The fading dream tob-3

by Keith Baker

  “Take my hands,” he said, holding his arms before him. His fingers were long and slender, his grip warm. “I want you to remember the battle. Think about your opponent-every detail, every angle. The sound of voice and breath. Relive that moment for me.”

  And so she did, closing her eyes and placing herself back in that moment. Pieces began to come together. Dark shiftweave, the flash of metal at the neck. The words he’d said in the moment before his death. The prince will fall, and Galifar burn…

  “Until our home has been returned.” It was the voice of the assassin, there in the room.

  Thorn opened her eyes, and there he was. Piercing gray eyes, the twisting scar running down his cheek. Mid-thirties, most likely, despite the silver in his hair. He held up his hands, and smoke flowed from the palms, solidifying into the wand and the misty shield Thorn remembered.

  “Your conclusions, Lantern?” His voice was slightly distorted, an effort to synthesize an accent from the few words Thorn had heard.

  “Setting aside the wand, he’s well equipped for urban operations-shiftweave and a weapon that’s both versatile and concealable. I don’t recognize the weapon, but his sword and wand style suggests either the Fifth Crown of Cyre or the Royal Eyes of Aundair.” Thorn cast her mind back, reliving the battle again. “His accent sounded like southern Cyre, and the slogan is a modified version of that used by Dannel’s Wrath.”

  “Just one moment.” It was Boranel. The king had risen from his chair and strode over to examine the assassin. “You’re saying this brute was Cyran? Attacking his own lord?”

  “It’s a possibility.” The killer’s Cyran accent faded as he spoke, returning to the cool tones of the changeling Vron. “Dannel’s Wrath is a group of Cyran militants primarily active in the city of Stormreach; they advocate the creation of a new Cyran state in Xen’drik, including Stormreach itself. But in the past, they’ve shown little hostility toward the prince.” He turned to the Cyrans. “Your Highness, Master Cadrel, do you have any thoughts on the matter?”

  The prince wouldn’t look at the effigy of the assassin; his forehead glistened with cold sweat. Cadrel spoke for him. “I’m sorry, my lords, lady. Surely you understand that this has been a difficult evening for his highness.”

  “I’m sure it has,” Boranel growled. “And an even worse one for the King’s Shields that died protecting him, along with the civilians caught in the crossfire. My subjects, Cadrel. If you know more about this-”

  “I assure you, Your Majesty, I’ve never met this man in my life.”

  “There’s something wrong with him,” Thorn said. She stood up, walking carefully around the disguised Vron. The changeling had drawn the image directly from her mind, and she cast her thoughts back. “Look at his left side. These scars-what injury would cause this sort of puckering?”

  “I’m no healer,” Boranel said. “It’s the work of magic, I should think.”

  “That’s only the beginning,” Thorn said. “His left arm is longer than the right. His leg as well. I didn’t notice it, not consciously, yet thinking back, there was something strange in his movement.”

  “Interesting,” Essyn Cadrel said. “Yes, I see it now. As if he was a figure of wax, warmed and then stretched a little.”

  “And what about that pin on his collar?” Thorn said. “That’s not the Fifth Crown insignia or Royal Eyes. So what is it? It’s easily removed. So why wear it on an assassination?”

  Vron ran his fingers over the pin. Boranel squinted at it and shook his head. Cadrel examined it for a few moments then stepped away. “All this is based on a fleeting glimpse,” he said. “Perhaps you missed a crucial detail.”

  “I assure you, the technique has been quite effective in the past,” Vron said. “I drew the image directly from Thorn’s mind, and the mind remembers more than we can imagine.”

  “Be that as it may,” Cadrel said, “we can’t be certain that this man is everything he seems. This warping effect suggests a flawed perception; his accent could be the same as well. If you have something else to discuss-”

  “I know him,” Oargev said.

  All eyes turned to the prince. “Your Highness,” Cadrel said, raising his hands. “You’re exhausted.”

  “I know him,” Oargev repeated. “I should have known it would be him.”

  Vron released the image, and the color slowly drained from his skin and his eyes. His clothes shifted, the weapons disappearing from his hands; a moment later the commander of the Dark Lanterns was restored. “Pray continue, Your Highness. Who tried to kill you?”

