Rise of the Seventh Moon: Heirs of Ash, Book 3 (13 page)

“Right away, Master Frauk,” Tristam said. He slung his satchel of tools over one shoulder. The homunculus scurried up his leg and climbed into the bag.

“And take this,” the golemwright said. He drew a folded envelope from his pocket and offered it to Tristam.

“What is it?” Tristam asked.

“A speaker post from Norra Cais,” Gavus said. “The bit I could read instructed me to give it to you if you passed through Korth. The rest was encoded.”

“Thank you,” Tristam said, taking the letter.

“Whatever,” Gavus said. “Get out.” He shooed Tristam and Omax away with a dismissive gesture.

Tristam and Omax walked out, quietly closing the door behind them and making their way through the halls of the Cannith estate.

“I apologize for losing my temper, Tristam,” Omax said.

“Why?” Tristam asked. “He provoked you.”

“You seemed upset,” the warforged said. “You reacted as if you believed I would harm him.”

“No,” Tristam said, grinning. “I was sure you wouldn’t, but I didn’t want to ruin the surprise for him. Knowing you, I figured he might learn something.”

Omax chuckled.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Omax?” Tristam asked. “You seem different.”

“I feel different,” he said. “It is the pain.”

“You’re in pain?” Tristam asked, worried. He immediately reached into his satchel.

“I am not,” Omax said. “For the first time in decades, I am not.”

“What do you mean?” Tristam said, surprised.

“When you found me beneath that Breland monastery, I was barely alive,” Omax said. “You repaired me sufficiently to walk and speak, but your skills and resources were, at the time, insufficient to repair me fully.”

“I remember,” Tristam said. “Ashrem completed your repairs when we returned to Zil’argo.”

“Some of them,” Omax said. “There was a great deal of deep internal damage that I requested he leave intact. Ashrem honored my wishes, fixing only what I needed to survive.”

Tristam looked at Omax in surprise. “For all these years?” he asked. “Why?”

“I felt a deep sense of shame that I survived when so many others perished,” Omax said. “When I emerged into the light, I blamed myself for the deaths of my friends, my enemies, and the innocents who stood in our way. I wanted to remember their sacrifices. I begged Ashrem to repair me just enough so that I would survive. That was why you found me so difficult to repair, Tristam. It wasn’t merely the fact that I took so much damage in so short a time in our battles against Marth, but that my new injuries exacerbated wounds I have borne for decades.” Omax lifted his arms, examining his new limbs. “I think that is why I feel so strange. The pain had become a part of me. And now it is gone.”

“I’m sorry, Omax,” Tristam said.

Omax looked at his distressed friend. “Do not be ridiculous, Tristam,” the warforged said. “It was foolish of me to torment myself. My mind is clearer than it has ever been. I feel as strong as the day I was built.”

“Stronger,” Tristam said.

Omax looked at Tristam sharply.

“Theoretically, in any case,” Tristam said. “Once I got to work, the repairs went more smoothly than I expected. I made a few improvements, reinforcing your design. It only proved what I suspected since my vision in Zul’nadn.”

“What is that?” Omax said.

“The Legacy destroys magic by drawing upon the elemental power that Ashrem drew from the Dragon’s Eye,” Tristam said, “but that isn’t the Eye’s true purpose. It’s a force of creation—not destruction. When I infused your body with
Karia Naille
’s magic, that power didn’t just sustain your life. It made my repairs easier as well.”

“For a time, aboard the ship, I felt the presence of a force greater than myself,” Omax said. “I felt a great sense of peace. I thought perhaps it was my proximity to death, but the feeling faded almost immediately after I was removed from the ship. I was, briefly, one with something ancient and boundless.”

“The Eye is alive?” Tristam said, surprised.

“I cannot say,” Omax said. “I have spent much of my own existence wondering if I am truly alive. I am not the best person to judge another being’s sentience.”

Tristam scratched his chin as he struggled with his thoughts. Ahead of them lay the gardens at the center of the Cannith estate. Dalan, Ijaac, Seren, and Gerith sat around a stone table near a bubbling fountain. Dalan was deeply engrossed in a book while the others occupied themselves with a game of cards.

