The fading dream tob-3

by Keith Baker

  “Steel?” She touched the tip of the dagger to the disk, using her thumb to trace a cross on his hilt. It was a signal: threat analysis.

  The mists themselves are charged with magical energy, he said. If the object you are holding has any mystical aura, it’s being hidden.

  She closed her eyes. “Just keep talking, Steel,” she whispered. “Tell me what you see.”

  And he did: a beach covered with bones, a long passage up the hill. Thorn could feel her enemies all around her. She could feel the shard embedded in her neck as it began to burn against her bone, hot and angry. She ignored it all, just concentrating on Steel’s voice, on the give and tug of the rope, and on the object in her hand. It was slightly warm, a faint echo of Drix’s touch. She could feel engraving on the surface, a hinge. A moment more and she found the latch, and the disk split open. It was a locket. Running her fingers along the edges, she imagined what might be inside. She knew her father had carried an image of her and Nandon into war, though he’d fallen far from the place she found herself. Was it a child? A lover? A parent? She thought of all of the people she wanted to remember, the people whose faces mattered to her, and between those thoughts and the calming voice of Steel, all the despair and the fear faded away.

  Then she stepped out of the mists.

  The return of her senses was staggering. In the mist every sense had been dulled, but outside she was flooded with sensation: the scuffing of her feet against the ground, the sound of a hinge squeaking as a door swung in the wind, Drix’s voice, the breeze against her skin, the smell of dirt and sweat and rotting wood. She closed her eyes and ground her teeth together, trying to drive it all away. Steel was whispering, Drix was talking, and it was all too much.

  “Be quiet!” she roared. She took a deep breath and pushed it away, slowly drawing in each piece, one sensation at a time: Essyn Cadrel, stepping out of the mists behind her, the scent of damp soil, an utter lack of any animal sounds-no birdsong, no scurrying rodents-Drix just ahead of her, wood structures channeling the wind. They were in a town. The faint breeze blew, cool and carrying an all-too-familiar scent.

  She opened her eyes and tightened her grip on the rope binding her to Drix and Cadrel. A quick slash with Steel severed the connection. “Both of you. Back. Hide in the mists if you have to.”

  “I wouldn’t.” She’d heard that voice only once, but Thorn remembered it clearly. “My soldiers are already in there, waiting for you.”

  Cazalan Dal stepped out from the shadows of a shattered building, into the light of a cold-fire streetlamp.

  “Welcome to Seaside, my lady. I’m glad you could make it.”

  The scar running down his face bent with his smile, and his dark sword took shape in his hand.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Seaside, the Mournland B arrakas 23, 999 YK

  Once upon a time, the streets of Seaside had been filled with life and laughter. It had been a resort before the Last War, and even during the war, it was a favored destination for Cyran sailors seeking to forget the terrors of battle. The people of Cyre had always been proud of their unbreakable spirits, their ability to sing and laugh even in the darkest times.

  No one was laughing in Seaside that day.

  Thorn had heard of places in the Mournland where the dead wouldn’t rot, where you could find soldiers whose bodies were perfectly preserved, still bearing the wounds from a battle fought five years past. Not so in Seaside. They’d crushed bones on the beach, but there were no bones to be seen in the city, only clothes. A dress was spread across the cobblestones in front of Thorn, its bright blue and yellow pattern muted in the dim light. A colorful parasol lay a few feet away, the handle wedged between two stones. Even as she was evaluating the threat, Thorn realized that there were clothes spread all around the street, gowns, uniforms, even the gleaming mound of an abandoned chain mail shirt. There were boots and gloves. It was as though the people had vanished completely, leaving only their clothes behind.

  Cazalan Dal stood in the center of the empty street. A silk scarf was caught beneath his boot, crimson folds fluttering in the faint breeze. The soldier was dressed in the same black uniform he’d worn in Wroat. He held his dark sword in his right hand, and a wand in the left, leveled at Thorn and her companions.

  “Well, this is a surprise,” Thorn said, keeping her tone light. It wasn’t entirely. Ever since Zane had told her that the bodies hadn’t been recovered in Wroat, she’d had an uneasy feeling about the Covenant of the Gray Mist. Right then she needed to keep him talking. She traced a cross on Steel’s hilt as she spoke. “Are you saying that you tracked us through the mists?”

  “Your boy is good,” the man said. “But this is our calling. Spend enough time in the shadow, and your eyes adjust to the dark.”

  Gray hair, gray eyes, Thorn thought. The color of the mists.

  “You talk a good game; I’ll give you that,” she said. “But surely you don’t expect us to fall for ‘I’ve got friends hiding in the mists.’ What’s next? A dragon behind the building?”

  “No dragon. And I didn’t say they were my friends. But they are here, nonetheless.” He raised his sword, and two arrows emerged from the mists and whistled down the street to either side of him. “Only a few can see so well as to shoot in the mists, but I assure you, they aren’t alone.”

  He’s using the same equipment as before, Steel reported. Shifting blade. Shiftweave clothing. Evocation in the wand and charged for use-the blast of fire, unless I miss my guess. I don’t know about his friends in the mists; I still can’t penetrate it. Beyond that, there’s something about him I can’t put my point on. A faint aura that surrounds him and infuses him, not unlike that of the mists themselves.

  The wand’s the problem, Thorn thought. If it was the same as the one he’d carried in Wroat, a single blast could engulf all three of them. And while fire might not hurt her, she didn’t have any sort of special immunity to arrows in the back of the head.

