Gaven took an involuntary step backward as the weight of Senya’s words—the weight of what they were doing here—finally registered in his mind. He was no longer in his cell, dreaming of the Prophecy and remembering all the research he had done into its mysteries. No, he was in the jungle of Aerenal, outside the City of the Dead, waiting for the Eye of Siberys to fall in fulfillment of the Prophecy. He was helping to bring it about.
That was what had landed him in Dreadhold in the first place.
Haldren’s eyes narrowed and rested on him. “What is it, Gaven? Did you see something?”
“With respect, Haldren,” Darraun said, “I’m particularly interested in what Senya is seeing right now.” Senya took a few steps in the direction she had indicated, her eyes still fixed on some distant point.
“Senya will guide us to the City of the Dead,” Haldren said. “But the Prophecy—Gaven, what did you see?”
Gaven didn’t answer. Instead, he lifted his eyes skyward. The clouds of his unnatural storm had cleared, but the sky was beginning to darken. Even in the deepening blue, the Ring of Siberys was visible, glowing faintly. By the time the sun’s light faded, the ring would be as bright as the sun—turning the night into day.
Haldren followed Gaven’s gaze, and remembered the words Gaven had uttered before. “When Siberys turns night into day,” he muttered. “Yes, Gaven. The Time of the Dragon Above is here. All is coming to pass as the Prophecy declares.”
Gaven shuddered. Some part of him wished he were back in his cell with his nightmares. That seemed preferable to living them out.
* * * * *
Senya led them through the jungle as though following a distant call, and as they crested a hill, the forest cleared before them. The City of the Dead lay exposed to their wondering gazes. Wide streets ran straight and long between hulking buildings—sloping pyramids crowned with pillared temples, squat ziggurats decorated with elaborate skull motifs, graceful domes with chiseled arches, winged pillars, and flying buttresses. Great eldritch fires leaped skyward atop towering columns and danced inside the galleries of ancient temple-tombs.
Gaven saw no sign that the jungle encroached into the city—no trees adorned the streets, no vines clung to the ancient stones. No wall surrounded it, either, but the line between the vibrant life of the jungle and the calm stillness of the City of the Dead could not have been more clear. Where ferns and grasses ended, stone began. People walked the streets, though not in any great numbers—and Gaven couldn’t be certain whether those people were themselves alive. In the elven homeland, the spirits of long-dead ancestors still inhabited their desiccated corpses, speaking to the living within their ancient tombs. The City of the Dead was the center of the elves’ ancestor worship, where the Undying Court continued to guide the spiritual and political affairs of the elves, unhindered by the death of their mortal bodies. Even the guards at the gate might be undying soldiers conscripted to guard the elders’ rest.
Senya insisted on leading them to a towering arch set up as an entrance. Two guards wearing helms decorated to resemble skulls crossed their spears in the archway as Senya approached, and easily a dozen more stood beyond. One spoke in Elven. Gaven couldn’t make out any words, but the hostility in his voice was unmistakable. Senya stepped forward proudly and replied in the same language. She spoke more slowly, and her voice wasn’t muffled by a helmet with a skull mask, so Gaven caught a few words: “the right of counsel,” “revered elder.”
The guards looked at each other and moved their spears out of the way slowly, as if it caused them pain. Gaven watched them stare at Cart as the warforged lumbered past, and he thought he heard one of them make a spitting sound as he followed Cart through the arch.
Then he was surrounded by the monumental buildings of Shae Mordai, the City of the Dead. He felt as though he had stepped into a tomb.
“Haldren?” Darraun said.
Darraun had been lingering behind as they entered the strange city of monuments, but now he hurried to catch up to the front of the group, where Haldren walked beside Senya. Gaven noticed that he still seemed pale, and wondered if the necromancy of the elves unsettled him. Haldren barely glanced over his shoulder to acknowledge Darraun.
“Why are we entering the city? Didn’t Gaven say that we’d find what we need near the City of the Dead, not in it?”
Haldren stopped and turned around. “Indeed he did, though I was not aware you had overheard that part of our conversation.” His pale blue eyes burned into Darraun. “However, Senya has access to an unusual store of knowledge here within the city, and I would not miss the opportunity to tap it while we’re here.”
The Right of Counsel, Gaven thought—the privilege to confer with her ancestors within their tombs. The tradition of the elves attached so much weight to that right that the elders would be compelled to answer her questions. He wondered what they might have to say about the Prophecy and Haldren’s plans to fulfill it. The elves were the ancient foes of the dragons, sporadically warring with them since their first arrival on the island continent of Aerenal. The elves studied the Prophecy as a matter of survival.
