The fading dream tob-3

by Keith Baker

  “Thank you,” the changeling said. “We are faced with a number of simple facts.” He pointed at the map on the wall. “The feyspires exist. The events in Karrnath show that these eladrin possess both military might and magical skill. And yet we knew nothing of their presence until after the Day of Mourning. Now we have word that the eladrin say that the disaster crippled them even as it destroyed Cyre, and it is the Mourning itself that brought the hidden cities into the open. Ridiculous? Perhaps. But when coupled with proof of magic we cannot duplicate, it’s something we at least have to consider. And then there is the claim that they can restore stricken Cyre. It sounds like a fairy tale. Yet it’s just possible that we are living in a fairy tale, and we have nothing to lose from testing their claims.”

  “I agree with Vron,” Boranel said. “Listen to yourself, Gev. Mere moments ago you were complaining when I told you there might be no answer to the Mourning. Now one has been placed before you and you don’t even want to test it?”

  Oargev raised his hands, cheeks flushed with shame and wine. “I apologize again. This… I… You must understand. I’ve struggled with this for years. I face nightmares both awake and asleep. Nothing I’ve tried has borne fruit, and just hours ago I was attacked by a man I once trusted as much as anyone in this room. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you, and we should follow any lead.”

  Cadrel patted the prince’s arm. “We’ve all been under too much stress of late,” he said. “So what is the next step? We need to heal this lad, is that all?”

  Vron glanced at Drix. He’d closed his shirt, and he ran a finger over the hidden stone.

  “They need to remove the stone,” Drix said. “Cure the wound.”

  “It sounds simple enough, I know,” Vron said. “Unfortunately, it’s anything but. Healing balms and spells treat the stone as if it was a living part of him. We’ve tried to cut it out ourselves, but any wound heals instantly. The artificers tell me there’s a phenomenal amount of power in the stone, and if there’s any truth to the idea that the stone is linked to the Mourning, well, we don’t want to do anything too dangerous. We can’t remove it. But they can.”

  “So why haven’t they?” Oargev said. “What are they waiting for?”

  “The stones,” Drix replied. “The queen of the feyspire told me that she’d gather the lords when the time was right. But she needed me to find two more stones, and bring them with me to the spire.”

  “It seems these eladrin have been hidden on Eberron far longer than we knew,” Vron said. “The shard used to preserve Drix’s life is one of a set. Apparently some of these crystals have been lost, and Drix needs to find two more before he can return to the spire to be healed.”

  “She said I’d find them in the last days of the searching moon, in the shadow of a broken blade,” Drix said. “Two kings would meet, and I would find two stones, wrapped in thorn.”

  “Interesting,” Cadrel said. “The searching moon would presumably be Barrakas, and we are in its last days.”

  “The Citadel stands in the shadow of Brokenblade Castle,” Vron said.

  Cadrel nodded. “And if we grant his highness his true title as King of Cyre, two kings are indeed meeting tonight.”

  “Which leaves…” Thorn paused. “You can’t be serious.”

  “We haven’t worked closely in the past, Lantern Thorn, but I assure you, I’m always serious.”

  “What do you mean?” Oargev said. “ ‘Wrapped in thorn.’ Do you know where these stones are hidden?”

  “Come, Lantern,” Vron said. “Show us a stone wrapped in Thorn.”

  Turning her back to the others, she pulled up her hair, revealing the glittering crystal embedded in the base of her skull. It was far smaller than Drix’s stone heart, and there was no mist swirling within, but the tinker gasped when he saw it.

  “Yes!” Drix said. “That’s one of them. She showed me, in my thoughts. The queen.”

  “This is no fey treasure, Lord Commander,” Thorn said. “You know exactly how I came by it.” The shards in her spine were shrapnel, the scars of the explosion at Far Passage. There had been thousands of dragonshards surrounding the arcane core, and Thorn had been struck by dozens; the two she retained were simply the only shards they couldn’t remove.

  “There’s still a great deal we don’t know about that incident,” Vron said. “Could you show the other shard, Lantern?”

