“So you told the truth,” Zed said. “Just not the whole truth.”
Eraina looked pained. “Do not mock me, Arthen,” she said. “My vows do not tolerate lies. Falsehood, prevarication, and omission are all facets of the same sin. It sickened me to deliver that report, just as it sickens me to allow Killian to draw another breath wearing the tabard of a Sentinel Marshal.” She looked down at the unconscious Marshal. “I gave him that report to gauge his reaction, hoping that I would be wrong. Then he immediately leaves his post to visit a speaker station in the middle of the night.”
“I thought that a bit odd, too,” Zed said. “I was about to ask him why.”
“I will wake him,” Eraina said, kneeling over Killian.
“Wait,” Zed said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Why not just leave him? Keep sending your reports. Keep Marth misinformed, off his guard. Killian doesn’t know he’s been found out yet. He could do more good than harm.”
“You warned me about splitting hairs,” Eraina said. “After one false report, Marth will suspect the truth and cease relying upon Killian. My lies will serve no further good and a corrupted Marshal will continue to preside over Korth. There is only one recourse now.” She extended one hand and pressed her fingers to Killian’s temple. “And that is the truth.”
Eraina whispered a brief prayer to Boldrei and her fingertips glowed white. A shivering gasp issued through the unconscious Marshal. Killian sat bolt upright, instantly awake, his eyes wide.
“What happened?” he said, looking around in confusion. “Eraina?”
“Killian,” Eraina said. She rose, glaring down at him coldly. “Why?”
He looked at her blankly, glancing past her for a moment to peer at Zed curiously. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Why what?”
“Why?” she repeated, more tersely. Her hand tightened on her spear. “Why did you betray us to Llaine Grove’s killer?”
“I didn’t …” Killian began, but the dangerous gleam in the paladin’s eyes made the lie die in his mouth. “You don’t understand, Eraina. Your view is too narrow, too naive. Eberron is not ready for peace. Zamiel will ignite the war anew, and the world will be as we all remember it again.”
“Remove that seal,” she said, pointing at his Marshal’s badge with her spear.
“Am I under arrest?” he asked. “I have done nothing that you can prove. You have no grounds to accuse me, Marshal.”
Eraina removed her own Marshal’s seal, casting it onto the cobblestones. “It is not a Marshal who accuses you. It is not House Deneith’s judgment you face, traitor. The Host judges you now. Boldrei’s eyes are upon you.”
“Damn paladins.” Killian hissed, staggering to his feet.
“Indeed,” Zed said. “Need help, Eraina?”
She shook her head, eyes still fixed on Killian.
Marshal Killian drew his sword and lunged at Eraina with a fierce cry. She parried his blade with the haft of her spear and drew her shortsword across his stomach. Killian fell to his knees with a wet cough, blood streaming over his legs. He looked up at her in helpless pain, hand shaking as the sword dropped from his grasp. Eraina flipped the blade in her hand and drew it back in another swift stroke, slashing the fallen Marshal’s throat. He fell dead in the filth and refuse of the alley. Eraina knelt beside him, wiping his blood from her blade with a scrap of white cloth as she uttered a short prayer to the Hearthmother.
“You’re quiet, Arthen,” she said. “More advice?”
Zed rested a hand on her shoulder. Eraina looked up, her eyes widening when she saw he held her Marshal’s seal in his hand. She hesitated a long moment before accepting it, pinning the badge back in its accustomed place on her cloak. He helped her to the feet and together they made their way back through the rain toward the Sentinel bastion.
SEVEN
Seren saw a flicker of movement, but too late. She seized Tristam’s arm and pulled him to the side, but the shadows opened and a small, thin man lunged out and drew twin daggers, stabbing at Tristam’s back. Tristam hissed in pain and fell to one knee as the blades drove into him. The assassin daggers fell again, the left hand blade slashing out at Seren. Seren saw the weapon coming, but her eyes were on the right blade, lifted high, prepared to finish Tristam. Rather than dodge aside, she dropped, kicking up with one leg as she fell. Her foot collided solidly, and the mysterious attacker recoiled with a groan.
She lunged forward into a crouch and sprang, her own knife appearing in her hand. Her target recovered, standing straight and spinning in a pirouette to one side. A knife lashed out, tracing a path of red pain across her hip.
Seren turned to find the assassin pacing away, watching her carefully. He was a small man with short, curly blonde hair. His ears tapered into long, slender points and his almond eyes gleamed with excitement.
“Unexpected grace and complexity. Like the first snowflake,” the elf said in a deep, oddly musical voice. “If I touch you, will you melt?”
Seren glanced down at Tristam, huddled in pain on the ground. The assassin seized upon her distraction, leaping in with both daggers again. Seren returned her attention to him instantly. His eyes widened as he realized he had fallen for her feint. Seren rolled aside and her dagger slashed down, slashing a gouge across his back. He hissed and somersaulted away, throwing one of his daggers as he rolled. The blade slashed her thigh and tumbled into the darkness.
“No longer intriguing, snowflake,” he said, drawing up to his full height and sneering at her.
The assassin ran at Seren, blade low and to one side. Seren held her dagger ready to meet his charge, but he cartwheeled to one side at the last moment, leaping toward Tristam. The artificer fell backward, drawing out his wand and unleashing a bolt of lightning at the elf. The assassin dodged the blast with an annoyed curse. The energy struck the side of a temple, scattering stone in a noisy explosion. Muffled shouts and startled hoof beats resounded in reply, as well as the ring of a guard’s alarm bell.
The assassin stood straight, looked at Seren and Tristam, and sighed.
“Annoying,” he said.
The shadows billowed outward, wrapped around him, and swallowed him. Seren and Tristam were alone in the darkened street. Tristam collapsed on the cobbles, wand tumbling from his hand. Seren ran to his side, calling out for help.
“Who was that?” Tristam groaned. “What was that?”
“He’s gone now, Tristam,” Seren whispered, her eyes scanning the streets to make sure that was true. “Just hold on.”
Tristam fumbled in his coat, but his hand refused to obey, too wracked with pain to move normally. A pouch tumbled out of his pocket onto the street. “That bag,” he said. “I have potions. They’ll numb the pain till we can find a healer.”
“You actually brought useful potions this time?” Seren asked in a gently mocking tone, though her voice quavered with worry. She opened up the pouch and found a small pouch of crystal vials. They contained a thick, bubbly purple liquid. She uncorked one and offered it to Tristam. The artificer drank desperately, some of the potion dribbling down his chin and mixing with the blood. He tensed as the effects took hold, then ceased trembling. His dark eyes became slightly glazed. He smiled faintly and leaned back against her. She cradled his head as his rapid breathing became more even.
“What was in that?” Seren asked suspiciously.
“Just a … healing draught,” Tristam said with a chuckle. “But … you have to mix it with whiskey … or it clots in the bottle.”
Seren sniffed the empty vial. To her nose, it seemed as if there was more whiskey than potion, but she wasn’t one to tell an artificer how to do his craft.