He stood, stony-faced, at the great chamber’s edge, as the ambassador hurried forward and bowed before the Diet of Cardinals. Vauren could see the man trying to compose himself as he held the bow a little longer than strictly necessary.
“Revered Lords,” the ambassador said, absently straightening the folds of his robe, “to what do I owe this honor?”
One of the cardinals seated near an end of the crescent-shaped table got to his feet. “Ambassador,” he said, “we have received some very disturbing reports from the north, and we hoped you could shed light on their significance for us.”
“Reports from the north?” the ambassador repeated. Vauren pitied him. He was an aging diplomat, his hair thinning and his waist spreading, and he clearly had no idea what he was in for at this meeting.
“I will not waste your time weaving shadows, ambassador. Aundairian troops are marching north of Thaliost. What is their purpose?”
The ambassador was obviously stunned, and he stammered a reply. “I–I have not been informed of any troop movements.”
“Are you quite certain, ambassador?”
“Yes, of course! I am sure it’s nothing, just training exercises or war games.”
“War games,” the cardinal said gravely. “Tell me, ambassador, what kind of war game involves large numbers of dragons?”
“Dragons?” For the first time, the ambassador smiled, if nervously. “Revered Lords, someone is playing a terrible joke-”
“This is no joke, ambassador. We have not heard anything from you to suggest an explanation other than the one that seems obvious: Aundair is planning an imminent violation of the Treaty of Thronehold, in an attempt to reclaim the lands of Thaliost.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“I might be inclined to agree with you, ambassador, were it not for the dragons. I wouldn’t presume to guess what damning bargain your queen has made to secure the assistance of dragons, but I assure you that Thrane takes this threat very seriously. We have already notified our ambassadors in Breland, Karrnath, and the Eldeen Reaches in order to secure the assistance of those nations in protecting ourselves from this violation of the Thronehold accords. Aundair’s arrogance will not be ignored. We hope you will urge your queen to reconsider this brash move before all Khorvaire is once again engulfed in war.”
“I assure you, Revered Lords, Aundair is not planning an invasion. They would have notified me, recalled me. Unless…”
The ambassador fell silent. No one needed to finish his sentence for him-Vauren knew that everyone in the room could think of one very good reason for Aundair not to recall its ambassadors. A sudden departure of diplomatic personnel would alert Thrane to the imminent invasion. If a handful of aging diplomats had to be sacrificed-well, that was the smallest price Aundair would pay in a renewed war.
Vauren stared blankly at the ambassador, careful not to let any of his thoughts register on his face with even the slightest twitch of muscle. Some part of him-the Knight of Thrane part, he supposed-wished he could help the poor man, leap to his defense and Aundair’s, explain the whole situation. He wished he could put a stop to Haldren’s madness before it cost any more lives. But he knew that was not an option.
I’m as much a slave to my orders as Cart is, he thought.
He was surprised to realize that the thought of the warforged brought a twinge of sadness. Would Cart’s be one of the lives lost in Haldren’s scheme? What about Jenns? Had he survived alone in the wilderness, or starved to death, or perhaps been rounded up again by Haldren’s marching armies? And Gaven? Had the Sentinel Marshals tracked him down yet and dragged him back to
Dreadhold? Or killed him?
Vauren suddenly felt light headed. In his min d, the grand chamber became the center of a swirling vortex of history-events unfolding inexorably around him, dragging him and everyone whose life he had touched into annihilation. Haldren and his armies marched in the north, dragons winging overhead. He’d last seen Gaven far to the south, but he imagined Gaven and Senya making their way northward, drawn by some unalterable destiny to reunite with Haldren on the same terrible battlefield. The fate of Khorvaire seemed bound up in the strands of these people’s lives-caught in the maelstrom.
A pair of knights led the ambassador out of the room. Vauren assumed they were not escorting him back to the embassy. He’d be a hostage in the upcoming conflict, another life dragged under by the storm.
Vauren tried to relax. He was no longer dressed in the uniform of a Knight of Thrane, but he still felt the role constricting him. He leaned on the counter at a busy Flamekeep tavern, keeping an eye on the people coming and going without appearing to do anything but study his drink. He let the laughter and curses of the other patrons wash over him, hoping to absorb some of their freedom and coarseness. He felt altogether too clean and pure after his time in the Cathedral of the Silver Flame, and in danger of becoming a prig. Self-righteous morality didn’t sit well alongside a career built on duplicity.
He had considered simply discarding Vauren and starting afresh on a new identity, but something held him back. Perhaps it was just the fact that he’d been three different people in such a short span of time. He had barely had time to get to know Caura, and he didn’t want to discard Vauren so quickly. It was still early, he told himself- there was still time to shape Vauren’s personality and keep him from priggery.
There was little else he could do in Thrane. He’d stayed in the Cathedral just long enough to learn where Thrane’s generals expected to engage Haldren’s forces-an old battlefield called the Starcrag Plain-and the size of the force they expected to marshal. Of course, if Breland or Karrnath decided to get involved, the number of troops could increase significantly, but by the time Vauren had left the service of the Knights of Thrane, those nations had made no commitment to Thrane’s cause. If they did, that would be important information, but there were other spies who would probably hear the news first.
Finding Gaven, though, was something that no other agent was likely to accomplish.
A combination of a careful reading of the Korranberg Chronicle-the most widely read source of news in Khorvaire-and a thorough roundup of gossip had given him a sketchy idea of Gaven’s movements. There was the chase through the lightning rail station in Korranberg. The Chronicle hadn’t reported the identity of the fugitive, but it was easy enough to guess that it was Gaven. From Paluur Draal, Korranberg was the closest major city and lightning rail station. Then the lightning rail disaster in Breland. The Chronicle painted it as a freak storm, but the rumormongers spoke of Sentinel Marshals killed in the incident. Vauren had spoken to a pair of travelers who had been aboard when the carts stopped in Sterngate, who had told him about the Sentinel Marshals searching every cart, looking for someone. Clearly, Gaven had been traveling north from Korranberg.
The disaster had occurred near Starilaskur, he knew, which lay in northeastern Breland. The lightning rail line ran from there to Vathirond, then north into Thrane. But Vathirond also stood at the edge of the Mournland-not far at all from the Sky Caves of Thieren Kor, according to the map they’d found in Paluur Draal. And Vaskar had spoken, in Haldren’s tent, of meeting Gaven at the Sky Caves.
And there was the lost airship. A man attached to House Lyrandar had gotten too far into his cups and told Vauren that an airship had failed to return after leaving Vathirond under unusual circumstances. Someone had bribed or persuaded the captain to take the ship on an unscheduled voyage, and she had flown out of town to the east, toward the Mournland.
Could Gaven have persuaded members of his family to let him borrow a ship, or to carry him into the Mournland? It seemed unlikely. He was an excoriate as well as a fugitive. By aiding Gaven, the captain would have been risking excoriation himself, as well as criminal charges. Someone very close to Gaven might have taken that risk, Vauren supposed. Perhaps Gaven had seized control of the airship? Again, unlikely-but not impossible.
He pondered the mystery of the lost airship as he ordered another cup of wine-or the vaguely wine-flavored water this place served. On a positive note, though, he could drink it all night without worrying about clouding his wits. While he waited, he leaned back against the bar and surveyed the crowded tavern.
A group of dwarves tramped in, and Vauren studied them. They were travel-worn, their cloaks dusty and their boots caked with dried mud. That wasn’t unusual-at least half the patrons of this tavern looked much the same. Vauren had chosen a tavern near the southern gate of the city for just that reason: it was popular among travelers newly arrived in Flamekeep. He turned back around as the barkeep set his wine down with a grunt.
