The Fading Dream (19 page)

Thorn sighed. “I wish I could argue with you, but I’m sure you’re right. Aundair, Karrnath, even Breland … I’m sure they’re all trying to harness the power of the Mourning. Which brings us to the next point. All of these nations, pouring their gold into studying the Mourning. And now they say it’s Drix. Do you think you can turn him into a weapon?”

“I don’t think I’d be a very good weapon,” Drix said. “But any design can be improved.”

Cadrel laughed. “No. I don’t think stabbing children is the next evolution of warfare. Besides that, if you believe that story, I don’t think it was simply a matter of someone stabbing Drix. I think it had to be the queen. And she had to act in anger.”

“And you believe that?”

“Honestly? No. But it makes a wonderful story. I’m sure it was a coincidence. But it’s brought us to this vault, given us this chance to study these treasures and tools. So what do you think? Once we steal them, how do we divide up the shards?”

He sounded utterly sincere, and Thorn looked over in surprise. For a moment he kept a straight face; then he burst out laughing. “I’m sorry, my dear. But it was worth it just for the look on your face. And tell me the thought hadn’t occurred to you.”

“Of course it occurred to me,” she said. “And I’m sure Lady Tira expected as much. We’re at war and if each of these shards has power to match the one in Drix’s chest, we’d be fools not to want them. But we have no idea what other powers the eladrin possess. Their friendship could be far more valuable in the days ahead than a handful of artifacts we can’t reproduce.”

“True, true.” Cadrel said. “Still, it’s an interesting exercise, isn’t it? And we have nothing but time. I’m sure you’re an expert when it comes to breaking and entering. I saw the guards, the thickness of the vault door; you’ve probably seen a dozen wards and traps that slipped by my old eyes. So what would you do if it was in your hands?”

“I wouldn’t,” Thorn said. “I don’t want to make enemies of these people. Any theft would surely be blamed on us. Right now the worst thing I can think of would be for someone to break in here and steal these treasures and somehow get away with it.”

“That’s unfortunate. Because that’s exactly our plan.”

It wasn’t Cadrel who spoke. The bard looked as surprised as she was.

It was Cazalan Dal. And he wasn’t alone.

W
hen they’d been sealed in the vault, Lady Tira had made Thorn and the others surrender their weapons and magical equipment. “We are trusting you with our greatest treasures,” she told them. “Surely you can trust us with yours.” Drix had convinced them to leave him with his crossbow as a way to pass the time, but he had no bolts for the weapon. And all of Thorn’s tools were waiting for her outside the vault—her mithral vambraces, the gloves of storing that held the myrnaxe, her cloak with its myriad tools and weapons, even Steel—she was unarmed and outnumbered.

The Covenant of the Gray Mist carried the same weapons she’d seen them with before: shifting blades in one hand, and wands in the other. Surely they wouldn’t use fireballs in such an enclosed space, Thorn thought. That left far too many options, from paralysis to a burst of fire with a tighter focus.

Thorn’s first instinct was to attack, to strike as hard and fast as she could, to try to even the numbers before they could react. She held it in check. There were four of them—too many. And two of them had already grabbed Drix and Cadrel and were holding blades to their throats.
Thorn rose to her feet as a third soldier approached her, a grim woman with gray eyes and a long blade.

“We won’t keep you long,” Cazalan said. His voice was the same dry rasp she remembered from the attack on the prince. He had a small sack in his hand, and he picked up the icy blade of Lord Syraen and slid it into the opening. The sword should have pierced the cloth, but instead it vanished into the bag.

An extradimensional bag. He’s going to walk away with it all, she thought.

“I thought you were dead,” she said. “I suppose I should have cut off your head and kept it as a keepsake.” It was half a joke, half serious. She studied the woman next to her. She was confident and that was to Thorn’s advantage.

“That might have worked,” he said. He dropped the emerald amulet of Lord Joridal into his sack. “Spend as much time in the Mournland as I have, and death becomes a friend. And for this … I forgive you my two deaths.”

“Forgive me?”

“We’ve known of this citadel for years now. We’ve been searching for a way to penetrate its defenses. But even teleportation is of little use if you don’t know where you’re going. Once we knew they’d let you inside, it was just a matter of getting close enough to establish a scrying focus. You became our eyes and ears.”

“Why this? What use could you have for these stones?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Cazalan said with a smile. He put the shimmering jewel of Lord Pyrial into his bag. “When we act, the world will know.”

“Teleportation. Scrying. That’s quite a lot of power in the hands of a ragtag band of scavengers.”

“We have our backers,” Cazalan replied as he took the Rose Queen’s sigil from its circle. “As you’ll learn.”

“No,” Drix said, catching Thorn’s eyes. “This ends here.”

His captor was pinning an arm behind his back and holding a blade to his throat. He threw his weight back against the soldier, knocking him off balance. But Drix was no soldier. Before he could break free, the man drew his knife across Drix’s neck. In that moment, all eyes were on Drix, and that was all Thorn needed. She slammed a foot down against the foot of her own guardian. The woman howled in pain, dropping her guard. Thorn pulled her wand from her weakened grasp then grabbed the woman and flung her at Cazalan, calling on her full reserves of strength. It was as easy as throwing a blade; the woman seemed to weigh nothing in Thorn’s arms, but she sent Cazalan tumbling to the floor. There was no time to waste; Thorn was already leveling her stolen wand at Cadrel’s captor, tracing the activation pattern in her mind.

