The City of Towers: The Dreaming Dark - Book I (2 page)

F
lickering flames cast long shadows. But this was no battlefield. The fire blazed in a beautiful hearth of blue marble, filling the chamber with the rich smell of cedar. This was the home of Lord Hadran d’Cannith, and the trappings spoke of his wealth and power. The floors were covered with soft Sarlonan carpets, each one embroidered with a labyrinthine pattern of twisting, thorny angles. Portraits and glamerweave tapestries adorned the walls, depicting the glorious deeds of his Cannith ancestors. Dominating the room was a vast darkwood desk, its surface covered in golden sigils that glittered in the firelight.

Lord Hadran d’Cannith sat behind the desk, pulling at his chin as he listened to the messenger’s report. It had been over a year since the battle of Keldan Ridge and the devastation that had wiped Cyre from the pages of history. Over a year since he had heard anything of his betrothed. Hadran was a wealthy and influential man, and he had spent a fortune on inquisitives, messengers, and diviners. Although he feared the worst, he had always clung to an ember of hope. And now, it seemed, his prayers had been answered.

“Lei was injured at Keldan Ridge, Lord Hadran,” the inquisitive said. She wore a long cloak of dark green leather, a hood pulled low over her face. “It has been difficult to gather any sort of information about the battle, but it seems her troop was faced with an overwhelming force of unknown nationality.
They were driven west into contested lands between Thrane and Breland, and that’s the only reason Lei is still alive. On the Day of Mourning, she was just outside Cyre—just beyond the effects of the disaster. I imagine she’s one of the few people who actually saw the Mourning with her own eyes.”

“But she’s alive? You’re sure of it?” Hadran chewed on his gray mustache, a habit his first wife had always despised. “Why didn’t she arrive months ago? Why hasn’t she sent a message through the stones?”

“I’m not a diviner, m’lord,” the messenger replied, pulling her emerald cloak tight around her body. “I believe her companions took her back into the ruins of Cyre to search for other survivors. As for the stones, I wouldn’t be surprised if she has no coin. But I know for a fact that Lei d’Cannith is alive and on her way here. I expect she and her companions will arrive in Sharn within the week.”

“This is glorious news!” Hadran cried, jumping to his feet. He found that he was shaking. “I … I know you can’t rely on such things, but months ago I spoke to an augur about Lei. She said we would never be married, that death would come between us. I prayed and I prayed that it was a false vision, and oh, Olladra be praised, it was!”

He moved to embrace the messenger, but the cloaked inquisitive took a step back.

“Be careful, Lord Hadran,” the messenger said, her voice seeming deeper and darker. “It is all too easy to misread prophecy. I said that your betrothed was coming to Sharn. I never said
you
would see her again.”

“What?” said Hadran, his joy turning to anger.

“Your oracle said that death would come between you and Lei.” The shadows in the room seemed to grow deeper, and beneath the hood the messenger’s face was lost in darkness. “You assumed the death was hers.”

She threw off her cloak and Hadran cried out in horror.

Moments later, the messenger wiped her bloody hands on Hadran’s shirt. She picked up her cloak and wrapped it around
her shoulders, pulling the hood down over her head. She took one last look at the ruin that had once been a dragonmarked lord.

“I’ll give your love to Lei, Lord Hadran,” she purred. “I have great things planned for her. Great things.”

No one saw her leave.

D
aine woke in the mud. Cold rain fell from the gray sky, and his woolen blanket was soaked and filthy. At least it’s just water, he thought. Compared to what they’d been in over the last six months, rain was a welcome change of pace.

The memories came unbidden to his mind, images far worse than any nightmare. For centuries Cyre had been a jewel in the crown of Galifar, a fertile land renowned for its crafts and culture. Now Cyre was a barren wasteland filled with corpses. As he traveled south, Daine heard the peasants whispering about the horrors to be found in this so-called Mournland. According to the tales, blood fell from the sky instead of rain, and the spirits of the dead howled with the wind.

The truth was far worse.

The battle at Keldan Ridge happened the night before the Mourning. The final hours of the battle were a blur. None of the survivors could remember how they escaped from the warforged marauders, and no one could actually recall when the disaster took place. How did it happen? What force could have devastated an entire country yet leave a few soldiers completely unharmed, a mere twenty feet from the border? Perhaps this amnesia was a side effect of the force that destroyed the realm, or perhaps the event was simply more than the human mind could bear.

