“I am sorry, Captain,” Sholan said, bowing his head in shame. “What do we do now?”
“We?” Marth replied. “There is no ‘we,’ Sholan. You are dismissed.”
“Dismissed?” Sholan asked, surprised.
“Gather your belongings and leave Fort Ash,” Marth commanded. “Immediately.”
“What of my badge of rank?” Sholan asked nervously.
“Keep it until you reach the edge of the forest,” Marth said. “Scout Arristan will accompany you and take it from you when you reach Nathyrr. A fool you may be, but I will not send a countryman to his death in this forest.”
Sholan bowed his head deeply. “Thank you for your mercy, Captain,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Be gone,” Marth said. “I must begin the evacuation of this base. You are in the way.”
Sholan nodded and scurried out of the office. Scout Arristan followed him, obviously relieved to have escaped punishment.
Marth circled the low desk and seated himself, burying his face in his hands. His fingers traced his rough, scarred cheek. His features shifted, only slightly, hinting at deeper scars kept hidden by the changeling’s shapeshifting abilities. He pulled his hands away and looked up at helmsman Marcho, who was carefully diverting his attention elsewhere.
“What is it, Devyn?” Marth said, causing the helmsman to look up with a start.
“Pardon, Captain?” Marcho replied.
“You seem pensive,” Marth said. “Do you think I was wrong to deal with Sholan as I did?”
“No, Captain,” Marcho said. “Much more lenient than I would have expected.”
“Than you would have expected?” Marth asked archly.
“No offense, Captain,” Marcho said quickly. “Considering what he’s cost us.”
“You mean you find it strange that I would let him live?” Marth asked.
Marcho shifted uncomfortably.
“That was no mercy,” Marth said. “What fate could be more cruel than to be an outcast even among those who have no nation? If Sholan finds no welcome with us, then who else will accept a Cyran mercenary in their midst? His life will likely be cold, short, and brutal.”
“Do you think the Mourning Dawn will find us here?” Marcho asked.
“It was inevitable,” Marth said. “The restless dead who wander this forest originally came here for a reason. The caverns beneath this fortress burn with the writings of the Draconic Prophecy. Xain follows the same path that I do. It is inevitable that he will find this place in time. This fortress served us as a secure base of operations, but when Xain finds us he will discover that is only one of its functions.”
“What do you mean, Captain?” Marcho asked.
“The wards that keep the undead at bay can be reversed,” Marth said. “Let Xain come to plumb the secrets of this fortress. Our comrades will be long gone from this place, and the original inhabitants will be ready.” Marth fell into silent thought for a long moment. “Speaking of which, return to the Seventh Moon and oversee the preparations. We must ready ourselves for departure as quickly as possible.”
“Aye, Captain,” Marcho replied. He saluted and quickly exited the small office.
Marth leaned back in Commander Sholan’s rickety wooden chair. His head throbbed and his shoulders ached from the last few mad days, but he could take no time to rest. His destiny lay ahead.
But was it truly his destiny? The illusion of Ashrem d’Cannith had been left behind as a guide-but not necessarily for him.
Yet they were irrelevant. Whether it was truly his destiny or not, Marth had won the power to strike a mortal blow to the heart of the nations that had betrayed and destroyed Cyre. That would have to suffice. It galled him to entertain the idea that he had been manipulated, but at least he would have what he desired as well.
A light knock at the door roused him from his thoughts. He peered up curiously. “Come in,” he commanded.
The door opened and a thin figure in silky black clothing slipped inside with a florid bow. He held his hands open to his sides, palms out, an obvious gesture that he intended no harm. His delicate features creased with an unreadable smile.
“Shaimin,” Marth growled, hand tightening on the amethyst wand. “Is this fortress’s existence a secret to no one?”
“I sincerely apologize for my intrusion, Captain,” the elf replied. “It took some effort to find you here.”
“More effort, it seems, than you have spared tracking Tristam Xain.”
“Yes, but Xain operates with a small ship,” Shaimin said. “The chosen few who serve him live on the Mourning Dawn. Their contact with the outside world is rare and difficult to track. You have many soldiers and constantly seek new recruits. Though you take great effort to mask your trail, it remains for those who know what to seek.”
“Don’t remind me,” Marth said sourly. “Why are you here, d’Thuranni?”
“Because I’ve had an epiphany,” Shaimin answered.
“Don’t tell me you’ve found religion,” the changeling said.
“Nothing of that sort,” the elf said with a chuckle. “Finding it so difficult to kill a relatively simple mark has upset me dearly. As much as I imagine it must upset you, if not more so, for it is my reputation on the line. But then I realized whence my difficulty arises.”
“Oh?” Marth asked.
“With you,” the elf replied. “Tristam is so difficult to track because his movements are reactive. He follows you. With that realization came the truth that, if I seek to find him, I must head him off at the source.”
“By following me?” Marth said.
“Of course not, that would be a pointless endeavor,” Shaimin replied. “You are a powerful artificer, more than capable of taking care of yourself. What good what it do me to wait beside you for Xain to appear? You have plenty of guards already and are no doubt quite capable of dealing with him yourself.”
“Indeed,” Marth said.
“But the boy has proven to be infuriatingly adept at predicting your next move,” Shaimin said. “So perhaps it would behoove you to utilize that to your advantage?”
“How so?” Marth asked.
“Send me where you plan to go next,” the elf said. “I will lie there in wait for him.”
“I think your purpose would be better served by waiting here,” Marth said. “Xain’s ally recently discovered the location of this fortress. It won’t be long before Karia Naille arrives to investigate.”
“Here?” the elf said, pouting slightly. “But this is such a bleak and unsettling place. No offense, but I had hoped not to remain here for long.”
“Nonsense,” Marth said. “You are safe enough within these walls and among my guards. I insist. Remain here as my guest until Xain arrives.” His scarred face twisted in a lipless smile.
Shaimin gave the changeling a cool look. There was no room for negotiation in his dead white eyes. “Very well,” Shaimin said. “What sort of Thuranni would I be to turn down the hospitality of an old friend?”
“Follow me,” Marth said, rising and gesturing to the elf. “We’ll get you situated.”
The changeling stepped to the door of the office, turning his back to the assassin for one brief moment. Marth peered over his shoulder. His face was fixed in the same humorless smile. He waited patiently.
The elf fell into step beside him.
“Quite an operation you have here,” Shaimin said as they walked. “Planning to branch out into mercenary work?”
“Not exactly,” Marth replied. “Mercenaries, much like assassins, owe their loyalty to an employer. The only loyalty my brothers and I hold is to Cyre.”
“I commend your patriotism though I confess I do not understand it,” Shaimin said. “Cyre is a dead land. The world has changed. You must move on.”
“You have a brother, Shaimin,” Marth said. “Correct?”
The elf gave Marth a startled look. “Yes, my younger brother, Kias.” Shaimin chuckled. “The pleasure of my mother and agony of my father. He chose to be a painter.”