CHAPTER
33

It was an accident,” Gaven said. An icy dagger of pain stabbed through his chest as Senya’s body turned to face him and her eyes burned into him. “She opened the door while I was fighting Phaine, and the lightning leaped to her. I tried to stop it!”

“But you could not,” the cold, clear voice of the ancestor said. Senya’s chest didn’t move with breath, though her lips moved to form the words. She extended a stiff hand to point a finger at Gaven. “And that failure is at the heart of the choice you must make.”

Gaven dropped his chin to his chest. “Yes.” He saw again the lines of his dragonmark twisting around him, like pathways traced in blood. He put a hand to his pouch, just to feel the weight of the dragonshard—

“Where is the shard?” he said, looking up at Senya again. “It was in your—in Senya’s room, in my hand. Where is it?”

“It is still there,” the ancestor said.

He leaped to his feet and started for the door, Aunn right behind him, but the kneeling elves stood to block their path. One drew a scimitar from his belt. Gaven looked back at Senya.

“Let the changeling go,” the ancestor said.

The elf with the scimitar made a show of letting Aunn past, with a slight bow, but he resumed his position, frowning at Gaven, as soon as Aunn had gone by. Gaven watched the rest of the assembled elves make way for the changeling and then close ranks behind him. Panic surged in his chest—he was trapped, held captive by these elves, and without the power of his dragonmark to call upon.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. The ancestor had said the shard was right where he left it, and Aunn had told him that Phaine was dead. In a moment, Aunn would return with the dragonshard, and Gaven would have his mark back. He might still be captive, but at least he would be whole.

*  *  *  *  *

As he passed through the ranks of elves, Aunn tried not to watch their stony faces or meet the eyes that followed his passage. He fought the urge to blend in, to mimic their high cheekbones and pointed ears, their bright, colorful eyes, and their long, straight hair. He hated their attention and wanted to hide, to lose himself in their midst, but he could not.

As he drew near the door, he saw where the elves had laid Phaine’s body. The elf was severely burned, far worse than Senya or Gaven had been, but Aunn could still see the tracings of the Mark of Shadow on his cheek and the side of his neck. He still clutched a dagger with a strange black blade, as if it were made of solidified shadow. His eyes were open wide, but they were gleaming black pools, like a dark reflection of the opalescent eyes of the eladrins he’d met in the Towering Wood. Pupilless as they were, Aunn couldn’t help the feeling that they were watching him as he walked by. He hurried his pace and left the temple sanctuary.

The entryway and staircase were deserted. Aunn ran up the stairs, Phaine’s dead gaze haunting his thoughts. He reached the top floor and looked around. A hallway stretched away to either side, lined with small doors. One door stood open, a half-dozen yards to his left, and he had to assume that was his destination. Suddenly cautious, he moved slowly and as quietly as he could manage, sliding his mace from his belt as he crept toward the doorway.

He reached the door and peered around the corner. His trepidation had been for nothing, it appeared—no enemy crouched in the room waiting to attack him, and he spotted the blood-red dragonshard on the floor by the bed. He let out his breath and stepped into the room.

A cloud of shadows began to billow and pool in one corner of the room, fighting back the sunlight that streamed from a high window over the door. Aunn stopped and stared into the shadows, which deepened as he looked. A long steel blade caught the light as it emerged from the shadows, then the darkness melted away from a black-clad woman. The black eyes staring out from the cowl of her cloak suggested that this was another Thuranni, come to finish what Phaine had started, perhaps, or to find out why he hadn’t returned.

She turned her head with quick, small movements that made Aunn think of an insect looking for prey. Although it was hard to tell exactly where she was looking, Aunn was fairly sure her gaze lingered longest at the dragonshard on the floor across the room from her before she turned her full attention to him.

“Phaine is dead,” she said flatly. There was no doubt in her voice or on her face, as if Phaine’s death were the only possible explanation for his failure to return. Perhaps it was—Aunn had certainly been on more than one mission where he had been expected to take his own life if threatened with capture.

“Yes.” Aunn’s eyes darted to the shard and back to the elf woman. He saw her tense, ready to spring if he made a move for it. He decided not to make a move for it just yet.

“And Gaven?” This time it was a question.

Aunn chose his words carefully. “Phaine’s poison did its work.” Let them think he’s dead, he thought.

Her smile sickened him. His answer apparently gave her all the information she needed about the situation, because she stepped forward and swung her blade in a shining arc at his neck. He ducked the gleaming steel and dived for the dragonshard on the floor. He watched her feet as she reacted, spun, and lunged at him again, and he twisted away from where he thought her blade must be. One hand brushed against the dragonshard, then it skittered out of his grip, spitting a trail of sparks across the floor. He heard the woman’s blade scrape against the bed as she swung at him again.

Reaching for the shard again, he swung his mace in a backhanded arc with his left hand, trying only to give himself a bit of distance from her relentless attacks. She rewarded his desperate swing by taking a couple of quick steps back, even as the tip of her blade cut across the back of his hand. The mace slipped out of his grip and crashed into the wall, but he got his hand around the dragonshard.

The explosion threw him against the wall, stole his sight, and set his ears ringing so loudly he couldn’t hear any other sound. He fell onto the bed, tried to lift himself and found he couldn’t move at all. With the taste of Senya’s bedclothes in his mouth, he lay there and waited for the Thuranni’s blade to fall.

