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  “And now we come to the great mystery of the Dhakaan Empire,” Haldren said, pointing at the figure in the middle. Its body had the erect posture of a hobgoblin, though it was taller even than the hulking bugbears at either end. Its face, however, had been completely obliterated. “This god was the greatest of the goblin pantheon. When the humans conquered Khorvaire, they identified some goblin gods with their own gods-Aureon and Kol Korran, Onatar and the other Sovereigns. Six goblin gods worked their way into human myth as the Dark Six. This one alone was suppressed, forgotten, struck from written legend, and wiped from memory.”

  A voice at Darraun’s shoulder startled him. “The first of sixteen.” Darraun had not heard Gaven come up behind him.

  “Yes, Gaven, the first of sixteen,” Haldren said. “The Gold Serpent whom the world has long since forgotten.”

  It took Darraun a moment to remember where he had heard the words before, but then he could hear the cold, clear voice of Senya’s deathless ancestor in his mind. Snippets of that strange conversation between Gaven and the undying elder flashed through his mind.

  In the first age of the world, sixteen dragons transcended their mortal forms to become like the Dragon Above who had made them.

  “Wait,” Darraun blurted, causing Haldren to turn and face him. “Senya’s ancestor said that sixteen dragons became gods in the first age of the world. So you’re suggesting that these sixteen dragons were the gods of the goblins, and fifteen of those gods are also the gods of the Host and the Dark Six?”

  “Indeed,” Haldren said. “That is exactly what I am saying.”

  “But why was that sixteenth god forgotten?”

  “That is the great mystery of Dhakaan. It might be that the god was so closely identified with the Dhakaani that the humans obliterated any record of him in order to quell any resistance from the goblins they conquered.” Haldren paced as he spoke, and he sounded as though he were thinking out loud. “Perhaps they believed that wiping out all memory of the god would also extirpate all memory of the goblin empire. On the other hand, the words of Senya’s ancestor suggest that the god himself abandoned the world. Perhaps he stopped granting spells to his clerics. Or perhaps the goblins grew convinced that their god had abandoned them in allowing their defeat at human hands, and they themselves obliterated his memory. It could be that he abandoned the world because the world forgot him.”

  “I’m still not clear on what happened with the other fifteen,” Senya said. “You said the humans identified some gods with gods of the Host, and adopted others like the Keeper? Those are the Dark Six?”

  “Exactly,” Haldren said, putting a hand on Senya’s back. “As far as we know, the first humans to come across the sea worshiped nine gods-the Sovereign Host. They encountered the goblin pantheon of sixteen gods, and apparently they were willing to believe that they had lived in ignorance of six more. But those six were the most destructive and evil of the fifteen, the Dark Six, and they were made inferior to the Sovereigns.”

  Darraun shook his head. “And all sixteen of these gods-the nine Sovereigns, the Dark Six, and the missing one-all of them were actually dragons who became gods during the first age of the world?”

  “Correct. And according to the Prophecy, there’s a vacancy in that roster of sixteen gods. Khorvaire will have a new god-Vaskar, the Storm Dragon. Right, Gaven?”

  Darraun looked at Gaven. He was staring up at the statue with its marred face, apparently lost in a trance. Then his lips moved, but no sound came out.

  “What was that, Gaven?” said Darraun. “What did you say?”

  Gaven’s voice was a whisper. “The Bronze Serpent seeks the face of the first of sixteen,” he said. His voice trailed off, though his lips kept moving.

  Haldren stepped forward, his face purple with rage, and slapped Gaven hard across the face. “Speak,” he said, “so I can hear you.”

  Strong and clear now, Gaven repeated his earlier words. “The Bronze Serpent seeks the face of the first of sixteen.” A wind stirred the stale air in the cave. “But the Storm Dragon walks in his paths. The Bronze Serpent faces the Soul Reaver and fails. But the Storm Dragon seizes the shard of heaven from the fallen pretender.” The wind swirled around Gaven, kicking up a whirlwind of dust and pebbles around his feet and whipping his hair around his face.

  The color drained from Haldren’s face, and he took two steps backward, away from Gaven. “No,” he murmured. “The Bronze Serpent… Vaskar is the Storm Dragon! He must be!”