  “Yes, sir.” None of this makes any sense. Still, she pulled her shirt up, revealing the lighter stone embedded in her spine.

  “Two stones,” Drix whispered. “And you’re Thorn.”

  Oargev and Boranel seemed equally baffled by the turn of events.

  Cadrel spoke first. “And so it seems that our life is just a fairy tale,” the old bard said. “Grand in its way. What comes next? A ritual under the towering oaks of the Eldeen Reaches with five moons in the sky?”

  “I have no idea, my lord.” Vron gestured to Drix. “The boy is supposed to take the stones back to the feyspire in Cyre. The stones can’t be removed from Thorn, so clearly she has to go with him.”

  “Now young Thorn has irremovable shards?” Boranel grumbled. “What happens when hers are removed? Will Galifar be restored?”

  “We can only hope so, Your Majesty,” Vron said. “When I first heard Drix’s tale, I thought of you, Lantern. It seems improbable to say the least, yet no more than the idea that the Mournland could be restored.”

  The stones removed… The stone in her neck was like a dagger digging into Thorn’s flesh. She’d been told that she’d simply have to bear the pain; the idea that it might be possible to have the stone removed was unhoped for. “Where are we going?”

  “To Shaelas Tiraleth, the spire in Cyre,” Vron said. “You may be the first Brelish citizen to see the inside of an eladrin fortress, Thorn.”

  “In Cyre,” Thorn said. “In the Mournland?”

  “Surely we’ll be sending a team,” Boranel said. Thorn could see the general in him coming to the fore. “I’ll put the full resources of the Citadel to the task. Wands, Swords, Shields-it will be our war against the Mournland.”

  Drix raised a hand, but it was Vron who spoke. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Your Majesty. If you’ve been listening to the tale, you know just how paranoid these eladrin are. Drix was told to bring the stones when he returned and nothing else. Even if that wasn’t a concern, you know just how dangerous the Mournland is. With all due respect, Lantern Thorn, you are expendable. We’ll give you the supplies you need, but should you fail in this, it will not be a dramatic blow to Breland. Placing a massive chunk of the Citadel’s forces in such a dangerous field-I cannot condone it, Your Majesty.”

  Boranel sighed and the spark in his eyes faded. “Very well, Lord Commander. You were chosen for your judgment. The Lanterns have shed light in the shadows before. I trust you will do so again.”

  “You’re not going alone.” It was Oargev.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Highness?” Vron seemed genuinely perplexed.

  “You’re talking about the fate of my kingdom. The quest I have grappled with for five years. If you think I will stand by while you battle for my nation, you are sorely mistaken.”

  “You can’t,” Drix said. As before, the tinker didn’t seem to be concerned with the fact that he was refusing the demands of a king. “I’m just supposed to bring the stones. They don’t like strangers.”

  Essyn Cadrel stepped between the two before Oargev’s wrath could grow. “While the boy is impertinent, this time I must agree, Your Majesty. We’ve discussed this before. You are the last of your line, and if you fall, Mishann’s claim is lost. You must remain safe. For Cyre’s sake.”

  “I know that,” Oargev said. “I want you to go.”

  Cadrel blinked. “Your Highness?”

  “You’ve already shown that you understand this business better than I do. You said it yourself, that our lives were becoming a fairy tale. You’re the man who first told me those tales, just as you’ve
told me of your adventures. You’ve wandered the world before. Who better to serve me now? Go with them. For Cyre.”

  “No,” Drix said. “No strangers.”

  Oargev’s face tightened. “Don’t tell me what to do, boy. You claim to hold the fate of Cyre in your hands. I need to trust that you are what you say, that any of this is the truth. If you want my blessing on this, you will have the eyes of the crown upon you. Go with Essyn or I swear I will do everything in my power to stop you.”

  Vron raised a hand, but Boranel stopped him before he could speak. “It seems reasonable to me,” Boranel said. “Your boy here will have his stones. Perhaps these elves would bar their gates against a squad of our best. If they’d close their doors against one old man, they’re a cowardly bunch indeed.”

