Tallis looked at Soneste, seeking an answer.
She opened her mouth, not sure what to say. If Charoth was some kind of warforged, he was the strangest she’d ever seen. His frame was skeletal enough to pass for a human body beneath thick robes.
“Sverak … where … am I?”
Soneste turned to look at the gaunt man in the glass throne. He leaned heavily upon the arm, his sunken eyes watery as he tried to blink, tried to focus.
“Master …” Charoth-Sverak, or whoever he was-struggled to sit upright. The voice sounded like Charoth’s as she’d known it, but its timbre was sharper, more metallic, lacking the resonance and volume afforded by the magical mask he’d worn.
Tallis raised his hammer, but Soneste held up her hand. Wait.
She briefly met the old man’s eyes. The uniform he wore was familiar, the traditional gray-blue of a Cannith-employed artificer. Then she saw the gorgon emblem upon his breast and a faded, lyre-shaped tattoo at his collarbone. No, not a tattoo. A dragonmark.
The Mark of Making. This man was of House Cannith!
“Sver-” he rasped. “Sverak, it hurts …”
The skeletal warforged at their feet reached out a gloved hand. “Master Erevyn! I am here!”
Erevyn. Soneste recalled the Chronicle: Among the thirty-two presumed dead at the Orphanage was Erevyn Korell d’Cannith, chief artificer and minister of the facility.
The warforged yanked off one glove then the other. Sickly, translucent skin-not unlike the mottled flesh of Erevyn himself-sent a putrid stench into the air. More delicately, the construct Sverak also began to peel the skin from his arms as though they, too, were mere gloves. The end of each was cut off at the elbow with ragged cuts and dry, exposed veins. Even as he discarded these, the dead skin twitched with a semblance of life-or necromancy.
Whose skin was that? Soneste felt sick.
“What are you?” Tallis asked, disgusted.
“It is me, Master,” the warforged continued, holding up its arms. The metal fingers-five on each hand-were thin, delicate, nothing like the strong digits of a normal warforged.
She thought of Aegis and Soneste’s anger flared again.
“Sverak,” Erevyn said, his voice sleightly stronger. “Where … are we?”
“You are safe, Master.” The lean warforged sounded weak, but there was a desperate elation in his voice. He crawled on his hinged, metal-capped knees, reaching a hand out to his master. Tallis watched Sverak carefully, primed to strike him down. Without his mask and robes, the construct seemed so much smaller.
“I have saved you, at last. Look! Master, I have used what you taught me. I have learned how to undo the damage to your body. The energies that hurt you-they kept you alive, impervious to harm, but they were too much for your body to sustain. You have been … asleep, but I learned at last to reverse the effects!”
“I don’t …” Erevyn d’Cannith turned his head-an effort which seemed to pain him-to look upon the room, the shattered glass door, and the factory beyond. “Where is the director, Sverak? What have you done to Lord Charoth? He is badly hurt.” The artificer was still feeble, unable to do more than writhe slowly in his seat.
Soneste saw despondency in the man’s watery eyes, the weight of some terrible knowledge. Erevyn-and not Charoth, the real Charoth d’Cannith-was the sole survivor of the Orphanage disaster.
“He is gone, Master,” Sverak said. “He sought to destroy all that we worked for.”
“We? Sverak … no.”
“Master, I have done all of this for you. Your body is infused now with the power of Galifar’s own pure blood-the oldest human lineage on Khorvaire! Its power is your power, its vitality yours. You will live strong again! We can do whatever you like, go wherever you want to go. I have wealth, influence, prestige. We will be untouchable, you and I. House Cannith will offer us so much for your return!”
Minister Erevyn turned his head to look again upon the warforged-his own creation-and then to Tallis. “Who are …?” he asked weakly.
Tallis opened his mouth but nothing came out. He probably didn’t know what to make of this exchange, but Soneste was piecing it together. She remembered the empty chair in Charoth’s estate. She remembered the articles’ words:
“It was not mere fire that has scarred me,” was all he told the Korranberg Chronicle regarding his condition …
… While most creation forges in the late 980s produced the rank and file units that House Cannith sold to the Five Nations, the Orphanage facility worked to augment the warforged mind …
… “I cannot speak to the destructive properties of such devices. That is not our province. I can, however, confirm that Positive Energy, such as that channeled by the Mark of Healing, can be deadly if not used correctly.”
It was Erevyn who had been stricken in this way. He had languished for six years while his assistant, an unorthodox product of the Orphanage, claimed the identity of the wealthy and influential Lord Charoth. All for this one moment, to capture scions of Galifar blood for an attempted reversal of the damage.
The royals! Soneste’s desire to unravel the mystery disintegrated instantly. She looked back at the glass table. Halix had freed his sister and was laying her gently on the ground. Soneste could see the young woman’s chest rise and fall. Still alive, thank the Sovereigns.
“Who are-?” Erevyn started.
“No!” Sverak screamed, his voice shrill with anger, with arrogance. Soneste looked at the warforged’s narrow head, his faceplate bereft of expression. “Do not speak to them, Master! They would destroy us, just as Charoth would.”
Tallis’s lips twitched. She could see the darkness in his eyes returning.
“Us?” Erevyn’s face became a grimace of agony. Soneste had seen dying men in less pain. Tears soiled by his affliction traced a watery black path down his lined face. “He would have destroyed you, not me, destroyed you as he should have. As I should have. You are my mistake. Onatar, forgive me for what I’ve done. You …”
“Master, no, listen,” Sverak leaned forward, reaching his hand out again as if physical contact with his master would bring him absolution.
The artificer shrunk away the best he was able. “You are … animate material, Sverak … nothing more. A tool of industry … and my failure.”
Soneste looked back at Sverak. The warforged froze, speechless.
“By the … Host.” Erevyn’s head slumped, his mouth working to speak. “Kill me, please.”
“Master, no,” the warforged said, struggling to stand. “You will be strong again, and I will make you understand.”
“No, you won’t,” Tallis said, his voice cold.
The hooked hammer came down in a two-handed grip, splintering the wood of the construct’s back. Sverak collapsed to the ground and lay still.
Chapter THIRTY-THREE
Far, the 13th of Sypheros, 998 YK
The windows of her room had frosted over. When Soneste leaned in close against the glass, she saw that a fine layer of snow had dusted the streets of Korth.
She hadn’t yet decided whether she loved or hated this city.
It was dusk. She’d spent the last two days in Crownhome, which despite its elegance had felt like a prison. Confined as she was to a series of well-guarded chambers, she’d had a great deal of time to reflect. The view was marvelous and the food, when she forced herself to eat, was extravagant. She wanted for nothing.
Except answers.
She’d been allowed to leave only once-under escort-to the House Sivis enclave. There she’d sent a brief and cryptic message to Thuranne to let her know that the ir’Daresh case had been closed, that she was all right, and that she’d be returning soon. She’d dare to presume.