The Fading Dream (23 page)

“What if we go?”

The ghaele fell silent and looked at him.

“He’ll sense your presence,” Drix said, “because you’re creatures like him. But what if Thorn and I go? What if we get the stones for you?”

All eyes turned to Thorn.

“You swore to serve us in this matter,” Tira said. “With the questions and where they lead. And I still hold the truth of you. What say you?”

That I’d like a simple job fighting ogres and werewolves, she thought. And yet … 
What really happened in this place, beloved?
She heard Drego’s voice in her mind and wondered what Tira might be able to tell her.

“It doesn’t matter. We’d never get there in time. Even with an airship.”

“I wasn’t thinking of an airship,” Drix said. “There’s an Orien enclave in Ascalin, abandoned since the Mourning.” He rubbed a hand over his heart. “I think … I think I could get the teleportation circle working. Take us to the closest circle. There’s got to be one nearby, somewhere in the Principalities.”

Thorn looked at the map. “And then we charter an airship, or a Vadalis bird. It’s possible. But how would you get an Orien circle to work for you?”

“Trust me. I can do it.”

Thorn looked at the eladrin. “Ascalin is still too far away if we’re traveling by foot. We could try this. But you’ll need to get us to Ascalin and quickly.”

“It is done,” Syraen replied. “My retinue came on hippogriffs. If you speak of the ruins of the north, my soldiers can take you there. It would be hours, no more.”

“Then let’s get ready,” she said.

Drix hugged her then. Her first instinct was to push
him away, her Citadel defense training flashing to the fore. She pushed it down and hugged him back.

“We can do this,” he said. “Together. We can save the world.”

“Recover the shards, no more,” Tira said. “You cannot conceive of the power Shan Doresh has at his disposal.”

Syraen nodded. “Save the Tree. Bring us the stones. If there is war to be fought, we shall fight it.”

“I’m not arguing that,” Thorn said. “Just give me my equipment and show us to the hippogriffs. Let’s take the battle to the dreaming citadel.”

W
here’s a griffon when you need one?” Thorn muttered. It was the first time she’d ridden a hippogriff, and it was proving to be a difficult experience. The beast balked at the unfamiliar sensation of Thorn on its back. Luckily the beast had been trained to follow the movements of the flight leader, and rough as it was, all Thorn really had to do was hold on. And with Drix on his own hippogriff and the flight leader well out of earshot, she finally had the chance to have the conversation she’d been waiting for.

She drew Steel, holding tightly to the stirrup horn with her free hand. “I think we’ve got a few things to talk about.”

What did you have in mind?

“I still think this idea that the Mourning was caused by stabbing Drix is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

I’ve never disagreed with that. However, it may very well be the source of the malady affecting the Silver Tree itself. The levels of necrotic energy around the Tree were far higher than anywhere else we’ve been in the Mournland. As deadly
as the region is, there is a sickness in that place. Curses are real. Even if they are deluded to think that they destroyed Cyre, they may well have sealed their own fate
.

“In which case, saving them and leaving them in Breland’s debt may be the best outcome.”

Yes, even if only one has agreed to negotiate, it’s still a worthwhile outcome. Of course, if you could acquire the stone in Drix’s chest yourself, you know Breland could use immortal soldiers
.

“And that’s my real question,” Thorn said. “The shards in my back. Why do they believe that they are fey treasures?”

Why do you believe that they aren’t?

“You told me they weren’t magical!”

They do not radiate an aura of magical energy. That’s a far cry from saying they aren’t magical
.

“So you think they’re shielded.”

It’s the most logical explanation. “The Quiet Stone,” they called it. What if its power
is
to conceal? I know that you’re trained to resist divinations, but your talent for it has always been remarkable. I’ve never been able to detect the aura of any item in your possession. Even now, I know your inventory—your gloves, bracers, shiftweave, pack—but I can’t read the auras of any of it
.

