Tristam frowned. He could force her to stay. He could threaten her. Better yet, he could just delay her until Dalan returned. If anyone could find a way to obligate Norra to remain and share her expertise, it was he. The Host knew Dalan had already done the same with half the crew.
“You would have given up your life to keep the Legacy from being reborn,” he said at last. “I do not believe you would rebuild it. Do as you will, Norra. Live your life as you wish. I will not interfere.”
Norra gave him a long, thoughtful look. She laughed softly, drawing a confused look from Tristam.
“Did I say something funny?” he asked.
“You reminded me of Ashrem,” she said. “The same odd mix of doubt and confidence. Do not worry, Xain. I do not intend to leave you to fight Marth alone-but you do not need two artificers on this ship, especially when your skills are quite adequate.”
“Adequate,” he said wryly. “Thank you, Norra. So what do you intend to do?”
“I will return to Morgrave University,” she said. “Ashrem began his studies of the Draconic Prophecy there. Perhaps I can find the path that originally led him to the Legacy. In the meantime, you can continue pursuing Marth in a more direct manner. I will contact you if I learn anything.”
“We may be difficult to reach,” Tristam said. “Even I do not know where we will go next.”
“Send me a post whenever you will be in a port for an extended length of time,” she said. “I will reply as quickly as I am able.”
Tristam nodded as he rose. “Very well, then,” he said. “I will leave you to your rest, Norra.”
She closed her eyes and sat back against the wall.
“Thank you for repairing Omax,” he said, still standing at the hatch. She seemed to already be asleep.
Tristam closed the hatch, running one hand through his tangled hair as he walked down the corridor. As usual, answers had only brought more questions. Discoveries only bred doubt. What was the Legacy? Who was Zamiel? What was Ashrem’s part in the Draconic Prophecy? Was he right to just let Norra Cais leave?
The last question he quickly pushed away. He would not force her help. He would not become like Dalan, playing games with other people’s lives.
A heavy thump from deeper in the cargo hold drew Tristam’s attention, along with an oddly dank smell. He looked up to see Ijaac sitting between two large crates, wearing a loose tunic and loose cloth trousers. His morningstar and armor sat in a heap beside him. He removed his other heavy boot and massaged his bare feet with a blissful moan.
“Ijaac?” Tristam said curiously.
“Sorry about the smell, Master Xain,” Ijaac said. “Feels like I’ve been running for days. Good to get a real chance to rest.”
“You can have a cabin if you want,” Tristam said. “We still have one to spare.”
“No thanks, Master Xain,” Ijaac said, looking down the corridor pensively. “The cabins all have portholes.”
“Portholes?” Tristam asked, “and call me Tristam, please.”
“Aye,” Ijaac said nervously. “If I don’t have to look at the sky, it bothers me less to be so high up in it.”
“You’re afraid of heights?” Tristam asked.
The dwarf’s face flushed. “Afraid is a strong word, Tristam,” he said. “Call it cautious.”
“Cautious,” Tristam agreed with a laugh. “Well, I can ask Gerith to find something to cover the porthole if you like. Better than sleeping in the hold.”
“That’d be wonderful,” the old dwarf said. “I’d be much obliged.”
“So I take it we’ll be dropping you off in Stormhome as well?” Tristam asked.
Ijaac looked up at Tristam, blue eyes wide. He quickly returned his attention to his feet, sighing deeply. “I suppose the Dawn has steel enough to defend her,” he said. “If you don’t need this old dwarf, I’ll be happy to go on my way. Have to admit I’ll be sad to leave.”
“You want to stay?” Tristam asked, surprised.
Ijaac looked up again, smiling through his thick beard. “Tristam, I saw what happened back in Zul’nadn. You were free and clear. I’d given you the time you needed to escape. There aren’t many men who’d run back past a raging dragon to save a man they’d just met.”
“What else could I do?” Tristam said. “I couldn’t leave you there.”
“And that’s what I mean,” Ijaac said, snapping his fingers. “I’m your dwarf, Tristam Xain, till you need me no more.”
Tristam was stunned by the unexpected show of confidence. With all of the doubt and confusion that their journey to the Frostfell had heaped on him, the dwarf’s earnest trust was an odd relief.
“Thank you, Master Bruenhail,” he said finally. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”
Ijaac grinned and continued rubbing his feet.
TWENTY-ONE
The prophet absorbed the scene below with extraordinary calm. Truth be told, calm was the only emotion he felt he could appropriately muster. Anger would have been a waste of energy. Sadness was beneath him-regret was a burden for weak minds. Instead, his mind focused with a fierce intensity as cool as the frozen plains that surrounded him.
He stood on an icy precipice, looking down into the valley where Zul’nadn had been. It was a yawning chasm now. Churning, oily smoke boiled from its depths. One side of the giant’s skull still rose from the earth, like a shattered eggshell. The rest was gone. When he heard Mercheldethast’s call, he expected trouble. The dragon never summoned him lightly. He had not expected this. He could sense magic-raw, random, fluctuating magic as it echoed through the pit. He had not expected this, and he did not enjoy being surprised.
He continued staring earnestly into the jagged pit, as if expecting the temple to rise back out of the depths and rebuild itself.
Zamiel climbed down and slowly walked toward the smoking crater. He could have moved much more swiftly if he chose, but there was no need. This was a situation best observed with care. He had no idea who could have done this or how. It galled him to underestimate an enemy. He searched his surroundings cautiously as he advanced. In the distant southern sky he saw the crackling green mass of clouds that was the Fellmaw. The storm was a powerful entity, but it could not have done this. Zamiel squinted as he studied the play of lightning through the storm’s heart. His sharp eyes picked out a hint of blue light within the storm, a ring of fire moving swiftly away.
“Karia Naille,” he whispered.
A low gurgling rolled through the jagged rocks in reply. Zamiel paid it no mind. He could feel dead eyes watching him from the shadows. As stupid as the ghouls were, they had long since learned not to rouse his wrath. Zamiel was, in turn, content to leave the undead beasts alone as long as they avoided him. They were useful in dissuading the occasional curious explorer from Zul’nadn, and had proven ridiculously difficult to exterminate. No matter how many of them he killed, they always returned to infest the temple again. Apparently at least a few of them had even survived whatever catastrophe had consumed the valley. Zamiel idly wondered if the undead would just wander the Frostfell aimlessly forever, but he had greater concerns.
Tristam Xain. They boy had grown from a minor irritant to a serious threat in a short time. Until now, Zamiel had always assumed it was some failure of conscience or indecision on Marth’s part that had always allowed Xain to escape. Now he was not so sure. If Tristam Xain had destroyed Zul’nadn, what else was he capable of? Had he listened to the Prophecy and seen its visions? Did he know about the destiny of the conqueror?
The Prophecy was never wrong, but it could be misread…
The other mortals who entered Zul’nadn had all reacted predictably. The Prophecy was very strong in the depths of Zul’nadn. It wanted to be heard. It wanted to be fulfilled. It would speak to any candidate who was even remotely acceptable, painting images of a terrible future. Those who endured the visions invariably replied in one of two ways-either seduced or repelled. Ironically it was the latter sort who Zamiel had always found the most pliable. Those who were repelled by the destiny of the conqueror were willing to make the greatest sacrifices to avoid it-and with each sacrifice lost a bit more of their souls, making them easier to control.