Haedrun’s eyes misted, and she blinked, trying to counter grief with rage. The Red Watcher looked away, fighting with herself. Guilt tore into Tallis like a torrent of knives, but he couldn’t let those responsible for all of this get away with it. What-and who-was she hiding?
“Their names were Rennet and Vestra.”
They both looked to Aegis, who had spoken the words, its crystal eyes burning like blue fire. Of course, the warforged had been guarding Gamnon’s family before Tallis had disabled it. Tallis had probably spared the construct from dying itself at the hands of the assassin. Aegis seemed a formidable warrior, but it couldn’t have stopped the killer any more than Tallis.
Beside the warforged, Soneste did not take her eyes from Haedrun. Tallis realized that the Brelish had probably been the one called in to examine the bodies of the victims. She’d seen the aftermath, all the blood.…
“Who gave you all this information?” she asked. “That’s who sent the assassin.”
Haedrun held her blade up and turned furious eyes on Soneste. “Don’t you dare accuse me!”
“Just tell me,” Tallis said quietly.
Haedrun shook her head in disbelief, as if trying to deny the events that had unfolded. Aegis turned sharply to face the door, but Tallis continued to watch Haedrun carefully. She was his-and probably Soneste’s-only lead.
Haedrun wiped her eyes angrily then sighed. “There was an elf I’d been following in Atur. He was Red Watcher material, but I had to be sure about him before I said anything else. One night, he approached me first. He’d known I was following him. He claimed to be a member of Aerenal’s Deathguard. That’s when he told me about ir’Montevik and the scrolls … he must have been working for the Seekers-”
“Mistress!” Aegis interrupted. “The guard is gone.”
Haedrun and Tallis looked to the broken door, where the other Red Watcher had exited to stand guard.
Soneste had drawn her rapier and looked up. “Above us!” she shouted.
Interlude
At night, the window of the man’s room was shuttered tight. There were no lights within, but what did it matter as he sat alone in the dark with only his living memories as company?
Lord Charoth enters my workroom. His manner is imposing, as always, and his expression evinces the temper for which he is well known. He is not happy with me. “Where is this new ‘servant’ of yours, Erevyn?”
“My lord, it is good to see you again. Welcome back.”
My assistant appears in the doorway and pauses, uncertain whether he is permitted to enter at this time. Charoth looks over to him in obvious astonishment.
I realize, perhaps for the first time, that my assistant is not easily defined. I did not construct him for war-only to assist me with the delicate work of our unusual creation schemas. His mind is keen, his manipulation of the relics demonstrative of his skill. Sverak has been an asset to me and to the facility.
As the director looks upon him now, I realize for the first time how frail he must appear.
Sverak would resemble a common warforged if he had been built with the usual composite plating that protects the more integral framework, but I did not intend him to see combat at all. I expected he would not have the need to physically defend himself. His darkwood body is banded at the joints with metal strips. Silver and steel components do comprise his torso, needed to bind the living fibers and the creation patterns together. Even Sverak’s head and face are narrow, no wider than a human skull. The simple, hinged jaw common to most warforged forms an apathetic rictus.
Despite my assistant’s singularity, the Orphanage is still an engine of war. As I look upon the livid face of my superior, I realize that my accomplishment with Sverak may be construed as impudence.
My assistant looks to me for guidance.
“What … have you done, Erevyn?”
“My lord, Sverak has been invaluable to my work-to our work.” I turn to my assistant. “Sverak, this is Lord Charoth Arkenen d’Cannith.”
The warforged is barely three months old, but he already knows who Charoth is-the man everyone in the facility knows and respects. And in truth, fears. Many have been demoted or released from service under his unforgiving management.
Lord Charoth looks back to me, and I wonder if I, too, will soon be released.
He strikes the ground with his staff. “Warforged are not mere novelties, Erevyn, to be adopted as pets or homunculi for the serving.”
“I know that, my lord.” He must give me time to explain how much Sverak has accomplished for me-for us all-in three short months.
“No, you do not,” he says with terrible calm. “You, to whom the workers of this facility look for guidance and leadership-a minister of the house, an example of what they aspire to be! — do not understand at all.”
Lord Charoth steps close to me, his tall frame more imposing in close proximity. The smile of approval that all who answer to him crave, it is gone for me. Instead, this frown of disappointment weighs upon me.
“House Cannith produces many great things, and the warforged are our crowning achievement, yet we do not simply create walking constructs to fight a tragic war in the stead of living men. We have spent thousands upon thousands of man hours designing the training programs needed to give these living weapons the proper psychological instruction to do what they must. These programs teach strategy, the concepts of life and death, the tenets of war, but most of all they teach obedience. Obedience to their makers and to those who purchase them.”
I swallow and struggle to find my voice. “Lord, I assure you, Sverak is obedient, and he is more intelligent by far, more capable than-”
“There is a reason we make no exceptions to these rules, Erevyn. Do you recall the early experiments of sensory deprivation? Select units were buried alive. For weeks. Months.”
“Yes, lord. I know.” Denied anything to occupy their minds or explain their perceptions, they went insane. “But this place-here, at my side, there is no such risk.”
Sverak steps into the room now. He is always concerned for me. It must unsettle my sensitive assistant.
“Esteemed director,” Sverak says to him. “Please do not concern yourself with such trivialities. I am lucid.”
Charoth whirls on Sverak, aiming a wand at him as he does. “Do not presume you can address me!”
Sverak stares back at him without a word.
Charoth faces me again. His hand touches my shoulder, briefly, and his grip is strong. Agitated. “Keep it here with you. I must think on this. We will revisit this soon, Erevyn, I promise you. Perhaps the creation energies you have wasted can be salvaged still.”
Chapter SEVENTEEN
Zol, the 10th of Sypheros, 998 YK
An inexplicable chill sank through Soneste as she felt more than saw shifting in the darkness of the rafters above. A shadow had separated from the rest, moving with preternatural grace. Soft as a whisper, it sprang from beam to beam, almost directly overhead.
“Above us!”
Like a creature borne on the wind, the nebulous shape floated down from the shadows, led by a long blade. Tallis turned sharply, bringing the curved head of his weapon to deflect a strike aimed directly at Haedrun. The blade was turned aside, but the figure-little more than an indistinct, humanoid shadow-had anticipated Tallis’s deflection. It kicked sideways, the force of the blow pushing him back. He stumbled, trying to keep his feet.