“So let’s pretend that is indeed the case, that there’s a magic stone in my back and I’ve never known about it. How is that possible?”

The shards were already there when I was assigned to work with you. I was told it was an accident during the mission at Far Passage
.

“That’s right. We were sent to sabotage an arcane core. There were hundreds of dragonshards bound to the core—I was struck by a score of them. Our fey friends said one of these stones was stolen by a dragon. How’d they end up in the hands of an Aundairian
arcanist? And how does it just happen to be the stone that hits me?”

It does seem rather unlikely. I fail to see any more logical alternative, however
.

“I wish I did. None of this makes sense.”

I’m more concerned about Essen Cadrel. If we are to believe what he said, it sounds as though this eladrin had been impersonating him for an extended period of time … since he first reappeared following the Mourning and took his position in Oargev’s retinue
.

“It would explain how Oargev’s childhood jester developed the skill to be a spymaster,” Thorn said.

To what end? This Shan Doresh seems focused on vengeance against the other eladrin. So why infiltrate the Cyran court? And if he accomplished that so easily … Do they have agents in other nations?

“You’re right,” Thorn said. “Something doesn’t add up. Keep thinking about it. That’s our destination up ahead. Stay alert. Strange auras, the slightest fluctuation in mystical energy … if you sense anything, you tell me.”

Understood
.

The hippogriffs dropped down toward Ascalin. Thorn blinked, squinting down at the streets below. There were people on the streets, and the cold-fire lanterns were still burning. She could see a crowd gathered around a street performer, a man performing tricks with trained animals. After the lonely desolation of Seaside and the slow rot of the Silver Tree, it seemed impossibly mundane. She could see farmers selling their wares in the small market square, a group of children playing circle games, a procession leaving the temple of the Sovereign Host. For a moment she smiled. Then she realized something was terribly wrong.

No one was moving.

The children were frozen in their game. The spectators were raising their arms to cheer for the performing, but there were no cries of joy, no laughter, no applause. It was a moment frozen in time. And there was something else. Where the cold-fire lanterns spread their light, Thorn could see that the city was gleaming. It seemed as though the city were covered with a thin layer of ice, for all that it was too warm for anything to freeze. But she could see the light reflecting off every surface and even off the people standing around the lampposts.

Thorn held Steel out as the hippogriff swooped toward the ground. “Impressions?”

None at this distance
, he replied.
Strong necrotic resonance, the same energies I’ve felt across the Mournland. Not especially powerful, though—nothing compared to the darkness around the Silver Tree
.

The hooves of the hippogriffs left craters in the ground when they landed, cracks spreading out from the point of impact like fine spiderwebs. It wasn’t ice after all; it was glass. Thorn slid out of the saddle, carefully testing the surface. Not as bad as slick ice, she thought. But certainly treacherous footing. They’d come down in a wide avenue, and there were a few people standing on the edge of the road. Whether it was a function of the glass or an effect of the Mourning, they were perfectly preserved. Each spectator was covered in a layer of glass an inch thick, the surface smooth and clear.

There’s nothing magical about the glass itself
, Steel told her.
And no signs of burns of the flesh, as you’d expect if molten glass fell from the sky. I’m guessing that they suffocated
.

“It must have happened within moments,” Thorn said. “Look at their expressions. No fear, not even surprise. It was over before they even knew what was happening.”

Drix dismounted, handing the reins of his hippogriff to the eladrin flight master. “Eerie, isn’t it?”

“You knew about this?”

Drix nodded. “I spent some time wandering after I left the Silver Tree, after it all happened. I just … Ascalin was on the route my father traveled. I’d survived. I hoped I might find him here.”

Thorn looked at the child trapped in glass. “And did you?”

Drix shook his head. “No. Not here. Not in Kethelfeld or Greenbarrow or any of the others. I walked the old path, and I never found him.” His eyes were distant for a moment, lost in the past.