On that terrible morning, Daine had led the remnants of his
troop back into Cyre, passing through the dead-gray mists to see what lay beyond. How could they have known how vast the devastation would be? Who would believe that an entire country could be destroyed in so brief a time? For months they had pressed deeper and deeper into the wastes. All that they found was horror and death. As the weeks went by Daine’s soldiers fell one by one to the terrors of the twisted land, and only five survived the long trek back to the border—Daine, Pierce, Jani Onyll, the healer Jode, and Lei d’Cannith. But that was far from the end of their troubles. Every day brought a new clash with the soldiers of Thrane, and Jani fell victim to a last gift of Cyre—a lingering infection Jode’s touch could not cure.

Finally they moved south into Breland. After a few skirmishes, the active aggression of the Brelish soldiers faded into muted disgust. The destruction of Cyre had thrown the entire world into a state of shock, and the common folk were weary of war. The chroniclers said that King Boranel of Breland had offered sanctuary to the refugees of Cyre. Others claimed that princes and ambassadors were hammering out the terms of peace far to the north, laying the foundation of a new world that would take the place of the ancient kingdom of Galifar. The frontier garrisons held the borders against any signs of treachery, and Daine’s troop had received a bloody welcome in Thrane. But further south the people had begun to lay down their swords and return to their plows. After years of battle, it seemed that the conscripts were returning home for good.

It had been many years since Daine had a place to call home. Any past he might have returned to was buried in the ashes of Cyre. Pierce had been built to fight in a war that was all but over. Jode had never spoken of his family. Lei was the only one of the survivors whose future was clear, and so the others traveled with her on the road to Sharn—not because the city had any particular promise for them, but they had no place else to go.

Daine rose and shook the water out his blanket. Pierce was struggling to keep the fire alive, and Lei was starting to break camp, gathering the tarps and blankets. Daine joined her.

“Another fine day, hmm?” he said, handing over his blanket.

Lei smiled and shook her head. Her hair was covered with
mud, but it still seemed to gleam in the firelight, as if there was true copper mixed in with the red. Folding his blanket and placing it with the others, she produced the wooden rod she used as a focus for simple magic. With a few deft gestures, she wove a domestic cantrip into the wood. A wave of this makeshift wand drove mud and water from blankets and clothes, and scoured the dirt from her skin and hair. A dry blanket was hardly the most important thing in life, but without Lei’s magic their clothes would have rotted away months ago—and her ability to conjure food was all that stood between the soldiers and starvation.

“We’re almost there,” Lei said, handing him a mug of water and a plate of cold gruel. It was about as pleasant as eating mud, but it had them alive. “If it wasn’t raining, you could see the towers from here.”

“You’re really going to go through with this?”

“Of course. You don’t understand our ways, Daine. I am an heir of the Mark of Making, and I have a responsibility to my house.”

Dragonmarks. Daine swallowed a spoonful of gruel with a grimace. No one was born with a dragonmark, but members of a select few bloodlines carried the potential to manifest a mark and the magical power that came with it. It was Jode’s dragonmark that allowed him to heal injuries with a touch. Lei’s mark had a similar effect, but where Jode could knit flesh and bone, Lei repaired metal and wood. The powers of her dragonmark were the least of Lei’s talents, but the mark defined her place in the world. In an age ravaged by war, a weaponsmith could hold more power than a king, and the dragonmarked artificers of House Cannith were the greatest weaponsmiths of modern times. House Cannith blazed the trail that led to the invention of the stormship, the wand of eternal fire, and of course, the warforged. Dragonmarks were rare even within the families that carried them, and Cannith often formed matches between the dragonmarked in the hopes that children would inherit the powers of the parents. So it was with Lei and her betrothed. Hadran d’Cannith was a widower and almost twice Lei’s age, but his gold was good and his mark was strong.

“Blood above love,” said Daine. “I’ve heard it before. All I’m interested in is the gold you promised us. It’s just … I’ve seen you covered in mud and blood. I have a harder time seeing you as lady of the manor.”

“You think I like sleeping in ditches and watching my friends die?” said Lei as she handed a plate of gruel to the groggy Jode.

“None of us
like
it. But it’s those who can do it without letting it kill them that make soldiers. You lived through things that killed hardened veterans. You’re one of us.”

Lei shook her head. “My service in the guard was duty to my family. Just as my marriage is. Of the two, I’ll enjoy marriage far more.”

“Ever been married before?”

Lei opened her mouth to retort.

“Please, Captain Daine, my lady Lei!” Jode interjected with a brilliant smile. “If we have only a day’s travel ahead of us, let us enjoy one another’s company while we still can, yes?”

Lei and Daine mumbled apologies and returned to the gruel.