“Tristam!” Ijaac said, looking up eagerly. “About time you
came back. If I lose another round I’ll have to sell my pants to pay this girl.”

“I’ll pay your debt before I let you roam my ship naked, dwarf,” Dalan said. “How go the repairs?”

Seren dropped her cards, staring past Tristam. The warforged had remained in the hall, shadowed by the doorway. “Omax?” she said, rising from her seat. “Is that Omax?”

The warforged stepped fully into the light, allowing his friends to see him. His metal skin sparkled in the morning sun. He stood taller. The scars that riddled his body were gone, but his eyes shone with the same familiar light. Dalan’s book closed with a snap.

Seren ran to the warforged, wrapped her arms around his waist, and pressed her cheek against his chest. Omax glanced down in surprise. He clasped her in one arm, his massive hand covering her entire shoulder. Her eyes glistened with sudden tears when she looked up at him.

“You’re alive,” were the only words she could manage.

“It is as you promised, Seren,” he said fondly, looking to each of them. “You brought me home.”

Seren stepped away from him and wrapped her arm around Tristam, kissing him softly on the cheek. He held her close, blushing fiercely at the public display of affection.

“Hope you’ll settle for a handshake from me,” Ijaac said, smiling broadly up at the warforged.

Omax nodded silently and shook the dwarf’s hand.

“Good to have you back,” Ijaac said. “I was afraid they’d start making me do all the heavy lifting.”

“Extraordinary,” Dalan said, staring at Omax in awe. “How did you accomplish this, Tristam?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Tristam said. “I have some theories, but I want to study
Karia Naille
’s core a bit more before I’ll be certain.”

“Omax,” Gerith said, looking up at the warforged.

Omax gazed down at his halfling friend.

The little scout patted his colorful jacket and leggings frantically, emitted a small yelp, and fled the courtyard.

“What was that about?” Ijaac asked.

“I hope we never know,” Dalan replied blandly, tucking his book into his pocket. He faced Tristam again. “Did Master Frauk give you any trouble for using his workshop?”

“He was his usual self, but at least he didn’t try to kill us this time,” Tristam said. “He did give me a post from Norra …” Tristam took the envelope from his pocket and studied its contents. A softly whispered word caused Norra’s code to reform into legible characters under Tristam’s scrutiny.

“What does it say?” Dalan asked.

“She says she’s made a breakthrough in her research,” Tristam said, looking up at Dalan urgently. “She asks that we come to Sharn immediately and contact her through a university librarian named Petra Ghein.”

“That’s all?” Dalan said. “Nothing more?”

“You expected Norra to just give information away?” Ijaac said dryly.

Dalan sighed. “She’ll have to wait,” he said. “Nathyrr is our next destination.”

“What if she’s in danger?” Seren asked.

“Then she’s in danger on the far side of the continent,” Dalan said. “Zed and Eraina aren’t even a quarter the distance away. They’re just as likely to need our aid.”

“More likely, if they’ve found Marth,” Tristam said.

“Indeed,” Dalan said. “In either case our business here is done. Return to the
Mourning Dawn
. We depart for Nathyrr as soon as possible. I have some paperwork to attend, but I should follow you presently.”

Tristam remained behind as the others filed out of the garden. Dalan gave him a questioning look and returned to his seat, drawing his book out of his jacket.

“Did you have something else you wished to discuss, Tristam?” Dalan asked.

“Back in Metrol you said you had no illusions about who commands this quest,” Tristam said, “but since we landed at Gatherhold you’ve done nothing but give orders. Were you only passing me responsibility to see if I would fail?”

Dalan looked at Tristam over the top of his book. “No,” he said, then returned to reading.

“Then why?” Tristam demanded, growing annoyed at Dalan’s indifference.

“Because you had just failed to prevent your most deadly rival from escaping,” Dalan said. “Because your arrogance had nearly cost your closest friend his life. Because we were in the most hostile environment imaginable. I gave you command so that you would not have time to dwell on how horrible the situation had become. We needed you to survive, Tristam.”

