Rise of the Seventh Moon: Heirs of Ash, Book 3 (17 page)

“I commend your patriotism though I confess I do not understand it,” Shaimin said. “Cyre is a dead land. The world has changed. You must move on.”

“You have a brother, Shaimin,” Marth said. “Correct?”

The elf gave Marth a startled look. “Yes, my younger brother, Kias.” Shaimin chuckled. “The pleasure of my mother and agony of my father. He chose to be a painter.”

“If your brother died, would you cease to remember him?” Marth asked.

“Of course not.”

“If your brother were murdered, would you fail to avenge him?” Marth asked.

“That is a foolish question,” Shaimin said. “Blood must be answered in blood.”

“And why should it be any other way with Cyre?” Marth said. “Every man and woman here has friends and relatives who perished in the Last War. The Day of Mourning has scarred us all. Yet you tell us to move on? To forget the insults and injuries we have suffered?”

“You speak in generalities, Marth,” Shaimin said. “I know your family died well before the Day of Mourning. I know you avenged them.”

“But I should let the murder of Cyre itself be forgotten?” Marth asked, his voice growing heated.

“If Cyre had truly been murdered, no,” Shaimin said. “The Day of Mourning was a mystery, Marth. No one knows why it occurred, not even you. It could have been a natural disaster. It could have been the fault of Cyre itself. Whom do you intend to blame for Cyre’s death?”

Marth glared at him. “All those who did nothing to save her,” he said. “All those who let her orphans wander in darkness.”

Shaimin looked back at him calmly. “My friend, it seems you have resigned yourself to a life of pointless vengeance against many innocents.”

“So be it,” Marth said. “This world has given me little else.”

Shaimin sighed and looked away as they stepped out of the fort and into the courtyard. Marth called sharply to a group of six nearby guards, summoning them to his side.

“This man is to be placed under guard in my personal quarters,” the changeling said. “See to it that he remains safe and secure until
Karia Naille
arrives.”

“Aye, captain,” the guards said. They stared at the elf, unable to conceal their surprise that he had entered the fort unnoticed.

“He is an important man,” Marth said. “Keep six guards on him at all times and do not let him leave your sight.”

“Aye, Captain,” they replied.

“Do not forget your obligation to me, d’Thuranni,” the changeling said.

“I have not,” the elf said. “Though you hardly resemble the man who earned it. If I may ask you a question before I go?”

Marth folded his arms tersely but nodded his assent.

“Why did you name this fortress after Ashrem d’Cannith?” Shaimin asked. “It seems a peculiar tribute, considering that its very existence betrays everything your master represented.”

“You are an odd man to question my morality,” Marth said.

“I do not judge,” Shaimin said. “I am merely curious. Was irony your intent?”

“No,” Marth said. “I named my home after Ashrem because I respect his knowledge, his skill, and his compassion. I only regret that he wasted his life in a futile quest for peace.”

“You aided him in that quest, once,” Shaimin said.

“It seemed right at the time,” the changeling said, “but I have been shown much since then.”

Shaimin raised an eyebrow curiously.

“Take him to my quarters,” Marth commanded, ending the conversation.

Marth watched as the soldiers led Shaimin d’Thuranni away.

Marth retreated to a far corner of the courtyard, watching as his soldiers completed the repairs on the
Seventh Moon
and prepared for the journey to Sharn. He ignored those who saluted and greeted him, consumed in sullen silence. Shaimin had been such a disappointment. When Marth had tapped the assassin for his aid, the idea that Xain would be of any further trouble seemed an impossibility. The Shaimin of old could have found and slain Tristam Xain with ease. The idea that Tristam could
repeatedly escape the assassin seemed impossible.

But then Marth was also guilty of underestimating Xain’s resources and abilities. It had cost him his ship and nearly his life. Perhaps Shaimin truly had been unable to complete his contract. The possibility that Tristam, or more likely Dalan, had turned Shaimin’s loyalties seemed a great deal more likely. Shaimin could respect the letter of their agreement in any number of ways while still betraying the spirit. The elf obviously disapproved of his mission of vengeance.

Maybe it had been foolish of him to seek Shaimin’s aid. It had been a desperate move, an attempt to set one ghost from his past against another. Instead, it had only created greater complications.

Shaimin’s parting words haunted Marth. Since the Day of Mourning, Marth felt that everyone else had changed, turned away from him. That had been another reason he had drawn upon Shaimin—the elf had always been such a cold-blooded professional that surely he had not changed as well. Now the assassin claimed that it was Marth who was so much different. Was it possible?

In Marth’s mind, he had not changed so much. Every dark choice he had made since the Day of Mourning had been a natural progression that this new world of “peace” forced upon him. It was the world itself, not he, that had changed. All that he had ever known was the Last War, and the war had taken everything away. Now he, like so many other sons of Cyre, was a memory that refused to fade. If the prophet had not come to him, shown him visions of a great and terrible future, then his life would be as hollow and pointless as the wandering ghosts in the forest.

But, like those ghosts, had his existence been twisted to someone else’s purpose? Zamiel always claimed he was merely a custodian of destiny, but what did he truly have to gain through
the use of the Legacy? Did that even matter, so long as Marth’s own ends were met?

It didn’t matter what the prophet wanted. It was too late to abandon his course now. So many had died—Grove, Kiris, so many others. There was too much blood on his hands now. At least, through his actions, Cyre would be avenged.

