Memories flooded Gaven’s mind, recent past and ancient history blurring together. “I don’t know,” he said. “You don’t know? Why not?”
“Maybe you can help me,” he said. “Does the name Mendaros mean anything to you? Mendaros Alvena Tuorren?”
Saying the name conjured his old friend’s face in Gaven’s memory-even as he realized that those memories were not his. Mendaros had never known Gaven, though Gaven remembered him clearly.
“The name’s a blot on my family’s honor,” said Senya. “He’s reviled as a traitor to Aerenal.”
“Why?”
“He conspired with dragons. He opened a door for one of the most devastating attacks against Aerenal in a thousand years.”
“Did he? That’s a story I’d like to hear sometime.”
“Why are you asking about Mendaros? He’s been dead for centuries.”
Centuries, Gaven thought. That helped put the memories in context. “How many centuries?”
“I’m not sure. Four, maybe five?”
“And he was a relative of yours?”
“Fairly distant, but yes. Naturally, my family would like to emphasize the distance, not the relation.”
“How long has your family lived in Khorvaire?”
“About as long as Mendaros has been dead. Coincidentally.” Senya stopped, grabbed Gaven’s arm, and whirled him to face her. “But it’s your turn to answer questions now. What does Mendaros have to do with you and the Prophecy?”
Gaven sighed. “During the war, I worked for House Lyrandar, hunting for the dragonshards they needed to build galleons-or, rather, to bind elementals to power the galleons. Khyber shards are found underground, so I spent a lot of time crawling around tunnels. And the Prophecy was sort of a hobby of mine, something to think about as I traveled. It turns out that Khyber holds a lot of secrets about the Prophecy, maybe even some things the dragons don’t know.”
“And Mendaros?”
“Well, at one point I found… something-a record left by another scholar of the Prophecy. Evidently it was an ancient record, at least four centuries old, because it mentioned Mendaros. As a contemporary.”
“What did it say about him?”
Gaven remembered his laugh-a loud, easy laugh. “Not much. It indicated him as a source for some information about the Prophecy. Much the same information that your ancestor gave us in Shae Mordai.”
“You knew what he was going to say, you recited the words along with him, because you’d read this ancient record. And that’s why my ancestor thought you’d been there before?”
“Something like that.”
“I see.”
They walked in silence, conductor stone to conductor stone, following the magical line that stretched off past the horizon. The sun broke through the clouds, and Gaven pointed out the hint of a rainbow over the mountains to the east.
“How far to Starilaskur, do you think?” Senya asked.
“Got a map?”
“No.”
“Well,” Gaven said, “I figure we must have been about half the way from Sterngate when we jumped off. At least six days on foot.”
“Six days! I’m exhausted just thinking about it.”
“I agree. I suppose we could just wait for the next lightning rail and try to jump aboard.”
“People die doing that.”
“I know. I was joking.”
“Wait-we’re near the end of the Seawalls, right? We can’t be far from New Cyre.”
“New Cyre?”
“A refugee town, more or less. After the Mourning, Breland gave a little patch of land to surviving Cyrans. It can’t be more than a few days east, nestled up against the mountains.”
“New Cyre it is, then.” Gaven turned his steps away from the next conductor stone, setting his course to run along the line of the mountains instead. “From there, we’ll try to find a carriage or something to carry us to Vathirond.”
“And what’s in Vathirond, anyway?”
Gaven shrugged. “After twenty-six years? Who knows? Maybe nothing but memories.”
CHAPTER 21
Very well, Gaven,” Senya said, “if you’re going to be a fugitive, we’re going to do this right.”
Senya’s hunch had proved accurate, and they had reached New Cyre after dark on their third day of travel. Now she was dragging Gaven through the tiny village.
“What are you talking about?”
Gaven was exhausted. They had pressed hard to reach New Cyre before resting for the night, and he wanted nothing more than to find a comfortable bed. Despite their stops in Shae Mordai and Grellreach, the last time he’d slept in an inn had been White-cliff, and he was almost ready to go back to Dreadhold just for the beds.
“We’re going to get you some papers.”
“How are we going to do that in a town this size? I think it might have a pickpocket or two, but a forger?”
“Would you mind keeping your voice down?”
“Sorry.” Gaven glanced around at the darkened windows.
“And trust me.”
Gaven watched in bemused wonder as Senya-heir to a noble warrior line of Aerenal-found the few people in New Cyre who were still awake, asked just the right questions, and led him to what must have been the only house anywhere between Starilaskur and Darguun that could get him forged papers. He stayed up through the night watching the forger-a gnome with a thick accent who must have been a renegade offshoot of House Sivis-carefully tracing the lines of a magical sigil that would convince any inspector that his papers were authentic. The sun brightened the sky behind the Seawalls by the time they finally left the forger’s house, Gaven admiring his new identification and traveling papers.
“Keven d’Lyrandar,” he said, trying to get used to the name. “This makes me really uncomfortable, pretending to be a legitimate heir of my house.”
“It’s either that or wrap yourself like a mummy to hide that dragonmark,” Senya whispered.
Shutters were starting to open in the village, and Gaven was suddenly aware of the stares they drew as strangers who had arrived in the night.
“Well, it might work, as long as I don’t show these papers to any other Lyrandar.”
They stood at the door of one of the village inns-New Cyre, though small, had enough transient residents to support a handful of inns-and found it locked. Undaunted, Senya pounded on the door until a sleepy-looking woman opened the door.
“Respectable folk aren’t about at this hour,” she said, scowling at Senya.
“Please,” Gaven said, cutting off Senya’s retort, “we’ve been traveling for days and just need beds.”
“Time for sleeping’s done.”
“We understand, but-”
“If you understand, then why are you asking for a place to sleep? Why don’t you go to the Jorasco place? The halflings’ll take anyone who shows enough silver.”
They’ll also look over my papers with too close an eye, Gaven thought.
Senya interjected, “Silver? We’ll pay gold.” She produced two galifars to emphasize her point, and smiled as the woman’s eyes fixed on the gleaming coins.