As his vision began to clear, he saw the elf’s shadowy shape heaving herself up off the floor. The thunder and lightning must have knocked her back as well, which explained why he was still alive. She staggered next to the bed, and Aunn still couldn’t move. Instead of swinging her scimitar at him, she yanked a pouch off her belt, then bent down and used the blade to nudge the dragonshard into it. She cast a glance over her shoulder, took a slow breath that seemed to draw shadows in to gather around her, and vanished in the gloom.

The shadows dissolved into wisps of dark mist as Aunn’s nerves prickled with the return of sensation and the echoes of pain. With a mighty effort, he worked his splayed arms beneath his body and heaved himself up off the bed, sending jolts of agony through his limbs and his head. The pain made his head swim again, and darkness close in around the edges of his vision, but he forced himself to stand. He had to find her, follow her somehow—or at least tell Gaven that the dragonshard was gone, stolen by House Thuranni.

House Lyrandar’s most prized possession, the one thing they owned that no one else could obtain, was now in the hands of a rival House.

*  *  *  *  *

“Gaven, Storm Dragon, hear my words.” Senya took his hand in her cold grip and drew him back before the altar. “I must soon depart from this place and let my daughter sleep. My people gathered here demand some satisfaction from you, for two children of Aeren are dead by your hand. Nor is their blood the only stain on your soul.”

Gaven fell to his knees as strange memories washed over him.

His magic let him scale the wall of the Paelion tower as easily as a spider, unseen beneath the dark clouds of the brewing storm. He—he who was both Shakravar and Gaven, dragon and meat—slipped like a shadow through a high window. It should not have been so easy, but it didn’t matter. Of course the elf had set him up. It didn’t matter. The Prophecy mattered.

All he needed to do was find something to steal, something to prove he had been in the tower. With that and the letter he had already carefully crafted, the Thuranni line would have the evidence they needed to strike.

The Paelions would die, House Phiarlan would split, and thirteen dragons would rule the land. As the Prophecy required.

“I admit my guilt,” Gaven said. He heard a murmur spread through the gathered elves, the first sound he had heard from the crowd. “But what satisfaction can I give?”

“Would you give your life?” the ancestor asked.

A few voices raised above the softer murmur of the onlookers, expressing approval of that idea.

Gaven looked down at the floor. On some basic level of arithmetic, it seemed like a fair request. He had killed Phaine quite intentionally, and killed Senya by accident. That alone was two lives weighed against his, and as Senya’s ancestor had said, theirs was not the only blood on his hands. Add in the Paelions, and his life seemed like far too small a price to pay for what he had done.

But he couldn’t accept it as a simple matter of arithmetic. Phaine had been trying to kill him, and had nearly succeeded. The Thurannis had used him, manipulated him when he was not in his right mind—and all he did in the end was help provide them with a pretext to do what they wanted to do anyway. That left Senya, whose death had been a terrible accident. Of them all—of all the lives he had taken—she was the one who grieved him the most, the one who could almost make him consider giving his own life as restitution. Was that simply because he had known her, because he cared about her? Perhaps it was.

It didn’t matter. “No,” he said at least, looking up to meet Senya’s fiery eyes again. “I will not give up my life to pay for the death of an assassin, and not even the accidental death of your daughter. I regret her death, but my destiny lies beyond this place.”

“What makes you think you’re so damned important, Gaven?” Bordan thrust his face into Gaven’s. “You think you’re more important than the people you’ve killed? Is your life worth more than theirs?”

Senya’s ancestor watched him as if she expected an answer to Bordan’s question, and Gaven wondered if she had dredged up these memories. Was this some kind of trial?

He had answered Bordan with belligerence, and while he argued, the dwarves with Bordan had captured Rienne. He closed his eyes, briefly entertaining the notion of fighting his way out of this temple, even if it meant more elven blood on his hands. …

A crack of thunder shook the building. For a moment Gaven thought it was an echo of his violent thoughts, then he remembered—Aunn had gone to retrieve the dragonshard that held his Mark of Storm. Where was he?

“The time has come for you to make your choice,” Senya’s ancestor said.

Gaven stood up and turned to look at the open doorway. He heard no sound of a struggle, no shouts of alarm. He wondered if Aunn were dead, and the thought filled him with sadness.

Is that all? he thought. How can I be so calm?

He felt the ancestor’s presence behind him, and she seemed no longer contained within Senya’s slender form. Her presence was larger, somehow—larger than the frightening deathless form he’d seen in Shae Mordai. It was as though she were just one of a host of elders assembled at his back, like a great tribunal seated for his judgment, or perhaps a council gathered to advise him.

He closed his eyes. From far away, it seemed, he heard Aunn shouting his name, and he knew the dragonshard was gone, and with it the dragonmark Kelas had stolen from him at the Dragon Forge. The choice that lay before him now was simple and yet utterly profound: To pursue whoever had taken the shard, or to relinquish the shard, the Mark of Storm, and the power contained in them.

“Gaven, Storm Dragon, dishonored child of Lyrandar.” It was a chorus of voices behind him now. “What do you choose?”

Storm Dragon, Gaven thought. Can I be the Storm Dragon without the Mark of Storm?

He turned back to face Senya. Her head lolled back slightly, as though the ancestor’s hold on her body were slipping.

This is what that power has brought me, he thought. It’s beyond my control. It’s no longer a tool in my hands, but the other way around.

“Let it go,” he said softly.

Senya’s dead face smiled. “She is pleased, Gaven,” the ancestor whispered, “and she wants you to know she forgives you.”

Tears sprang to Gaven’s eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“Let him go,” Senya’s ancestor proclaimed, and the flames in her eyes faded as she slumped into Gaven’s arms.