“You just wandered across the Mournland by yourself? How did you survive?”

He smiled faintly, running a finger over his hidden crystal heart. “It’s easy to survive when you can’t die. I don’t eat. I don’t sleep. I’ve had my bones crushed and flesh burnt and far worse than that. It never lasts … bones mend the moment they break, clothes turn to ash but the flesh remains.”

“And you’re not afraid to give that up? To let them take the stone away?” Thorn was honestly curious.

“I want it to end,” he said. “I want to sleep again. I want an end to the pain. And this …” He gestured at the frozen city. “If this is somehow tied to me, if I can restore the land, any price would be worth that.”

“Do you really believe that? Do you think it’s that easy?”

“None of this makes sense,” he said. “Look around you. What could cause this? I know the idea that restoring my heart could somehow heal the land … it’s ridiculous. But this is a mad world, and if it’s possible, I won’t let that chance slip away.”

“You came here for a reason, and you waste time we do not have.” The flight master was one of Lord Syraen’s
guards, and he shared his lord’s icy demeanor. “You, maimed one, you know where you need to go?”

Drix nodded. “I know the way to the Orien enclave. It’s not far.”

“I will wait here for a time, to ensure that you have accomplished your task. Then I will depart with my beasts.”

“Then lead the way, Drix,” Thorn said. She saw a rat crouched in an alley, frozen in glass yet still watching. “We may be heading toward a fortress of nightmares, but I’ll be just as happy to leave this place behind.”

They passed a cutpurse, frozen in the moment of his theft. A beggar with his hand held out, eyes pleading behind the glass. Finally they reached the enclave. It was located on the largest plaza in the little town, along with outposts of a few other dragonmarked houses. A gnome stood outside the Sivis message station, hand outstretched.

Something was wrong.

It took her a moment to make sense of it; then she realized. The gnome’s hand wasn’t encased in glass. She saw that there were others around the plaza and shards of glass scattered around the ground.

She paused by a dwarf dressed in the robes of a Kundarak banker. Glass still covered much of his body. His face was frozen behind its translucent mask. But the glass around his waist was cracked and broken away, and fragments were scattered all around him.

“Someone chiseled this away,” she said. “His belt’s been cut … to remove his pouch, I’m guessing. He’s missing a finger too.” The wound was jagged and rough, but there were no bloodstains, and the flesh was still fresh; it seemed that the glass wasn’t the only thing that prevented decomposition. “Looters.”

It made sense. They weren’t far from the Valenar border. And if there was anything truly worth stealing
in that place, it would be in the coffers of the dragonmarked. Glancing around the plaza, she could see that a number of doors and windows had been forced open, glass shattered so the salvagers could get into buildings. The Orien house was among them. The unicorn seal of the house was carved on the door, but it had been scarred and cracked when the looters forced their way into the building.

“I suppose we should be grateful,” she said. “I left my glass-smashing tools in my other gloves.”

Drix paused fifteen feet from the entrance, staring. “I suppose,” he said. “But … where’s the sentry?”

“What sentry?”

“I passed through this plaza before. There was a guard at the Orien gate. Trapped in glass like the rest. Now there’s nothing there. Why would someone take his body?”

“I don’t think they did. Not all of it, at least.” Thorn approached the gate cautiously. Large slabs of glass were heaped around the doorway, refuse from the efforts to force the door. She carefully shifted a few pieces aside, revealing the shadow seen through the glass. A leather boot, still trapped in the glass, with a good part of a leg still in it. The body had been snapped with sheer brute force; it was the work of a sledgehammer or maul. She picked up a smaller shard and tossed it to Drix. “Take a look—links of chain mail in the glass. I think our looters were searching for keys or other ways to bypass security. They just shattered the body with a maul and picked out what they needed. As for the missing pieces, perhaps there’s predators we haven’t seen. We should certainly be prepared for anything. Can you sense anything unusual?”