Merkin shrugged. “Listen, I don’t need the lecture. What else do you want to know about Arthen?”
“Nothing,” Marth said. “You have already told me all I need to know. If your own relationship with him is any indication, Arthen has covered his tracks with his usual prowess. I doubt you have anything useful to offer me.”
“Then what about my money?” Merkin asked irritably.
“Still yours for the price of one question,” Marth said. He looked at Merkin intently, empty white eyes staring at his chest. “That coat you wear. It looks familiar. Is it part of a military uniform?”
Merkin nodded. “Only good thing the army ever gave me,” he said with a laugh.
Marth offered a thin smile. “What nation did you fight for?”
“I don’t want to talk about that,” Merkin said.
“You are a deserter,” Marth said. “A betrayer.”
“You said only one question,” Merkin snapped. “So pay me and unlock the door.”
Marth frowned and drew his hand from his pocket. Instead of a coin, he now held a long amethyst. Merkin swore and dove toward Marth with his dagger, but not quickly enough. There was a brief flash of green light, and then pain so intense that Merkin could not even draw the breath to scream. He curled up on the ground, arms and legs twitching, spittle boiling from his mouth. Marth forced Merkin onto his back with one boot, leaving his foot on the old informant’s chest.
“There are few things more reprehensible than a man who would abandon his country,” Marth said, looming over the man as he twitched uncontrollably. “A nation that cannot rely upon its sons and daughters has nothing. It is doomed to be crushed under its own weight, consumed by the greed and ambition of its neighbors. You humans call my kind ‘diseased’ because of our sickly pallor.” Marth moved his boot forward, placing it squarely on Merkin’s throat. “But it is traitors like you who are a true disease upon all of Eberron.”
Marth leaned forward, pressing his weight on Merkin’s throat. Marth stared into the man’s helpless eyes until he stopped moving. He waited a minute more, just to be sure, then put the wand back in his pocket and stepped away. Assuming Zed Arthen’s face once again, Marth exited the inquisitive’s office and returned to Kenshi Zhann where she hovered in the forest nearby.
As he climbed aboard the airship, two of the soldiers greeted him with nervous smiles.
“Captain Marth,” one said, saluting. “We are glad you have returned. Black Pit is no place for any man to be alone.”
“Worried, Neimun?” Marth said, returning the salute. “I was in no danger.” He felt a scrutinizing presence behind him, and did not even need to look to realize Brother Zamiel had entered the room. He quickly dismissed the soldiers to their duties.
“You seem in high spirits, Captain,” Zamiel mused, falling in beside Marth as he began his march to the bridge. A humming pulse ran through the ship as she began to lift into the sky. “Such contentment is very strange for a man who has spent the night alone in an unfriendly village, disguised as one of his deadliest enemies.”
“What do you want, prophet?” he asked. “To lecture me for being in a good mood?”
“Quite the contrary,” Zamiel said. “Your bravery is an example to the men. I doubt even the murder you just committed would lessen their opinion of you.”
Marth prepared a sharp retort, but it died on his lips. The prophet was, as usual, not only remarkably aware of events he had no way of witnessing, but entirely sincere in his macabre praise.
“Unfortunately I learned very little,” Marth said instead. “Arthen still keeps others at a distance. He weaves lies to catch the truth like a fisherman. It was a mistake to let him live when he distanced himself from this. I should listen more closely to your advice, Zamiel. Mercy for old friends will be my undoing.”
“I never said to set mercy aside entirely,” Zamiel said. “I said it was a luxury, and luxury brings harm only when indulged in excess. Kept in its proper place, in moderation, a luxury grants opportunity.”
“More riddles, prophet?” Marth asked as they stepped onto Moon’s large enclosed bridge. The helmsman was already here, working the controls and plotting a course. “You urge me to kill Tristam but show no rancor that I let Arthen slip away so long ago?”
“Arthen is not a threat like Xain is,” Zamiel said. “The fallen knight still has a part to play.”
“I disagree,” Marth said. “Tristam may be useful; he has both ambition and curiosity. Arthen is dangerous. If we find him, we must kill him.”
“Then you may soon have your chance,” Zamiel said. “My spy has contacted us again, via speaker post.”
Marth looked at Zamiel with interest. “What news?”
“Karia Naille is bound for the Talenta Plains,” the prophet said.
“Overwood,” Marth said with a scowl. “So they have found her.”
“An unexpected development,” Zamiel answered. “I did not expect this to happen so soon. While you deal with this I shall have to return and consult the prophecy, to determine what I may have misread. You will have go to Talenta and deal with them yourself.”
Marth was lost for a moment in thought. “If they find her,” he mused, “they will tell her what I have done. Do you think she will believe them?”
“A pointless question,” Zamiel said, settling into his chair. “If so, I will trust you to deal with it.”
CHAPTER 17
What amazed Seren the most wasn’t how callously Zed Arthen had knocked out Eraina and locked her in her cabin. What disturbed her was that the rest of the crew did not seem surprised or concerned. After the ship left Cragwar, everyone returned to their normal duties. The only differences were that Omax occasionally took a plate of food to the paladin, and every time Seren entered the hold she saw the marshal’s spear and shortsword lying atop the food crates. No one even mentioned Eraina, and Seren was not about to bring up the matter.
Tristam spent most of his time in his own cabin, absorbed in research or perhaps depression. Gerith was always busy tending the ship, cooking meals, or scouting the area on his glidewing. Seren felt increasingly alone. She didn’t trust Dalan or Zed, and still wasn’t sure what to think of Omax. That left her with the mystery that was Aeven.
After all this time, she still had not met the last mysterious member of the crew, only heard her mentioned. Seren began to wonder if there was really an “Aeven” at all. The fishermen and riverboat captains she knew in Wroat were the most superstitious people she had met. It stood to reason that airship sailors were no different. Perhaps Aeven was just some sort of guardian spirit or minor goddess who protected airships?
The lush forests of Breland had given way to the broad green plains of Thrane. Having spent the entirety of her life in dreary Ringbriar or overpopulated Wroat, it was fascinating to see so much of the world in so short a time. Seren spent her free moments on the deck, watching the landscape fly by and occasionally commenting on the more interesting things she saw. If Aeven was real, Seren reasoned, it couldn’t hurt to talk to her. If she wasn’t real, then there was no harm done.
At noon on the second day of their journey, Eraina d’Deneith emerged from the hold, accompanied by Omax. The paladin went directly to Dalan’s cabin. Seren heard muffled voices for several minutes before Eraina finally emerged once more, her expression somber. She immediately went to work helping Gerith with the ship’s maintenance, not offering any word of explanation. The captain regarded her with suspicious curiosity whenever she was on deck, but otherwise kept his attention on flying the ship.