Dragon War: The Draconic Prophecies - Book Three (40 page)

“Mauren knows what the Dragon Forge did,” Aunn said.

“Mauren? The Sentinel Marshal is a friend of yours?”

“I’ve been working with her to stop Jorlanna. It would have been better if you had cooperated with her as well.”

Ashara’s eyes were wide with fear, and Cart rested his hand on top of hers.

“It’s not too late,” Aunn said. “I’ll tell her you’re willing to help—tell her all the ways you’ve already helped. I couldn’t have undone the magic of the Dragon Forge without you.”

Ashara shuddered and looked down at the table, seeming more vulnerable than Aunn had ever seen her before.

Cart squeezed her hand. “He’s right,” he said. “It’s better this way.”

“I should have listened to you,” Ashara said, smiling at Cart. “But I was too afraid.”

“Fear is a gateway for the Dark to enter the world,” Cart said.

Aunn cocked his head at that—it didn’t sound like anything he’d heard Cart say before. He glanced at the runic mark on Cart’s forehead, reassuring himself that this was the right warforged. Imprinted at the creation forge, those marks were unique to each individual warforged. Satisfied, Aunn smiled to himself. Cart was proving himself more complex—more “many-layered”—with each passing week.

“So what about you?” Cart said. “You’ve been working with the Sentinel Marshal? What have you learned?”

“It’s starting to come together—at least, I think it is.” Aunn sipped his wine and gathered his thoughts. “Kelas sent me to the Demon Wastes to stir up the barbarians, to get them to strike eastward. I know that Nara was behind that mission, and I’m pretty sure the goal—or one goal—was to get Aundairian troops as far away from the capital as possible. Most of our army is either in the Reaches already or guarding our borders with Thrane and Breland. But rather than leave the capital entirely unguarded, the queen hired mercenaries, quite a lot of them. Now, normally, if you want to hire mercenaries you go to House Deneith or House Tharashk. But the queen’s not in a position to deal with the dragonmarked houses right now, especially not Deneith.”

“So she’s hired mercenaries from Droaam,” Cart said. “Led by the half-orc who was at Kelas’s council.”

“Exactly. A whole company of minotaurs, disciplined and ferocious, marched into the city today. As far as I know, Janna Tolden is still involved in the plot as well, and even though she’s been discharged in disgrace, she still commands devout loyalty from some number of soldiers. So our working assumption is that the entire military forces of the city, with the possible exception of the palace guard, are more or less directly under Nara’s control.”

“So you think they’re going to seize the palace?” Cart asked.

“I expect they’ll try. And in the confusion of the skirmish the assassin will strike at the queen. The key question is when—and here’s where I wish Gaven were still around. I figure there has to be a significant moment, something related to the Prophecy, that will signal the attack.”

“Then, when the queen is dead,” Ashara said, “the mercenary army installs Jorlanna on the throne?”

“I suppose. Jorlanna’s involvement is still not clear to me.”

“Jorlanna doesn’t dare take part in the battle openly,” Ashara said, “in case it doesn’t go according to plan.”

“But she can help covertly,” Cart said. “We found out that the mercenaries are armed with weapons made and enchanted in Cannith forges.”

“Which means Jorlanna spent a small fortune already,” Ashara added. “And those weapons might be enough to tip the scales of the battle.”

“I can see that,” Aunn said. “But they’re also physical proof of her involvement, aren’t they?”

“Probably not,” Ashara said. “Ordinarily, the magewrights would stamp the House seal in the tang of the blade, but Jorlanna probably ordered them not to for these weapons.”

“But what about the enchantments they carry? Where else would a band of mercenaries from Droaam get magical weapons?”

“I’m not sure that constitutes physical proof,” Cart said.

“And my House has devised some temporary enchantments,” Ashara said. “I’d bet that within a day or two of the battle they’ll be ordinary, if well-crafted, blades.”

Aunn stared into his glass, empty except for a few drops of the golden wine. “So how do we prove Jorlanna’s connection to this whole scheme?”

A voice from behind Ashara startled him—he hadn’t seen the man approach. “Exactly what I’ve been trying to figure out,” Harkin said.

