The Fading Dream (12 page)

Thorn was still holding the locket Drix had given her. She threw it straight up in the air. The motion was all that mattered. For an instant Cazalan Dal followed it with his eyes, and the point of his wand wavered slightly, drifting up and out of line—exactly where Thorn needed it to be. She threw Steel, his blackened blade nearly invisible in the shadows. It was a perfect throw, striking the wand directly. The impact knocked the wand from Dal’s hand, catching it in Steel’s quillons, and drawing it back as the blade flew back to her hand.

Thorn wasn’t waiting for the blade to return. She was already charging forward. “Go!” she cried, pointing at the storefront to her right. She didn’t have time to see if Cadrel and Drix understood. She caught Steel and threw herself fully into Cazalan Dal, summoning every ounce of strength she could find. The soldier staggered backward, trying to bring his weapon to bear, but Thorn was too close; he couldn’t get the angle. She kept the pressure up, pushing him back through the half-open door of the darkened shop. He tripped and fell over, striking the floor hard. Thorn dropped down and pressed her arm against his throat, silencing any cries. She studied his face as she whispered the words of a spell, feeling the familiar tingle spread across her skin as she stole his appearance. It lasted for only a few minutes, not long enough for deep infiltration, but it was the perfect thing to distract him.

It took only a moment. Thorn smashed Steel’s pommel into the man’s temple, ending his struggles. “Hold him,” she told Drix and Cadrel. Then she snatched the wand from the floor and leaped out the door.

Thorn had mastered only a few spells during her arcane training at the Citadel, but those tricks had saved her life on many occasions. Equally important, she’d learned how to activate the most common magical tools and weapons, such as the standard-issue offensive wand.

The first soldier was emerging from the mists when she unleashed the fireball. Thorn saw only his blade and his arm, more than enough to target the spell. She let her anger flow into the wand, envisioning the energy as a flame spilling out of her, expanding into white heat as it burst through the wand. The result was spectacular. A bolt of flame leaped from the rod, striking the soldier in the chest, and he disappeared from view as the bolt exploded outward in a mighty sheet of
flame. If the man screamed, the sound was swallowed by the mists; when the flames died down later, he was nowhere to be seen.

It was too much to hope that the blast had caught all of the soldiers, and sure enough, two more emerged a moment later. An archer and a swordsman, both wielding weapons formed of solid shadow, scanned the street for any signs of the enemy.

“Quickly! Form on me!” Thorn called. The two ran up to her.

“What happened?” the swordsman said. He was bald, his head covered with sores and boils, and his eyes were as gray as Dal’s. “Where did they go?”

No one else had emerged from the mist. Let’s hope this is all of them, she thought. She pointed the wand at the ground and activated it again.

The world disappeared in flame. The light was blinding, but it lasted only an instant. When her vision cleared, she found herself standing at the center of a circle of scorched stone. The soldiers were on the ground around her, twisted and still. Once again, she was untouched, she’d barely even felt the heat. Turning away, she ran back into the shop.

Drix took a step back when she walked into the store, and she let the glamour fall.

“Wake him up,” she said. “We need to find out where their camp is, how many more there are. Sovereigns and Six, were they expecting us?”

“I’m afraid you won’t get those answers from Cazalan Dal.” Cadrel was kneeling next to the fallen soldier. “He’s dead.”

“Impossible,” Thorn said. “I didn’t hit him that hard.”

Cadrel looked up at her, a strange expression on his face. “Perhaps you don’t know your own strength. You fractured his skull with that final blow.”

She noticed the blood spreading across the floor. In the heat of the moment, she hadn’t even noticed the surge of draconic strength, for all that she’d banked on her immunity to fire to save her life when she set off the wand. “There’s no time to waste. Cadrel, search the body. Drix, do you know where we are?”

“Yes,” he said. “The Street of Crowns. We need to get to the eastern gate.”

“Then lead the way. Quicker is better.”

“Nothing,” Cadrel reported, standing up. “Nothing at all. No coins in his pouch. No traveling papers. Nothing whatsoever.”

“Strange,” Thorn said. “It probably means they have a base nearby … and that means we’d better leave before they come looking.”

Drix had already stepped outside. When Thorn and Cadrel followed, they found him rummaging around on the ground. Standing up, he turned and tossed something to Thorn, a tarnished, silver disk that glittered in the light of the ever-burning torch. It was the battered locket, the chain snapped off, the rim of the lid bent and jammed. If there had ever been a picture inside, it had been burned away.

“You never know when it might be needed again,” he said. Then he started jogging down the street. “Come on, then!”

“There’s something strange about that boy,” Cadrel said.

“I can’t argue that,” Thorn said. “But I just might like it.”

She ran after him, Cadrel close on her heels.

T
hey’re your people,” Thorn said. “Surely you’ve got some idea. They were
waiting
for us.”

It was difficult to keep track of time. The sky was hidden by the glowing, gray mist; it might have been midnight, but it might have been noon. They’d run for as long as they could stand it, trying to get away from the empty city and to escape possible pursuit. The land around them was withered and gray. They followed the old trade road, which proved to be a gloomy path. Seaside was a port town, and most of the traffic came by sea. But there had been travelers on the northern road on the Day of Mourning. The first caravan had been devoid of all signs of life, just like Seaside itself. Horses’ harnesses stood empty, coachmens’ uniforms caught in the seats or on withered branches. The second was perfectly preserved with no signs of cause of death or even fear on the faces of the travelers. Their eyes were still open, and they looked as if they’d be warm to the touch. They were simply frozen, caught halfway on a journey they’d never complete.

“They aren’t my people,” Cadrel said. “They might have been once, but now they are creatures of the
Mournland. Who can explain the madness this place might bring?”

