Aunn felt the weight of that burden as he lurched to his feet. He gave one last look toward Maruk Dar and said, “Kalok Shash burns brighter.” Then he turned his back on the city and set off to find his way back into the Shadowcrags.
CHAPTER 36
Gaven was barely aware of guards putting new chains on his wrists and removing the ones that had bound his hands together. Winches rattled on either side, and the chains pulled his arms up and out, then harder until his shoulders burned with pain. The pain jolted him from his stupor.
Kelas stood before him. “Storm Dragon,” he said, snarling with contempt. He reached up and ran a fingertip across the dragonmark at Gaven’s neck. “Will the storm still obey you after this? I wonder.”
He turned away, reaching into his coat, and produced a dragonshard larger than his fist, at least the size of the Eye of Siberys. Its substance was light red, and a swirl of blood coiled in its heart-an Eberron shard. Kelas set the stone into a fine gold setting, and adjusted an array of fine metal arms around it, cradling it aloft and apart from the rest of the forge’s workings.
“The Dragon Forge is a refinery, of sorts,” Kelas said, satisfaction in his voice. “It’s made to separate gold from dross.”
“To purify the touch of Siberys’s hand,” Malathar whispered behind him, “by removing it from the tainted flesh on which it is written.”
Gaven gazed at the dragonshard with growing horror. Eberron shards were often used to contain magic-wizards recorded spells in them or attuned them to specific spells to make wands or even the relatively mundane everbright lanterns. Could it contain his dragonmark?
Kelas placed his hands on a golden orb below the dragon-shard and gasped as silver flame leaped out from the orb to engulf his hands. He trembled with what might have been torment or ecstasy, his eyes rolled back in his head, and the dragonshard flared with crimson light.
The light washed over Gaven, searing into his dragonmark, and then the pain struck him.
The worst of it was over. The chains binding his wrists held Gaven as he hung, limp and drained. His skin still burned where his dragonmark had been, blood oozing from the raw skin it had left behind. The manacles bit into his wrists, and he lacked the strength to find his feet and take the weight off his arms. He could barely lift his head to look around.
Kelas cackled with delight as he lifted the enormous dragon-shard from its golden setting and gazed into its depths.
“It’s here!” he crowed. “The dragonmark is perfectly preserved within the shard!”
Gaven could just make it out. What had been a mostly formless swirl of darker red within the pinkish stone had taken on a definite shape, but he did not recognize it as his mark. Then Kelas turned it slightly in his hands, and Gaven gaped. There they were-the familiar lines of his dragonmark, the Siberys Mark of Storm. There was a depth to the mark in the stone, so it changed when viewed from different angles. Kelas moved it again, and Gaven caught a fleeting glimpse of another shape before Kelas turned away, blocking his view. There was meaning in the depth of the mark, Gaven was certain. Through a haze of pain and weakness, a knot of resolve formed in his gut-he had to get that dragonshard, to untangle the Prophecy he’d carried on his skin.
Still chuckling with pleasure at his success, Kelas placed the dragonshard in another setting embedded in the apparatus, this one made of glass pipes and studded with gemstones.
“Wait,” the dragon-king whispered, and Kelas froze. “I must examine it first.”
“You’ll have your chance,” Kelas snapped.
Malathar lifted his head to loom over Kelas. “I will. And it will be now. Or at my command, the dragons that fuel your forge cease their work.”
Kelas stood looking up at Malathar, fists clenched at his sides, his face growing deeper red. The dragon-king returned his stare blankly. Finally Kelas broke. He lifted the dragonshard from its setting and handed it to Malathar, who held it gingerly between his two front claws.
Gaven found his feet and strained for a better view of the shard as the undead dragon held it, to no avail. A movement at the corner of his eye drew his attention to Phaine, who also gazed at the dragonshard with longing. Several pieces of the puzzle fell into place in Gaven’s mind.
Malathar and the other dragons helped Kelas build the Dragon Forge because of their interest in the Prophecy, and particularly in the Time Between. They had fulfilled their vision of that Prophecy, with three spillings of blood joining the primordial dragons in pairs. Gaven’s blood joined the Eye of Siberys and the Heart of Khyber. The Ramethene Sword spilled symbolic blood-the magical energy that powered the forge-to join the spawn of Khyber with the spirit that bound it, which must somehow represent Eberron. And Gaven’s blood again joined his Siberys mark with an Eberron dragonshard. By their reading, the Time Between must be drawing to a close, and the Time of the Dragon Below beginning.
More than fulfilling the Prophecy, though, Malathar sought to learn more about it, particularly as it was scribed on the skin of Khorvaire’s dragonmarked heirs. He had said that the Prophecy was defiled by being written on the skin of meat, and that the Dragon Forge would purify it. He wanted to study the marks separated from the skin of the mortals who carried them, and the Dragon Forge allowed him to do that.
Phaine’s interest in the dragonshard was more surprising, but Gaven suspected it arose from the same intent. The elves of Aerenal had almost as much interest in the Prophecy as the dragons, and House Thuranni might be making a study of it for their own ends. Or perhaps Phaine-or all of House Thuranni-wanted to understand dragonmarks better, or even to control the power of the other Houses’ marks. Could they harness the magic contained in a dragonmark that was held within an Eberron dragonshard? If so, they might be able to compete with all the other Houses-build and operate their own lightning rail, open their own message stations, control the weather and pilot airships and galleons.
Enough, Gaven thought. It’s time for the Storm Dragon to get out of the Dragon Forge. I am the storm…
But he was not the storm. It had grown easy for him, since walking the Sky-Caves of Thieren Kor, to submerge his mind in the atmosphere, to join himself with the storms that always accompanied his anger or distress. But there was no storm to join-he couldn’t find the weather at all.
It was not just his dragonmark they had stripped away. He was no longer the Storm Dragon.
Ashara’s hands moved over Cart’s inert body, finding the damage, the places where the knots of magic that gave him life were broken. Eyes closed, she saw him as a tapestry nearly ripped to shreds, almost every strand of warp and weft broken in one place or another. It would be some time before she could make him fully alive again, but he was not dead.
It was a strange thing about the warforged, and something that the living armies of the Last War had often forgotten to their detriment. A human soldier dealt a mortal blow would die before long, his life ebbing out with his blood. A warforged, though, could linger in that state of unconsciousness-still alive, but so badly wounded that he couldn’t function-for days, weeks, or months. She had heard stories within her House of warforged who lay in remote battlefields for years, then were repaired and rose up ready to battle.
She wondered what Cart was experiencing as his body lay inert. The warforged didn’t sleep, so they weren’t accustomed to dreams. Would he dream in his unconsciousness? Or was his mind simply blank, unaware of the passage of time? She would ask him when he awoke at last.