Voyage of the Mourning Dawn: Heirs of Ash, Book 1 Read online

  To win a battle, a man must be prepared to sacrifice his life. To win peace, a man must be prepared to sacrifice much more.

  —Ashrem d’Cannith

  Ashrem d’Cannith was one of the most brilliant minds of his generation, a man whose inventions went unsurpassed. But at the height of the War, he forsook the ways of violence and vowed to bring an end to the decades of conflict. Such was the purpose of his greatest invention, his Legacy.

  But on the Day of Mourning, when the nation of Cyre died in the greatest cataclysm the world had ever seen, Ashrem d’Cannith disappeared, his invention lost.

  Until now …

  Seren, a young thief trying to stay alive in the streets of Wroat, has stumbled upon a clue that may lead to Ashrem’s Legacy. What begins as a routine burglary has the authorities out to arrest her, ruthless spies out to kill her, and one of the heirs of Ashrem trying to save her.

  Seren just wants to stay alive, but to do so she will have to find Ashrem’s Legacy before her pursuers do. For if she loses his game, all of Eberron may be plunged into another century of war.

  THE HEIRS OF ASH

  BY RICH WULF

  Voyage of the Mouring Dawn

  Flight of the Dying Sun

  Rise of the Seventh Moon

  VOYAGE OF THE MOURNING DAWN

  The Heirs of Ash • Book 1

  ©2006 Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Manufactured by: Hasbro SA, Rue Emile-Boéchat 31, 2800 Delémont, CH. Represented by Hasbro Europe, 2 Roundwood Ave, Stockley Park, Uxbridge, Middlesex, UB11 1AZ, UK.

  EBERRON, Dungeons & Dragons, D&D, Wizards of the Coast, all other Wizards of the Coast product names, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the USA and other countries.

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Cover art by: Thomas Thiemeyer

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-6494-9

  640A5937000001 EN

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  v3.1

  Dedication

  This one goes out to Shawn,

  a good friend and perhaps the finest human being

  I have ever known.

  Thanks for everything.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Epilogue

  The final days of the Last War, in the City of Wroat

  It was a thing of beauty.

  Tristam Xain carefully held the small glass sphere between two fingers and stared into its depths. Within the sphere floated a tiny model of a silver airship, a sleek vehicle surrounded by a metal ring. Tristam tapped the side of the glass with one finger and spoke the ship’s name.

  “Kenshi Zhann,” he whispered.

  Small particles of shimmering blue snow began to swirl within the sphere. The metal ring ignited a brilliant purple, like the pure elemental fire that surrounded a true airship. The overall image resembled a ship flying through a winter storm, a tiny replica of the same ship where Tristam dwelled. The light from the sphere suffused the smoky air in Tristam’s improvised laboratory, casting the small cabin in a soft blue glow.

  “Remarkable,” Omax said. The warforged stood at the door of Tristam’s tiny cabin. The enormous metal warrior looked down at the fragile trinket. His pale blue eyes shone in their adamantine mask, illuminated by the same magic that fluttered through the sphere.

  “A gift for my teacher,” Tristam said. “Do you think he’ll like it, Omax?”

  “A teacher can receive no greater gift than evidence of his student’s brilliance,” Omax said. “I think Ash will be pleased.”

  “Do you think it will be enough to make him reconsider?” Tristam asked, looking at his friend.

  “Perhaps,” Omax said. “A simple reminder that magic can still be used to make things of beauty might grant him some peace of mind.”

  “I hope so,” Tristam said, sounding unconvinced. The young artificer tapped the glass again. The whirling snow faded away, and the light died. “He’s been in a dark mood.”

  Tristam tucked the sphere into his pocket and rose to leave. He stopped short, catching sight of his own face in the mirror that hung beside the door. He smoothed a hand through his unkempt hair, removed his thin spectacles, and wiped most of the soot and grime from his face with a handkerchief. His chin was rough and unshaven, but there wasn’t much he could do for that on such short notice.

  “Do I look presentable?” he asked.

  “As presentable as anyone who knows you should expect,” Omax said, patting some soot off of his friend’s lapel.

  Tristam shot the warforged an irritated look, but Omax had directed his attention toward a flask on the low table. Straightening his jacket, Tristam stepped out of the cabin and made his way to the upper deck, ignoring the warforged’s chuckle as he departed.

  Kenshi Zhann was a grand ship. In the Aerenal language her name meant “Seventh Moon,” though there was little about her construction or performance that could inspire regret in her creators. Tristam was still young, but he had seen a great deal of the world from the deck of this ship. He had never seen another vessel to match her, though Ashrem’s other two airships were close. He was proud to serve aboard such a vessel, and proud to study at the foot of her master even if said master had been distant and moody in recent months.

