he read. “I wonder what poor mad poet dreams up the names of places like this.”
“I will return when I have attended my duties here, Arthen,” she said. “Perhaps we could discuss this further over whatever passes for drink here.”
“Water,” he said.
She looked at him curiously. “Temperance is not a virtue I expected you to retain.”
“It’s the only one I have left,” he said with a dry chuckle.
The inquisitive pushed open the door of the Beaten Mule and disappeared inside. Eraina looked at the door briefly, weighing some internal decision, then continued on her way.
FOUR
The steady crystal song of trickling water filled the cavern. Pure streams cascaded down curtains of stone to fill deep, clear pools. Small motes of magical light hovered in the air, illuminating the natural beauty of the tunnels. The walls glistened with more colors than could be named, flowing like cloth in subtle patterns. It was amazing how something as simple as untouched stone could hold such beauty. A little time, a little moisture, and the mundane became extraordinary.
Coming here always brought him peace. There were other reasons to dwell upon this place, of course, but it was the sound, the shimmer, and the calm that somehow brought him some measure of balance. As the changeling knelt beside the pool and bound his wounds, he sought that balance now.
“Betrayal,” whispered a sibilant voice from the darkness. “Nothing stings quite as deeply.”
Marth peered over one shoulder. The pink scars that covered his right cheek glistened, as if freshly burned. A new light shone in the darkness, a sphere of copper flame that hovered in midair. A monk in robes to match the fire stood at the edge of the shadows, cupping the radiance in his hand. The light shone upon the walls deeper in the caverns, reflecting the twisting scripts painted there. He removed his hand from the flame and stepped away. It remained hovering where he had summoned it. The monk looked down at Marth with sympathy.
“Brother Zamiel,” Marth whispered. His voice was still dry with smoke, and he bowed his head in respect. Obviously his visitor could have been none other than the prophet. The guards would not have allowed anyone else this deep within his stronghold without violence.
“So cruel a barb,” the monk replied, inclining his head in recognition. “No matter how often it wounds us, it is never any less painful or unexpected. There is no defense, no prevention for betrayal save not to trust-and a soul that does not trust is truly lost. Would you not agree? I sense the weight of betrayal heaped upon your shoulders.” Zamiel gestured at the thick bandage that bound Marth’s upper back. “It has taken quite a literal manifestation, in this case.”
“I killed Kiris Overwood,” Marth said, his voice thick. “Tristam Xain and his allies turned her against us.”
“A shame,” the prophet said, nodding sagely. “Kiris was a fragile, foolish girl, but her insight was useful.” Zamiel frowned. “How did this happen?”
“We crippled the Mourning Dawn on her way to the Boneyard, but the ship escaped before she was destroyed,” Marth said. “You were right to put a spy among the Ghost Talons, Brother Zamiel. Not only were they monitoring Kiris’s activities on behalf of House Cannith, but they also made a deal with Dalan d’Cannith to repair his airship.”
“And Xain discovered Kiris,” Zamiel said. He sat at the edge of the pond, staring into the depthless water.
Marth bowed his head. “Obviously he poisoned her mind against me,” he said. “The only kindness I could spare her was a swift death, lest her knowledge be turned against us. I am uncertain what Xain learned from her, but apparently House Cannith was also using the Ghost Talons to monitor us. I took Dalan d’Cannith alive to use as leverage against his house, but the Mourning Dawn attacked and boarded us.”
Zamiel coughed in surprise. “Boarded you?” he asked, incredulous. “Ridiculous. Mourning Dawn is no match for Seventh Moon. I thought you said you had crippled her?”
“The fault is mine,” Marth said. “You were right to warn me against mercy. Xain is a great deal more resourceful than I imagined. He rescued d’Cannith, shattered the Moon’s elemental containment core, and fled. Fortunately most of the crew survived the crash, and the elemental was dispatched after it had slain no more than a dozen soldiers. Repairs have already commenced. My own mobility remains unhindered, due to my magic, but not having a crew at my disposal forces me to act more cautiously abroad.”
“Understood,” Zamiel said. “How soon before your flagship can be repaired?”
“Binding a new elemental is a long and difficult process,” Marth said. “Only the Zil’argo gnomes have truly mastered it, and coercing a skilled craftsman into assisting us could be difficult. It may be months before the Moon flies again.”
“But not an insurmountable problem,” Zamiel said. “What of Tristam Xain?” He looked at Marth curiously.
“Still alive, for now,” Marth said.
The prophet looked at Marth quietly, his question unspoken.
“I have called in a favor,” the changeling said. “Shaimin d’Thuranni has agreed to aid us.”
“A single assassin where your entire crew failed?” Zamiel asked, rising and pacing slowly about the cavern. “I do not like that.”
“He is a Thuranni,” Marth said. “They do not fail.”
“I know of his family’s reputation,” Zamiel said. “Even without their dragonmarks, their deadly cunning is without parallel. All the same, you must have a great deal of faith in this man to entrust an outsider with your enemy.”
“We have a history,” Marth said. “Thuranni House upholds its obligations. He can be trusted.”
“Very well,” Zamiel said, though he sounded unsatisfied. “And what remains for us to do before the Legacy is complete?”
“It is already complete,” Marth said, his voice distant. He reached beneath the folded jacket that lay by his side and drew out a small cylinder.
It was an unimpressive, simple thing-an unadorned tube of pure black metal that seemed to absorb light. It was no longer than a foot, no thicker than a man’s wrist. Yet the prophet’s eyes widened when he sensed the power lurking within it.
“That is a working replica of the Legacy?” Zamiel said in a hushed voice. “How is that possible? I thought that Ashrem’s remaining notes were imperfect, that there were still pieces of the mystery that remained to discover.”
“There are,” Marth said. “Yet I am not completely bereft of skill with artifice. I have taken what we have learned and made deductions, filled the gaps with my own knowledge. I believe that I have reproduced the Legacy much as Ashrem intended. It is unstable, imperfect, but workable.”
“Then why are you still concerned with Xain and the others?” Zamiel asked with an excited chuckle. “They can no longer bar you from your destiny. Let us proceed to Sharn and remake the world as it should be.”
“No,” Marth said, shaking his head vigorously. “Not yet. The time is not right. The Legacy is not yet ready to use on the scale we intended. Even more curious, its purpose remains unclear.”
“You know its purpose, Marth,” Zamiel said. “You know better than anyone, save Ashrem himself.”
“Yes,” Marth said, “but I still don’t know why a man like Ashrem d’Cannith would ever create such a thing. It does not seem right. It makes no sense. I do not trust it, and an untrustworthy tool cannot be put toward such an important task. If the Legacy has a hidden purpose, something other than what I expect, then how can I rely upon it to perform as I desire?” The changeling sighed. “I suppose my babblings must not make a great deal of sense to you, prophet.”
“More than you realize.” Zamiel chuckled. “Perhaps you are right to be wary. A test may be in order.”