Beyond the core, the floor opened on a large pane of thick glass. This normally offered a breathtaking view of the open sky. It currently displayed the busy street below, darkened by the airship’s shadow. At the far end of the chamber, the hatch to Ashrem’s cabin was closed. Tristam looked around for a place to sit and wait when a shout from within the room drew his attention. Looking at Omax in concern, Tristam moved closer to listen.
“I can scarcely believe this hypocrisy, Ash,” snapped a harsh voice. Tristam recognized the speaker as Brother Llaine Grove. Llaine was an old friend of his teacher, a priest of Boldrei who had served with Ashrem in their youth. “Many of those soldiers are near starvation. In the last five years, infection and disease have claimed more Aundairian lives than Cyre and Breland’s forces combined. You would do nothing to stop this?”
“Consider what you are saying before casting the label of hypocrite, Llaine,” Ashrem said in his cool, even voice. “Aundair’s troops suffer because their leadership is too aggressive. Do you think any aid we offer would lessen their burden? The powers that command them would only push harder. We may save a few innocents, but countless more would suffer. Such misguided efforts only pollute our greater work.”
“Greater work?” Llaine scoffed. “I go along with your plans only because no more sensible strategy has been presented. Your work is a dream, Ash. This is a reality. The war will continue no matter what we do, but perhaps we can save these soldiers’ lives.”
“Are you certain that your loyalties have not clouded?” Ashrem asked. “You are Aundairian. Perhaps patriotism has narrowed your vision?”
“I serve Boldrei first,” Llaine said. “She values mercy foremost, and I cannot bear to hear of such suffering, countrymen or not. How can I look an Aundairian mother in her eyes and admit I allowed her son to starve or succumb to disease when it was within my power to aid him? Such an act is unconscionable.”
“But necessary,” said Kiris Overwood, Ashrem’s consort and closest advisor. “Our artificers and wizards work toward a nobler goal, Llaine.”
“Not all of them,” the priest said. “This is a simple enough task. I am certain Tristam Xain could handle such a task quite admirably by himself, leaving the rest of us free to continue our work.”
Tristam was impressed. Llaine was a harsh man, with few kind words for anyone. He hadn’t thought the priest respected him at all. Omax gently clapped his friend on the shoulder.
“Tristam is still a child,” answered the husky voice of Norra Cais. Of all his master’s apprentices, Tristam knew the least about her. She was a prodigy, a graduate of Morgrave University who had only recently joined Ashrem’s alliance. “He may possess the skills necessary, but he has neither the wisdom nor responsibility to understand the full import of such a task.”
“Child?” Tristam whispered to Omax. “She’s a year older than me.”
The warforged shrugged.
“Norra is correct,” Ashrem said. “Tristam was not ready to aid us in our work on the Legacy, and he is not ready for this. His progress has not been quite as impressive as you may believe, Llaine. On a relative scale, he is a mere novice.”
Tristam’s heart sank. He slumped against the wall, feeling as if someone had cut the cords that held him upright. Ashrem had expressed no disapproval, at least not to him. If he had been progressing so poorly, why did his master keep him here? Pity?
“Tristam is your student, Dalan,” Llaine said. “I will respect your judgment. Regardless, there is power and talent enough at this table that we could easily fulfill Dalan’s contract, help those soldiers, and use the money Dalan pays us to further our research on the Legacy.”
“I will not use the spoils of war to purchase peace,” Ashrem said. “Such deeds would corrupt everything we have done and hope to do.”
The sound of approaching boots snapped Tristam back to himself. He rose and moved away from the hatch, attempting to appear nonchalant as he loitered near the viewing window. Omax watched him impassively, standing near the ship’s core.
A tall, thin man dressed in deep red entered the chamber. His blond hair was tied back in a loose tail. He favored Tristam with a quirky grin. This was Orren Thardis, captain of the Albena Tors, sister ship to this one.
“Evening, Captain,” Tristam said, nodding to the man.
“Hello, Tristam,” Orren said with a broad grin. “Omax. Are they still at it in there?”
“I suppose,” Tristam said.
“Suppose?” Orren said, obviously feigning surprise. “You aren’t taking the chance to eavesdrop? I would.”
Tristam laughed despite himself. It was hard to take a man like Orren Thardis seriously. Orren never took anything seriously. Maybe that was why, of Ashrem’s colleagues, he was among the easiest to get along with.
“You’re late for the meeting again, Captain,” Tristam said.
“Not late enough,” Orren said, looking at the hatch in distaste. “I was hoping to speak to old Ash without all those other busybodies poking in.”
Tristam nodded. “I’m waiting for him as well.”
“Waiting is a fine way to waste your life, Tristam,” Orren said, stepping to the glass floor and looking down at the dimly lit street. “Opportunity won’t wait for you. Don’t bother to wait for it.”
“I think opportunity has already passed me, Captain,” Tristam said.
Orren shrugged. “Then find another,” he said.
Tristam thought on it a moment. Preservative reagents for rations and medicine weren’t difficult to make. If Ashrem turned down Dalan’s contract, he would need someone else to fulfill it. Tristam could do it easily. Ashrem would be enraged if he knew that Tristam had defied him, but he wouldn’t have to know. Dalan was the sort who would keep such a favor a secret, and even sponsor Tristam for membership himself if Ashrem continued to deny him.
And if Ashrem found out, did it really matter? Was losing the respect of a master who didn’t appreciate him such a bad thing?
“Thank you, Captain,” Tristam said to Orren. “That’s good advice,”
“Don’t mention it,” Orren said.
Tristam and Omax walked back to the stairs, making their way toward the galley. In Tristam’s pocket, the tiny glass sphere and its miniature airship were forgotten.
CHAPTER 1
Four Years Later
As far as Seren Morisse was concerned, Wroat wasn’t the sort of place people lived on purpose. It was just where you ended up. There you were, living a normal life, minding your own business, and one day you found yourself in Wroat. Didn’t matter if you were rich or poor, Wroat just sort of snuck up on you. You came here thinking it might be a good idea to visit for a time, maybe make money or contacts before moving on to somewhere better, but the city found a way of sinking its hooks into you. Wroat made you need it. It made it easier to stay than to leave, and every day you stayed, the city got a little less pretty. The flaws became a little more apparent. The stink became a little more cloying. The people showed you who they really were, and by then it was too late.
Wroat became a part of you, and you were a part of Wroat.
The King of Breland lived in Wroat. As Seren hauled herself onto the rough stone ledge, she looked at the towering spires of the palace and wondered if the King ever felt the same way. He probably did, maybe even more so than anybody. After all, who had less say in his own future than a king? Maybe she wasn’t that different from old Boranel. Let him enjoy his prison of silk, jewels, and fine food. At least Seren had her freedom … precariously huddled on a loosely tiled ledge on the second floor of the Cannith guild house with rain pouring down around her.