“Omax,” she said, smiling at the warforged. “Do you feel any better?”
“I have not burdened the House artificers yet,” he said. His head tilted and his eyes pulsed, radiating concern. “You are injured. What has happened?”
“Tristam and I were attacked in the streets,” she said.
Omax rose, fists clenching with a metal clang. “Where is he?” the warforged demanded.
“He’s fine now,” Seren said in a soothing voice. “He was badly injured, but the healers have him now.”
Omax’s hands opened. He looked at his reflection in the water. “Our lives are much more dangerous than they once were, Seren,” he said. “I fear it will only grow worse.”
Seren frowned. “Omax, if you’re going to try to talk me into leaving, it’s too late for that.”
“Leave?” Omax looked up at her intently. He looked at everything intently. “That was the furthest idea from my mind, Seren. I was going to thank you for staying.”
“Oh,” she said, uncertain what to say.
“We have been given a great gift, Seren,” the warforged said.
Seren’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Do you remember the War, Seren?” he said. “Truly remember it?”
“I never saw any battles,” she said. “I was too young. But I remember the look in my father’s eyes when he would come home to visit. He was a little sadder, and a little more tired each time.” Her voice became choked. “And I remember the day the messenger came with the black envelope for my mother, and my father stopped coming home.”
Omax nodded. “Then you understand. The Last War was the greatest evil this world has ever known. It devoured nations, ruined lives great and small, and scarred the land more deeply than any other tragedy manufactured by mortals. The War is not over, Seren.” The warforged sat, folding his arms across his lap.
“What do you mean?” she asked. “The War has been over for years. The Treaty of Thronehold-”
“Is nothing,” Omax said. “The warforged do not sleep, Seren, and we do not dream. Yet, when all is still and the world is quiet … my mind wanders. I feel the pulse of magic in the earth. I feel the song of battle in my soul. I feel the soul of war, deep within the earth. War may slumber, Seren, but it never dies. The Last War has not passed from this world. It only waits.”
The warforged removed the woolen cap from his head, twisting it between his rough-hewn hands. He slumped, shoulders sagging from an invisible burden. Seren watched him silently.
“I believe the Mourning Dawn exists for a purpose, Seren,” he said. “Think upon it. Every soul in its crew has been touched by war, darkened by it.”
“Even Gerith?” Seren asked. “He seems so happy.”
“Gerith has wandered for longer than you think,” Omax said. “For each joyful tale he tells, he carries ten tragedies. It is to his credit that he does not allow his memories to burden him. He is part of Ashrem’s legacy.”
“What do you mean?” Seren asked.
“Not Ashrem’s terrible invention,” Omax said. “His true legacy. His desire to preserve peace.” Omax placed the hat back on his domed skull. “I believe we are that legacy, Seren. A band of scattered souls who have been injured by war, driven to solitude. We are now family.” He looked up at her again. “The war stirs, Seren. It will send its servants to divide and destroy us. Now, more than ever, we must remain strong. Remain together.”
Seren looked away, staring back into the fountain.
“Is something wrong, Seren?” he asked.
“I was thinking about Dalan,” she said.
Omax chuckled. “Dalan needs the rest of us more than anyone,” he said. “It was a noble thing that Tristam did, to rescue him from Marth.”
“Maybe too noble,” Seren said. “He’s as deceitful as he ever was.”
Omax cocked his head in surprise. “Would you have abandoned him?”
“I still don’t trust him,” Seren said. “Since we learned he was in league with Marth, he’s been going out of his way to flatter and compliment us. It’s like he’s trying to distract us from something.”
“Or he has realized his former arrogance serves no purpose,” Omax said. “We should rejoice in the change. To ingratiate himself with others is his nature.”
“I’m not sure that’s entirely it,” she said. She reached into her cloak and drew out an envelope, affixed with a broken Cannith seal.
“What is that?” Omax asked.
“The letter he asked me to give Kiris Overwood if she refused to help,” Seren said. “It forced her to come with us. If not for this letter, she never would have come to the Ghost Talon village. Marth wouldn’t have killed her.”
“What does it say?” Omax said.
“I don’t know,” Seren said, standing and looking around the courtyard. “Kiris burned it, but I gathered the ashes before we escaped. If there’s any place to fix it, it’s here.”
“Do you require my aid, Seren?” Omax asked.
“Not for this, Omax,” she said, smiling at him. “I should be fine.”
The warforged bowed his head, returning to his meditation.
Seren walked back into the main estate, stopping the first servant she passed. The servant directed her to an office deeper in the house. There, a tired old Cannith clerk looked up at her blearily. From the collar of his robe she could see his dragonmark, the mirror image of Dalan’s own, crawling up the side of his neck. He took the envelope from her, glancing at its contents briefly before returning it with a frown.
“I am sorry,” he said. “My meager talents can do nothing to repair this. The damage is too great for magic to repair.”
Seren felt her heart sink. She nodded at the old man and mumbled soft thanks for his aid, then discarded the envelope in his fireplace. She walked back out into the hall.
A servant met her, offering to escort her to the chambers that had been prepared for her stay. She nodded her thanks and followed. She was shown to a small bed chamber, identical to the one where Tristam was still recovering. Seren removed her cloak and let it drop heavily on the floor.
One hand moved to her dagger when she felt eyes on her from the doorway. She turned to see Dalan standing there, his broad face expressionless.
“If you wished to know what my letter said,” he said, “you could have asked me.”
“Are you spying on me?” she asked.
Dalan laughed. “You are allowed to be suspicious of me, but the reverse is some dreadful sin? Hypocrisy. I wish to be honest, and all you do is insult me.” Dalan smirked. “I cannot say I do not deserve such treatment. You and the others have risked much to aid me, and I have been ungrateful.”
“Then tell me what you told Kiris to change her mind,” Seren said, a hint of anger in her voice.
Dalan reached into his pocket and produced a white envelope, affixed with a fresh seal identical to the broken one that marked the old envelope. “I have a keen memory, and remember my words precisely,” Dalan said. “Read it, if you must.”
“How do I know you aren’t lying again?” she said.
“You do not,” he replied, setting the letter on the small table beside the door. “However, I believe the contents will leave little room for doubt.”
Seren took the envelope cautiously, as if it were some dangerous thing. She broke the seal and drew out the letter.
Miss Overwood
You remember me from the days of the Last War, when you served my uncle in his doomed quest for peace. You may recall that I am not a man given to empty threats, so look well to my words.
You followed Ashrem d’Cannith into ruin. What motivated you to offer your life for him, I cannot say. Now my uncle is dead, and you labor in the service of a madman.
I know Marth. I know the depths of his insanity. What’s more, many of the channels I used to contact him when we were allies remain open. As you serve his quest and interfere with mine, reflect upon this-it would be all too easy for me to convince him that you have turned against him.