I hope you’re not a fireball, she thought.

There was a ripple in the air, and the man stiffened. He didn’t move as Cadrel pulled free.

The throw had incapacitated Thorn’s captor, and Cadrel’s guard was paralyzed. But there were two left. Cazalan pushed the body of his partner aside, reaching for the last gem. Thorn leaped forward—not fast enough. She saw the fourth soldier tracking her movements with his wand, and her muscles went numb. She struck the floor hard, falling to the ground; she felt nothing and she couldn’t move at all.

Thorn had discovered many gifts over the past six months. Once in a truly desperate moment, a moment when she thought she was going to die, she killed a man with her touch. In her time with House Tarkanan, she’d honed that gift and learned to control it more easily. It was painful. More than that, it was somehow
connected to the dragon Sarmondelaryx. She could still hear Drego’s whispers … 
every time you draw on her power, she grows stronger
. But it was the only thing she could think of. Dal used us. Tricked us. Thorn tried to harness that rage, focus it into a razor point, smash it against the numbing charm.

Nothing. She saw Cazalan pick up the final shard and slip it into his bag. Fury flowed through her, and that moment of pure anger was all it took. Feeling flooded back through her. There was no time to rise to her feet. Unarmed, on the floor, there was only one thing she could do. She reached out just catching his leg with her outstretched arm. And she called on that anger again.

Tightening her hand around Cazalan’s ankle, she reached out, searching for the fire within him so she could consume it.

She found nothing.

The power was still a mystery. But every time she’d used it in the past, she’d been able to feel a force within her victim, to feel the energy within, to feel it as she snatched that away and consumed it. Searching in Dal was like grasping at water. Her hand was tight around Cazalan’s ankle, but it might have been dead wood.

“Too late,” he said with a smile. Then he was gone, nothing in her hand but air. All of the Covenant soldiers had vanished, even the ones they’d incapacitated. Thorn and Cadrel looked at each other from across the empty room while Drix rubbed a hand over his healing throat.

“This is an outrage!”

Lord Syraen was fuming, his eyes glowing white hot with his anger. All of the fey lords were shouting.

“I placed my trust in you,” Lord Joridal said, glaring at Tira. “My spire is at war, and I left it to pursue this quest
of yours. And now you have taken my greatest weapon from me … and set it in the hands of humans!”

“I, too, have wolves at my gates,” Syraen snapped. “With the Stone of Winter in my hands, I had no fear of them. Now what will I do? How could you allow this to happen?”

“I allowed nothing,” Tira said. “You look to the wards on my vault. Our preparations were perfect. It should have been impossible to teleport in or out.”

“And yet they did!”

As Thorn had suspected, the fey had been observing the vault through magical means. They’d responded quickly to the theft—but not quickly enough.

“We did what was necessary!” Tira said. “Unless we can save the Tree, all will fall.”

“So you say!” Syraen snarled. “And yet it was you who placed our gifts within your vault, without even sentries to watch them—”

“There was no need for sentries in the vault. I tell you, teleportation was impossible. Study the seals yourself. The room was anchored!”

“This argument is pointless.” Shan Doresh’s voice rang out across the room, and the others fell silent as he spoke. “What is done is done. It seems you have brought disaster on your people once again, Lady Tira. It was your hand that brought this curse upon the Tree, and your call that led us to this ruin.”

“You placed your trust in me,” Tira said. “And I in you, despite your fantastic claims.”

“Listening to my tale placed you in no danger,” Doresh said coolly. “For my part, my trust has cost me dearly. Once again, I have undertaken a great risk to protect our people, and again, my people have paid the price. I should never have returned to the Silver Tree. And I will not do so again.”

“Wait!” Cadrel shouted. All eyes turned to the old bard, Thorn’s among them.

Cadrel walked between the eladrin, raising his hands. He was indeed a master storyteller, and he drew on all of that presence; even the angry Syraen stilled his rage. “I know that this is your loss, that I am not one of you and cannot truly understand what this has cost you. Yet surely you are stronger together than apart.” He paused in front of Shan Doresh. “You said it was your gift to make dreams manifest, but it was my nightmare that you showed. Now that nightmare has fallen upon you all. If you are the hero you say you are, will you abandon your people when this nightmare is upon them?”

“You know nothing of nightmares,” Doresh said quietly. “While I have spent hundreds of your lifetimes walking among them. My subjects have endured torments you cannot imagine, all because the ancestors of those who stand in this room lacked the courage to stand by my side. I thought this to be the righteous path. I thought I could find common bond with those who abandoned me so long ago. But they are not my people. My people await me, and I will have to tell them that we have suffered again due to the arrogance of our kin. So leave me be, human. And you, ghaele of the Silver Tree. We will not see each other again.”

He threw his dark cloak over his shoulder, and in that instant, he was gone.

“True words,” Syraen said. “This council is broken, Lady Tira. The Silver Tree crumbles, and it is time for us to see what fate awaits the boughs as they fall. I must return to my people, to make ready for the moment these humans attack me. I pray I will not fall prey to their guile as easily as you have.”

Something was nagging at the back of Thorn’s mind.
She played the events over in her mind again and again, struggling to fit the pieces together.

“No!” Tira raised her hand, and silvery light gleamed around her fingers. “Do not leave. Not yet. If we cannot face this together, we will surely fall.”