  Vron inclined his head. “As you wish, sire.” He turned to Cadrel and Thorn. “I’ve already prepared for the journey; there’s a boat waiting at the Brokenblade dock, ready to take you along the Cyran coast. I’ll need a few hours to gather additional supplies for you, Master Cadrel, and I’m sure you need time to settle your affairs. But I would leave before morning. The sooner we move on this, the better.”

  Cadrel was still considering the whole affair. “You’re sure about this, Your Highness?”

  Oargev nodded.

  A grin slowly spread across the old man’s face. “So be it. I will do my best not to let you down and to return with tales more wondrous that I ever spun in your youth.” He turned to Boranel and bowed. “With your leave, Your Majesty.”

  “Of course, and well said.” Boranel clapped Cadrel on the back and walked toward the door. “Sovereigns and Six! I wish I could be going with you. First things first, though-let’s arrange a proper escort for you this time, both to get back to your consulate and to see Oargev to New Cyre. You’ll have every Shield the Citadel can spare until we have you safely home again.”

  “Very well, Cousin.” The prince paused by Thorn, looking into her eyes. She could see the fear and uncertainty warring within him. “You served me well this last month. I owe you my life. Serve my people in this, and you will have anything my throne can offer.”

  “It’s my honor to serve, Your Highness,” Thorn said with a polite nod. “May the Sovereigns watch over you.”

  “Wait a moment, Lantern Thorn.” Vron took Drix outside.

  Thorn studied the glowing map on the wall and ran her fingers over the stone in her neck. She was just about to talk to Steel when Vron returned.

  “What can I do for you, Lord Commander?”

  “For a start, forget that title.” Vron smiled and as he did, his face softened and flowed. His skin was the same pale white, his eyes still shards of glass. They were just smaller and sharper. Cheekbones were higher, his chin slightly pointed. He was still a changeling… a different changeling.

  “Zane?”

  “For the moment.” Zane was Thorn’s personal handler; he’d recruited her into the King’s Dark Lanterns.

  “Was Vron ever here?”

  “He was in every way that matters, wasn’t he? There’s a certain level of decorum to a royal briefing, and Oargev surely expected the Lord Commander. But we Lanterns have to deal with more complex situations than the Shields or the Blades. His majesty knows what Vron is doing right now; if my mask keeps Oargev happy, all for the good. Besides, you’re my agent.”

  Thorn nodded. It wasn’t the first time Zane had come to her in an unexpected guise, though she’d never seen the changeling impersonate a changeling before. “So what is it you wanted to tell me?”

  “What do you think of this assignment?”

  Thorn hesitated but she’d never minced words with Zane before. “It seems ridiculous. Do you actually think we can restore the Mournland?”

  “No,” Zane said. “I don’t. It’s an entertaining story, and if it somehow turns out to be true… well, it would be a boon to give the thousands of Cyran refugees living off Brelish taxes somewhere else to go. But I think we both know just how likely that is-just as we know that those stones in your neck aren’t eladrin relics.”

  “So what am I doing?”

  “I don’t believe that these fey are responsible for the Mourning,” Zane said. “Nonetheless, their power is clearly a force to be reckoned with. As far as we can tell, young Drix is essentially immortal. Imagine an army of soldiers possessing such power. Who knows what other secrets are hidden within the walls of that tower? If you can somehow restore Cyre, wonderful. But your primary mission is to acquire as much information about the eladrin as you can, including anything that could provide Breland with an arcane advantage in future conflicts.”

  “I see.”

  Zane frowned. “Cadrel is a problem. If there are secrets to be gleaned from the tower, we want them to benefit Breland.”

  “Are you telling me to eliminate Essyn Cadrel?” Thorn wanted that point to be absolutely clear. She liked the old man. If Zane wanted him dead, he’d have to give an order.

  Zane sighed. “It’s not your mission, Lantern Thorn. But the Mournland is a dangerous place, and I’m sure you’ll have your hands full protecting Drix. Make that your priority: don’t risk anything to keep Cadrel alive.”

  “Understood. Is there anything else?”

  “Yes.” Zane looked at her closely. “The man who attacked you. Cazalan Dal. You’re certain he died?”