  Oargev stared off into the distance. “His name is Cazalan Dal. He served with the Fifth Crown, as you surmised. He was devoted to my mother, Queen Dannel. And when the war came to an end, he swore to serve me.”

  “Your Highness,” Cadrel said. He reached out and placed a hand on the prince’s arm.

  Oargev pulled away and rose to his feet, turning to face Boranel. “You have shown us nothing but kindness since the Mourning, Cousin. You gave us shelter when all other doors were closed. But I was born to be a king, not a glorified mayor. My people want their homeland restored.”

  “I am a king, Oargev,” Boranel said. “And I’ve been a soldier. The hardest battle you’ll face in either arena comes when your people want something you cannot give them. The Mourning wasn’t your fault. And you can’t make it go away.”

  “You don’t know that,” Oargev said, and there was a hard edge to his gaze. “You don’t know what caused the Mourning.”

  “Five years and none of us know,” Boranel said.

  “I’ve been trying.” Oargev looked back at the changeling Vron, as if seeing the man he had been moments before. “I gathered the best Cyre had to offer-soldiers, wizards. And I brought them together in the Covenant of the Gray Mist.”

  Finally the pin made sense. A silver and gray wedge, with a black hand on top of it. “And Cazalan was in the Covenant?” Thorn said.

  “The first to take the vow,” Oargev said.

  “I met Cazalan Dal,” Cadrel said. “He had dark hair and no disfigurement whatsoever. How could this be him?”

  “Until I sent him into the Mournland,” Oargev said sadly. “We can’t imagine the things he saw there. He came to me in New Cyre a year ago, twisted as you saw him. What had been done to his mind was worse than his body. He begged to be relieved of his duties. And I… I sent him back. He was still the best I had. And I needed to feel that I had accomplished something.”

  All you did was send a man to die, Thorn thought. She kept her words to herself.

  “Oargev…” Boranel said.

  “I should think that you of all people would understand, Cousin. You are Breland in the hearts of your people. For those who fought and died for our kings and queens, I am the last of the royal line. I am Cyre. It falls to me to find a way to restore our homeland. Yet here we are, almost five years later, and what have I achieved?”

  “Don’t demean your work with New Cyre,” Cadrel said, putting a hand on the prince’s shoulder. “Your Majesty, Your Highness, together you have created a beacon for Cyrans to rally around.”

  “A village,” Oargev said. There were tears glittering in the corners of his eyes. “It’s not enough. I’ve heard them whispering. Saying that we’re Brelish in all but name, that I’ve betrayed my mother. The anger grows. They need someone to blame. I thought Cazalan would bring me an answer. Instead the Mourning has turned him against me.”

  “It’s a battle you can’t win,” Boranel said. “You need to face that. You need to find a way to make your people understand.”

  “There must be an answer,” Oargev said. His fists were clenched, forehead shining with sweat. “And I will find it.”

  “And perhaps we have,” Vron said.

  “Not every problem has a solution. There’s a time to-” Boranel’s voice simply faded in his throat as he realized what the changeling had said. “What do you mean?”

  Vron smiled. “So far we’ve only talke
d about the attack on his highness. I asked you here for an entirely different reason because, as it turns out, we have our first lead on the Mourning.”

  Oargev’s eyes widened. “Explain.”

  “I will, Your Highness. But please sit. It’s not a simple story, and if you wish to hear what I have learned, you must be patient.” As the others took their seats, Vron walked across the room and placed a hand on the wall.

  Light spilled across the black stone. The glowing colors flowed together, swirling around like oil over water. Within moments the glow resolved into the image of a tower in a forest. The trees were dusted with ice and snow, and a harsh wind tugged at the branches. The walls of the tower gleamed in the sunlight. It’s covered with ice, Thorn thought. No, it’s made of ice. She could see the shadows of people moving within the walls, and three shapes rose from the top of the spires: fierce griffons with fur and feathers of pure white, wearing armor that seemed to be carved from ice. Each griffon had a rider, knights in ivory armor carrying bows and lances. The beasts drew closer and closer, and the lead warrior raised her hand, twisting her fingers in the complex patterns of a spell. Suddenly the wall went black.

