by Keith Baker
Thorn nodded slowly. “Yes. And that’s just the beginning.”
Nandon looked away, the scowl back on his face. “I don’t know what this is about-” He fell silent as he looked back and saw what Thorn was doing. She had her hand in the oil lantern, holding her palm to the flame. There was no smell of burning flesh, no pain; the flame licked against her skin without touching it.
“That’s trivial defensive magic,” he said.
“Which I’m not using,” Thorn replied. “And I’ve faced far worse than a candle flame. I survived an Aundairian fireball. On my last mission, I fell into a river of lava below Sharn and walked away without a mark. I don’t know what’s going on, Nandon. I thought… I thought maybe you were going through the same thing.”
He pulled her hand from the lamp, studying the skin and sniffing it. Then he held out a finger and gingerly extended it toward the lantern flame. He pulled it swiftly away the moment it made contact. “It seems not. You’re serious about this, Nyri? You swear this isn’t some sort of prank?”
“On our father’s name, Nandon. I wouldn’t joke about this. I don’t know what to think. I thought I might be developing an aberrant dragonmark, but I’ve looked everywhere I could and found nothing. It’s… it’s frightening. I’d hoped that as a healer-and as my brother-you might be able to give me some answers.”
Nandon nodded gravely. “I need you to tell me everything. From the very first symptom.”
And so she did. She told him how her senses had grown so sharp that she could not only see in deepest darkness, but sense the presence of an invisible man from the sound of his feet and the shifting currents of air. She described the bursts of strength that had let her throw an ogre across a room, though she couldn’t maintain that power for more than a moment. She reiterated her seeming immunity to fire. Thorn revealed the troubling dreams of the woman in red and the silver tree with leaves of gold. After taking a deep breath, she quietly mentioned the deadly touch that came in her moments of deepest pain or fury, snuffing out the life of an opponent and using that power to heal herself. As she spoke, he examined her, testing her claims and searching for any signs of a dragonmark or other exterior trait that could explain her evolving powers. It didn’t take long for him to find the first anomaly: the crystal shards embedded in her neck and spine.
“Where did these come from?” he said.
“I can’t tell you everything,” Thorn said. “It was a mission-”
“And it’s more than my life is worth to know, hmm? Is it more than your life is worth? Because this is definitely unusual.”
“It’s just shrapnel. There was a magical weapon that was both empowered and protected by a swarm of dragonshards. It exploded when it was destroyed, and I was struck by a number of shards. They couldn’t remove those two.”
“And did they say why?” Nandon rubbed a salve across the stone in her neck, and a numbing sensation spread across Thorn’s skin. He put on a pair of spectacles with a strange assortment of lenses and began shifting between them.
“They said that the shards had bonded to the nerves, that they couldn’t be removed without causing considerable damage.”
“And so they have.” Nandon prodded at the top stone, but due to the numbing gel, she could barely feel the touch. “Do they cause you pain?”
“The top one, absolutely. It’s been getting better, but at times it’s agonizing. The lower one, no. Occasionally I feel chills but nothing more.”
He poked at the stones again. “And I just have to ask, as you’re a hero of Breland and queen of the shadows… I’ve heard you Lanterns are trained to evade divination magic, so you can conceal all your magical tricks and weapons. Are you using those techniques now?”
“No.”
He sighed. “I was afraid of that. I don’t know what this is about, Nyri, but I don’t like it. I’m not picking up any sort of magical resonance from these stones. But they are completely bonded to you. I can’t say for certain with the tools at my disposal, but I think they’ve actually fused to the bone itself. That shouldn’t be possible without powerful magic, and yet there’s no energy in the stones.”
“Which means what?”
“The first possibility is that this accident where you were injured involved a wave of transformative energy, and you’re still feeling the impact. Or it could be that the stones are themselves shielded-that there is magical energy within them, but that it’s shielded to evade detection. I just can’t imagine why someone would do that, if these were just random shards among thousands.” He sat down on the bed, tugging on a strand of hair. “But if there’s no power in the stones, there’s no explanation. Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”
Thorn hesitated. “There is one other thing,” she said at last. “On my last mission, a man told me… I was a dragon.”
