“I think you are right, Arthen,” Eraina said. “The Flame never watched over you.”
“Angling to convert me to the Host, Eraina?” he asked. “Never had you pegged as an evangelist.”
“That isn’t what I mean,” she said. “Aren’t you the one who always touts the value of redemption? Yet you deny your own redemption, deny any possibility of returning to your role as champion.”
“You don’t have to be an artist to like a painting, Eraina,” Zed said.
“You’re a good man, Arthen,” Eraina said. “The Flame never watched you because it knew you could watch yourself. You were chosen as a paladin because you did not need protection. You had the strength to protect others-and you still do.”
“Then why can’t I call on a paladin’s holy magic anymore?” Zed asked. “Why can’t I hear the Flame’s voice?”
“Because you are not listening,” Eraina said. “You are a man of unshakable faith, Arthen, but you have turned that faith inward. You listen only to yourself.”
He looked into her eyes for a long moment, wondering, wanting to believe. Then the moment was over. His weathered face creased in a bitter sneer. He folded his arms across his chest and sat back in his chair, tucking his chin against his chest.
“I think I’m done talking about religion for one day, Eraina,” he said. “Wake me up when we reach Nathyrr.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Dying Sun was larger than Karia Naille, but still much smaller than most airships. She was painted brilliant red and was far more ornately appointed than her sister ship. The entire vessel, from the railing to the ring struts, was covered in decorative pictograms. A delicate lance of pure crystal extended from the bow of the ship, a smaller version of the devastating lightning rod that Seventh Moon had so often used against them. As Seren stood beside the airship and ran one hand along her sleek hull, she imagined how beautiful Dying Sun must have been. It was no surprise that Tristam could not bring himself to destroy such a wondrous creation.
She just hoped he was making the right choice.
Deep inside the ship, Seren could hear low chanting and rhythmic hammering. Tristam worked to restore life to the Sun. She worried about him. The more he worked on the crippled airship, the less he spoke. Today he had only emerged to eat, smile faintly at her, and disappear back into the ship’s core. For two days they had been here. Gerith appeared occasionally, delivering food and water from Karia Naille, but they were otherwise on their own.
Ijaac and Omax were outside again, shoveling the last heaps of dirt and stone atop the mass grave they had dug for the bodies in the rail station. It seemed almost a futile act, burying a few corpses in a city of the dead. When Seren asked why they insisted, Omax only shrugged and replied that he felt he must do something. Some of the Sun’s crew had been the warforged’s friends, years ago. Ijaac was far more pragmatic in his motivation. In a place like this, it was just better to bury the dead before they got back up and started causing trouble. Seren had helped them dig until she was exhausted, but she could not keep up for long. She was not a frail girl, but could only match the pace of a dwarf and a warforged for so long. The door of the station opened and Ijaac staggered in with a tired sigh. The dwarf’s thin white hair was streaked with sweat. His pale skin was flushed with exhaustion. Outside, Omax’s digging continued with the same rhythm he had maintained for the last several hours.
“Almost done,” Ijaac said with a pleased smile. He ambled over to Seren, pausing to glance at something in his hand. The dwarf looked at her soberly, his cheerful demeanor fading. “I found this on one of the bodies. You may want to give this to Pherris.”
He handed her a small golden badge. She held it in her palm, studying the design. It looked like a military insignia, sculpted in the shape of an open wing. Though she didn’t speak or read the language of the gnomes, she recognized the family name inscribed upon it.
“Haimel Gerriman,” she read.
“I flew with him to the Frostfell,” Ijaac said. “He was a good lad. He deserved better than this. His father should know what happened to him. If I were a betting dwarf, I’d wager finding out what happened to Haimel was one of the reasons Pherris got wrapped up in this.” Ijaac smiled ruefully. “I think he’ll take the news better from you, Seren. You’re prettier than I am.”
“How do I tell Pherris his son is dead?” Seren asked, tucking the pin in her pocket.
“I don’t know, Seren,” Ijaac said, shrugging uncomfortably. “If it helps, I think Pherris already knows. He just needs proof. He’ll sleep easier, knowing what happened.”
“I have no sons,” Ashrem’s shade said sadly. “My only legacy is a prophecy that should never have been revealed.” He stared into his hand, watching as the fingers faded from view and resolved themselves once again. “My heirs believe I have forsaken them.” He laughed, an almost hysterical sound. “I have no legacy. There is only ash.”
Ijaac looked at the figment cautiously, then back at Seren. “That thing’s beginning to get on my nerves,” he said. “It’s been getting more disjointed and weird since we got here, mumbling on about nothing to no one in particular.”
“The phantom has almost fulfilled its purpose,” Tristam said, appearing at the railing above them. The artificer tugged his goggles down to hang around his neck. “The magic that binds it is beginning to lose cohesion as I get closer to repairing the Sun. I wish I could find a way to stabilize it. Having Ashrem’s wisdom would be a great help, even as fragmented as it is.”
“Let it die, Tristam,” Ijaac said. “That isn’t really Ashrem. It shouldn’t exist. You shouldn’t listen to it. The Mournland creates things like that to drive people insane.”
Tristam said nothing. He stared at the illusion of his mentor, his face unreadable.
“How’s your work coming, Tristam?” Seren asked.
“Good,” Tristam said, breaking into an excited smile. “I think the Sun could fly right now if we needed her to. She just needs more fine tuning to make sure she’ll stay in the air long enough to reach a city. A ship like this can fly with a single pilot for short periods, so I hope we can …”
A sharp pop and the sound of snapping metal came from outside. Seren jumped as white sparks scattered over the one of the windows.
“Those damn living spells are back again,” Ijaac said, sighing as he drew his morningstar from his belt. “I’d best go give Omax a hand.”
“Omax?” Tristam called out. “Are you hurt?”
The doors opened and Omax staggered inside. His eyes shone only dimly. A thin plume of smoke curled from his mouth. A jagged scar bisected his chest, glowing white hot.
“Tristam, flee!” the warforged said. Omax tore the doors from their hinges, hurling them at an unseen foe. A grunt of pain accompanied a burst of green flame, exploding in the doorway. Omax flew backward, crashing into a ticket booth and lying still.
Marth stepped into the doorway, walking with a pained limp. He wore his usual uniform, though his purple cloak was now ragged and torn. The amethyst wand was still smoking in his hand. Blood trickled from one corner of his mouth. He looked at them with dead white eyes and sliced the air with one hand. The invisible wards protecting the door flashed a sickening green color and shattered.
“Omax, you never did know when you were better off not fighting,” Marth said.
“Khyber,” Tristam swore, leaping down from the deck and drawing his wand. “How did Marth find us?”