The Grieving Tree: The Dragon Below Book II (12 page)

Bava led them back to the stairs Singe had noticed before. The house had grown quiet as they ate and talked. Most of the children
the wizard had seen and heard earlier were already asleep. As they climbed the stairs up to the house’s second floor and then to its third, he could hear the soft snoring of children mixed with the whispers of those few who were still awake. From the third floor, they climbed yet another flight of stairs, this one even narrower. Bava pushed open a door at the top and they stepped into a broad open space that smelled of oil paint. A slow breeze whispering through tall windows with carved screens stirred the air; the same windows allowed the light of the risen moons to fall in silvery patterns across the floor. Stretched canvases were pale, flat blocks in the moonlight. Sketches on paper, tacked onto one wall, rustled like sleepy birds. A half-completed painting stood fixed to an easel, the colors drained from its surface by the moonlight to leave only swirls of light and dark. Bava opened the shade on an ever-bright lantern and colors leaped back into the work. “My studio,” she said, ushering them into the chamber.

A large cabinet with long, flat drawers stood against one wall. Bava went to it and slid open a drawer. Singe peered over her shoulder—and raised his eyebrows in amazement. The drawer held maps, laid out flat. The one on top showed a section of northern Aundair; another, as Bava flipped through them, Cyre before its destruction in the Mourning.

“I collect them,” said Bava, without waiting for the question. “Maps were what first introduced me to art.”

“What good’s a map of Cyre?” asked Geth. “Cyre’s gone.”

“Maps are memories. They show you the way things were on a larger scale than any painting.” Bava found what she was looking for and slid a large piece of stiff, heavy leather from the drawer, turning gracefully to lay it out on a table. “You might as well ask what good an old map of Droaam is.”

Dandra gasped and stepped forward as Bava moved back out of the way. “You have a map of Droaam two hundred years ago?” They all gathered around the table, looking down at a big stained parchment that had been mounted to the stiff leather for support.

“Closer to three hundred actually,” Bava said, “and technically it was still western Breland then, but I think it will be good for what you need.”

Singe gazed down at the old map with awed respect. The
parchment looked like it might be brittle, but the inks upon it were still bright and clear. The map was a work of art, the text written in an elegant script, the features of the landscape drawn with a careful hand. Illuminations marked major landmarks and decorated the map’s margins. The whimsical figure of a fleeing traveler marked the route through the Graywall Mountains toward Sharn. A hideous cockatrice stood guard over the fabled ruins of Cazhaak Draal, the Stonelands; a banner held by a statue with an expression of horror on its petrified face warned would-be travelers to turn back. Dozens of other banners highlighted other areas of danger or interest.

“Twelve bloody moons!” he said. “This is perfect!” He whirled and wrapped his arms around Bava, planting a kiss on her cheek.

“Easy!” she cautioned him. “You haven’t found what you need yet.”

“But we will.” He bent over the map, studying it. “Batul said that a season’s journey east of the Bonetree territory would put someone in the western half of Droaam.” He held his arm above the map, bisecting it, and began scanning all of the banners, illuminations, and labels to the left. Dandra and Natrac clustered close as well. The others just stayed out of their way. Geth tried to look over the map from the side until Singe snarled for him to get out of their light. The shifter gave up and wandered away to peer through the windows at the moonlit roof tops of Zarash’ak.

It didn’t take long for Natrac to curse. “I don’t see anything.”

“Don’t say that,” said Dandra tightly without looking up.

Singe held his tongue, but there was already an unpleasant doubt gnawing at him. He went back and examined labels a second time, peering at the map until his eyes stung and his head ached. There was nowhere marked as the Spires of the Forge. Or the Hall of the Revered. He put an arm around Dandra’s shoulders. “Dandra …”

The kalashtar sighed. “I know.” She turned away from the map. “Nothing. Il-Yannah, I don’t believe it!”

Bava stood up from where she was sitting with Orshok and held out her hands. “I’m sorry,” she said. Dandra accepted her embrace of consolation.