  Not that Ashrem d’Cannith’s depression was unexpected or surprising. The old artificer had committed himself to an impossible task. Peace. He had sworn to end the war that had consumed the Five Nations for the last century. Every three months his three crews would rendezvous to share their progress, as they did now. Meeting with friends and colleagues generally improved old Ashrem’s mood, even if they had little to report.

  Tristam hop
ed for the best.

  Omax fell into step beside Tristam as he made his way through the ship. The massive warforged made surprisingly little noise for a being constructed of dense metal and wood. Tristam glanced back to find Omax scanning the halls as they walked. He smiled.

  “I think we’re safe, Omax,” Tristam said with a chuckle.

  Omax looked forward quickly. Though his metal face lacked expression, he seemed to radiate embarrassment. “Old habits,” he said. “To realize that I have no enemies has been a difficult adjustment.”

  “The war isn’t over yet,” Tristam answered. “You may get your chance for more excitement.”

  “I do not know if I want that,” Omax said. “Having sampled peace, I prefer it.”

  “You sound like Ashrem,” Tristam said.

  “I take that as a compliment,” Omax said. “Ashrem is a wise man.”

  Footsteps approached from the stairs above. A familiar potbellied man in a dark silken suit of exquisite cut strode down toward them. This was Dalan d’Cannith, Ashrem’s nephew, local guildmaster of House Cannith. Moon had put in at Wroat so that Ashrem might visit Dalan during the rendezvous. Dalan’s expression was bored and mildly annoyed, though it softened into a pleased smile when he recognized Tristam. Tristam gave a small wave, hoping to move past Dalan and find his master.

  “Ah, the promising young student and his bodyguard,” Dalan said, upsetting Tristam’s expectations. He shook Tristam’s hand warmly and then nodded at Omax. “It has been some time, Tristam. How have the two of you been?”

  “Fine,” Tristam said. “You look well, Dalan.”

  “I am well, my boy. Business is growing. I was hoping that I might convince Uncle Ash to take on a few side contracts, but he insists on discussing it with his fellows first. I don’t expect much. He’s as stubborn as he has always been.”

  “You know Ashrem doesn’t make weapons anymore, Dalan,” Tristam said.

  “Oh, I am well aware. I respect that.” Dalan nodded, setting his jowls in motion. “I would not expect him to set aside the ethics he holds so strongly, even if I do not agree with them. These contracts were of a neutral nature. Enchantments to aid in the preservation of rations and medicine for Aundairian troops. Aiding the war effort without harming anyone directly. You understand. Even so, he was reluctant and has reserved his decision until he can discuss the matter with his associates. The priest seems to want to help, but I fear he will be unable to convince my uncle otherwise. Ash is a difficult man to sway once his mind is set. By the look he gave me, I think I picked a poor time to negotiate.” Dalan’s expression became sad, wistful.

  “He’s been occupied,” Tristam said.

  “And with the training of his apprentice, I hope?” Dalan said. “I expect great things of you, Tristam. I mentioned the light-emitting wands you crafted in my report to Baron Zorlan just last week. They’ve been of extraordinary utility to our miners, providing cheap magical illumination without the danger of a lantern. Exquisite craftsmanship, as well.”

  “You really thought so?” Tristam said, awed by the praise.

  “Indubitably,” Dalan said. “I am surprised Ashrem has not sponsored you for guild membership yet.”

  “You and I both,” Tristam said, smiling weakly. “That’s what I had hoped to talk to him about, actually, since there’s a guild house here in Wroat and all.”

  “Ah.” Dalan smiled. “Then let me take no more of your time. When Ash puts your name on the list, you can trust that your membership won’t be delayed for long. I shall expedite the process personally.” Dalan winked and chuckled.

  “Thank you, Master Dalan,” Tristam said, “but I wouldn’t want to be put ahead of someone more deserving.”

  “False modesty!” Dalan retorted, walking past them as he made his way toward the galley. “My uncle is a genius. Who could be more deserving than his heir?”

  Tristam looked up at Omax with a grin. The warforged nodded in encouragement, and they moved on. The ship was mostly abandoned. Most of the crew had taken advantage of the moment and scattered to the city’s taverns. Tristam stepped into the large chamber at the heart of the ship. The walls were lined with brass runes and shimmering crystals. They shone and hummed, though they were mostly decoration with no true purpose. Tristam’s eyes were on the column of dull black metal that stood in the center of the room. His fingers brushed its surface, sensing the magic that pulsed within. This was the ship’s heart, the chamber that housed the crystals that bound the Kenshi Zhann’s elemental to this reality. It was a wonder of artifice, the living heart of the ship. No matter how many times Tristam saw it, he could not help but be awed by its power and simplicity.

