The Fading Dream (29 page)

“Now!” Thorn said. They grabbed the edges of the hole and pulled, as Drix had shown her, widening the opening. Another moment and she was outside. The manticore had dropped them on a narrow ledge; there was a window just next to her.

“Good thing we didn’t end up with the hole pressed up against the wall,” Drix said, looking out.

Thorn froze for a moment as she took in the scene around her. The towers rising up were indeed like talons; she could think only of the claws of a dragon buried in the soil, reaching up to tear out the stars. Down below she saw a wide wall, and even from that height, she could see that it was made of bones—human, dragon, and every creature she could imagine.

The moat that lies beyond is filled with the tears of the fallen, extracted in the moment before they die
.

The thought came to her mind without warning. The manticore had told her that the fortress stood in dreams, and she understood, for that’s what that feeling was—the crystal clarity that sometimes came in a dream, when she remembered a life that she’d never lived.

The manticore was swooping around another tower, and there was something pursuing it, a creature shrouded in smoke. As she looked, the shadow began to gain substance. It howled again and the howl shifted, becoming more familiar.

She forced her eyes away.
All things in this place thrive on fear
, the manticore had told them.
Do not let them reach into your thoughts
.

“Don’t look,” she told Drix. She took his hand, and they slipped inside the tower.

T
he floor was slick with blood, and the scent of it filied Thorn’s sensitive nose, drowning out all other sensations. It was worse than the slaughterhouses of Droaam. Yet she somehow knew that the blood had yet to be spilled, that it was the carnage from murders only dreamt of, as of yet uncommitted.

It didn’t help with the smell.

She drew Steel, tracing a cross on his hilt.

The energies in this place are almost as strong as those of the Mournland itself
, he told her.
No specific wards that I can sense. As for divination … I feel as if the tower itself is watching you. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. Illusion, conjuration … I’m not sure anything is real
.

The bloody hallway descended in a tight spiral turret; Thorn had to fight to keep her footing on the slick stone. At last the floor leveled out, a dim, flickering light flowing through a large archway. The only sound Thorn heard was a low and steady rustling, the sound of paper blown in the wind. She glanced at Drix, tapping the stone in her neck then gesturing at the chamber, a questioning look on her face. The tinker’s crystal heart pulsed with a flash of light and he nodded.

Thorn raised a hand, palm out, hoping Drix would understand the order to wait. She paused at the entrance, studying the chamber ahead. It was a library, and a very disorganized one at that. There were no shelves; it was a collection of leather-bound journals and sheets of loose parchment with the occasional odd item thrown in. Strange symbols glittered on one of the many facets of a carved dragonshard. A giant’s notebook was leaning up against a wall, the volume only slightly shorter than Thorn herself. Some of the loose pages were yellowed and cracking with age; others were fresh, with words written in ink and blood still drying upon them. Crumbling cold-fire torches were fixed to the walls, and their flickering light cast long shadows across the unsteady towers of literature.

The eladrin soldier struck the moment she stepped into the room, thrusting with a short, curved blade. Whether it was Sarmondelaryx’s draconian senses or natural paranoia working to her advantage, Thorn threw herself out of the way just in time, sending a tower of journals tumbling to the floor as she staggered into it. She wasn’t quite fast enough to evade all harm, and the spear traced a narrow gash across her ribs.

Her enemy was still an indistinct figure wrapped in a black cloak, but Thorn flung Steel before she even rose to her feet. Steel tore through cloth without touching flesh.

The soldier charged. She was an eladrin, wearing the armor Thorn had seen in her dream of the ancient battle with the giants. Her face was smooth and lovely, and her eyes were empty pits. She held a sword in each hand, and both flashed toward Thorn.

Thorn swept aside the first blow with a mithral bracer, but as she tried to catch the other blade, she found herself staring into the woman’s hollow gaze, and for a moment, she felt lost in that emptiness. Then the
point of a steel blade stuck bone, the pain breaking the spell. In an uncharacteristic moment of panic, Thorn just pushed the woman away from her. The dragon’s strength wasn’t with her, though, and while the eladrin stumbled back, it gave her room to ready both her blades. Thorn took a step back, trying to gather her thoughts; instead she slipped on a loose scrap of paper and fell into the pile of books. The soldier raised her blades, leaping forward—

There was a flash of light, and a warm feeling flowed over her. Even the pain of her wound faded, though a dull ache remained. Where the soldier had been, there was only a piece of a broken blade and a crossbow bolt, shattered against the ground.

“It worked!” Drix sounded so happy, so pleased with himself, that Thorn almost forgot her pain. He was holding his tiny crossbow in both hands, looking down at it with an expression of absolute glee.

“What was that?” she said.

“When we were on our way here, I tried to fill the shards with energy from this stone in my heart,” he said. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure what it would do. But I always knew this little one would save me some day.”

“And I’m certainly glad it did,” Thorn said, calling Steel back to her hand.

“She,” Drix said. “She’s a crossbow, you know.”

“Of course she is,” Thorn said. She was still shaken by the fight. It was troubling enough that the woman had surprised her … How had Thorn missed that first blow? She traced a cross on Steel’s hilt.