“A man told you this? Just idle conversation?”
“Well, he wasn’t exactly a man… more of an ancient demon of deception. So you see my problem.”
Nandon sighed. “You do lead an interesting life, Sister. I’ll grant you that.”
“Is it possible?”
Nandon looked at her. “Of course it’s not possible. You’re my sister. You nearly took my eye playing with sticks when we were children. Your mother was an elf, your father a man as normal as any other, and we were born at nearly the same moment. If you were a dragon, don’t you think you would have eaten Gali Das those days he used to beat us?”
“I wish I could have.”
Nandon frowned. “Still, it would explain the immunity to fire and even the sharp senses. Fundamental traits that persist even through a transmutation in form. In the tale of the Thirteen Thieves, the dragon can sense the boy even when he’s invisible, just as you describe. But it’s foolishness. How could you be a dragon? Where are your wings?”
“Well, the same mission where I discovered my keen senses, I thought that I became an actual dragon.”
Nandon stared at her. “And you didn’t think this was worth mentioning?”
“I was battling a demon, and in another plane of existence… reality was distorted. Honestly, I didn’t know what to believe. It’s never happened since then. I’ve tried to force a change and nothing happened.”
Nandon was on his feet, searching the shelves. “I don’t know, Nyri. I don’t know. What does your Citadel say? Surely they have better tools for a broad-spectrum mystical analysis than I do.”
“Nothing at all. But honestly… I don’t know who to trust anymore, Nan.”
“You’re the one who chose a life in the shadows,” he said.
“I know. And I still believe in what I do. But something is happening to me, and I don’t understand it.”
“It’s going to be all right,” he said. “Let little Nandon sort things out for once. Just let me draw a vial of your blood and take a lock of your hair. I have a few ideas, but it will take time to get what I need and perform the rituals.”
“Thank you,” Thorn said, feeling a slight tingle in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Nandon. Sorry I haven’t been here. It’s just-I’m doing what Father would have wanted.”
He raised a hand. “Let’s not start that now. You need my help; I’m helping. Let’s make sure you’re all right. Then we can debate what’s best for Breland and what our father should have done. For now you’re my patient as well as my sister. And I imagine you’ve got places to be. You said you had a prince waiting for you?”
Traveler’s tricks! Thorn grabbed her jerkin. “Yes, and I’ll need to run if I’m going to make it by the eighth bell. How long until you’ll know anything?”
“Three days, at the least. More likely a week or two.”
“You know how to contact me in an emergency. Otherwise I’ll come back as soon as I can.”
He embraced her once more, holding her tighter than before. “Don’t be gone so long this time, Nyri.”
She nodded then broke the hug and headed for the door. “May Olladra smile on you, little broth
er.”
“And you, my sister.”
Thorn broke into a run as soon as she was on the street. A thought brought Steel back into her hand.
And was it a productive meeting, Lantern Thorn?
“We’ll see,” she said. “But it was certainly worth the trip.”
CHAPTER TWO
Wroat, Breland B arrakas 20, 999 YK
Thorn arrived at the Cyran consulate as the final bell was ringing the hour. Footmen were preparing the royal carriage, hitching the team of stallions and polishing the brass. Thorn had become quite familiar with that carriage over the course of the past few weeks, ever since she’d been assigned to Prince Oargev’s security detail. When she’d been sent to the refugee settlement of New Cyre, she’d seen the assignment as punishment. She’d pushed the edge of her orders in her previous mission. For all that she was looking after a prince, he was a prince without a country; his current holdings were temporary gifts. Thorn and the three King’s Shields assigned to Oargev were more an honor guard than anything else-a show of Breland’s continued friendship with the last branch of the Cyran crown. As expected, the journey to Wroat had been entirely without incident. For all that Oargev was a celebrity, her skills were wasted there.