*  *  *  *  *

Rienne’s ragtag army marched toward the ruins of Varna as fast as her would-be soldiers could manage. It wasn’t a march, really—the farmers and foresters walked in casual clumps of two to five, sharing stories or singing songs as they went. The handful of real soldiers began the trip marching, lined up in formation, but their rigid lines soon dissolved as the soldiers drifted off in ones and twos to join the clusters. Rienne smiled, watching it. She understood the need for discipline in an army, but it heartened her to see hope take root among those she had come to think of as her people.

The march brought them through miles of farmland and past the occasional tiny village where they could stock up on food—freely donated, more often than not, by the farmers who pegged their sole hope for the Reaches’ survival on this straggling army. Rienne had been concerned that some of her followers would drift away in each village, but in fact their numbers swelled—a few survivors of the battle who had made their way separately to these communities rejoined the army when it passed through, and a handful of hardy men and women who had never joined the militia took
up weapons that had lain unused since the Last War and joined Rienne’s march to Varna.

Cressa was her nearly constant companion on the march, a fountain of energy and a source of unending chatter whether or not Rienne had anything to add to the conversation. Slowly, Rienne let her guard down—she stopped worrying quite so much about conveying the impression that she had everything under control, and began confiding in the girl as she would to an old friend. By the end of the first week, she had told Cressa about Jordhan—starting with his death at the Mosswood, then slowly working backward through their long history together. That forced her to tell the girl all about Gaven, which occupied the beginning of the second week.

Cressa seemed shocked, at first, to learn that Rienne’s betrothed had gone to Dreadhold, and even more surprised when she learned that Rienne helped Gaven after he escaped from that supposedly inescapable prison. As Rienne told more of her long tale, though, Cressa looked on Rienne with even more adoration in her eyes, as though she were a true hero because of the devotion she showed to her true love. Rienne almost laughed, but the girl was so earnest—and in fact, Rienne’s heart ached with the truth of it. She had sacrificed everything to help Gaven, to be reunited with him … only to have him stolen from her side in the depths of Argonnessen. Now, as her story came to what seemed like the end, she was going to face the Blasphemer alone, still wondering where Gaven was.

Night fell early as winter spread its icy claws down from the Frostfell, and the lights of the night sky did little to illuminate the ground. Even so, Rienne ordered torches lit so the army could keep moving—they had to reach Varna before the forces of the Blasphemer caught up with them. When they finally did make camp each night, Rienne walked among her people, talking with them and hearing their tales, watching as the more experienced soldiers offered some basic training to the freshest recruits, as conversations struck up on the march continued and expanded and blossomed into friendships. Before allowing herself the luxury of sleep, she consulted with Kyaphar and Fieran, and sometimes with the officers as well.

Kyaphar spent most of every day on the wing, flying in wide circles around the army to watch for threats from the Blasphemer or the spreading Depravation. He reported that the Blasphemer’s horde was close on their heels, fully regrouped after the chaos of the breaking seal and now no more than a day’s journey behind them—and Rienne was deeply
grateful for that day of distance. Then in the middle of the second week, he reported that Varna was in sight—as was a battalion of Aundairian soldiers, heading along the edge of the lake from the west toward the ruins of the city.

“Thank the Sovereigns,” Rienne said. “We won’t have to defend it alone.”

Kyaphar shook his head. “It sickens me,” he said. “They sacked Varna on the pretext of holding the barbarians back, protecting their borders. Then they struck farther and farther into the Reaches, utterly ignoring the barbarians. Only when the Blasphemer threatens to actually cross the Wyr into Aundair do they return to do the job they supposedly came here to do in the first place.”

“I only hope they’re not too late,” Fieran added.

“How far did they get?” Rienne asked. “They marched west from Varna—did they take Cree? Or sack it?”

“I don’t think they made it as far as Cree,” Kyaphar said. “It’s only been two weeks since they left Varna—that’s barely enough time to get to Cree, turn around, and come back. Of course, they could have sacked the town quickly, so it’s not outside the realm of possibility. Especially if half the city’s defenders were facing the Blasphemer at the Mosswood.”

Rienne sighed. “How long until we reach Varna?”

“Two or three days.”

“Let’s make it two.” She stood and touched each of the men on the shoulder. “Rest well, friends. I want an early start in the morning.”

C
art sprang to his feet at the sight of Harkin, and Ashara paled, making Aunn wonder what had transpired between the two of them and Harkin since they left the Cannith enclave. “What are you doing here, Harkin?” Ashara asked, turning in her seat.