There’s nothing I can tell you
, Steel said.
There’s too much ambient magical energy. I’m afraid you’re on your own
.

Drix suddenly paused, looking up from his crossbow. “Did you hear that?” he whispered.

Thorn froze. “What?”

“Are there insects in here?”

Thorn saw it before he did. “No,” she said. “Words.”

Letters were crawling between the pages of the unfinished books, ideas searching for homes.

“That’s wonderful,” Drix said. He knelt down by the Elven symbols for love. “Perhaps we should take some of them with us.”

“I don’t think so,” Thorn murmured, pulling him back to his feet. “In my line of work, you learn pretty fast that the wrong word can be deadly. And the last thing we need right now is for you to find some explosive runes creeping around. Which way to the stones?”

Drix pointed.

“Follow behind me and keep quiet,” she whispered.

The hallway leading out of the scriptorium was dry and dusty, with cobwebs stretched across loose cobblestones. There was light around the corner and a wealth of sound after the silent vault: crackling fires, all manner of bubbling liquids, a clatter of metal against metal. She smelled rich spices, seared meats … a kitchen. But no sounds of chattering cooks, no feet against the floor or ladles stirring. Indicating that Drix should wait, Thorn slipped into the room.

It was the largest kitchen she’d ever been in, certainly equipped to serve a king or an army. Meats sizzled in fire pits and on long grills. There were rows of cauldrons filled with bubbling liquids. Vegetables were heaped alongside an impressive array of carving knives. There were no signs of either cooks or guards. Yet something about the kitchen troubled her more than the bloody stairs. It was the same sensation she’d felt in the Mournland, of doubt creeping in around her. She found herself wondering what was actually
in
those giant copper cauldrons. That was certainly a bone that just bumped against the edge, but what sort of bone was it? What about the
herbs she could smell in the air? Was it possible they might be—

Her train of thought was interrupted by Drix coming into the room. “Candied sardaroots!” he cried happily, grabbing a handful from a brass bowl. He managed to get one into his mouth before she slapped them out of his hand.

“What are you doing?” she hissed. That damned stone, she thought. He’s got no sense of caution anymore.

“Eating,” he said, surprised. “I don’t do it often, but I it’s been so long since I’ve seen a sardaroot, and the smell was so wonderful, and—”

His eyes widened. She looked down, following his gaze, and took an involuntary step back. The sardaroots she’d knocked to the floor were squirming, writhing around on the floor, like plump, candied lampreys. One shifted, and Thorn saw a tiny, toothy maw working at one end.

Drix cried out and dropped to his knees, hands clutching his stomach. His eyes widened and he looked up at Thorn.

It may save his life, but it doesn’t stop the pain, she thought.

She pushed him down to the ground, ripping open his doublet. The crystal heart was pulsing with light, and Drix was moaning in agony. He reached out, clawing at his stomach, and Thorn only hesitated for a moment before driving Steel into his flesh. He screamed but Thorn could hear Steel’s mental voice over the tinker’s cries.

To the left. And deeper
.

With Steel’s guidance, it was quickly done. She tore the grub-root out of his gut and crushed it. Drix lay on the ground moaning as his flesh knit itself back together. Thorn didn’t wait. She leaped to her feet,
racing over to the great door and readying herself at the side of it. She stood, Steel at the ready, Drix’s blood still dripping off the blade, waiting to see who would answer the cries.

No one came—no guards, no nightmare beasts. All Thorn heard were distant cries of terror and the howls of the things in the skies above.

“Is it safe?” Drix was still pale, crawling out from around the long table.

“Miraculously,” Thorn said. “Can you stand?”

He nodded and she helped him to his feet. “Sorry,” he said. His voice was still a little rough.

“So. Be quiet when I say to be quiet. Don’t follow me until it’s safe. And whatever you do,
don’t eat anything
. Is that clear?”

He nodded again and for just a moment, he looked crestfallen. Then his hand found his crossbow, and his smile spread again. “Can we keep moving?” he said. “There’s more testing to do.”

Thorn sighed. “Far be it from me to stand in the way of progress. Which way to the stones, master fletcher?”

F
or all the doubts Thorn was finding in her heart, it seemed that luck was finally with them. The hallway that lay ahead of them was vast and cold, and there was no sign of life within it. If there had been troops in there, they might have gone to face the manticore when it attacked, or it could simply be that the eladrin never expected anyone to slip by their defenses so easily and thought the scattered patrols would be sufficient.

The chamber reminded Thorn of the Mournland, the beach with the bones cracking beneath her feet. There were no corpses save the hallway itself. It was set up to be a grand feasting hall, long, wooden tables set for dozens of guests. Behind them the kitchen was full to bursting, but in the hall the food was rotting on the platters. The fireplace held only ashes. There was no glass in the arched windows, and the curtains were rotting tatters. The terrible howl echoed through the open windows.

“At least it’s empty,” Thorn murmured. Still, she kept her eyes fixed on the air, watching for the slightest ripple that could warn of a mystical ward. Somehow she couldn’t believe that such a vast area would be left unguarded.

“Not much farther,” Drix whispered. “Straight ahead. Two hundred feet, if that.”