Something was different. There was a second coach in the courtyard, a drab vessel compared to the grand royal coach. Yet the prince’s footmen were preparing it as well, and Thorn could see a magewright inside the cabin inscribing protective glyphs on the floor. Then there was Essyn Cadrel. Dressed in bright silks, Essyn had the look of a bard, and that’s what he’d been in his younger days. Since the Mourning, he’d been Prince Oargev’s confidant. Thorn had quickly discovered that he was also the closest thing the prince had to a spymaster. Oargev was a passionate man, but he’d been raised as a noble and a knight, not a schemer. It was Essyn Cadrel who kept one ear to the ground and one to the window, pulling on the threads scattered across the shadows. If Cadrel was personally inspecting the coach, there was more to it than an idle delivery.
A man in the dress of a mercenary guard caught sight of Thorn and raised a hand. She didn’t recognize the uniform, but she knew his face. “You’re cutting things close,” he said.
Thorn grinned. “I was through the gate when the bell rang, Jovi. Lovely outfit you’ve got there. Did the prince dress you tonight?”
Jovi smiled and touched a finger to one of the spots of rust on the chain shirt he was wearing. “The old man did, if that’s close enough. And I’m guessing he’ll have some ideas for you.” He snorted. “I’ll wager you didn’t expect to be playing dress-up at the whim of a landless boy when you swore your oath to the Shields, eh?”
“True enough,” Thorn said. Of course, she’d sworn a different oath than Jovi.
Both Thorn and Jovi served the King’s Citadel, the elite forces of the Brelish crown. The Citadel was divided into multiple arms: The King’s Swords were the toughest soldiers in the land, called in when brute force was the only answer. The King’s Wands specialized in magic, including investigating mystical crimes, protecting the land from supernatural threats, and bringing arcane power to bear in times of war. The King’s Shields were the bodyguards of the royal line, trained to spot any threat and ready to lay down their lives to protect those placed in their charge, in the case before Thorn, Oargev ir’Wynarn.
Both Jovi and Oargev believed that Thorn served the King’s Shields and that she was there to protect Oargev. In fact, Thorn belonged to the fourth arm of the Citadel: The King’s Dark Lanterns. The Lanterns were the eyes of Breland, and its hidden hands-spies, inquisitives, and when the situation called for it, assassins. Jovi, Delru, and Lanner were there to protect the prince. Shield Thorn had to protect him too. But Lantern Thorn was there to watch, though so far, there’d been little to see.
Perhaps that night would be different. “So what are we dealing with? A decoy operation?”
“It seems the thorn is sharp.” Essyn Cadrel was an old man with lines around his eyes and snow white hair that fell to his shoulders. “Though I admit it’s a tired, old plot. Yes, his highness has an appointment on the island tonight with his noble cousin Boranel. The royal carriage will be taking Parliament Road to the Queen’s Bridge. We’ll follow a different route, with the prince inside.”
Thorn frowned. “Why the extra precautions?”
The adviser waved one hand dismissively. “Truth be told, I’m a touch ashamed of this production. There’s been a few rumors. Nothing confirmed. Hardly even credible.”
Steel stirred in Thorn’s grip. Then why the effort?
The question was already on Thorn’s lips. “It seems like a great deal of work for a threat you don’t actually believe in.”
Cadrel shrugged. “His highness has been troubled of late, and he demanded the extra effort. I do whatever I can to comfort my prince.”
That seemed plausible enough. While Thorn hadn’t spoken much with Prince Oargev, she’d spent a great deal of time around the young prince over the course of the past two weeks, and he had seemed to become increasingly agitated as they drew closer to the Brelish capital. “What about these rumors, then? What’s the nature of the threat?”
“An embarrassment to us all. You’ve spent enough time among us to know just how passionate the young prince is about restoring Cyre. But there are those among his scattered subjects who expect him to work miracles… as if he could somehow lift the mist from the Mournland with a wave of his hand.”
Thorn nodded. Oargev worked closely with the lords of the Five Nations. But ever since the Day of Mourning, there had been those who were unsatisfied with his diplomatic efforts. Breland had given refugees a place to live, but many among them wanted a true kingdom of their own, and some were angry Oargev hadn’t made it happen. “I’ve heard about the riots in Stormreach and Fairhaven,” Thorn said. “But you think that some of the refugees might actually attack the prince? What would that accomplish?”