“And now?” Tristam asked.

Dalan closed his book and sighed. “You are a brilliant man, Tristam. Your skill at artifice may exceed that of Ashrem himself one day, and should you clash with Marth again on even terms I have no doubt who will prevail. But you are no leader. You hesitate. You vacillate. You agonize over mistakes that are no fault of your own. You do not compromise. You are unprepared to make sacrifices. I will value your counsel, Tristam, but you must realize that no other member of this crew is as suited to command as I am.”

“Even though no one trusts you?” Tristam said.

“I do not care if they trust me,” Dalan said. “I do not care if they like me. All that matters is that they obey me.”

“You haven’t changed, Dalan,” Tristam said.

“How sad that you think so,” Dalan said. He opened his book again.

“I thought you had work to do,” Tristam said.

“I do,” he said. “I am waiting for Baron Zorlan’s scribe to return and notarize the final draft.”

“Of what?” Tristam asked.

“My sponsorship for your initiation to the House of Making,” Dalan said. “I submitted the initial application shortly before we left Korth the last time. I assumed you were still interested.”

“If you’re trying to bribe my loyalty—”

“A bribe you aren’t even aware of?” Dalan asked. “That would be cryptic, even for me. Does it surprise you that I am capable of giving a friend credit where it is due?”

“I’m surprised you consider me a friend,” Tristam said.

“You know it is not a term I use lightly,” Dalan said, “but yes. I do.”

A young woman in the livery of a Cannith servant entered the courtyard carrying a stack of papers. Dalan set his book aside and waved her over while Tristam quietly excused himself. The artificer made his way through the halls of the Cannith estates, hands tucked deep in the pockets of his coat.

There was a time when membership in House Cannith was his fondest desire. When Ashrem had denied it, he abandoned his master and set out on his own. Now he was not so certain. It would be an incredible opportunity, to be certain. He would have a chance to work beside the brightest minds in the field of artifice. The resources he would have to conduct his research would be nearly unlimited. But would they manipulate him as Dalan did? Would they ostracize him as they had Ashrem?

Would he be forced to leave the
Mourning Dawn
behind?

Tristam stepped onto the streets of Korth. The others were
waiting for him there. Seren smiled at him, pushing away his bleak thoughts. She took his hand as they made their way back toward the airship.

Captain Gerriman stood at the ship’s helm, absorbed in his charts. Aeven sat in the bow, letting the wind spill through her long blond hair. The hatch of Dalan’s cabin opened a creak and the guildmaster’s shaggy dog, Gunther, waddled out to greet Seren. The dog whined softly as Omax emerged from the hold, shying away from the unfamiliar stranger.

“Omax?” Pherris said, looking at the warforged in astonishment.

Aeven opened her eyes for a brief moment and looked at Omax. The warforged knelt and extended one hand to the dog. Gunther cocked his head and eased forward, sniffing Omax’s hand. The old dog eased onto its haunches as Omax gently scratched the animal’s ears.

The leathery flap of wings sounded above them. Gerith’s glidewing swooped gracefully around them and perched on the deck, halfling mounted on its back.

“I found it,” Gerith said proudly. He leapt out of the saddle and marched up to Omax.

The warforged peered at Gerith as he rose. “Found what?” he asked.

The halfling reached into his vest and drew out a lump of dusty cloth. He proudly offered it to the warforged. Omax hesitated before accepting gently with both hands. He stared at the gift for a long moment before setting his shapeless woolen hat back upon his head.

“Thank you,” the warforged said.

Gerith beamed.

“Gerith, where did you find that?” Tristam asked.

“Metrol,” Gerith said. “I went back while you were in Gatherhold.”

Ijaac gaped at the halfling. “You flew back into the Mournland alone to find a hat?”

“He always wears it,” Gerith said.

“It was just a hat,” the warforged said.

“Oh,” Gerith answered, his shoulders slumping. “I thought it was special for some reason.”

“It is
now
,” Omax said.

T
EN