For that matter, what would they say about him? He had not missed the hostility of the guards at the gate, and he felt certain that elves more ancient would share that distaste for a half-elf violating the sanctity of their tombs. And what of a half-elf who carried so much knowledge of the Prophecy?
The sound of his name drew Gaven out of his reverie. Darraun had stepped closer to Haldren and lowered his voice, but he was gesturing in Gaven’s direction.
“Yes, we do have Gaven,” Haldren said, turning his icy gaze on him. Gaven looked away. “But Senya’s additional information could corroborate what Gaven has told us—or contradict it. Or it could expand our understanding further. Besides, we have time. The Ring of Siberys is at its brightest, and the Eye should fall tonight. It might turn out that our hasty departure this afternoon was actually advantageous. Now come! Senya’s family is waiting.”
“Family?” Darraun said. He looked slightly relieved and turned to Senya. “You have family living here?”
“The living members of my family left Aerenal many decades ago,” Senya said, her voice little more than a whisper. “But the dead remain.”
She started walking again, and Haldren took her arm. Darraun stared after her. Cart clapped him on the shoulder as he and Gaven walked past, and Darraun trailed behind them.
Senya led them down a wide, quiet street into the city’s heart. The city seemed almost normal as they passed through—merchants beginning to pack up their wares for the evening, loading their carts and rolling up the tents they’d erected in front of the gigantic stone buildings. Most of the people on the street were alive, Gaven could see now, though a few had painted their faces to resemble skulls or corpses. All were elves, and they clustered together as Senya passed with her non-elf allies in tow. The hostility on their faces was clear.
They turned a corner, and the trappings of life fell away. Twin rows of towering monuments stretched before them, many-tiered pyramids topped with thick columns, each column supporting a blazing beacon in honor of the dead who resided within. The air was thick with incense, wafting out the open doorways of the temple-tombs. This was the heart of the City of the Dead, where the Aereni priests performed the Ritual of Undying, which bound the spirits of revered elders to their bodies so they could continue sharing their wisdom with their descendants through the ages. Gaven stopped in his tracks.
He had been here before.
The power of the memory overwhelmed him. He had stood on this spot—seen the same line of ancient temples, heard the roar of the blazing beacons, breathed the thick, scented air. He had been here with a friend, an elf, who sought the counsel of his ancestors just as Senya did now.
No, he told himself, that was not me. That was the … other.
“What is it, Gaven?” Darraun tried to follow Gaven’s gaze. Cart had stopped a few paces ahead and turned to see what held them up, while Senya and Haldren walked further ahead.
“Nothing,” Gaven said, shaking his head quickly. “Sorry.” He started walking again, and Darraun stayed close beside him.
Senya started up the stairs of one of the great pyramids. Haldren lingered just long enough to look back at the others and hurry them with an imperious gesture. Cart hustled forward, and Gaven quickened his pace, pushing the memories aside.
He climbed the stairs slowly, with Cart on one side and Darraun on the other. Two more elves wearing skull helmets flanked the open doorway, holding their spears apart so the three could pass. Their stares told Gaven that he was not welcome here. He also remembered that from before. He had been nervous that these guards—or their ancestors, more likely—would see through his disguise and try to prevent him from entering, bring the wrath of the city on his head. His heart started pounding, but this time, as before, he passed through the entrance without incident. The guards crossed their spears across the entrance behind them, and the ancient stone swallowed them.
They climbed a narrow staircase inside the temple-tomb, so long that Gaven began to feel the walls close in around him, until they finally emerged onto a high balcony overlooking the street they had just left. Haldren stood in a narrow doorway, his back to the room behind.
“We’ll wait here,” Haldren said. “There are certain rites Senya needs to perform. We’ll all go in when she’s finished.” He looked at Gaven for that last sentence, and Gaven thought he heard an emphasis on the word all. He also heard Darraun swallow hard at Haldren’s words.
Gaven turned around and stepped to the edge of the balcony. The air was clearer up here, above the clouds of incense that settled at street level. The western horizon was blood red—“Evening red, clear skies ahead,” he whispered, remembering the old sailor’s proverb. The Ring of Siberys shone across the sky like a million tiny suns, lighting the night sky in a pale imitation of day. As he looked, a shooting star darted down from the Ring and disappeared above the distant forest.