Singe raked fingers through his hair. “Maybe the Spires of
the Forge aren’t in Droaam,” he said. He looked to Ashi. “Could the story be wrong? Could the hunters Dah’mir sent to the Halls of the Revered have been gone longer than a season? Could they have gone in another direction?”

The hunter shook her head. “The Bonetree preserved its stories carefully.”

“Maybe the Spires of the Forge,” Geth said suddenly, “aren’t what we think they are.”

They all looked at the shifter. Geth still stood at the windows, looking out over the city. He gestured with a thick, hairy hand. “Come here. Look outside. What do you see?”

Singe went to stand beside him and look out through the carved screens over the window. “I don’t see anything.”

“Here.” Bava pulled on the screens over a pair of windows and they swung open, revealing doors and a small balcony surrounded by a wooden railing. Singe stepped outside into the moonlight. Bava’s house wasn’t much taller than many of the buildings around it and the view wasn’t particularly spectacular. The most Singe could see was a forest of chimneys thrusting up from the roofs around.

He looked back to Geth. “What? I still don’t see anything.”

The shifter wore a grin that exposed all of his sharp teeth. “Think about the Bonetree camp. They lived in huts. They didn’t have chimneys. How do you describe chimneys to someone who has never seen one?”

“I know what a chimney is!” protested Ashi.

“But maybe your ancestors didn’t!” Singe ran back to the map and whooped. “Here!” He held his finger above a banner far in the south of the territory on the map and read the notation on it,
“Taruuzh Kraat
. Ancient ruins supposed to be the remains of chimneys of a Dhakaani stronghold below.”

“I know the word
kraat,”
said Geth. “It’s Goblin for a smithy.” He moved to Singe’s side and peered at the map. “Grandmother Wolf! ‘The Hall of the Revered lies below the Spires of the Forge.’ Do you think it could be this Dhakaani stronghold?”

“How can it be below ground, though?” asked Orshok. “According to the story, Dah’mir also told the hunters to look in the shade of the Grieving Tree. A tree can’t grow underground.”

“A tree can’t grieve either. It could be a metaphor, the same way
the Spires of the Forge could actually be chimneys.” Singe looked to Bava—and to Dandra, still held in the large woman’s arms, her face wide with hope. “Bava,” he said, “do you have a contemporary map of Droaam? I want to see what’s in this spot now.”

Bava turned Dandra loose, glanced at the ancient map, then hurried to the map cabinet. Dandra stood before Singe and Geth. “You think this might be it?”

“I can’t be certain,” the wizard said carefully. “We might have to make the trip there to be sure, but I have a good feeling about this.”

“You might want to change that feeling,” said Bava. She laid another map, newer and emblazoned with the crest of House Tharashk, on the table and pointed to the location the ancient map labeled as Taruuzh Kraat. The new map marked the site as Tzaryan Keep.

Singe frowned. “What’s wrong? Taruuzh—Tzaryan. It could be a development of the same name.”

Bava shook her head. “No. Tzaryan Keep is the stronghold of one of Droaam’s warlords, Tzaryan Rrac.”

“That’s bad?” asked Dandra.

“It’s not good,” said Bava. “He’s an ogre mage—as big and powerful as an ogre but with magical powers, too. And Tzaryan Rrac’s smart. They say he’s an alchemist and a scholar and that he’s trying to civilize himself. He’s adopted a personal insignia like a human lord.” She tapped her finger on a four-pointed blue star drawn on the map beside name of the Keep. “He’s even hired an old general who served one of the Five Nations during the Last War to train the ogres who serve him as troops.”

“I’ve heard that, too,” agreed Natrac.

Singe looked from the half-orc to Bava and back.

“Not to be rude,” he said, “but how do you know all this?”

Natrac cleared his throat. “A few months ago, Tzaryan caught some dragonshard prospectors from House Tharashk poaching in his territory and sent them back to Zarash’ak—minus their hands. But Tharashk wants to stay on the good side of the powers of Droaam, so instead of protesting, they sent an envoy to Tzaryan with gifts and goods. It was a big spectacle, the talk of Zarash’ak.”

“Did the envoy come back?”