“I thought we had agreed to help each other stop Jorlanna’s madness,” Harkin said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

Cart clenched his fists at his side. “I thought I made it clear that we don’t want you around anymore.”

“You certainly made your opinion clear, warforged.” Harkin’s voice was ice. “But you don’t speak for Ashara.”

“He does in this case,” Ashara said. “Leave us alone.”

“Ashara, listen,” Harkin protested, stepping back away from Cart. “As much as I hate to admit it, I need your help. So does your House.”

“It’s not my House anymore, remember?”

“For my sake then, for the sake of the love we had …”

“Is that what you call it?” Ashara’s face had gone from white to red, and she stood to face Harkin. “If you ever loved me, which I doubt, you could show a shred of respect for Cart.”

Aunn watched Harkin stammer, trying to come to terms with an idea that was obviously foreign to him and counter to everything he felt about Cart. At the same time, he realized that the argument was drawing the attention of the other patrons.

“All of you, stop,” Aunn said quietly. “Sit down and stop making a scene.”

Ashara turned her back on Harkin and returned to her seat, but Cart and Harkin stayed on their feet. The question of whether Harkin was staying or leaving wasn’t resolved, and there was only one more chair at the table.

“Pull up a chair, Harkin,” Aunn said.

Cart looked at Aunn as he settled into his own chair, and Harkin borrowed a chair from another table nearby.

“We should probably leave,” Cart said. “We drew too much attention.”

“I expect the Sentinel Marshal to arrive within a few moments,” Aunn said. “But I’m not sure that’s a bad thing.”

“What?” Ashara said.

“You’re the best chance we have to prove Jorlanna’s involvement in all this,” Aunn said. “You and Harkin.”

“Have we met?” Harkin asked, looking at Aunn for the first time.

“Yes, in your forgehold. I told you I was Kelas ir’Darren. My real name is Aunn.”

Harkin arched an eyebrow. “Interesting,” he said. “So what’s your connection to all this intrigue?”

Aunn glanced at Cart and Ashara. Much like them, he realized, his connection to this mess was that he had played an unwitting part in Nara’s plans and was trying now to undo the harm he’d wrought. And, he supposed, trying to imagine and live out a life that was less tangled and shady, more honest, more pure. Cart and Ashara might not express it like that, but Cart’s comment about the Dark using fear as a gateway to enter the world resonated with Aunn’s own thinking.

For Harkin, though, he decided on a simpler answer. “I’ve been working with the Sentinel Marshal to investigate Jorlanna’s plots.”

“Harkin, listen,” Ashara said, staring at the table and carefully keeping her voice low. “I think you should leave. We might have common purpose, but I don’t think we can work together.”

“Particularly after you threatened us,” Cart said.

“I can appreciate that,” Harkin said. “I’ll admit that when Cart threw me out of that bakery, I was furious, and I spoke in anger. But once I calmed down, I realized that I’d be a damned fool to throw away our chances of saving House Cannith because of my injured pride. I’m willing to put that unfortunate incident behind us for the sake of our common cause.”

Harkin had addressed Ashara, but her eyes went to Cart, waiting for him to respond to Harkin’s overture.

“I also let my anger get the better of me,” Cart said. “I apologize.” He extended a hand to Harkin, who at first seemed not to notice.

Then he half-turned to Cart, clasped his hand as he flashed a forced
smile, and turned back to Ashara. Cart bristled, and Aunn began to understand how Harkin had stirred up Cart’s anger.

“Well, Ashara?” Harkin said. “Can I still count on your assistance?”

“Not until you find it in yourself to treat Cart like a person. He’s not a tool, Harkin. He’s the best and bravest man I’ve ever known. You owe him an apology.”

Harkin scoffed, and Cart drew himself up further. “Man?” Harkin said. “A man is born from a womb, not made in a creation forge. A man breathes and eats. A man has a soul, Ashara. And a man can sire children of his own. Your warforged might be a loyal companion, and I can understand that you have some affection for him. But he’s not a man you can love and wed.”

Aunn gave Cart a great deal of credit. Cart must have been furious, but he showed no hint of it, sitting perfectly still, proud and tall in his chair. But Ashara’s fists were clenched on the table before her, white-knuckled, her face was bright red, and tears lined her eyes.