Cadrel spread his hands sadly. “Who can decipher the whims of madmen, my dear?”
“How solid is this? Do we have a sense of numbers and organization?”
“Not at all, I fear. Truly, Shield Thorn, this is more a matter of intuition than anything else. I collect rumors, and I’ve heard many since we arrived in this fair city. Cyrans speaking angrily in a Riverside tavern. An officer’s blade from the Fifth Crown turning up in a flea market. An accusation that some among the King’s Wands are selling arms to dissidents. I’ve heard a dozen other tales, and there’s no reason to assume that any of them are connected. And yet… I’m a storyteller, my lady. To weave a fine tale, you always start with disparate threads. It’s bringing them together that makes it art. And here, tonight… I see a group of elite soldiers, trained in the use of sword and wand. I see powerful weapons gone missing from the king’s own arsenal. An appointment our lord cannot pass up, and an attack on the royal carriage. Most likely just a fanciful tale, but his highness likes a good story, and he doesn’t want to see this one come to pass.”
Seems a little farfetched, if that’s really all he’s got, Steel said. There’ve been tales of corruption within the Wands for the last century. Nonetheless… the Fifth Crown is an urban strike force, trained to make assaults deep within enemy territory.
Thorn tapped Steel’s hilt thoughtfully. She’d clashed with the Fifth Crown at the end of the war, well before she’d received Steel. She’d been lucky to survive the experience. A resentful group of former soldiers, selling all they could to raise enough gold to buy mystical weapons on the black market… it might be unlikely, but she could see why Cadrel would be concerned. “What’s the plan?”
“Gal will take the prince’s place in the royal carriage. The house guards will join him there, so anyone who knows our staff will see them. His highness will travel in this coach, disguised and guarded solely by you Brelish. We’ll follow Blackmarket, and take the King’s Bridge-a foolish route, to be sure, but that’s the point. A merchant envoy, bringing goods to Brokenblade Castle.”
He glanced at her black clothing and the vambraces of blackened mithral protecting her forearms. “Do you have something in gray?”
“I think I can find something suitable.” She closed her eyes and let her fingers pass down along her torso, crafting an image in her mind. She could feel her clothing changing with her thoughts. Her working clothes were formed from shiftweave, fabric enchanted to hold a wide range of forms. A moment’s work and she was dressed in the clothes of a simple laborer, complete with mud stains on her gray breeches; puffy sleeves covered her vambraces. “Satisfactory?”
“I would prefer a darker gray but it’ll do. I believe that’s his highness approaching now. I’d like you on the back of the coach, if you will.”
A group of guards in Cyran green and gold escorted a handsome young man, the jewels on his crown sparkling in the light of the cold-fire lanterns. Thorn had met Gal back in New Cyre; the changeling’s family had served the Cyran crown as body doubles since before the Last War. A strange life to be sure, yet one he excelled at; if she didn’t know the plan, Thorn would never have guessed the difference. Gal had mastered Oargev’s cocky smile, his confident stride, even the way he wore his crown just a little cocked. And he’d even worked in the tension Thorn had noted in the prince, the faraway look in his eyes.
Footmen helped the false prince into the carriage. Guards took their posts, and a few cavalry soldiers spread out in front and behind. The great gates were opened, and the coach rolled out onto the streets of Wroat.
Those who followed were less remarkable. A group of servants loaded a few casks and crates on the smaller wagon. Smiling, Essyn Cadrel made an elaborate gesture, and his clothes shifted and changed. He was no doppelganger, but as a bard, he’d learned a trick or two with illusions. Within seconds he was a little younger, a little plumper, with clothes suited to a middle-class merchant, not ostentatious enough to stand out, but prosperous enough to possibly have business at the castle. Three footmen helped him into the coach and followed him up. Only the keenest of watchers would have recognized the youngest member of the trio as Prince Oargev himself and the others as King’s Shields.