  Senya grabbed Haldren’s arm. “But what if he’s not, Haldren?”

  “No!” Haldren’s eyes were wild, and he stumbled backward. Cart took up a position between Gaven and Haldren, as if to ward his commander from an attack. Darraun stayed out of the way, watching and waiting to see how the situation played out.

  “What if it’s Gaven?” Senya clung to his arm, her voice an entreaty. “Look at him-the Mark of Storm he wears. The wind blows at his command, the rain outside-”

  With another crash of thunder outside the cave, the wind swirling around Gaven died. Gaven slumped to his hands and knees and stared at the ground, shaking his head.

  “You old fool,” Gaven said, then lifted his eyes to Haldren. “Vaskar’s not the Storm Dragon. You’ve hitched your chariot to the wrong horse.”

  Haldren found his feet and pulled his arm away from Senya’s grasp. “And you think you’re the one?”

  Darraun couldn’t read his voice-it might have been an accusation, but there was a hint of genuine wonder.

  Gaven scoffed. “The Storm Dragon? No. No matter what Senya says.”

  The mention of her name made Haldren wheel on Senya. “You have betrayed me,” he whispered.

  “I’m trying to help you,” Senya said. Darraun had expected her to cower in the face of his wrath, but she stood her ground and met his gaze. “Abandon Vaskar, Haldren. He’s doomed to fail. It’s not too late! If we work with Gaven-”

  Senya broke off as Haldren turned his gaze back to Gaven, fury burning in his eyes. Gaven had dropped his head again and was staring at the ground. Haldren shook his head.

  “No,” he said. He grabbed Senya’s hand and yanked her toward him, then reached out for Cart’s hand. “Take hands. We’re leaving.”

  Cart took Darraun’s hand, and Darraun bent over Gaven, helping him to his feet and holding on to one hand. Senya gently took Gaven’s other hand in hers.

  Haldren began the words to his spell, and Darraun found himself lost in the rhythm of them. He looked around the troubled little circle. Haldren’s eyes were closed as he focused on his spell; he was suppressing his anger in order to keep his mind clear. Cart stared impassively ahead. Senya’s eyes were on Gaven, her brow furrowed, and she clung to his hand. Gaven’s head hung down, and Darraun couldn’t see his eyes.

  The spell built to its conclusion, and Darraun felt the first tugs that would carry them across hundreds of miles. In that instant, Gaven’s hand wrenched free of his. Haldren shouted the last syllable of the spell as if he couldn’t choke it back, and they were gone.

  PART II

  In the Time of the Dragon Above, when Siberys turns night into day, and showers of light fall from the sky, the Eye of Siberys falls near the City of the Dead. A fragment of celestial light, the Eye sees, and in it all is seen. The Eye of Siberys lifts the Sky Caves of Thieren Kor from the land of desolation under the dark of the great moon, and the Storm Dragon walks in the paths of the first of sixteen. The shard of heaven falls to earth a second time, and its light brightens Khyber’s darkness.

  CHAPTER 14

  Rienne stood at the railing of the small airship and gazed at the churning waters of Scions Sound far below. An unnatural storm blew out of the Mournland, churning the dead gray mist that marked the borders of that desolate wasteland into a roiling frenzy and sending long tendrils of smoky gray reaching for them. So far, the skill of the ship’s windwright captain had kept the air around them calm-and free from the grasping reach of the mist. Rienne shudder
ed. The mist stood in her mind as a symbol of the mystery that cloaked the destruction of Cyre near the end of the Last War. It was impenetrable, inscrutable, and deadly. Within its embrace, nothing could survive for long. Wounds did not heal, plants did not grow, and horrible creatures born of flesh and metal warped by magic stalked the deserted ruins of the nation that had once been the jewel in Galifar’s crown.

  Securing the use of the Morning Zephyr had been a little tricky, but she’d managed it. It was primarily a matter of convincing her friends in House Lyrandar that Arnoth had authorized it, without letting Arnoth know that she’d borrowed the vessel. If Gaven’s father knew that she was looking for Gaven, he’d want to be involved. And if he was involved, that Sentinel Marshal who had barged into her house would be involved soon after.

