“I never said there was no hope,” Marth said with a grim smile. “Only that hope does not lie in Zil’argo. I need only wait for Tristam Xain to resurface. Ashrem d’Cannith built the Karia Naille. Her elemental core will serve to fire the Seventh Moon.”
“When do you think he will reappear?” Zamiel asked.
“I cannot say when, but I know where,” Marth replied. “Dalan d’Cannith was on the Seventh Moon far too long. A mind like his would have easily gathered clues enough to trace the soldiers who serve me. No doubt the Mourning Dawn will follow that trail to New Cyre. Over half the crew still has kin there.”
“Find Tristam quickly, Marth,” Zamiel said. “Each time he escapes you, he grows more dangerous.”
Marth frowned at the mention of his failure, but made no excuses. Instead, he stepped away from the repair crew, pale eyes intent on the prophet. “Something has happened,” he said.
“Xain has been to the Frostfell,” Zamiel said. “He has destroyed Zul’nadn.”
“Destroyed it?” Marth asked, shocked. “Are you certain?”
Zamiel looked at Marth patiently.
“A foolish question,” the changeling said. “How did he do such a thing?”
“It seems he is not as far behind your research as you believed,” the prophet said. “I sensed rampant magical energies similar to those of the Legacy. He turned the manifest zone upon itself, twisting the space between worlds and collapsing the temple.”
“What of the Draconic Prophecy?” Marth asked.
“Gone,” Zamiel said. “That which was written on the walls of Zul’nadn only remains here.” He pressed his hand against his chest. “Fear not, Marth. I feel I spent lifetimes studying the mysteries. Though the Prophecy speaks no more, I guide you still.”
“Thank you, Zamiel,” Marth said. “If you have time, do you think you could speak to the men? Between the wreck, the halflings, and the elves their morale has suffered terribly. Your words would do much to inspire them.”
“I will do what I can,” Zamiel said. “But I shall require some time alone in meditation.”
“Whatever you require,” Marth said. He smiled gratefully at the prophet and returned to his work.
TWENTY-TWO
Tristam staggered onto the deck, pulling his goggles away and coughing painfully. Pink smoke rolled off him, along with the stench of rotten eggs. He lurched to the ship’s rail, leaning into the wind and letting the cool breeze wash over him. His goggles fell forgotten from his hand. The little clay homunculus snatched them in one hand before they could tumble through the railing and into the sky. It slung them over one shoulder and plopped down by Tristam’s feet, regarding its creator with patient curiosity. Tristam clapped his hands rapidly over his sleeves, putting out the last few sparks that were dancing through his clothing.
“Research not going well?” Pherris asked, glancing over his shoulder at the artificer.
“I’m just a little flustered,” Tristam said, voice hoarse from coughing. “I’m not sure what’s wrong with me.”
“Pretty obvious to me,” Zed said. The inquisitive stood near the bow of the ship, long pipe dangling from his mouth. “I’ve seen this sort of thing plenty of times.”
Tristam looked at the inquisitive curiously.
“Peace,” Zed said with a laugh. “From the Frostfell to Stormhome and beyond and we haven’t had any trouble at all. You don’t know what to do with yourself, Tristam. You keep expecting something to happen, and when it doesn’t, you worry. You’re looking for trouble. Seen it in plenty of young soldiers who just survived their first battle. Few weeks of peace after something like that can drive a man crazy.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Tristam said. “I’m worried about how easily things have gone since Zul’nadn. I’m worried that Norra was so eager to leave the ship and return to Morgrave. I’m worried that Dalan has been acting so strangely since he came back on board. I’m worried that no one in Stormhome gave us any trouble when we landed, though we were the only ship to escape Marth’s attack.”
“Dalan thinks none of the Lyrandar port authorities recognized us,” Pherris said.
Tristam grunted, unconvinced.
“Anyway, what were you working on, Tristam?” Zed asked. “Smells like it isn’t going well.”
The artificer shrugged. “I was taking a break from Overwood’s journals to tinker with a new formula,” he said. “I’d been toying with it in my head for a while now. It didn’t turn out quite as stable as I was hoping.”
“Explosives?” Zed asked.
“Not initially,” Tristam said. “I meant it to be a sleep powder. There was an unexpected reaction.” He rubbed his eyes and blinked into the wind. “I still can’t see straight. I guess the mixture was ineffective”
“Or just effective enough,” Zed said. “That all depends how long you want them to stay asleep. Did you make any more?”
“Of course,” Tristam said. He held out one hand, displaying a pink glass sphere. A gleam of gold metal shone within it.
“Looks like an egg,” Zed observed. “What’s that inside?”
“A calculated risk,” Tristam said.
“I am glad you are not one to let a failed experiment discourage you, Master Xain,” Dalan said, emerging from the galley. “I knew I was wise to sponsor you. Without curiosity, there can be no innovation.” The guild master held a thick wooden platter heaped with bread and roast duck. He smiled broadly and nodded at his burden, quite pleased at the bounty. “Gerith has outdone himself today. You really should help yourselves while it’s still warm.” He whistled softly as he strode across the deck and disappeared into his cabin.
Tristam stared at Dalan’s hatch blankly. Zed carefully tapped out his pipe on the rail and tucked it back into his coat.
“You’re right,” Pherris said quietly. “Dalan has been odd since he returned. Almost … I can’t describe it.”
“Pleasant,” Zed said.
“That’s the word,” Pherris answered.
“Pretty disturbing, I agree,” Zed said. “He hasn’t been as nosy as usual. Kept mostly to himself.”
“Perhaps he is busy organizing the information he acquired in Stormhome,” Pherris said. “He’s been amiable because he has a riddle to occupy his mind.”
“Or he found a woman,” Zed said. “Host knows Dalan needs one.”
Pherris frowned in disapproval.
“It’s true,” Zed shrugged. “He needed something to cheer him up, anyway. What makes Dalan happy?”
“Plans coming together,” Tristam said.
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Zed said, taking a deep breath. “You should probably talk to him, Tristam. Try to find out what he’s up to. Make sure he still remembers whose side he’s on. You know Dalan.”
“You want me to talk to him?” Tristam asked. “You’re the inquisitive. Why don’t you find out what he’s up to?”
“Because Dalan hates me,” Zed said. “He’s extra careful not to give anything away because he knows I’m as smarmy, curious, and arrogant as he is. You’ve actually earned his respect, Tristam.”
“Me?” Tristam asked. “You’re kidding.”
“As much as Master d’Cannith is capable of respecting anyone other than himself,” Pherris said. “You should consult with him before we land in New Cyre.”
“True,” Tristam said.
He crossed to Dalan’s hatch and knocked, but it swung open at his touch. Dalan looked up from his desk with an eager smile, still enjoying his lunch. He waved Tristam in and gestured at the seat across from him. Tristam carefully drew out the chair and sat down. The little construct sat at his feet, drawing a confused sniff from Gunther before the dog retreated beneath the bed.
“They sent you to check up on me, didn’t they?” Dalan asked, eyes twinkling mischievously.
“You have been acting strangely, Dalan,” Tristam said. “And you’re dressing strangely. Plainer than usual. Not wearing any of your House seals.”
“Ah. This is merely a disguise,” Dalan said. “I believe our investigations today will go smoothly if I am perceived as a simple traveler, rather than Dalan d’Cannith. Much the same impetus that drives me to strip Karia Naille of all markings of ownership. As for my behavior. My brief vacation from Mourning Dawn has rejuvenated me. Since the events in the Talenta Plains, I must confess I have felt as if I were a burden to this crew.”