The Fading Dream (18 page)

The winter lord slowly sheathed his sword. “I will aid you, Tira, because you speak the truth. The fates of our spires are linked. My people wish to return to the land of the long night, and if it is your curse that binds us here, we will help you break it. But know this: I will not forget how you have treated me this day. Nor will I forgive you for bringing this plague upon us to begin with. I stand beneath your boughs, and I will bow to your will today. I suggest you never seek my hospitality again.”

“So be it.”

“I see one problem with your plans, Lady Tira.” It was the gnome. His voice was soft and pleasant, and the colors of his robe swirled as he spoke. “You said that all
eight shards would be required. You have found two of the lost shards. But what of the third? Where is the Stone of Dreams?”

Tira’s eyes dimmed behind her veil. “I do not know. In my visions I saw all eight of the stones in our circle. I never saw how they arrived, and it seems my vision was clouded. I can only hope that we can restore the wound with seven of the shards, but I fear it will not be possible.”

“Then rejoice, Lady Tira.” The voice was deep and confident and seemed to fill the room. The speaker stood in the doorway, a tall man dressed in black and silver. He wore a hooded cloak, and a silver mask sculpted to resemble a handsome eladrin. There was something familiar about him … Then Thorn saw the brooch tied to his cloak. A crescent moon with an opalescent stone held between the horns. He reached up to remove the mask, and for a moment Thorn felt an inexplicable sense of dread. But the face below was as handsome as the mask itself and even more familiar. He looked directly at Thorn and smiled.

It was the man from her dream.

I
f Thorn was surprised by the stranger, the fey were shocked. Tira’s expression was hidden beneath her veil, but she seemed to be at a loss for words.

“I hope you’ll forgive me for letting myself in,” the man said. He was an eladrin—though his eyes were darker than his cousins’, and he was somewhat more muscular, but the fey features were unmistakable. He dropped to one knee. “Now that I am here, I present myself as a guest and formally ask for your hospitality, Lady Tira.”

“Who are you?” Tira said, her voice tight.

“You know who I am,” he said. “Shan Doresh, lord of the Dreaming Citadel.”

“The Dreaming Citadel was destroyed long ago.”

“What would you know of it?” The man rose to his feet. His voice was steady, but his dark eyes gleamed. “When the Cul’sir enslaved our kin, I came to this council and I called on your predecessors to gird themselves for war, to destroy those who would commit such atrocities. Instead they hid behind shadows and illusions, leaving my people to face the titans alone.”

“It is true,” Tira said. “When Shan Doresh came to the Council of the Silver Tree, my grandfather and the
other lords and ladies refused to aid him, seeing only madness in his plan. But Shan Doresh was blinded by his dreams of glory and vengeance and led his people to their end. None of those who fought at his side were ever seen again, and the spire never returned to Thelanis. And so the question remains: Who are you to taunt us with this deception?”

“There is more to reality than even you know,” the man said. “When we stood alone against the Cul’sir horde, we struck fear into the heart of their emperor. He could not defeat us in battle. And so he used treachery. From the lowest eladrin to the mightiest ghaele, when we walk this realm, we are creatures of two worlds, poised between Thelanis and Eberron. The emperor and his wizards caught at that thread and unraveled it, twisting our connection to the Faerie Court and binding us to a new realm: Dal Quor, the Region of Dreams. We fell from this reality, and for an untold time, we existed only as dreams in mortal minds, rarely seen and quickly forgotten. Time in that place is different even than in fair Thelanis, and you cannot conceive of the lengths we went to find our way back to this world. In the end, something pulled us back, reestablished our connection to the material plane. I can only believe it was you, Lady Tira—that the mystical shock wave that flowed out of the Silver Tree reached us even in the dark shadows of dream.”

“So you truly claim to be—”

“It is no claim,” the man said. “I am Shan Doresh. I faced the emperor Cul’sir in battle. I bear the Stone of Dreams, given to me when Ourelon’s Gift was shattered in this chamber. I have spent an eternity in dreams, and now I have returned.”

“To what end?” it was Syraen who spoke, suspicion hard in his voice.

“To aid you in your time of need, of course.” Shan Doresh ran black-gloved fingers over his gleaming brooch. “We were overwhelmed when we were drawn back into this world. So much has changed. We’ve spent the last few years in the darkness, learning what it is to be truly alive again. I have studied the nations of this world, and I have seen the troubles that face you now the glamour has been stripped away. Shae Joridal under siege. Taer Syraen poised to start its own war. The Silver Tree crumbling away. Ourelon’s Gift scattered and squandered. When I last walked this world, no nation on Khorvaire could threaten us, for all that your ancestors lived in fear. Today the young races have grown bold, while you are all but forgotten.”

He fixed Cadrel with his dark eyes. “Tell me, human, and tell me true: You have seen the wonders our people can produce. You live in a world at war. Do you not wish to have such powers for your own people?”

“You’re asking the wrong person,” Cadrel said with a smile. “My people have no stake in the war anymore. Our nation was destroyed. If these remarkable theories are correct, it was the actions of this woman here that did it.”

“Yes,” Doresh said. “She brought a kingdom to ruin with a single stroke. Unusual circumstances, to be certain. Perhaps you would not use such a thing yourself. But tell me that there are not those among your kind who would stop at nothing to harness such power, who would use it to dominate this land.”