  “We retrieved those images from the woods of western Karrnath,” Vron said. “We’ve never been able to scry on the location for more than a minute. The Karrns discovered the tower three years ago; as far as they know, there was nothing in that forest until that point. The fortress is garrisoned by a group of elves that have no cultural bonds to Aerenal or Valenar.”

  “Eladrin.” The voice belonged to a newcomer, a young man standing in the doorway. He was dressed in rough-spun peasant clothes, and what stood out the most was his gear-an assortment of belts and pouches overflowing with tools and sundry goods. His hair was short, sandy, and disheveled, and a slight beard covered his chin. He grinned, as if talking with kings and princes were an everyday occurrence. “They look like elves, but they’re not. They call themselves eladrin.”

  “You can speak in a moment,” Vron said. “Until then, let me focus on the critical facts. This forest is in the domain of a Count Jadan Thul, a Karrnathi warlord who served with distinction during the Last War. We know that Thul sent envoys to these strangers and received no response. These eladrin never ventured more than a few miles from the tower and took no overtly hostile action against Thul or his holdings. But they refused to explain their presence or indeed to make any sort of contact with Count Thul.”

  Essyn Cadrel raised an eyebrow. “A colorful story but what does it have to do with the Mourning?”

  “Indulge me a moment more,” Vron said. “As you might imagine, Count Thul was perturbed by the presence of these strangers in his domain. However, his forces had been seriously depleted in the Last War, and he needed time to rebuild. In Olarune of 998, Thul moved against the citadel of ice. He suffered a stunning defeat. Though few in number, these strangers possess warriors with skill to rival the Valenar and arcane power to match that of Aundair. And yet, since repelling Thul’s attack, they have taken no further action, and they have ignored envoys from Thul, from King Kaius of Karrnath, and our own ambassadors.”

  “Get to the point,” Oargev snapped. The prince was on his second goblet of wine, and his hand was shaking slightly.

  “I understand your frustration, Your Highness. But everything needs to be in context. You see, the Karrns are not the only people who have encountered these eladrin.” Vron tapped the wall again, and a map of Khorvaire appeared. “As of last week, we’d managed to locate and identify three different eladrin towers, each of which appeared sometime within the last four years. In addition to the ice fortress in Karrnath, there is a tower along the northwest edge of the Khraal jungle of Darguun, and another here, in Zilargo. But in all this time, we’ve never been able to get an agent inside one of these eladrin fortresses. We knew next to nothing about their origins, intentions, or capabilities. Until last week.”

  Vron turned to the young man. “This is Marudrix Juran Cannith. Years ago-almost five years, in fact-he stumbled upon one of these mysterious towers. A fortress in Cyre, not far from the old village of Seaside.”

  “They call it Shaelas Tiraleth,” the tinker said. “It means ‘the Court of the Silver Tree.’ Because it’s the largest of their cities and there’s this big tree and, well, it’s-”

  “The Mourning, Lord Vron,” Oargev snarled. “I’m still waiting for your explanation.”

  To Thorn’s surprise, Cadrel spoke calmly. “Patience, Your Highness. I would see where this leads. Lord Vron, you said that this discovery occurred almost five years ago. Was it a date of any special significance?”

  Vron smiled. “Indeed it was. The twentieth of Olarune. On that day, young Drix was traveling in Cyre’s southern woods when he encountered a group of eladrin. Believing him to be responsible for the death of their own prince, they pierced his heart with a cursed blade. From what we can tell, this happened at the precise moment that the Mourning began.”

  Oargev was on his feet. “I don’t understand. Are you suggesting that my nation was destroyed in an attack against a farmboy?”

  “That would be ludicrous, Your Highness.” Vron looked over at Drix, who was fidgeting. “But it seems that they know more than we do about it. Drix?”

  The young man took a step forward. He tugged at the buttons of his shirt. “Lord Oargev…”

  “Your Highness,” Cadrel corrected quietly.

  Drix flushed. “Your Highness,” he said quickly, “I can’t explain to you all the things I’ve seen. I’m a tinker and I’ve got no skill with words. These eladrin… their city… it’s a magical place. A place of wonders-”

  Oargev rose to his feet, and his eyes were hard. “Get to the point, boy.”