“Yes,” said Bava. “Apparently, Tzaryan likes receiving visitors—at least when they come openly and with big gifts. According to the envoy, he holds court like a lord and debates like a sage. After the envoy returned, Tharashk had nothing but praise for Tzaryan.”

“But did they send anyone else to visit him?” asked Geth pointedly. Bava shook her head. The shifter grunted.

“Light of il-Yannah.” Dandra leaned against the table, staring down at the two maps. “We think we know where we need to go—but we can’t get there.”

“No,” said Singe. “I think we can.”

Dandra, Geth, and the others all looked at him. He gave them back a smile. “We go the same way House Tharashk did. We pay Tzaryan Rrac a visit.”

G
randfather Rat,” said Geth. He stared at Singe and only one thought came to his mind. “That’s insane. That’s so insane that even a madman wouldn’t try it.”

“Why not?” Singe asked. He stepped back from the table and paced around Bava’s studio, hands pressed together in front of his face as he thought. “If House Tharashk could do it, why can’t we?”

“Because they’re a dragonmarked house! They have resources. They’ve got a name.” Geth flung out his arms and bared his teeth. “What have we got besides a story and a dragon hunting us?”

Singe stopped his pacing and turned to Ashi. “Does the Bonetree story mention an ogre mage at the Spires of the Forge?” The hunter shook her head. Singe spread his hands wide. “So presumably Tzaryan Rrac came to the area after Dah’mir left. He might not know Dah’mir was ever there. We just need a reason to visit the ruins.”

“It doesn’t sound like Tzaryan is particularly fond of treasure hunters,” Geth growled. “Remember what he did to the Tharashk prospectors?” He held out one hand and chopped at his wrist with the other.

Natrac shifted uncomfortably. “Could you please not do that?” he asked.

Geth winced. “Sorry.” He looked back at Singe. “You see what I mean?”

Singe shrugged. “We don’t go as treasure hunters. We go as
researchers, interested in the history of the ruins. Tzaryan fancies himself a civilized scholar, so that’s how we approach him.” He stood up straight. “I didn’t attend Wynarn and come away with nothing.”

Geth looked around at their group. Ashi, Orshok, himself … a savage, an orc, and a shifter. He snorted and rolled his eyes. “He’s not going to believe that we’re all scholars!”

“My bright young assistant,” said Singe, reaching out an arm to Dandra. “And our brute bodyguards.” He swept his other arm past the rest of them. Geth bared his teeth. Singe tilted his head and smiled. “Droaam’s a dangerous place. A scholar who wants to study Dhakaani ruins needs muscle to back him up.”

Geth started to snort again, but stopped himself and looked at the wizard again. He’d known him too long to picture him easily as anything other than a rapier-wielding, spell-flinging mercenary—but if any of them could play the part of a scholar, it was Singe.

Grandmother Wolf knows he’s good enough at making me feel stupid, the shifter thought. “Say we do it. We don’t actually know anything about Taruuzh Kraat. Tzaryan probably does. What if he challenges you on something?”

“Then I yield to his superior knowledge and he feels smug. I’ve never met a scholar who doesn’t enjoy feeling he knows more than someone else.”

“Except Tzaryan’s not a dusty lecturer with an audience of students,” said Natrac. “He’s a Droaamish warlord with ogre soldiers waiting to mangle people for him.”

Singe glanced at Dandra, then at Ashi. “Well?”

Dandra drew a deep breath and let it out slowly—then nodded. “It’s risky, but it sounds good.”

Ashi nodded as well. “It sounds a lot easier than trying to fight our way in. I think we should try.”

Geth turned to Orshok. “What about you?”

Surprise spread across the young orc’s face. “You’re asking me?”

“You’re coming, aren’t you?”

Orshok grinned, then nodded vigorously—though Geth doubted that he would have done anything else. He looked at Ashi. The hunter gave him a hungry smile and said, “I’ve never
had the chance to fight an ogre before.”

Geth crinkled his nose. “I’m glad there’s a bright side for you.” He looked down at the maps on the table, the old and the modern. “So how do we get there? I don’t think we want to stay in Zarash’ak any longer than we need to.”