“I can see how spending too much time here might drive you mad,” Thorn said, glancing at Drix. The tinker was whistling cheerfully, ignoring the conversation. “But that doesn’t explain the breacher. Or how Dal survived the first attack. Or how he got to Seaside before us. You anticipated the attack on the prince. So you must have known something.”

“I told you. Angry words, the presence of the Fifth Crown … it was a danger, nothing more. I didn’t even realize that the Covenant of the Gray Mist was involved.”

It’s possible he’s telling the truth
, Steel whispered.
But it seems unlikely. He’s supposed to be Oargev’s eyes and ears
.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Thorn said, addressing Steel and Cadrel at the same time. “When was the last time you had a report from the Covenant?”

“To be honest—”

“Are you sure this is the right time for that?” Thorn said.

Cadrel sighed. “My dear, we may be allies this month, but we both know that there can only be one king of Galifar, and if you’re being honest with yourself, you know who that should be. You serve your king. I serve mine.”

“Does there really have to be a king of Galifar?” Drix yelled back.

“Yes,” Thorn told him. “We fought a war about it. Perhaps you remember.”

“Oh. That’s what we were fighting about? Are you sure?”

Thorn sighed. “Master Cadrel, I believe you were about to be honest with me, which would be a refreshing change. When was the last time you had a report from the Covenant?”

“They never reported to me,” Cadrel said. “The Covenant was handpicked by the prince and reported to him directly. I remember when Cazalan Dal was chosen, and I remember seeing him at New Cyre once or twice. But they always found their way to the prince without me; I heard their news from him.”

“Why would they avoid you?”

“I don’t think they were avoiding
me
as such,” Cadrel said. “You saw the situation in New Cyre. Today I may be Oargev’s closest confidant. But he’s had quite a few favorites over the years, some more trustworthy than others. I think the agents of the Covenant consider themselves to be the direct servants of the Cyran crown and consider any intermediary to be beneath their notice.”

“Servants who now see fit to destroy that crown.”

“Which brings us back to madness.”

“I think it’s going to rain,” Drix called back. A faint roll of thunder followed his words.

“They’re well organized for madmen,” Thorn told Cadrel. “And I’d like to find out how they knew we’d make landfall at Seaside when we never planned on it. I hope you’re being honest with me, Cadrel.”

Cadrel spread his hands. “I am as transparent as glass, my dear.”

“Perhaps you weren’t listening,” Drix said again. “Rain.”

Something in his tone gave Thorn pause. “You’re wearing a cloak, Drix.”

“Yes, but it’s—oh. You don’t know.”

Cadrel heard the fear. “What is it, lad?”

“The rain … it’s dangerous.”

“I don’t understand,” Cadrel said. “It burns? How bad is it?”

“You know in Seaside? The way the clothes were left behind, but no bodies?”

“What about it?” Thorn was afraid she already knew the answer.

“That’s because it rained. The cloak will be fine. But if it gets too wet, well …”

Dolurrh. Literally. “We need shelter. How much time do we have?”

Drix looked at the sky. All Thorn could see was the swirling, gray mist; she had no idea how he was predicting the weather. Perhaps it was just something he felt, like the emotional currents in the mist itself. “Three minutes. Maybe four.”

There was no time for a clever response and no shelter to be found. The ground around them was gray and barren; perhaps the deadly rain wiped out all life. Whatever the truth, there wasn’t so much as a tree trunk to be seen.

“You’ve been here before,” Thorn said. “You survived it then. What did you do the last time?”

“I climbed in a hole,” Drix said.

“We don’t have time to dig now.”

“I know,” Drix said. “And I’m not sure it’s big enough for all of us.”

The thunder came again, louder. Cadrel looked up at the sky. “Perhaps we could make a sort of tent of our cloaks …”

Ask him about the hole
, Steel said.
Quickly. Ask him how big it is
.

Brilliant, Thorn thought. But she repeated the question.

“We might all fit,” Drix said. “I just don’t know about the air. We’d have to leave it open a bit. More than I’d like. It might drip in, and that’s no good.”

“What do you mean?” Thorn said. The thunder rolled again. There was no time for guessing games. “Just … show us the hole!”

Drix laid his cloak down across the ground. He stuck a few stakes into the hem, securing it against the ground.

“That’s what I was thinking,” Cadrel said. “But if this … rain … soaks through the cloth, it will kill us, yes?”

“I don’t know if it kills,” Drix said. “But we’d certainly go away. That’s why I’ve got the hole.” Reaching into one of his many pouches, he took out a piece of soft, black cloth. He unfolded it, spreading it out across the ground.

Wonderful, Thorn thought. He
is
mad. If we’re lucky, that means he’s wrong about the rain too.

Drix continued to spread the black cloth across the soil. It was a broad circle, about three feet across. He looked up and smiled. “Do you want to go first, Thorn?”

“Go wh—?” The question died in her throat. Drix’s hand was resting on the black circle—no,
in
the black circle. As if it were resting on the rim of a giant hole.

It’s an extradimensional pocket
, Steel said.
Like your gloves and your pouch, but with a far larger opening. It’s an amazing design; I’ve never seen one that could be folded that way
.

“It was a gift,” Drix said. “But you’d better get in quickly. We’re running out of time.”

Thorn slid beneath the makeshift tarp and pushed her foot into the portable hole. There was nothing there, just open space. She could feel a change in the temperature; it was pleasantly warm in the hole. Gingerly she dropped down along the edge. The space inside was wider than the mouth. She stood in a small, spherical chamber, perhaps six feet across.

A moment later, Essyn Cadrel dropped down after her. “Remarkable,” he said.

Drix followed. Reaching up, he grasped the edges of the hole, and to Thorn’s surprise, he pulled them together.

He’s folding the cloth, she realized. I wonder what happens if someone else picks it up?