  “They say they can end the Mourning.”

  Oargev stepped closer to Drix until he was barely inches away from the tinker. His voice was quiet and steady, colder than Thorn had ever heard it, and his hand was on the jeweled hilt of his dagger. “Is this a joke, Vron? Are you laughing at my people and our pain?”

  Drix spoke before the changeling or the king could respond. If he was afraid of the prince, he didn’t show it, but his smile had faded slightly. “They aren’t your people,” he said, his quiet voice carrying across the still room. “And you don’t know their pain.”

  That was all it took. Oargev’s dagger was in his hand, the blade gleaming in the light. “How dare you?” he hissed. “You know nothing!”

  Thorn took a step forward, intending to interpose herself between the two, but she heard a voice in her mind, Vron’s voice. Hold, Lantern! She froze, but it seemed she was the only one who heard the telepathic order.

  “Oargev!” Boranel roared, rising to his feet. Essyn Cadrel knocked his chair aside in his haste to rise. Quick as they were, they weren’t fast enough to interfere.

  “I know pain,” Drix said. He grabbed the dagger by the blade, the edge sinking into his flesh as he wrapped his fingers around it. His grip was strong, and he pulled the weapon free from Oargev’s hand. The prince staggered back, his anger turning to surprise.

  Thorn made her way quickly to Drix’s side. He was shaking slightly, and she could see blood flowing between his fingers. Whatever could have driven him to do such a thing? His hand was still clenched tightly around the blade; they’d need a healer and quickly. Behind her, Cadrel and Boranel had reached the shocked prince, each taking an arm.

  Then Drix opened his hand. There was a strange moment of silence as the blade fell, clattering against the floor. There was blood on his hand but only a trickle, not the fountain Thorn expected to see. The knife had indeed cut to the bone, but the wounds seemed to melt away. There was still blood against the skin, but his maimed hand was whole again.

  “Sovereigns and Six,” Boranel whispered. “What is this?”

  “A demonstration.” Vron’s voice was cold and stern. “Prince Oargev, sit. In light of what you have been through recently, I have indulged your theatrics to this point, but you are a gu
est in this city and this nation, and you would do well to remember that. King Boranel, you have my deepest apologies for this display. Now if you will sit down, I will explain everything.”

  Essyn Cadrel helped the prince back to his seat. The prince was still shaking, but Cadrel’s expression was simply thoughtful.

  “I know the story I’ve presented sounds ludicrous,” Vron told them. “Mysterious elves appear in Cyre on the Day of Mourning, and now claim that they can reverse the cataclysm. And yet, as you yourself said, Prince Oargev, it’s been almost five years and we still know almost nothing about the Mourning. What we do know is that these eladrin have access to magic we cannot duplicate.” He looked at Drix. “Show them.”

  The tinker pulled open his shirt. Thorn’s eyes widened.

  There was a stone embedded in his flesh. A crystal set into his left breast, where his heart should be. They stared at the large, clear jewel that appeared to be filled with swirling gray mist.

  “We don’t know exactly what it is,” Vron said. “Just that it holds a power unlike anything we’ve ever seen from Cannith or the Arcane Congress. It can’t be removed, and it heals any injury Drix suffers within moments.”

  “They called it the Heart of the Spire,” Drix said. While his breathing was slightly ragged, his voice was steady and strong. “They said… that they took my heart, so they gave me theirs. That its strength would allow us both to survive until the wound could be healed.”

  Oargev’s temper was building again. “What does this have to do with the Mourning?”

  To Thorn’s surprise, Drix actually smiled. “I’m just a tinker. This sort of magic is beyond me. But they told me that if they could restore me, they could restore the broken land as well,” Drix said. “That when they’d struck at me, they’d been crippled as well. And that by healing my wound, they could heal all our wounds.”

  Oargev scowled. “I was wrong to draw my blade beneath your roof, Vron. But you do me a disservice by subjecting me to these ravings.”

  “Patience, Your Highness.” Cadrel was examining the stone. “We have been quick to judge and to lash out. We still haven’t heard all that Vron has to say.”