Cadrel looked at Thorn, a nervous smile playing at his lips. “Well, Cyre did not start the war; all we ever sought was peace—”

“And what of me?” Cazalan Dal stood in the room. “Sent into the Mournland in search of what? A way to reclaim the ravaged land? Or a way to harness its
power—to find a weapon that could be used to force the other nations to their knees?”

The winter eladrin moved toward the Cyran soldier, glittering blades drawn. Tira’s eyes were blazing, and Thorn held Steel ready to throw. Cadrel’s face was ashen. Then Cazalan shivered and faded away.

“Such is my power,” Shan Doresh said. “To bring dreams into the open. You know this man and his mission, Essyn Cadrel. Once he served your nation; now he may want power for himself. But he wants power. As does your king, Nyrielle Tam. And the Karrnathi warlords that mass their forces around your spire, Shan Syraen. I looked out upon the world, and I saw our people in fear. I felt your call through the stone, Lady Tira. And I knew why the Citadel of Dreams had been called back to this world. Your ancestors refused to aid me in my time of need, and I will not repeat that mistake. I hope that this act of faith will forge a new bond between us, that when I come before this council in days to come, you will remember my wisdom.”

“I would hear more of this now,” Syraen said.

“And I,” Lord Joridal added, emerald lights darting around his shoulders.

“We have much to discuss, to be certain. But perhaps this is a conversation best kept to the ghaele. And the safety of the Silver Tree is surely the first step in securing the future of our people. Lady Tira, you have said that time is of the essence. Tell us of the ritual that will save this land and the Tree. What must be done?”

Tira’s expression was hidden behind her veil, but her voice was cold. “Like calls to like. The bonds between the stones must be strengthened. I have prepared a vault below, where the ritual will be performed. For now, the shards must be left alone for a time, allowed to bond away from their masters.”

Syraen raised an eyebrow. “You would have us surrender the greatest treasures of our people?”

“I would. For hours only. They will be sealed in the vault.”

“And what of us?” Thorn said. “I’m afraid I can’t just give you my shards.”

“You are not the master of the shards that you bear,” Tira told her. “You need not be separated from the stones. But you will have to be sealed in the vault and to remain still while the connections are established.”

The Rose Queen laughed. “You wish us to leave our gifts alone with these outsiders? You are mad, Tira.”

Shan Doresh spoke before Tira could respond. “Your fears are understandable, my lady. Still, unless much has changed since I last walked these halls, the vaults of the Silver Tree are all but impregnable, and I can’t imagine they open from the inside.” Reaching up, he removed his brooch and held it out to Tira. “I trust you, Lady. I place the future of my people in your hands, as the future of every spire rests on the fate of the Silver Tree. And I hope the rest of you will do the same.”

The gnome lord was first to follow. “You have stepped from the shadows of our history, Doresh, to remind us of a time when we put fear before wisdom. We will not make that mistake again.” He drew a golden chain from around his neck, the stone glowing within.

Syraen said nothing. He simply drew his sword from its scabbard and set it down upon the table. Joridal and the Rose Queen grimly followed suit, surrendering their treasures.

Cadrel stepped forward. “I hope you will forgive my impertinence, great lady. But if you are sealing my companions in a vault, I’d prefer to remain with them than to be alone outside. I am a storyteller by trade; if they must lie still for hours, I can help them while away the time.”

“By all means, keep them together,” Syraen growled. “I’d rather have them all trapped than have one of them running around.”

“Very well,” Tira said. “Follow me, and I will show you the room where you will change your world.”

“Well,
that
was an interesting hour,” Thorn said. She was sitting cross-legged in the middle of an elaborate arcane seal painted on the wooden floor. Each of the fey treasures sat in a similar seal, spread around the room. Drix was lying on his back in a circle in the very center of the room, adjusting the pulleys on his crossbow. Cadrel paced around the edge of the chamber. “I’m not even sure which ridiculous claim to begin with. Drix here is the cause of the Mourning. Drix is the only thing that saved us from the Mourning. The shards of shrapnel in my back are ancient artifacts of great power, despite the fact that they have no magical auras and were, well, shrapnel. And now some ancient champion—who I dreamed about, by the way—has appeared from the past to either save us all or incite the spires against us. I couldn’t quite tell. Is that about it?”

“Well—”

Thorn cut Cadrel off before he could complete his sentence. “Oh, and Drix is both a Cannith heir and the prince of a long-forgotten kingdom.”

“I liked that part,” Drix chimed in. He tested the pull on the crossbow.

“Still—” Cadrel began.

“Oh, and let’s not forget that your Covenant of the Gray Mist was created to unlock the secrets of the Mourning so they could be used against the rest of us. Anything you’d like to add to that, Essyn?”

“You’re not a fool,” Cadrel said, “so don’t play the part.
Yes, we wanted to harness the power of the Mourning. But tell me, do you truly believe that your Citadel isn’t working on the same thing? That the Royal Eyes of Aundair don’t have teams in the Mournland this very moment?”

“The Royal Eyes are bastards, I’ll give you that. But—”

“The Mourning is the greatest mystery of the age,” Cadrel continued. “And the greatest opportunity. We fought each other for a hundred years. The Mourning ended the war in one day, and fear of the Mourning is the only thing that keeps that war at bay. Whoever harnesses that power will dominate the next age.”

“And you want it to be Cyre?”

“I suppose you want it to be Breland? We had the best claim to the succession. We lost our home to this power. The Mourning took everything from us. If we could use it to get it all back, we had to try. Oargev never knew the true purpose of the Covenant, of course. There’s quite a lot the young prince doesn’t know. And now it seems the Covenant has its own ideas … unfortunately.”