light, where the Soul Reaver waits. There among the bones of Khyber the Storm Dragon drives the spear formed from Siberys’s Eye into the Soul Reaver’s heart. And the Storm Dragon walks through the gates of Khyber and crosses the bridge to the sky.
CHAPTER 41
The Starpeaks jutted up above Thaliost as if a fiend imprisoned in the earth had pushed them upward in its struggles to escape. Senya stood on a rocky overlook at the edge of the mountains, with Arrakas d’Deneith at her elbow, never letting her stray too far. The dramatic landscape spread out below left her speechless. To the southeast, hills spread out from the mountains like ripples frozen into earth. Boulders littered the rocky ground, gathered in places into enormous cairns commemorating fallen soldiers from untold centuries of warfare. On the eastern edge of the plain, a dark forest stood out against the background of the jagged field. A chill wind blew out of the mountains at her back, moaning as it blew through gulleys and chasms in the bare rock.
It was easy to see why Aundair considered this land Aundairian soil: the only natural feature that divided the land was the Aundair River, which flowed into Scions Sound just south of the plain. But at the end of the Last War, the Thronehold Accords had established the new border between Thrane and Aundair somewhere in the middle of this plain below them, and extending on an indeterminate path through the Silver Woods beyond. By demanding that Thrane’s borders include Thaliost, the Thrane delegation to Thronehold had almost undercut the peace process. Had the memory of Cyre’s desolation not been so fresh in everyone’s memory, this plain might have seen another decade of war.
“The Starcrag Plain,” Arrakas said, gazing down with Senya onto the rocky field below them. “So just to the north-” He pointed an armored finger to the left, to the mouth of a wide valley that opened into the plain. “Bramblescar Gorge. Not too deep into that charming valley, just across the border in Aundair, we’ll find your Haldren camped and ready to launch a new war over Thaliost. We’ll reach his camp by nightfall.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Senya said. She knew her protests were futile-she had run through the same arguments at least a dozen times since Arrakas had captured her in Vathirond. “He won’t jeopardize his plans for my sake.”
“Don’t worry,” the Sentinel Marshal said, still staring at the valley. A grin touched the corner of his mouth. “You’re not the only dragon in my flight.”
Senya suppressed a shudder at the mention of dragons, though she knew the phrase simply referred to a tavern game. She wondered how much Arrakas knew about Haldren’s plans. Was he prepared to venture into that valley and come face-to-face with a real flight of dragons?
Senya found herself much less nervous about a score of dragons than she was about her inevitable encounter with Haldren.
Arrakas signaled to the half a dozen Sentinel Marshals at his command, and they started down the craggy overlook toward Bramblescar Gorge.
Senya’s sharp elf ears heard the pounding hoofbeats a second before any of the human Sentinel Marshals who surrounded her. She wheeled her own horse around to find their source, but two Sentinel Marshals spurred their horses toward her, anticipating an escape attempt. They wrested the reins from her hands and seized her arms before Arrakas’s sharp command cut through the din.
“Release her!” The marshals obeyed, though one kept hold of her reins. Both looked daggers at her, and Senya returned the glare. Between them, she could just make out a party of perhaps a dozen knights charging across the plain.
Arrakas had clearly seen the knights as well. “Harkas! Lucan! Give Senya her reins and turn your horses around.”
The anger on the marshals’ faces turned to surprise, and they did as their officer commanded. Senya saw the approaching knights more clearly-they wore plate armor and full helms, and carried shields and lances with the tips held high, gleaming in the sun. Their shields bore the silver arrowhead of the Silver Flame, marking them as Thranes. A regular border patrol? Or scouts from an advancing army, massing on the Thrane side of the border to face Haldren’s forces?
“Senya,” Arrakas said, “you will be silent while I talk with these knights. You will not speak without my leave. Do you understand?”
Senya nodded, even as she wondered what kind of trouble Arrakas feared from her-and how she could cause worse.
Arrakas nudged his horse forward to await the Thranes’ arrival. Senya saw him straighten his cloak, ensuring that the large brooch at his throat was clearly visible, since its chimera symbol marked him as an heir of House Deneith and a Sentinel Marshal.
The knights rode hard to meet them. The leader of the charge circled a raised hand in the air as he came to a halt, and the others spread out to encircle the intruders. When all the knights were in position, they lowered their lances in unison-all except the leader, who sat unmoving on his steed, his face covered by a full helm. Glancing around the circle at fourteen shining lances leveled in her direction, each carried by a heavily armored rider on a barded warhorse, Senya started to reconsider the idea of causing trouble.
After a few heartbeats, Arrakas gave an exasperated snort and addressed the knights’ leader. “Knights of Thrane,” he called, “I am Sentinel Marshal Arrakas d’Deneith, traveling your lands in pursuit of a fugitive. Under the provisions of the Treaty of Thronehold pertaining to the order of Sentinel Marshals, I claim safe passage.”
“With all due respect, Sentinel Marshal, as far as I am aware the Treaty of Thronehold is about to be torn to shreds. I need to ask where you are going.” The knight’s voice was muffled by his helm. Senya thought it odd that he had not removed it to speak.
“The fugitive I seek is in Aundair,” Arrakas said, “and if I find him quickly then Aundairian forces will not enter this plain.”
“So you seek General ir’Brassek,” the knight replied.
Senya raised an eyebrow. Could she be imagining that his voice sounded familiar? And why would a Thrane even know who led the Aundairian army, let alone call him General?
“Your scouts and spies are to be commended,” Arrakas said.
Senya could see that the Sentinel Marshal was as surprised as she was. She glanced at the knights on either side-their lances were still lowered, and one horse pawed the ground impatiently. This meeting would not end well.
“Six Sentinel Marshals,” the knight observed, “and one elf. Who is that, a captured fugitive?”
Arrakas shot Senya a quick glance over his shoulder. “Yes,” he answered. “She is an associate of ir’Brassek, an accomplice to his escape.”
“Did you capture her in Thrane?”
Arrakas took a deep breath before answering. “No.”
“Where, then? In Breland?”
“Yes. Vathirond.” Arrakas’s voice betrayed his frustration.
“So you have already transported her across one national border and are about to bring her across another? Has she yet stood trial?”
Arrakas drew himself to his full height, still a head shorter than the towering Thrane leader, and his horse pranced in place. His face was crimson, and Senya tried unsuccessfully to suppress a grin. The knight had caught Arrakas in an act that was questionable at best, possibly illegal even under the broad authority granted by the Treaty of Thronehold. That explained Arrakas’s nervousness at the knights’ approach, as well as his command for Senya to remain silent.
“Sir, you have detained us long enough. There is a great deal at stake here-as you yourself observed, the Treaty of Thronehold and the peace it established may soon lie in ruins. I must demand that you allow us to continue on our way.”
“I’m afraid I can’t allow that, Sentinel Marshal.”
Arrakas drew his sword, and the swords of his six marshals sprang to their hands at once. “Thrane will hear