  “Steel was,” Thorn said. “He was dead center when he detonated the wand, and then the ceiling collapsed. Steel said there was little left of him.”

  “Try ‘nothing.’ I received the report from the search teams while I was outside. No traces of any of the attackers, save for the damage of the battle. Bodies, equipment-nothing whatsoever.”

  Thorn considered that. “So either someone purged the scene, and quickly, or they all survived.”

  “Yes,” Zane said. “And we still don’t know what they were after to begin with. So be careful. Your assassin mentioned the prince by name, so odds are good Oargev is the target. We’ll keep a watch on him. Still, it’s an unknown, and I hate unknowns. Be careful.”

  “Of course.”

  “Good,” Zane said. “Report to the quartermaster for equipment. Your boat leaves the docks in three hours’ time.”

  He left without another word. Thorn remained in the black room, staring at the glowing map. She sat down in one of the chairs and drew Steel.

  “Did you get all of that?”

  Of course. So now you’re going to fix the Mournland.

  “Are we? I thought I was going to rob some elves and maybe kill an old man.”

  I’m sure you’ll do what’s best for Breland.

  “I always do,” Thorn said. “I always do.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Thunder Sea B arrakas 22, 999 YK

  She knew she wouldn’t make it in time. She couldn’t find the path. She was running through the forest and searching for the light. Hundreds of fireflies swarmed through the woods, false sparks trying to lead her astray.

  A wave of pain rolled through her. It wasn’t a scream. It was the agony of the land, shared by everything around her. Trees shook and a multitude of cries rose up in the night, wolf and songbird united in torment. If Thorn couldn’t find her way, they’d all be dead soon.

  At last she reached the clearing, and there it was. A tree, its trunk cast in silver, polished to a mirror finish. Boughs spread wide enough to cover a great hall, covered with glowing leaves of gold. She ran and as she did, she could see that the tree was even taller than she’d imagined. Its limbs were twined with the stars, and she could feel its roots sinking deep down into the earth. The tree didn’t draw sustenance from the soil, no-it was the earth that drew strength from the tree. It was a tree of worlds, binding earth and sky together, forming a bridge between shadow and substance.

  And she was too late.

  The mirror finish was growing cloudy, cracks running up along the trunk. Leaves were falling and the stars with them. She couldn’t see the roots wither, but a
ll around her, both plant and beast withered and died. She could feel the life running out of her own body, feel her flesh rotting on the bone. She could barely stand, and she staggered toward the tree, hoping that it might be different than before, that she would reach the tree in time to stop the decay, to save herself.

  She never had and now it was no different. Her legs gave out beneath her and she fell. The earth cracked around her as razor-edged shards of silver fell from the sky. The tree was dying, and there was nothing she could do.

  Thorn woke up with a start.

  She desperately wanted a breath of fresh air, a cool, night wind to clear her thoughts. A glance at the window reminded her why that wasn’t going to happen. It wasn’t a window at all; it was a porthole, with the murky depths of the Thunder Sea stretching out into the darkness. And all around her was a low thrum, a vibration that she could feel in the floor and air alike, the pulse of the elemental spirit driving the ship through the water.

  Nightmares were nothing new for her, especially since Far Passage. She often dreamed of Lharen’s death and the shards ripping through her flesh. But this dream was something else. She’d been dreaming of the tree for almost a month. Although it was not every night-not quite-it was always the same, though each time the vision was stronger.

  Stupid dreams. She’d hoped that Nandon might be able to tell her something about it, that it might be connected to her other troubles. She’d had other nightmares over the past years, visions of the horrific deeds of the dragon Sarmondelaryx and a woman who could be Thorn’s twin dressed in red leather and black silk, a woman who was also somehow Sarmondelaryx. Haunting as those were, those were of a different order of magnitude than the dreams of the silver tree. The vision that pulled her from her sleep had a visceral power that pulled at her.

  Thorn was wearing her nightshirt; she whispered a word, and the fabric twisted and stretched, shifting to her traveling clothes. She picked up Steel.

  “What’s the good word?”