“Agreed,” Dalan said. “Just outside the walls should be fine. We’ll have ample cover to mask our arrival.”
“Everyone else, remain on the ship,” Tristam said. “We shouldn’t be long, and if things go sour we may have to leave quickly. I don’t want to leave anyone behind.”
Tristam noticed Dalan grinning at him silently.
“What?” Tristam asked.
“I was about to say much the same thing,” Dalan said.
Tristam wasn’t sure if the idea that he and Dalan were thinking more alike was reassuring or disturbing.
The ship descended swiftly, the elemental ring humming in its steady rhythm. The rolling hills of Breland spread out beneath them. New Cyre sat nestled at the base of a small range of rugged cliffs. The eastern sky churned a greasy, unsettling gray.
“I expected the city to be bigger,” Seren said.
“It’s a fair-sized town,” Dalan replied.
“Maybe,” Tristam said, “but for the home of Cyre’s survivors, it’s smaller than Vulyar.”
“Not all the survivors have accepted it as their new home,” Dalan said. “Not that there were many of us to start.”
Karia Naille swooped down in a broad arc, circling well around the city and settling among the southern cliffs. Dalan, Seren, and Tristam climbed down the boarding ladder and hiked down to the main road. Tristam looked at Seren curiously. She wore a short dress of fine white silk under a long black coat, with black velvet boots.
“Why are you dressed like that, Seren?” Tristam asked.
“I’m pretending to be Dalan’s niece,” she said, looking at him earnestly. “I look foolish in this, don’t I?”
“No,” he said quickly, obviously a little dumfounded. “Not at all.”
Seren grinned.
“I felt Seren would make the best bodyguard in New Cyre,” Dalan explained. “She provides adequate protection without standing out as much as Omax or Zed would.”
“I feel underdressed,” Tristam said, shifting his baggy coat over his shoulders.
“You’re fine,” Dalan said as he headed off toward the road. “Just pretend you’re my shabbily dressed bodyguard, or something.”
Tristam shared an exhausted look with Seren, then followed.
They were almost immediately met by a farmer and his sons on the way to town with a bushel of fresh fruit. The man greeted them amiably, tossing each of them an apple before continuing on his way. A pair of bored soldiers sat at the gates, playing a game of dice. One greeted Seren with a low whistle and a friendly grin, but they seemed otherwise unconcerned. The streets were clean, straight and uncluttered. The roofs of the houses were painted in a rainbow of colors, giving the entire town a welcome, cheerful appearance.
“This certainly isn’t what I expected,” Tristam said.
Dalan had been watching Tristam with an expectant grin. “And what did you expect?”
“It’s …” Tristam searched for the right word. “Cheerful? It’s strange to me, after everything the Cyrans lost.”
“They have one another,” Seren said.
“Phrased with beautiful simplicity,” Dalan said. “You live in a beautiful world, Miss Morisse, but I’m not sure that I agree with your assessment. Cyre was the gem of Khorvaire. As a nation, we prided ourselves on craftsmanship, brotherhood, and beauty. The prince has gone to great lengths to ensure that the vision of Cyre is maintained. So long as New Cyre stands as a reflection of the Cyre that was, the people can perhaps believe, for a time, that Cyre has not perished. The illusion of Cyre gives them a sense of hope. Some tragedies can only be addressed by pretending that they never happened. Thus the forced cheer and mask of friendly hospitality.”
“I like Seren’s explanation better,” Tristam said.
“Then believe it,” Dalan said, shrugging. “I am a pessimist. But enough sightseeing, we have work to do here. Follow me. I have the address we require.”
They passed through the streets, pausing occasionally to ask directions. Tristam studied the people carefully as they went about their daily lives. They looked normal, happy, and cheerful, but there was a certain edge. A hesitation before laughter. A moment of regret after a smile. Families walked with a space between them, as if leaving room for someone absent. Solitary figures huddled alone where they hoped none would see, sobbing quietly. New Cyre was a town of hope-but it was a fragile hope. Tristam sighed. Was he really starting to see the world the same way Dalan did?
“This is the one,” Dalan said. The small house stood adjacent to a schoolhouse. A pack of children ran and played in the yard outside, under the watchful eye of an elderly schoolmarm. Dalan approached the door and knocked briskly.
“Can I help you, strangers?” said a thin voice. The old schoolmarm had risen and walked over to meet them. She looked at each of them warily, casting extra suspicion at Seren’s short skirt and leather surcoat.
“Taria Marcho?” Dalan asked, smiling brightly.
“I am she,” the old woman said.
“Is Devyn your son?” Dalan asked.
Taria’s face paled. One hand moved unconsciously to cover her mouth. “Has Devyn come to harm?” he asked.
“My apologies,” Dalan said with a reassuring laugh. “I did not mean to alarm you. Devyn is quite well. I saw him only a few weeks ago. I am a friend of his.” He proffered the brown package. “I was merely in town and felt it proper to bring his sweet mother a gift. Fresh-baked cookies. Devyn sends his regards.”
The old woman relaxed, her suspicion replaced with a friendly smile. “Thank you,” she said, accepting the package gratefully. “I worry about him so.”
“The mother of a hero,” Dalan said. “You must be quite proud. Well, I shall take up no more of your time …” He tipped his hat and turned to walk away. Tristam looked at him, confused.
“Wait, no,” Taria said. “Please, wait a moment.” She turned toward the schoolyard. “Rathen?”
One of the older boys playing looked up at the sound of his name.
“Keep an eye on the children, please,” she told him firmly. “I’m going inside for a bit to speak with my son’s friends. Children, listen to Rathen.”
Rathen nodded obediently and stood up, immediately assuming the aura of cocky authority that children do when given command of other children. He gave Taria a little salute. She smiled at him and stepped into the house, gesturing for them to follow.
“I apologize for appearing so unexpectedly,” Dalan said as he followed her inside. “I travel a great deal and am never sure where the road will take me.”
“Of course,” she said sweetly. “My Devyn is the same way. His friends are welcome any time. Would you like tea? What did you say your name was again?”
“I am Tomas,” he replied, taking a seat next to a small table when offered. “This is my niece, Arielle, and my bodyguard, Gorbus.”
Tristam smiled stiffly at the sound of his new alias. He and Seren sat to eachside of Dalan. Tristam felt slightly dazed. As frustrating as Dalan’s manipulations could be when caught amid them, it was amazing to watch them from the other side. The old schoolmarm busied herself readying a pot of tea for her guests, singing happily to herself, her mood greatly cheered by news of her son’s well-being.
“Gorbus?” Tristam whispered when Taria’s attention was elsewhere. “What kind of name is that?”
Dalan chuckled. “I must confess this is something of a homecoming for my friend Gorbus,” Dalan said loudly, looking at the artificer with a wicked grin. “He is a lad eager to prove himself. My old war stories seem to have inspired him. He greatly admires Devyn.”
Tristam raised an eyebrow at Dalan. Dalan nodded in encouragement.
“A hero,” Tristam said. “I hope to one day prove to be as great, so that I may win the heart of winsome Arielle.”
Seren giggled. Dalan frowned. Tristam could barely keep himself from laughing.