“Interesting,” Cart said, taking the belt in his three-fingered hands. He looked down at the battered belt that held his battle-axe at his waist. “I could certainly use a new one, but I don’t know about this.”
“It would be a different look for you,” Gaven said. The shopkeeper had returned and engaged Darraun in further discussion. Darraun deftly avoided any question of their destination, planned activities, anything that might help pursuers track them down. “What’s your connection to this group, Cart?” Gaven asked. “How do you know Haldren?”
“He was my commanding officer,” Cart said.
“He was a sergeant?” Gaven was stunned. “I got the sense he ranked higher than that.”
“And you assume I was just a private,” Cart said. “Lord General Haldren ir’Brassek commanded the Third Brigade of Aundair, Gaven. I might have made colonel and commanded a regiment myself, but Aundair’s armed forces value a skill in magic that I completely lack. I was part of the general’s staff.”
“I’m sorry, Cart,” Gaven said. “I…”
“I know. You were thrown in Dreadhold before the warforged proved their worth on the battlefield, almost a decade before Chase received his commission, I believe.”
Cart’s voice was a little too loud, and Gaven thought he saw the shopkeeper’s eyes dart in the warforged’s direction at the mention of Dreadhold. Damn, Gaven thought. All of Darraun’s careful work undone by one slip.
“Chase?” he said, keeping an eye on the shopkeeper.
“The first warforged to hold a command over human soldiers. He served in Aundair and proved himself far more competent than the Lord Major in command of the company. In 981 his general promoted him and relieved the Lord Major of his command, but the Lord Major complained to the Queen.”
Gaven watched the shopkeeper excuse himself and head into the back of the shop again.
“Sorry to interrupt you, Cart, but we need to get out of here.”
“What?”
“Fast. Darraun!”
The man whirled around. “What is it?”
Gaven nodded in the direction the shopkeeper had gone. “He’s going to get the authorities. We need to go.” Grabbing Cart’s arm, he hustled to the door. Darraun stared for a moment at the provisions spread over the countertop, then ran after them.
They hurried up the street away from the provisioner’s, the rain drenching them. Only when they were about to turn a corner did Gaven risk a look back at the shop-just in time to see a trio of soldiers arrive and peer through the shop door.
“What in the Ten Seas happened back there?” Darraun said as they turned the corner.
“My fault,” Gaven said. “I got Cart a little riled up, and he let a mention of Dreadhold slip out. The shopkeeper heard it and took the first opportunity to get out and summon help.”
“The fault was mine, then,” Cart said. “I’m sorry, Darraun. I don’t even remember mentioning it.”
Darraun sighed. “We were about to finish the deal, too,” he said. “Now what do we do? We should find Haldren and get out of town, but we don’t have supplies.”
“We find Haldren first,” Gaven said. “Tell him what happened, and figure something out from there.”
“The general is not a forgiving man,” Cart said. Gaven could hear the trepidation in his voice.
“Put the blame on me. Tell him I blurted something about Dreadhold. He can get as angry at me as he wants to, but he has to answer to Vaskar about my fate, and something tells me he wouldn’t want to have to tell the dragon he killed me.”
The warforged strode along in silence, making Gaven wish for the hundredth time that he could read Cart’s unmoving face.
“Back to the hostel, then,” Darraun said, turning a corner and leading them back to break the news to Haldren.
“I wonder what he’s telling them,” Cart said. He stood by the door of their little room, occasionally pacing as much as the tiny space allowed.
Gaven sat on the bed, staring out the window to the street below, watching for any sign that guards were coming after them. Darraun had insisted on breaking the bad news to Haldren himself, and neither he nor Cart was clear on which version of the story Darraun would tell. So far Gaven had not heard any shouting, but Haldren did not strike him as the yelling kind. For that matter, he couldn’t be sure Darraun was still alive.
“Do you hear anything in there?” he asked the warforged.
“I can hear them speaking,” Cart said. “I can’t make out what they’re saying. You can tell when the general is really angry, because he whispers. It’s frightening.”
The general, Gaven thought. He began to understand what Darraun meant about Haldren’s ability to inspire loyalty. Haldren hadn’t been a general in at least three years, but he would always be “the general” in Cart’s mind.
The door flew open, banging hard against Cart’s shoulder. The warforged stepped out of the way, and Haldren came barreling into the room. “We are leaving now,” he said, very quietly.
Gaven looked around as if he had a pack to load, then got to his feet. Darraun slipped into the room behind Haldren, eyes lowered.
“Circle up,” Haldren commanded. Senya entered, fumbling with the last buckle on her pack, and quickly joined the others in a circle, taking Haldren’s right hand. Darraun stooped to lift his own pack to his shoulders, then took Gaven’s hand, still avoiding his eyes. Haldren glared at each of them in turn, not even sparing Senya his withering stare, then began another incantation.
Gaven blinked, and he was in another forest, sweltering hot and buzzing with insects. Haldren freed his hands and stormed away from the circle.
CHAPTER 6
Are you Arnoth d’Lyrandar?”
Evlan watched the old man carefully. Every reaction was important. Any twitch or shift of the eyes could reveal whether Gaven’s father was aware of his son’s escape or had any idea of his whereabouts.
“I am,” the man said. He was hoarse and short of breath, but he stood as tall as Evlan despite his age. The hair was gone from the top of his head, but what remained still bore traces of black amid the gray and white. His dark eyebrows bristled. “What is this about, Sentinel Marshal?”
“My name is Evlan d’Deneith. I’m here to talk to you about your son.”
Arnoth turned to the stairs behind him. “Thordren?” he said, and the young man who had kept a respectful distance on the stairway came to stand beside him. Thordren strongly resembled what his father must have looked like in his youth-fine, black hair cut above his shoulders and combed away from his face, high cheekbones, and proud brown eyes.
“I’m sorry,” said Evlan, “I meant your other son.”
“My other… Gaven?” The old man’s skin went ashen, and he slowly sank down onto a bench. Then he seemed to recollect himself, and he looked away. “I have no other son, Sentinel Marshal. He was excoriated a long time ago.”
“All the same, it’s Gaven I need to talk to you about.” He shot a pointed glance at the other man, but Thordren sat down on the bench next to his father, his eyes glued to Evlan.
“Is he dead?” Arnoth’s eyes told Evlan almost everything he needed to know. Excoriate or not, Arnoth loved his son, and as far as he knew, Gaven was still locked away in Dreadhold.
“No. At least, not as far as I know. He has escaped.”
“Escaped? From Dreadhold?” Arnoth got to his feet again, Thordren fluttering after him, trying to get him back to the bench.
“Yes,” said Evlan. “According to House Kundarak, there was a dragon involved.”
The old man’s eyes went wide. “Where is he?”
“That’s why I’m here,” Evlan said. “I take it you have not received any communication from him?”
“Not in twenty-six years, no.”
“Were you aware that he manifested a Siberys mark during his imprisonment?”
“Yes. House Kundarak has kept me informed of developments.”