Nyam glared at him. “You know?”
Ardal nodded. “Zemella warned me. I know she was a Keeper. She was watching for its coming. It was sent away from Aerenal many years ago. The Undying Court proclaimed it too dangerous to remain here.”
“It is what our enemies want,” said Vaddi. “That … and me.”
Again Ardal nodded, indicating Vaddi’s robed arm. “You are marked. I saw it when you were bathing. There is power in you, dormant though it may be.”
Fallarond frowned. “Marked? In what way?”
“Show him, Vaddi,” Ardal said. Beside him, Nyam nodded.
Vaddi removed his robe and rolled up the loose sleeve of his shirt to reveal the dragonmark. Its beautifully intricate web of interlocking lines was clear to see, a birthmark that looked to be a natural part of him. There was power in those crafted lines, though for now it slept.
Fallarond’s eyes widened for a moment. “Where is the horn?”
Vaddi tapped his chest. “It stays with me.”
“If we venture into the Madwood, we will face horrors that you can scarcely imagine. Whatever awaits us there will do its uttermost to take that from you. They are the worst kinds of evil in all of Eberron. If they take the horn—”
“Not while I hold it,” said Vaddi.
“Perhaps you should leave it here.”
“I think not,” said Ardal. “Zemella said that it should not be separated from Vaddi. If it is and we all perish in the Madwood, it will be diminished, no more than a token power for some new force.”
“This is a dangerous game,” said the Deathguard, shaking his head with deep unease.
“Are we going in pursuit of Zemella?” said Vaddi.
Fallarond nodded. “So be it. I can take a score of my best Deathguard. You will come with us, Ardal Barragond?”
Ardal looked directly at Vaddi, almost as if throwing down a challenge to him. “I will. I have a responsibility to Zemella.”
Vaddi felt his heart lurch at the words. Then he is her lover! He has read my thoughts and I can see his anger behind his eyes. It is for her he goes, not for any fealty to me.
“Get some rest,” said Fallarond. “The best steeds will be ready before dawn.”
“We go overland?” said Ardal.
“Even with the fastest ship we have, it would take far too long to sail around the northern lands and south to the coast of the Madwood. We ride across the steppes of the Tairnadal. I have sent word to them already.”
Ardal frowned. “The Tairnadal have not always been cooperative. Are you sure of their compliance? I would not want to fall foul of one of their warclans.”
“We can trust them. After all, it is their steeds that we will be riding. Now rest, all of you. It will be a hard ride.”
When he had gone, Ardal also prepared to depart for the remainder of the night. “We are seeking word of Zemella and those who abducted her.”
“Pardon what may seem a naïve question,” said Nyam, “but where, precisely, are we to enter the Madwood? As I understand it, the place is vast! Every foot of it crawls with danger.”
“We will ask it,” replied Ardal. “Do as Fallarond suggests. Rest.” He grinned and left them to their thoughts.
“Ask it?” Nyam grunted. “Ask it? What is he talking about? We are to converse with a forest? A lunatic one at that?”
High above Shae Thoridor, on the uppermost crags of the escarpment that overlooked the night-shrouded harbors and quays, a huge shadow shifted among the trees. Great wings lifted and sank back as the soarwing eased itself into its hiding place. It would have been invisible to any but the keenest observer. Nearby, perched on a rock outcrop like an extension of it. Aarnamor studied the gnarled trees below.
Something was coming. Bushes shivered with more than the stirring of the breeze. Stones were loosened, slipping downhill with no more than the sound a mouse makes, but Aarnamor noticed everything.
From the steep slopes below, a cloaked figure hauled himself up the last of the vertical incline. His face was pale, features haggard with effort. The eyes were dulled with near-exhaustion.
Aarnamor watched as the cleric gazed up through a fog of pain to see his shape up on the crags, forcing himself to go on until he had come to within a few yards of the undead warrior. Cellester sagged, gripping a wiry gorse branch as he perched himself on a narrow ledge.
“You are late,” said Aarnamor.
Cellester’s mouth was dry. He licked his lips in an attempt to find his own voice, his chest still heaving.
“You are alone,” Aarnamor added. “The boy is not with you.”
Cellester shook his head. “The trap was well set,” he said through gritted teeth. “I did all that could be expected of me.”
“Well?”
“There was a counter trap. The boy has allies here.”
“Allies?”
“The Deathguard. The Murughel were no match for them.”
Aarnamor turned his attention to the city below end the forests above it. He could discern a thin haze of smoke where the forest met a stand of old ruins. He sniffed the hot air rising off the cliffs and sensed the scorched stench of flesh.
“Yes, I understand. In a sacred Aereni grove. The Stillborn have been thrown upon a pyre.”
“I could do nothing. I sought to bring the boy under my influence, but here, in this accursed Aereni domain, I am no match for him.”
“Then you should have taken him in Valenar,” said Aarnamor.
“Half the city would have risen against me. No. Coming here was the best strategy.”
“Where is he now?”
“With the Deathguard, I imagine.”
“And the girl?”
Cellester paused for breath, wiping sweat from his face. “Other Murughel took her, far out at sea. The trap I set in the ruins had Vaddi believe she was here in Shae Thoridor. I did not need her. I thought it would be safer to have her removed elsewhere, as insurance. The Murughel will have taken her to the Madwood.”
“Why there?”
“She will be out of the clutches of the Deathguard and other Aereni who might seek her. She can still be the bait in the trap for Vaddi d’Orien.”
“Does the boy know?”
“I don’t know.” Cellester sagged down on the ledge. Nor do I care, he thought. I have had enough of this wretched affair. Let me sleep here and not wake. It is over.
But Aarnamor’s voice grated along his nerves like raw steel.
“Once he knows—and the elves will know—Vaddi d’Orien will continue the pursuit. If he and the peddler travel to the Madwood, especially if they go alone, they will be easy prey.”
“I suspect that they will have Aereni with them, possibly even the Deathguard. The Valenar elf raised enough of them to spring my trap.”
“Then another trap must be set.”
“I cannot go farther. Not now. I need rest.”
Aarnamor rose up like the threat of a storm. “You will rest when you deserve it. If you earn the wrath of Zuharrin, you will never know rest again. Stand! Prepare yourself.”
Reluctantly Cellester did as bidden.
14
The Edge of Madness
Within the tower of Fallarond, the air worked like a spell on the exhausted travellers. Vaddi, at first unable to sleep, was finally caught in this web, his mind soothed, his fears for Zemella and desperation to be on the move again pushed back like a slow tide until his head fell forward and he slept. A distant sound, like the ebb and flow of soft waves up and down a beach, worked on him like a soporific, holding him until the dark hours just prior to dawn. Then, drifting away from the tranquillity, he was wide awake in the chamber. Nearby Nyam was snoring.
Vaddi grinned at the recumbent figure and nudging him with his boot. “Wake up, Nyam.”
While the peddler tossed and turned, struggling to resist full awakening, the door to the chamber opened. By the cold fire lamp beside it, Vaddi made out the figure of Ardal as he entered, closely followed by Fallarond. Both wore their light armor, twin swords strapped to their belts.