The Killing Song: The Dragon Below Book III Read Free

truth. When his mark had grown into its power, the wind would be compelled to obey him. An early flush of power warmed him. He opened his eyes.
    At his feet, the edge of the rough terrace on which he stood dropped away. He looked straight down into the dark depths of the canyon between Dura and Northedge, two of the plateaus on which Sharn had been built. The City of Towers soared high overhead—reaching up and up toward a narrow sliver of sky that had turned red with sunset. Across the width of the canyon and up and down its length as far as he couldsee in the gloom, the huge bases of the towers spread out like the roots of an enormous forest. Night had already fallen in the lower city. Lights shone in a swarm of bright specks, lit by those who needed lanterns and cold fire to see. Around Vennet, the district of Malleon’s Gate, inhabited mostly by goblins, hobgoblins, and other creatures who were at home in the night, remained conspicuously dark.
    He would rather have been amidst the heights of the towers, up in the open air where the wind was at its strongest, where the other members of House Lyrandar moved with the wealthy and powerful of Sharn and Breland. He belonged among their number. Soon, he told himself. Soon I’ll be with them.
    He flexed his arms and felt the hot skin across his back and shoulders stretch tight. He could feel his dragonmark growing, transforming into a powerful Siberys mark. Such a thing was supposed to be impossible—centuries of lore said that a Siberys mark never manifested on anyone already carrying a lesser mark. Vennet almost laughed. He’d joined the cults of the Dragon Below in search of power, and power he’d received. Nothing was impossible for the dark lords of Khyber. The mark of Siberys was a gift from the master. When it had completed its transformation, there would be no more hiding. He would come forward and take his place as the greatest scion of Lyrandar that the house had ever—
    “Vennet! Vennet, where are you?” Dah’mir’s voice interrupted his reverie. There was an edge to the oil-smooth tones. Dah’mir wasn’t pleased with something.
    A lesser creature might have been afraid, but the Master of Silence had burned fear out of Vennet’s heart. “Here!” he called back. Only a few moments later, Dah’mir settled out of the shadows onto the terrace beside him. As he had for most of the time since they had arrived in Sharn, he wore the form of a black heron. His majestic true form would have caused too much excitement and attracted too much attention when his plans required stealth and discretion. The bird was still a dragon, however. Vennet bent his head to his master.
    Dah’mir’s acid-green eyes flashed. “Speaking with the wind again, Vennet?”
    Vennet was abruptly aware of his naked torso. He turned awayfrom the canyons and reached for his shirt, weighted down by a rock so it wouldn’t blow away. “Yes, master,” he said. He winced as the fabric of the shirt, as fine as he’d been able to get his hands on, scraped across his irritated shoulders. His growing dragonmark might have been a gift, but it also itched unbearably. “What do you need? What do you want me to do?”
    When he’d first met Dah’mir, the dragon had possessed a human form that allowed him to walk easily among the lesser races. With the same power that had granted Vennet his Siberys mark, the Master of Silence had taken Dah’mir’s human form away from him as a punishment for failing the daelkyr. Vennet had become Dah’mir’s emissary to the world, his face and hands in Sharn. It was a role he played with relish, a service to the Dragon Below—a step on his path to glory.
    “I want you to go to our host,” said Dah’mir. “Tell him to prepare.”
    Vennet’s heart caught in anticipation. “We’re ready? So soon? But the plans—”
    “Plans can be adapted. Give our host the details he needs. I will wait no more than a few days. My master waits for his new servants, and