  She told herself she would probably get the Sentinel Marshals involved soon enough anyway. After all, Gaven was a fugitive from Dreadhold. Whatever reservations she had about her role in getting him captured and convicted, the fact remained that he was a criminal. For all she knew, he might prove dangerous-even to her. Perhaps especially to her-the one responsible for turning him in to House Deneith in the first place. She might have to call in another favor once she reached Vathirond, to ensure her safety in case she actually found him.

  “Lady Alastra?” The first mate’s voice stirred her from her thoughts. She turned to see that the young man’s face, normally smiling broadly, was creased with worry. “The storm is growing worse, and the captain isn’t sure she can fend it off much longer. We might need to alter our course slightly, which could delay our arrival in Vathirond.”

  Rienne sighed. “A slight delay will probably not matter,” she said.

  “Yes, lady. In the meantime, the captain suggests you take shelter below.” The young man smiled briefly, nodded a small bow, and disappeared back into the wheelhouse.

  Rienne looked around the deserted deck. She had not even realized that the crew had left her alone, either in deference to her or in fear of the brewing storm. She turned around again and stared into the gray mist. Something stared back, she thought-something powerful and malevolent. She shuddered and made her way below.

  Back in her cabin, the bundle of silk propped against her bed caught her eye immediately. She lifted it and sat on the bed, tenderly resting the bundle on her lap and carefully pulling at the wrappings. Beneath the silk was a fine leather scabbard tooled in gold, and she drew out the gleaming blade of her sword, the weapon she called Maelstrom. She removed a scrap of silk that caught on the blade as she drew it, and ran her finger carefully along the razor-sharp edge.

  Rienne had not wielded Maelstrom in battle since the Sentinel Marshals had taken Gaven into custody. She had adopted the dress of a noblewoman and settled down in Stormhome. She had made herself useful to her family and lived a quiet and profitable life, making the most of her connections to House Lyrandar despite what she had done to Gaven.

  But at least once a week, sometimes every night, she had closed the door to her chambers and brought out Maelstrom, polishing the blade and oiling the leather that wrapped its hilt. She kept it carefully wrapped and secure, in case she ever needed it. She hoped this journey wouldn’t be such an occasion, but she was glad to have Maelstrom with her. Some part of her soul sang as she touched it again.

  The storm threatening from the Mournland diminished as they made their way farther south, though their route took them alongside the dead-gray mist all the way to Vathirond. Rienne watched the city as it came into view-stone buildings forming tiers and bridges at the bases of its many tall towers, a gray metropolis set in stark contrast to the surrounding green hills-but her mind was consumed with thoughts of how she might find Gaven.

  She started her search in the docking tower. A larger airship had docked at roughly the same time as her vessel, and she scanned the disembarking passengers carefully, on the off chance that Gaven was among them. She tried to anticipate the effects of twenty-six years in Dreadhold on his appearance, as well as any magic he might use to hide his face. More than a few passengers responded with nervous stares or angry rebukes as she tried to peer into cowls and under the wide brims of hats meant to conceal.

  After one passenger drew steel, Rienne abandoned that approach, making her way through the crowds to the city streets. She ran down her mental list of contacts in Vathirond-distant relatives, people who owed favors to her family, and a few very old friends-and chose the most likely suspect. Looking around the streets, she quickly got her bearings and made her way to Subsidence, the neighborhood perched along the stream that flowed alongside the city, carrying its filth into the Brey River.

  Krathas was a half-orc she believed had some connection to House Tharashk, though he didn’t carry the Mark of Finding. His residence in Subsidence suggested that he didn’t benefit much from this connection, and Rienne wondered if he were an excoriate like Gaven. She had never met Krathas, but Gaven had spoken of him a few times, and she had the impression that Gaven trusted him.

  Setting foot in Subsidence reminded her of descending into Khyber. Danger was near-she could feel it-and she loosened Maelstrom’s silk wrappings.

  “Look, Marsh,” an oily voice purred from an alley to her right, “we found ourselves a noble mouse. A half-elf mouse. Half elf, half mouse.” The man laughed, loud and grating.