  Beyond the core, the floor opened on a large pane of thick glass. This normally offered a breathtaking view of the open sky. It currently displayed the busy street below, darkened by the airship’s shadow. At the far end of the chamber, the hatch to Ashrem’s cabin was closed. Tristam looked around for a place to sit and wait when a shout from within the room drew his attention. Looking at Omax in concern, Tristam moved closer to listen.

  “I can scarcely believe this hypocrisy, Ash,” snapped a harsh voice. Tristam recognized the speaker as Brother Llaine Grove. Llaine was an old friend of his teacher, a priest of Boldrei who had served with Ashrem in their youth. “Many of those soldiers are near starvation. In the last five years, infection and disease have claimed more Aundairian lives than Cyre and Breland’s forces combined. You would do nothing to stop this?”

  “Consider what you are saying before casting the label of hypocrite, Llaine,” Ashrem said in his cool, even voice. “Aundair’s troops suffer because their leadership is too aggressive. Do you think any aid we offer would lessen their burden? The powers that command them would only push harder. We may save a few innocents, but countless more would suffer. Such misguided efforts only pollute our greater work.”

  “Greater work?” Llaine scoffed. “I go along with your plans only because no more sensible strategy has been presented. Your work is a dream, Ash. This is a reality. The war will continue no matter what we do, but perhaps we can save these soldiers’ lives.”

  “Are you certain that your loyalties have not clouded?” Ashrem asked. “You are Aundairian. Perhaps patriotism has narrowed your vision?”

  “I serve Boldrei first,” Llaine said. “She values mercy foremost, and I cannot bear to hear of such suffering, countrymen or not. How can I look an Aundairian mother in her eyes and admit I allowed her son to starve or succumb to disease when it was within my power to aid him? Such an act is unconscionable.”

  “But necessary,” said Kiris Overwood, Ashrem’s consort and closest advisor. “Our artificers and wizards work toward a nobler goal, Llaine.”

  “Not all of them,” the priest said. “This is a simple enough task. I am certain Tristam Xain could handle such a task quite admirably by himself, leaving the rest of us free to continue our work.”

  Tristam was impressed. Llaine was a harsh man, with few kind words for anyone. He hadn’t thought the priest respected him at all. Omax gently clapped his friend on the shoulder.

  “Tristam is still a child,” answered the husky voice of Norra Cais. Of all his master’s apprentices, Tristam knew the least about her. She was a prodigy, a graduate of Morgrave University who had only recently joined Ashrem’s alliance. “He may possess the skills necessary, but he has neither the wisdom nor responsibility to understand the full import of such a task.”

  “Child?” Tristam whispered to Omax. “She’s a year older than me.”

  The warforged shrugged.

  “Norra is correct,” Ashrem said. “Tristam was not ready to aid us in our work on the Legacy, and he is not ready for this. His progress has not been quite as impressive as you may believe, Llaine. On a relative scale, he is a mere novice.”

  Tristam’s heart sank. He slumped against the wall, feeling as if someone had cut the cords that held him upright. Ashrem had expressed no disapproval, at least not to him
. If he had been progressing so poorly, why did his master keep him here? Pity?

  “Tristam is your student, Dalan,” Llaine said. “I will respect your judgment. Regardless, there is power and talent enough at this table that we could easily fulfill Dalan’s contract, help those soldiers, and use the money Dalan pays us to further our research on the Legacy.”

  “I will not use the spoils of war to purchase peace,” Ashrem said. “Such deeds would corrupt everything we have done and hope to do.”

  The sound of approaching boots snapped Tristam back to himself. He rose and moved away from the hatch, attempting to appear nonchalant as he loitered near the viewing window. Omax watched him impassively, standing near the ship’s core.

  A tall, thin man dressed in deep red entered the chamber. His blond hair was tied back in a loose tail. He favored Tristam with a quirky grin. This was Orren Thardis, captain of the Albena Tors, sister ship to this one.

  “Evening, Captain,” Tristam said, nodding to the man.

  “Hello, Tristam,” Orren said with a broad grin. “Omax. Are they still at it in there?”

  “I suppose,” Tristam said.

  “Suppose?” Orren said, obviously feigning surprise. “You aren’t taking the chance to eavesdrop? I would.”

  Tristam laughed despite himself. It was hard to take a man like Orren Thardis seriously. Orren never took anything seriously. Maybe that was why, of Ashrem’s colleagues, he was among the easiest to get along with.

  “You’re late for the meeting again, Captain,” Tristam said.

  “Not late enough,” Orren said, looking at the hatch in distaste. “I was hoping to speak to old Ash without all those other busybodies poking in.”