“The City Watch,” Marth said with a sigh. He pushed the curtain back over the window, his gaze losing focus as he became lost in thought.
“We cannot afford to be seen here, Captain,” Zamiel said as he descended the stairs. “For Dalan d’Cannith to know we oppose him is one thing. For King Boranel’s soldiers to learn of our presence is quite another matter.”
“Captain, perhaps we might be able to escape through the front door,” a soldier offered.
“The building will be surrounded,” Marth answered. “I will handle this. Perhaps their arrival might give us an opportunity for distraction.”
As Marth reached for the door, his facial features shifted, becoming a young man’s thin face framed by sandy brown hair. He stepped out into the street, arms folded in his sleeves. The instant he did so, four watchmen emerged to surround him.
“Halt and identify yourself,” the sergeant commanded. He kept his crossbow trained on Marth’s chest.
“My name is Tristam Xain,” Marth said calmly, continuing his approach. “Is there a problem, officer?”
“Hands out and to your sides!” the man said. “I said stop!”
The watchman loosed a crossbow bolt. It struck Marth in the shoulder and fell with a shower of sparks. Unharmed, Marth drew his hands from his sleeves with a flourish, releasing a cloud of sparkling dust toward the watchmen. They fell into fits of hideous coughing. All but one staggered and fell helpless to the earth. The fourth recovered enough to unsheathe his sword, only to see that Marth had drawn his twisted amethyst wand. Its length shone with green fire. The watchman ran. Marth’s soldiers emerged from the house, flanking out to surround their leader. One drew his own crossbow, aiming it at the back of the retreating soldier.
“No,” Marth said, pushing the weapon down and smiling with Tristam’s face. “Let one escape. Let him tell others who he has seen here.”
A pained coughing drew Marth’s attention. He looked down at the remaining three watchmen, writhing on the earth as the toxins robbed them of their strength. With a slow, deliberate movement, Marth drew his sword and buried it in the chest of the nearest guard. A Cyran soldier drew his blade and advanced toward one of the others, but Marth waved him away.
“This blood is on my hands alone,” he said. “Return to the ship.”
The soldiers complied, hurrying through the darkened alleys. Marth finished the other two watchmen and moved on as well. He had not gone far before Zamiel appeared at his side, like a shadow as he walked.
“Why do you brood, my friend?” the prophet asked. “Surely by now you recognize the necessity of what we do. Do you regret the deaths of those soldiers?”
“No,” Marth said. “They earned their fate when they stood against me, just as Jamus Roland did. Do not worry, Zamiel. Your killer has not grown a conscience yet.”
“Then what concerns you so?” he asked.
“I fear we were too cautious,” he said. “I know the man who was with that warforged last night. I recognized him from the soldiers’ descriptions.”
“The man whose face you wear,” Zamiel said, his face darkening. “I remember him. I also remember your insistence that he would not be a problem.”
“Clearly things have changed,” Marth said. “Hopefully the City Watch will cause some trouble for him, at least. It will be difficult for him to return to Wroat without explaining the deaths of three watchmen.”
“This only reaffirms what I have cautioned from the start,” Zamiel said. “We should have confronted d’Cannith directly instead of relying on untested subordinates. We should have killed Dalan and all who stood beside him. If that lens falls into Xain’s hands, it will not take long before they determine how to use it and gain ground.”
“Perhaps,” Marth said. “But think not on what we have lost. Think instead upon what we have gained. Tristam is brilliant, but also foolhardy. He may find clues that you and I would miss, but inevitably he will stumble and we will find his trail. Then we can harvest the fruits of his discoveries and our own search will grow much easier.”
Zamiel was silent for a long time.
“You do not agree,” Marth said.
“Xain should die,” Zamiel said. “We do not need the complication he represents.”
“You have always told me that I was destined to succeed, prophet,” Marth said. “Is my destiny so frail that one foolish tinker could undermine it?”
“You misunderstand me,” the prophet said. “I do not take destiny lightly, but neither should you. The Prophecy is a living thing. That which it foretells is certain, inevitable, but rarely predictable.” He looked at Marth seriously. “I have no time for those who play games with their own destiny. You claim you wish to use Xain to our advantage, but your words stink of mercy. Mercy is a luxury that a conqueror cannot afford.”
“That sounds almost like a threat, Zamiel,” Marth said.
“Not a threat, a warning,” Zamiel said in a tired voice. “You have spent only a few years helping me to fulfill this passage of the Prophecy. I have spent most of my life. Weigh this truth: You are not unique. There were others before you who seemed to be the conqueror I have foreseen. The Prophecy is a powerful force. Weak men who stand before it are ground into dust. Do not allow your enemies to gain ground, Marth. Show them no mercy, or all will be lost.”
The changeling folded his arms in silent thought, pondering the prophet’s words. “Very well,” he said. “I will keep your words in mind.”
“Good,” Zamiel said. “That is all I ask. All that I say, all that I have ever done for you was intended only as guidance. Do not follow me blindly. Your decisions must ultimately be your own, or you will never become what you must be.”
“I will remember that,” Marth said.
“See that you do,” the prophet said.
With a sudden shift in the shadows, Zamiel vanished, leaving Marth to find his way to the ship alone. He pushed all thoughts of Ashrem d’Cannith and Tristam Xain out of his mind. The past was a burden, a weight that sought to drag him back down into the miserable mire that had consumed him before. Brother Zamiel had offered him the chance to fulfill a greater destiny, to embrace his talents and forge a better future for all of Eberron. Better to concentrate on that future, he thought, as he looked into a standing puddle and saw Tristam Xain’s face staring back at him.
Such a brilliant, glorious future.
CHAPTER 7
Seren sat on the railing of Karia Naille. She crouched beside the ship’s figurehead, overlooking the city. Though much of the deck was shielded from the elements, sitting on the rail offered no such protection. The wind rushed past her, whipping her long hair back in a fury. She paid little mind as she ate her lunch. She had no real fear of heights, and with one foot hooked behind the rail, she was balanced well enough. The old dog, Gunther, lay on the deck behind her. He kept his head nestled between his paws, watching intently for any fallen crumbs. Seren ignored the dog, her thoughts consumed with more urgent matters. She hadn’t found the answers she was looking for, but she was off to a good start. If nothing else, she had decent food, a steady wage, and would soon be leaving the city. That, at least, was an improvement.
Seren enjoyed the view from up here, but she found herself returning her attention to the figurehead. It was an impressive piece of sculpture, depicting a slender elf woman with arms folded across her breasts. Her eyes were closed, head thrown back with long hair that spilled over her shoulders. The statue was unpainted, carved from rich, dark wood and highly polished. Something about the statue resonated with Seren, made her feel more at peace here. It seemed so free and untamed, even bound permanently to the hull of the ship.
Other than the rush of the wind, the ship was strangely silent. Gerith was busy scrubbing the deck, singing a soft tune in a tongue Seren did not recognize. Blizzard perched on the rail nearby, regarding his master solemnly. Occasionally Gerith would halt the song for a moment and the animal would produce a high-pitched note in reply, singing along.