More memories surfaced in his mind. He had climbed the dark and narrow stairs beside his friend, Mendaros, and waited on this balcony as the elf made his petitions to his ancestor. Then Gaven had knelt in the small room behind him, and learned much that was still locked in his mind. Mendaros Alvena Tuorren had been his friend, probably Senya’s great-uncle or cousin far removed. And now Senya and her lover had brought Gaven here because of the knowledge he possessed.
“Gaven, we’re ready,” Haldren said behind him.
Gaven turned to see Cart and Darraun shuffling into the chamber. Haldren extended a hand, inviting Gaven to join them, a broad smile on his face. Gaven’s pulse quickened. What did Haldren hope to learn here?
Gaven followed Darraun into the small stone chamber. It smelled of death, clouds of incense unable to mask the acrid scent of the embalmed corpse that stood and watched them enter. Pale flames flickered in empty eye sockets, and Gaven felt them burning into him as he approached. Senya’s ancestor was draped in ancient finery, rich velvet and brocaded silk cloaking her withered flesh. Long black hair fell around her desiccated face, pale paper-thin skin stretched tight over her bones, and her clawlike hands held a slender gold rod. Senya knelt on the floor before her ancestor, and Cart took a similar position behind her.
Gaven cast a sidelong glance at Darraun as they sank to their knees, noticing his wide eyes and the sweat beading on his brow. He’d seen this reaction on the battlefield during the war. Soldiers faced with the undead soldiers of Karrnath, animated from the corpses of earlier battles, often suffered more from their own fear than from the blades and arrows of their enemies. He wondered if Darraun had fought in the war, perhaps suffered at the skeletal hands of Karrnathi forces. He gave the man credit for facing his fear at Haldren’s command. Haldren knelt in front of Gaven, just behind Senya’s elbow.
“Senya Alvena Arrathinen,” the deathless thing said. Her shriveled lips barely moved, as though the cold, clear voice emerged magically from somewhere inside her head. Gaven was surprised at the purity of the voice, a far cry from the rasping whisper Gaven had expected. “What are you doing here? You are not a credit to your family.” She spoke in Elven, and Gaven wondered who else in the room understood her words.
Senya held her head high. “I am a warrior, and my skill at the blade brings honor to my ancestors.”
“Martial skill is not honorable when it is used for the pursuit of profit.”
“The Valaes Taern would not agree,” Senya said.
Gaven held back a smile. The warriors of the Valaes Taern had been mercenaries in the Last War until they annexed part of southern Cyre to form the nation of Valenar.
“Your family is not of the Valaes Taern.”
“Nevertheless, I fight with honor in a worthy cause.”
Her ancestor made a sound like a long sigh and stepped closer to where Senya knelt. “You have invoked the Right of Counsel, and tradition requires that I answer your questions, as much as I might wish to deny you. What counsel do you seek, Senya?”
Senya glanced over her shoulder at Haldren, and Gaven caught his first glimpse of fear in her eyes. Haldren put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and she turned back to her ancestor. “I seek knowledge of the Prophecy of the Dragons,” she said. Her voice sounded high, strained.
“The knowledge of the dragons should be used only as a weapon against the dragons.”
“I have invoked the Right of Counsel, as you said. Grant me the knowledge I seek.”
“There is more to wisdom than knowledge. You would do well to heed my counsel.”
Gaven watched Haldren take his hand from Senya’s shoulder and bring it to his mouth. The old man had to restrain himself from jumping into the argument. Gaven rather enjoyed seeing Haldren faced with someone he could not charm, bully, or dominate. He hoped to see many more examples of Haldren caught powerless.
“Give me knowledge, and trust my wisdom and that of my allies,” Senya said. Haldren nodded approvingly behind her.
“You have given me no cause to trust either.” The ancestor cast her burning eyes over Senya’s companions. Gaven was sure she dwelled longest on him. Was she studying his dragonmark, perhaps? Or did she somehow recognize him? “On the contrary,” she continued, “to all appearances you are rushing headlong into folly and destruction. I would not assist you in this.”
“You must,” Senya said.
Gaven was impressed at how Senya handled herself. For a moment he wondered if Haldren had established a magical connection between his mind and Senya’s so that he could speak through her. But Gaven decided it was more likely that Haldren had fallen in love with a woman who shared some of his talent for debate.
The undying ancestor drew herself up, bristling with anger. “I am bound to give counsel to deaf ears and show the path to blind eyes.”
Triumph rang in Senya’s voice. “Tell me, revered elder, how the Storm Dragon shall claim the place of the first of sixteen and become a god.”