Dragon War: The Draconic Prophecies - Book Three (23 page)

“What are you talking about?” The pace was making Ashara breathe heavily again, and her words came out between deep gasps for air.

“He could explain it better than I.”

“But he didn’t, did he? Cart, what’s going on?”

“I saw something,” Cart said. He wasn’t sure he could describe it, or in any way help Ashara understand what was suddenly clear to him. “We live in an age of darkness, but it’s drawing to a close.”

“You sound like Gaven now.”

Cart slowed his pace just slightly. “Do I? Interesting.”

Ashara caught up and took his arm. “The Time of the Dragon Below he was talking about, and the rise of the Blasphemer—is that the end of this age?”

“Perhaps it is.”

“So what does the next age hold?”

Cart looked down at her and was struck again at the expressiveness of her face. Shadows and lines beneath her eyes, which he hadn’t noticed before, told him how tired she was. Creases in her brow spoke of worry and anxiety. The hint of a smile at one corner of her mouth, and something in the warm brown of her eyes whispered of what he was coming to recognize as her affection for him, mixed with something else—something else that made her want to smile, or made her think of a reason to smile.

“I think that’s largely up to us,” Cart said. “Now come on!” He stepped up his pace again, and Ashara had to let go of his arm as she hustled to keep up.

“What’s the hurry? Do we have to save the world right now?”

“We might.”

Ashara gave up asking questions after that, saving her breath for running as he led the way back to Havrakhad’s apartment.

As he walked, Cart imagined his footsteps—the steady beating of the metal and leather in his feet against the cobblestones—as one beat in a larger cadence, as if he were part of an army marching toward the kalashtar’s home, an army of truth and light marching forth to do battle against the darkness. It comforted him to think in those terms, as if the axe at his side could help him against the nightmare monster he’d seen, as if the age of darkness were an enemy army he could stand against. As if he and Ashara were not alone in the dark streets of Fairhaven, cut off from what few allies they had.

But if his steady strides were a marching cadence, a steady drumbeat impelling him forward with determination and resolve, Ashara’s steps were a fluttering descant that lent a hint of panic to the march. They reminded him of the frightened mobs he’d seen fleeing from the quori or screaming at the barbarians’ approach in his visions. Part of him wanted to join his steps to hers, to run from the threat they faced, to pretend there was nothing they could do but wait for the age to turn.

Then his steps brought him into the small immigrant neighborhood where Havrakhad lived. There weren’t enough kalashtar in the city—or members of any race native to their homeland of Adar—to form a district of their own, the way that dwarves had established a community around the Kundarak enclave or Karrns clustered around Drake Street on the east side. Instead, the kalashtar lived in an apartment building of Aundairian construction, which would have blended perfectly with the white plastered buildings on either side if it weren’t for the colorful banners that streamed from balconies and windows on every one of its four stories. On their previous visits, Ashara had mentioned another distinguishing feature that he was blind to—the aroma of Adaran cooking, which made use of spices and seasonings unfamiliar to Aundairian nostrils.

“Cardamom,” Ashara said. “Oh, Cart, I wish this were all over and I could just go home and cook a good meal, relax in front of the fire, and sleep in my own bed.”

The yearning in her voice made Cart melancholy. She was longing for simple comforts and pleasures that meant nothing to him, and he couldn’t imagine what it would be like to share them with her. When this was all over, would there be room in her life for him?

He pushed open the door to the apartment building and started up the stairs. Ashara trailed behind him in silence, perhaps lost in her reverie, perhaps wondering why he hadn’t answered her. He took the stairs slowly, one at a time, so she could keep up. And, he told himself, so he didn’t make as much noise.

At the top of the stairs, Ashara broke her silence. “What will you do? When it’s all over?”

Cart shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve always been a soldier. Already I’m feeling my way in the dark, but at least I have a purpose. I suppose it’s just a matter of finding a new purpose.”

“One mission after the next.”

“Something like that.” Cart reached the door to Havrakhad’s home. Ashara started to say something else, but he held up his hand and she stopped. The door was open.

“Havrakhad?” he called quietly.

The door didn’t look like it had been forced, and peering into the dark room beyond he didn’t immediately see any sign of violence. Even so, the situation felt wrong. He slid his axe from his belt and called out again, a little louder.

