“I’m sorry for your loss, Master Ghein,” Zed said. “I knew Norra. She must have cared a great deal for you to trust you so much.”
Petra gave a wry smile. “That sort of thing was always relative where Norra was concerned,” he said. “I fear what I felt for her was not mutual, but yes-she trusted me more than most.”
“I wish we could have helped her,” Zed said. He turned to leave.
“Wait,” the librarian said. “Did Norra have anything to do with what happened over the city today?”
Zed looked over his shoulder.
“It’s just that it’s such a strange coincidence,” Petra said. “A bizarre magical weapon attacks the city and you show up almost immediately, looking for her. After everything else, I find it strange.”
“You’re safe here in your libraries, Master Ghein,” Zed said. “Do you really want me to tell you the truth?”
“I suppose not,” the librarian said, looking away sheepishly. “It’s just that …” He looked at Zed intently again. “Were you friends with her?”
Zed smirked. “That sort of thing was always relative with Norra,” he said. “Honestly, I didn’t like her. She was arrogant, abusive, and short-sighted. But when it came down to it, she did the right thing. That’s more than a lot of people can say. I wish I could have been here to help her.”
Petra ducked under his desk to retrieve something, then quickly stood. He moved toward Zed, carrying a thick book. “Here,” the librarian said. “Take this with you.”
“A book?” Zed asked, accepting the thick volume carefully. “What is it?”
“Some obscure thing,” he said. “I’m the only one who remembers it; the library will never even know it’s gone. Norra spent a great deal of time reading it. After a while, she began leaving it here in my office so that no one else would check it out of the library. Maybe it’s important?”
Zed looked at the cover. The Wanderings of Morien Markhelm: A Journey into Argonnessen.
“Maybe,” he said. “Thanks, Master Ghein.”
The librarian said nothing. He returned to his desk and watched with a hollow stare as Zed closed the door. Zed hurried to catch up with the others as they walked out of the library.
“Do you think it was Zamiel who killed her?” Dalan asked.
“I’m almost positive,” Zed said. “Radcul is vicious but stupid. Norra could have evaded him forever. Zamiel tried to kill Eraina and me when we found out he had been altering the Draconic Prophecy. He boasted about killing others who had learned too much as well. Maybe Norra discovered something he didn’t want us to know.”
“To tell the truth, I’m having a hard time feeling sorry for her after what she did to my crew,” Ijaac said. “Feel like a right bastard for admitting it, but there it is. If she hadn’t treated everyone like rubbish, maybe someone would have helped her when she needed it.”
“Ijaac, that isn’t helping,” Zed said.
The dwarf shrugged.
“I blame myself for this,” Dalan said as Zed reached him. “Seren worried that Norra might be in danger, but I chose to fly to Nathyrr first instead.”
“There was no way you could have known, Dalan,” Zed said. “Sharn was much farther away. You only did what seemed logical. Not to mention that Ghein said she was found days ago. You wouldn’t have arrived in time to help her.”
Dalan shrugged, finding little solace in Zed’s words.
“I’m surprised you care so much, Dalan,” Zed said.
“I am not incapable of compassion or regret, Arthen,” Dalan said sharply. “Do you find it so odd that when I cause someone to die it troubles me? What is that you’re carrying?”
Zed held open the book and flipped through pages filled with a mad, jumbled scrawl. “Not sure,” he said. “The librarian gave it to me. Maybe Tristam can make sense of it. To tell the truth, I almost hope it’s useless.”
“Why do you say that?” Dalan asked.
“Looks like a book about the Draconic Prophecy,” Zed said. “I hate prophecy. I hate being told that I have no choice, that what I do doesn’t matter.”
“They say that the Prophecy is never wrong, only misinterpreted,” Dalan said. “To me, that only means the Prophecy is sometimes wrong, but the scholars are too embarrassed to admit it.”
Zed laughed. “I hope you’re right, Dalan.” He considered that for a moment. “Unless the Prophecy says we’re destined to stop the prophet and have long, happy lives. Then I’ll support every bit of it.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Tristam opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of his cabin. For several minutes, he couldn’t remember what had happened or how he came to be here. The last thing he could recall was leaping from the Mourning Dawn, clutching the life ring and narrowly missing Marth’s warship, only to see Shaimin’s grapple catch the bottom of the Seventh Moon as she passed overhead.
He sat up slowly. His left arm hung in a sling and felt entirely numb. His lower right leg was bound in a splint. He gasped in pain when he tried to turn his head; fire burned in the muscles of his neck and down his left shoulder. The rest of his body throbbed with a general ache. His homunculus sat at the edge of the bed, offering him a small cup of water. Tristam accepted it and drank gratefully.
Memories of the battle on the Seventh Moon slowly returned. He remembered Marth’s fall from the Seventh Moon. He remembered setting the ship’s core to overload and explode in a desperate attempt to save Sharn. He remembered being thrown into the bulkhead and buried in wreckage as the ship collided with Skyway. He remembered praying that the others had escaped as his vision began to dim. Then he remembered the wreckage being torn away by thick metal fingers and a pair of shimmering blue eyes staring down at him.
“How do you feel, Tristam?” Eraina asked. The paladin sat on a stool in the far corner of the cabin, watching him carefully. Her face was wan and exhausted.
“Amazed to be alive,” he replied, passing his cup back to the little construct.
“You very nearly weren’t,” Eraina said. “You still have a broken arm, and your ankle is sprained badly. I did what I could. Only time can do the rest. Zed left you the crutch he made back in Talenta.” She nodded at the crude shaft of wood leaning against the bookcase.
“Thank you, Eraina.”
The paladin smiled. “Omax was the one who carried you out of the Moon,” she said. Her face hardened. “Is what Seren said true? Is Marth dead?”
“He fell out of the Seventh Moon with Seren’s dagger in his heart,” Tristam said.
“Are you sure?” she pressed, unconvinced. “Couldn’t this be another one of his tricks?”
“I don’t think so,” Tristam said. “He was badly weakened. He’d used most of his defensive magic to protect himself from Omax. He didn’t have anything left to protect himself. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have given up so easily. He would have done everything he could to stop us from saving Sharn.”
Eraina gave him a long, piercing look. “So this is the end, then,” she said. “Bishop Grove’s killer has finally met justice.”
“Does that mean you’re leaving?” he asked.
“That depends on you,” she said. “This is the last clue remaining.” The paladin took a thick book from atop Tristam’s desk and handed it to him.
Tristam looked at the cover curiously. The Wanderings of Morien Markhelm: A Journey into Argonnessen.
“What is this?” Tristam asked.
“The book that Norra Cais was studying shortly before she was murdered,” Eraina said. “Zed found it.”
Tristam blinked. “Murdered?” he asked. “By who?”
“Zed thinks that Zamiel is responsible, and I agree,” Eraina said. “At this point, we may never know for sure.”
Tristam set the book to one side and rubbed his eyes roughly with his good hand. He suddenly felt weak and alone. He and Norra had often had their differences, but that changed nothing. Another part of his past, another friend, was gone forever. When he closed his eyes he saw Marth staring up at him with Orren Thardis’s face, falling to his death.