Yet he wondered, what did Zamiel have to gain from all of this? The mysterious monk had advised Ashrem and himself to different ends. Now it seemed as if he would have gladly advised Tristam as well had the artificer followed and obeyed the commands left by Ashrem’s illusion. How many others had the prophet guided? Had their end been as bleak as Ashrem’s? Who was Zamiel?

Answers would not be forthcoming, though the truth was slowly unraveling as Marth replayed events in his head. He was too close to the problem, too close to the prophet himself. He could find no answers without alienating his most powerful ally. To do so now would be foolhardy, undoing years of patient labor.

Yet perhaps there was a way to see justice done.

Perhaps he could not escape his destiny—but Tristam might. The boy seemed to thrive on defying the expectations of others.

A slow smile spread across the changeling’s pale face.

T
HIRTEEN

I
t was still early morning. The sun had barely peeked over the eastern horizon. The ship was silent save for the burning hum of her elemental ring as she soared gracefully across the sky. Omax meditated deep in the ship’s hold. Gerith, in the galley, prepared the morning meal. Pherris directed their course. Seren should have been sleeping, but she couldn’t.

With everything else that had happened since Metrol, it was easy to convince herself to put this off, to find the right time. But Seren realized that she had been lying to herself. There was no right time to do something this difficult. The longer she ignored it, the more difficult it would be. She climbed onto the ship’s deck, clasping her arms against her chest. A chill wind blew over the airship’s deck, pushing her hair back out of her face.

“Good morning, Miss Morisse,” Pherris said, glancing back at her. The old gnome did a double take when he noticed the streaks of tears that marked her cheeks. His snowy brows furrowed. “What’s wrong, Seren? What is it?”

“I’m sorry, Pherris,” she said, voice cracking. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” Pherris said softly.

Seren held out one hand, cupping a small golden badge sculpted in the shape of an open wing. Pherris’s eyes widened
in disbelief. Keeping one hand on the ship’s wheel, he extended the other toward her, pudgy fingers trembling so much that he fumbled at first, dropping the tiny chunk of metal to the deck. Seren stooped to pick it up, but Pherris shooed her away with a curt gesture.

“Master Snowshale,” Pherris called out. “Master Snowshale!” he repeated.

Gerith poked his head out of the galley hatch. “Captain?” he asked, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

“Take the helm,” Pherris said, dropping to his knees on the deck. “Please.” The ship listed heavily to one side as her captain lost contact with the helm.

Gerith gave Pherris a concerned look, then hurried to comply, taking the ship’s wheel. The
Mourning Dawn
steadied herself, though she did not fly as evenly as before.

Seren knelt beside Pherris, unsure what to do. The gnome looked so much smaller and older than usual. He cupped the little piece of metal between his hands.

“Haimel,” Pherris whispered, shuddering. “This belonged to Haimel. His first mate’s badge. He would never lose this. Where did you find this?”

“Metrol,” Seren said. “In the ruins of the train station, on one of the bodies of the
Dying Sun
’s crew.”

“What—” Pherris struggled to compose himself. “What did you do with his remains?”

“Omax and Ijaac buried him, along with the rest of the crew,” Seren said.

Pherris nodded slowly, seeming to take some small solace in that. “Thank you, Miss Morisse,” he said. “At least there is that.”

Then Aeven was there, without sound or warning. The dryad knelt beside the tiny captain and wrapped a slender arm around
his shoulders. Pherris closed his eyes tightly and clasped the badge in both hands, fighting the tears.

“I’m a fool,” Pherris said, his voice still thick. “Nothing but an old fool, for believing he could still be alive.”

“No,” Seren said. “You couldn’t give up hope. He was your son.”

“My son,” Pherris said. He looked around the ship’s deck blankly. “He was the whole reason for all of this. After the war, I was planning to retire. When Dalan appeared and said he was looking to unravel the mysteries of Ashrem’s final days, I agreed to stay on, to take
Karia Naille
on one last adventure. I knew Haimel disappeared along with Ashrem … I thought I might find him some day. I thought he might have survived, like Marth and Kiris did.” He bowed his head again. “I was a foolish old man to think the Gerrimans would be spared.”

“Remember him, Pherris,” Aeven said. “It is all you can do. Haimel will survive in you.”

“I only wanted to find him to say good-bye,” Pherris said weakly, eyes glazed as he stared at the deck. “He was my only son, and I never told him how proud I was. He was the only family I had left.”

“Not anymore,” Seren said. “You have us now.”

The gnome looked at her in surprise. His thick moustache twitched. One corner of his lip curled in a slow smile. “Thank you, Seren,” he said.

“What’s going on out here?” Dalan asked, stepping out of his cabin and looking around. “Something wrong?”

“Everything is in hand, Master d’Cannith,” Pherris said, standing up smartly. Aeven had vanished once more. “Master Snowshale, you may return to your duties. I shall take the helm.”

“Aye, Captain,” Gerith said with a grin, hopping back down to the deck and vanishing into the galley.

Pherris climbed back up to the ship’s controls, pausing only long enough to pin his son’s badge on his vest before taking the wheel again.

Dalan looked at Seren suspiciously. “Everything in order?” he asked.

“Everything’s fine,” she replied, standing. Seren took a small guilty pleasure from Dalan’s confusion.

“How far to Nathyrr, Captain?” Dalan asked, moving beside the helm and looking out at the vast plains and forests of Thrane.

“An hour at most, Master d’Cannith,” Pherris said.