Hearing no answer, he glanced at Ashara, who nodded, and stepped softly through the open door. A dim glow filtered from an inner room, giving him just enough light to distinguish the general outline of the room.

“Havrakhad? It’s Cart.”

Ashara gasped, and before he could turn around, he felt a stab of pain in the back of his head, right where it rested on his neck, and his vision went black.

“Please don’t fight me, Lady d’Cannith,” Havrakhad’s soft voice said.

Clutching his axe, Cart turned, trying to fix the voice in front of him so he could defend against another attack. Havrakhad was moving as well—Cart could hear the soft rustle of his flowing clothes.

“What did you do to him?” Ashara’s voice came from the doorway. Cart tried to visualize the room, remembering his other visits, and place the three of them in it.

“It was regrettably necessary,” Havrakhad said. “He carries an eye of the quori in his mind, and they must not see me. So for the time being, Cart must not see me either.”

“An eye of the quori?” Cart said. He put his free hand to the back of his head. The nightmare creature had touched him there, right where
Havrakhad had—what had the kalashtar done? In both cases, it had felt like the stab of a dagger, but a real blade there would have killed him.

“Come in, please, and close the door,” Havrakhad said, as gracious a host as he had been before.

Cart heard Ashara move, and he shifted nervously.

“Easy, Cart,” she whispered. “Maybe you should put your axe away.”

“What’s happening?” Cart said. He had fought in the dark before, straining to see his foes in the barest of moonlight filtered through a cover of clouds. But there had always been something to see, some shred of light he could use to find his foe or at least ward off attacks. This was different, and terrifying. It wasn’t just blackness—it was as though his mind had forgotten that there was such a thing as sight. As though he didn’t have eyes and never had. Worst of all, though, was the fact that his enemy—if Havrakhad was now his foe—could still see him.

“It’s all right.” Ashara’s voice was closer now, and soothing. She touched his arm and he flinched. “It’s all right,” she repeated, and took his arm, and he started to relax. “Here, let me take your axe.” Her soft hand was on his, and he started to relax his grip.

“No!”

He pulled away and stumbled toward the door again. What if it was all a trick? A quori or another mindbender could fool him so easily, could make him think he was hearing Havrakhad’s voice and Ashara’s, disarm him and capture him. He tightened his grip on his axe and tried to put his back to the door, uncomfortably aware that he had lost track of Havrakhad.

“Cart, please!” There was a note of desperation in Ashara’s voice that made him even more suspicious. Did Havrakhad or some other enemy have a knife at her throat?

That thought put a new edge on his fear. If the voice he was hearing really was Ashara’s, she could be in deadly danger. He could be endangering her with his actions. He couldn’t do that. He let his axe clatter to the floor, then followed it down, dropping to his knees.

“I yield,” he said. “Please don’t harm her.”

“I assure you,” Havrakhad said, his voice right at Cart’s shoulder, “Ashara is unharmed, and I mean you no harm either.” Cart felt the kalashtar’s warm hand on his shoulder. “Please come and sit with me. We have much to discuss.”

Ashara moved to his other side, and together she and Havrakhad helped him stand and guided him farther into the apartment. They turned him sideways to go through a doorway, then wheeled him full around and
backed him up against a couch.

“Sit,” Ashara whispered, and he slowly sank down onto the soft cushions behind him.

Cart chuckled, embarrassed. “I’ve never felt quite so much like a cart, drawn by two horses.”

Ashara’s laugh bubbled with relief, setting Cart at ease. She sat close beside him on the couch, holding his arm. He heard Havrakhad settle into a different seat nearby.

“Now that we’ve finished with that unpleasantness,” Havrakhad said, “why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

“Finished?” Ashara said. “Cart still can’t see.”

“Nor can he be allowed to see, until I can no longer be seen.”

“It’s all right, Ashara,” Cart said. He put a hand on Ashara’s and shifted to face the kalashtar directly. “Havrakhad, I apologize. I should have realized that by coming here, I might be turning the quori’s eyes on you. I was not thinking clearly.”

“The ways of the quori are new to you. Your error is easily understood, and easily forgiven.”

“And I’m sorry to disturb you in the middle of the night, again.”

“I am growing accustomed to it.” Cart thought he heard a smile in the kalashtar’s voice. “But I’m sure something important must have precipitated your visit.”

“Yes. I saw it again.”