  Rienne sank into a combat stance, and she could feel the hesitation already taking root in her opponents’ minds. A quick glance showed her two assailants, emerging from the alleys on either side of her, and she heard a third trying to sneak up behind her. Keeping her attention on the position of the three attackers, she pulled again at Maelstrom’s wrappings, trying to free the hilt so she could pull the blade loose.

  “Ooh, the mouse has been to fencing school.” It was the same one that had spoken before, foolishly drawing attention to himself before he was close enough to attack. He was a lanky human with a weirdly asymmetrical look to him, like one side of his body had grown just a bit faster than the other. He sort of half limped, half shuffled toward her, a leering smile spread across his angular face.

  “I’m not sure about this, Jad.” The one coming in from her left was an orc, clearly brought in on the operation for his size and strength, though he displayed more sense than his leader at that moment.

  Jad responded to Marsh’s hesitation the best way he could imagine: he shouted, “Get her!” and sprang forward, his gangly arms flailing wildly. He held a wavy-bladed dagger in each hand.

  Rienne managed a firm grip on the hilt of Maelstrom but didn’t have time to draw the blade. She didn’t need to. She ducked slightly, batted Jad’s left arm aside with her sword-silk, scabbard, and all-and pushed his right arm so the dagger slashed across Marsh’s chest. Marsh yelped in pain and surprise, and Jad staggered backward. She could see the doubt gnawing at his mind, and she used their hesitation to quiet her mind.

  While her eyes kept careful watch on the two assailants before her and her ears listened for the approach of the man behind, her innermost mind quieted, opened-like a flower opening to the new sun-then focused, channeling her inner energy into a fine point, a sharp edge of energy that flowed into her limbs. She focused the energy and held it, waiting.

  The one behind her hung back for that first instant, but then he came charging in. Without turning, Rienne crouched, gathered her soul energy, then released it, springing straight upward. She slammed down on the back of the third attacker, cracking his skull with Maelstrom in its sheath, then landed on her feet behind him. The third assailant fell like a stone, and his head bounced once off the stone walkway.

  Jad and Marsh stood flanking the prone body of their companion and gaped at her. Marsh started backing away first, keeping a wary eye on her in case she decided to charge after him. Rienne took the opportunity to draw Maelstrom from its sheath.

  That was enough. Marsh and Jad turned tail and ran, leaving their unconscious ally to Rienne’s mercy. She touched her lips to Maelstrom’s blade and slid it ba
ck into the sheath. She started to return the blade to its silk wrapping, then thought better of it. She unrolled the silk and wound it around her waist, then carefully placed the scabbard into its folds so she could draw the blade more easily if she were attacked again.

  Only then did she check on the third attacker, the one whose face she’d never seen. She rolled him over onto his back-he was a handsome young man-and checked the pulse in his throat. Aside from a large bump on his head, he’d be fine when he woke up.

  He was lucky she’d never freed her blade.

  Krathas stared at her across a filthy desk covered with scraps of parchment, and Rienne stared back. The sign on his office door had identified him as an inquisitive affiliated with House Tharashk’s Finders’ Guild. Rienne wondered what kind of business he attracted in Subsidence-certainly not jobs that paid very well, if his office was any indication. He was clearly past his prime, his hair thinning and white and his face deeply lined, though he was still muscular and tall-very tall. He had made a show of welcoming her in and clearing a chair for her to sit on, though he fell silent as soon as she mentioned Gaven’s name. That was when the staring began.

  At last he broke the silence, though he didn’t look away. “Last I heard, Gaven was in Dreadhold,” he said, watching her carefully. “In fact, I heard you were the one who put him there.”

  She held his gaze. “I thought he was possessed and needed help.”

  “You thought his actions might disgrace your family and get in the way of your social climbing.”

  Rienne felt a surge of anger but held it down, making sure no trace of it showed on her face. “Is that what he told you?”

  “Something like that.”

  “When did you talk to him last?”

  “Sixteenth of Zarantyr.”

  “Zarantyr? Three months ago?”

  “Sorry, was I not clear? Three months and twenty-six years ago. Just before they locked him up.”