The Dreamheart.

It was the disembodied eye of horror itself. He'd layered it with rituals, attempting to blind the thing's gaze. He didn't know how effective his workings had been.

Japheth had devised the iron cage to contain the relic. The cage also gave him a way to handle the Dreamheart without laying his hands along its cold and somehow slick surface.

He'd touched it once, when he'd stolen it from Raidon's sword. That contact had granted Japheth the strength to travel miles through his cloak, when yards were the normal limit of the cloak's ability. The touch had also shown the warlock disturbing images, ones he'd tried to block. But those visions still seeped in and coiled around his dreams, clamoring for his attention during the night.

Japheth didn't have time to listen to their entreaties. He had too much to do already. Plus, based on what he'd seen of the Dreamheart's previous two wielders, the secrets of power offered by the relic came with a price of corruption. If he could come up with some way to protect his mind from that effect while at the same time accessing the relic's powers, well, that would be something else. When he had more time, he'd think on that.

With Anusha's hand still in his own, Japheth addressed the Dreamheart rather than the woman beside him.

"Anusha? If you can hear me in there, stay strong! I'll get you out of there, love. Soon!"

CHAPTER TWO

The Year of the Secret (1396 DR) Green Siren on the Sea of Fallen Stars

Raidon Kane stood on the forecastle of Green Siren. Beyond the ship's railing, the sea stretched away, dappled with aquamarine rollers.

A sandbag suspended at waist height claimed Raidon's attention. He checked the ropes one last time to make sure it was secure.

Good.

The monk set his shoulders, then twisted in the opposite direction. His elbow snapped around and hit the bag.

Sand puffed with the stinging blow.

"That should do," he said.

Raidon jabbed the bag with his left fist, rotating his arm so the top of his clenched hand was horizontal to the target as it struck. As his fist snapped back to guard his face, he leaned away, bringing his right hip over. His leg followed, smashing into the bag like an iron ball on a swinging flail.

The half-elf assaulted the defenseless bag with a flurry of kicks, knees, flying elbows, and straight punches.

Though his kicks seemed lazy and his punches almost casual, the makeshift target popped with each strike.

The simplest forms were most illusive, requiring the greatest subtlety of muscle coordination to achieve surprising power: it was a truism he always strove to keep in mind.

Sweat ran across the stylized tree inked across his chest, but the drops glittered and steamed away. Raidon relaxed wholly to his forms, his body moving in ever smoother, more circular movements. His mind followed, dissolving into the exertion. His focus was nearly complete, yet a sliver of anxiety persisted.

He couldn't forget the fiasco a tenday earlier.

He recalled, for the hundredth time, how the warlock Japheth had stepped backward into the darkness of his cloak and vanished, taking the Dreamheart with him.

The monk gritted his teeth. His focus wavered.

Raidon tried to blink away the image of the warlock's thievery. But frustration and anger claimed him. His concentration broke.

He lashed the sand-filled rucksack with a kick so vicious both hemp tethers snapped. The bag arced out over the sea. It struck the water, and in less than a heartbeat, the sack was pulled under. Gone.

Just like Japheth and the Dreamheart.

Raidon's hands clenched tighter. An urge to break something vital to the ship's integrity overwhelmed him.

As he sized up the mainmast as a potential target, his upper chest prickled. He looked down at the Cerulean Sign.

The half-elf ran a hand across the scar's face. The barest of tugs pulled him around until he faced starboard. The miniscule pull wasn't entirely unfamiliar, he realized he'd felt it for some time. Prior to that moment, however, the sensation had been too slight for him to mark. He knew what it signified.

"The Dreamheart lies that way." The Cerulean Sign did not speak to him as Cynosure had, or as Angul sometimes did when he wielded it. The Sign had no mind. But it could impart knowledge, at least when he took the time to pay attention.

His anger burned out. Behind it lay the placid, accepting calm he had once cultivated and relied on for his every need. His focus felt like a shadow compared to wrath's passions.

Raidon returned to the cabin the Green Siren's captain had set aside for him. Japheth's old room.

He entered and drew the bolt. His perspiring body was already air-drying. He took a moment to dampen a cloth from the water basin to freshen up, then slipped into a clean silk shirt.

He made to leave, then paused to regard his cot. He flipped the blanket aside, revealing Angul. It hissed at him.

Blue-tinged smoke curled from the blade's span as the sword seared the coverlet beneath it.

"If you burn through to the sea, you'll rust," said Raidon. The blade was furious at the half-elf s refusal to gird the sword to his belt. He'd separated himself from Angul rather than allow the sword to ride his hip. Then he'd locked the blade in his cabin, mainly for the safety of the scofflaw privateers crewing the ship. Angul would burn the freebooters to drifting soot regardless of consequence.

A spit of fire leaped from the blade for Raidon's eyes. He twisted away, but the flame dissipated before it reached his face. Angul, for all its airs of righteous purity, often acted like a spoiled child.

That comparison immediately brought to mind Ailyn. A girl with dark hair and happy eyes. In his imagination, she cradled a kitten awkwardly in her tiny hands, but she was laughing. He'd been sure the girl was going to drop the kitten on its head! He felt guilty recalling it.

Especially now that his daughter was dead.

He shook his head. He said to the blade, "I know where to find the Dreamheart. It and Japheth are not far away.

When I find them, I shall take you up again, Angul."

If anything, the blade burned more violently. Or more petulantly. Angul preferred to be in control.

The monk sighed, covered the blade, and left.

On the quarterdeck, Raidon spied Captain Thoster in earnest conversation with the wizard Seren. He could guess their topic. The woman was determined to leave the pirate ship and its troubles far behind.

The monk stepped forward, catching only the last half of the shipmaster's words.

"... strangest dream last night," said Thoster. "That ghost girl who haunted the ship tried to tell me something, but I couldn't hear her. Spooky."

Seren said, "Don't change the subject with your dreams from indigestion. Just hand over what you owe me, and I'll be on my way."

"On your way where? We're at sea, and I ain't turning the Siren toward whatever port you fancy. I've a ship to run and schedules to keep."

The wizard smirked. "What port are you making for, Captain? Do you even know? I'll get off there. I don't care if it's Lyrabar, Urmlaspyr, or Laothkund the Drowned."

The captain noticed the monk.

"Raidon!" said Thoster. "I saw you beating the tar out of a sandbag. Did you teach it some manners?"

"Captain Thoster, I have a fix on the Dreamheart."

The captain said, "Hah! I knew you'd find that godsforsaken rock."

"Are you ready to fulfill your promise?"

"To help you destroy it? Of course! Didn't I already say so?"

Raidon studied the captain's eyelids, the muscles in his upper lip, and the tension between his eyes. Either the captain was pulling off a particularly masterful lie, or he spoke the truth.

Of course, Thoster was a pirate. Lying likely came as easily as swearing to the man. "I'm glad," Raidon said.