“I surmised as much. And it saw you, and noticed that your eyes were open to it.”

“Yes.”

“What did you see, exactly?”

“It was much like what you showed me last night. The city melted away, and a terrible storm raged in the sky.”

“Yes, the dreams of the city are stormy tonight.”

Despite the darkness of his eyes, or perhaps because of it, Cart’s memory of the nightmare landscape was terribly vivid, even more frightening than when he’d seen it the first time. “All around I saw scenes of terror—collapsing buildings, murder and rape, the barbarians.” Ashara’s hands tightened on his arm, a gentle reminder of reality that kept him from sliding entirely into the nightmare. He planted his feet more firmly on the ground and continued. “I noticed that the horror seemed to be radiating outward from a single point, like ripples on a pond, and when I looked for the center, I saw the quori again. I heard it say, ‘Close your
eyes,’ and I felt a jab of pain in the back of my head, right where you—what did you do to me?”

“I’ll explain in a moment. What happened then?”

“Everything returned to normal. It—the quori closed my eyes, the ones you opened somehow. And suddenly I knew … I felt that I had to find you, I had to join you and take up arms against the darkness, to make sure that the new age was one of light. I … I can’t really explain it.”

“I can,” Havrakhad said. “The quori is using you to get to me.”

“What?”

“It planted a seed of its own mind in yours, so it could see through your eyes. It filled your mind with thoughts that would encourage you to seek me out.”

“But …” Cart leaned forward, toward Havrakhad’s voice. “But I
felt
those things. I
believed
them. I still do—I think I do. I want to fight against evil.”

“War and slaughter can’t bring the Light into the world,” Havrakhad said. “The quori’s interests are served by encouraging evil means toward apparently good ends.”

Cart sat back on the couch. He had felt so ardent, on fire with passion to set the world right, to atone for his past actions—and inaction. Havrakhad had doused that fire.

“What about my eyes?” he said.

He heard Havrakhad rise and move around the room. Ashara gave his arm a gentle squeeze, but he barely felt it. He felt like an inanimate hunk of stone and wood. Havrakhad rustled to his left, then behind him.

“Well,” the kalashtar said, “let me show you how the darkness can be overcome.”

Cart felt Havrakhad’s fingers on his head, and his vision erupted in golden light.

A
unn sat on a bench in Chalice Center and stared numbly at the cloud-filled night sky, lit from below with the pale red light of street lanterns. He watched as the sun set the last remnants of the night’s storm on fire and slowly brightened the sky. The last nighttime revelers staggered their way back to homes and hostels. The first merchants and travelers of the daylight hours appeared in the plaza, unlocking doors, driving wagons, hauling luggage to the lightning rail station or the airship mooring tower.

As the morning light fell on his gray skin and blank white eyes, Aunn began attracting attention. He was sure he looked like the worst dregs of the drunks and gamblers who stayed out all night on the streets, but even the most destitute changelings usually had the good sense to appear as downtrodden humans or half-elves, rather than compound the hatred and prejudice they faced. He questioned his decision a dozen times in the first half-hour of dawn light, but he kept repeating to himself, “This is who I am.”

At last the merchant he’d been waiting for came downstairs to his shop and unlocked the door, and Aunn rose stiffly from the bench, shaking the night’s chill from his limbs. Spending Kelas’s money sparingly, he bought a new suit of leather armor, perfectly fitted to the natural form of his body, and a pair of boots. With that, he discarded the last of Kelas’s clothes, then went next door to a weaponsmith and bought a new mace, which was a welcome change from Kelas’s light sword. The mace had a heft that made it feel like a real weapon, but demanded little in the way of expertise or finesse. By the time he was fighting for his life, Aunn had always figured, the time for finesse was long past.

His last stop was a clothier at the edge of Chalice Center, which catered as much to the wealthy residents of the neighboring Alderwood district as to travelers. He picked out a warm traveling cloak, which
cost more than he really wanted to spend but helped to dispel the last remnants of the cold night, and tried it on in front of a full-length glass mirror. The mirror was the reason that Jazen was his favorite clothier in Fairhaven, though the portly human wouldn’t recognize him. Aunn frequently visited Jazen’s to put the finishing touches on a new disguise, carefully examining every detail of his face and body in the mirror as he pretended to fuss over choosing a new cloak.