  “Covenant Dal.” Essyn Cadrel hadn’t spoken since they entered the mists. He took a step forward, a slight smile on his face. If the passage through the mists had left him on edge, he didn’t show it; he seemed perfectly at ease. If anything, his voice was stern, almost reprimanding. “You swore an oath to our king, soldier. You swore to lay down your life for our nation. Explain to me what could bring you to break that vow. What could possess you to threaten the last heir to Mishann’s throne?”

  “I swore an oath to our nation,” Dal said. Thorn’s eyes were fixed on the wand, but Dal’s attention never wavered. “And I spent my years here. This is our nation. Look at it! I have seen it. It’s touched my heart. I know our land better than you, old man. And I will give our people what they need.”

  “And what is that?” Thorn said. She shifted her grip on Steel, watching and waiting.

  “I’m afraid you’ll never know,” Dal said. “This ends-”

  Thorn was still holding the locket Drix had given her. She threw it straight up in the air. The motion was all that mattered. For an instant Cazalan Dal followed it with his eyes, and the point of his wand wavered slightly, drifting up and out of line-exactly where Thorn needed it to be. She threw Steel, his blackened blade nearly invisible in the shadows. It was a perfect throw, striking the wand directly. The impact knocked the wand from Dal’s hand, catching it in Steel’s quillons, and drawing it back as the blade flew back to her hand.

  Thorn wasn’t waiting for the blade to return. She was already charging forward. “Go!” she cried, pointing at the storefront to her right. She didn’t have time to see if Cadrel and Drix understood. She caught Steel and threw herself fully into Cazalan Dal, summoning every ounce of strength she could find. The soldier staggered backward, trying to bring his weapon to bear, but Thorn was too close; he couldn’t get the angle. She kept the pressure up, pushing him back through the half-open door of the darkened shop. He tripped and fell over, striking the floor hard. Thorn dropped down and pressed her arm against his throat, silencing any c
ries. She studied his face as she whispered the words of a spell, feeling the familiar tingle spread across her skin as she stole his appearance. It lasted for only a few minutes, not long enough for deep infiltration, but it was the perfect thing to distract him.

  It took only a moment. Thorn smashed Steel’s pommel into the man’s temple, ending his struggles. “Hold him,” she told Drix and Cadrel. Then she snatched the wand from the floor and leaped out the door.

  Thorn had mastered only a few spells during her arcane training at the Citadel, but those tricks had saved her life on many occasions. Equally important, she’d learned how to activate the most common magical tools and weapons, such as the standard-issue offensive wand.

  The first soldier was emerging from the mists when she unleashed the fireball. Thorn saw only his blade and his arm, more than enough to target the spell. She let her anger flow into the wand, envisioning the energy as a flame spilling out of her, expanding into white heat as it burst through the wand. The result was spectacular. A bolt of flame leaped from the rod, striking the soldier in the chest, and he disappeared from view as the bolt exploded outward in a mighty sheet of flame. If the man screamed, the sound was swallowed by the mists; when the flames died down later, he was nowhere to be seen.

  It was too much to hope that the blast had caught all of the soldiers, and sure enough, two more emerged a moment later. An archer and a swordsman, both wielding weapons formed of solid shadow, scanned the street for any signs of the enemy.

  “Quickly! Form on me!” Thorn called. The two ran up to her.

  “What happened?” the swordsman said. He was bald, his head covered with sores and boils, and his eyes were as gray as Dal’s. “Where did they go?”

  No one else had emerged from the mist. Let’s hope this is all of them, she thought. She pointed the wand at the ground and activated it again.

  The world disappeared in flame. The light was blinding, but it lasted only an instant. When her vision cleared, she found herself standing at the center of a circle of scorched stone. The soldiers were on the ground around her, twisted and still. Once again, she was untouched, she’d barely even felt the heat. Turning away, she ran back into the shop.

  Drix took a step back when she walked into the store, and she let the glamour fall.

  “Wake him up,” she said. “We need to find out where their camp is, how many more there are. Sovereigns and Six, were they expecting us?”

  “I’m afraid you won’t get those answers from Cazalan Dal.” Cadrel was kneeling next to the fallen soldier. “He’s dead.”

  “Impossible,” Thorn said. “I didn’t hit him that hard.”

  Cadrel looked up at her, a strange expression on his face. “Perhaps you don’t know your own strength. You fractured his skull with that final blow.”

  She noticed the blood spreading across the floor. In the heat of the moment, she hadn’t even noticed the surge of draconic strength, for all that she’d banked on her immunity to fire to save her life when she set off the wand. “There’s no time to waste. Cadrel, search the body. Drix, do you know where we are?”

  “Yes,” he said. “The Street of Crowns. We need to get to the eastern gate.”

  “Then lead the way. Quicker is better.”

  “Nothing,” Cadrel reported, standing up. “Nothing at all. No coins in his pouch. No traveling papers. Nothing whatsoever.”

  “Strange,” Thorn said. “It probably means they have a base nearby… and that means we’d better leave before they come looking.”

  Drix had already stepped outside. When Thorn and Cadrel followed, they found him rummaging around on the ground. Standing up, he turned and tossed something to Thorn, a tarnished, silver disk that glittered in the light of the ever-burning torch. It was the battered locket, the chain snapped off, the rim of the lid bent and jammed. If there had ever been a picture inside, it had been burned away.

  “You never know when it might be needed again,” he said. Then he started jogging down the street. “Come on, then!”

  “There’s something strange about that boy,” Cadrel said.

  “I can’t argue that,” Thorn said. “But I just might like it.”

  She ran after him, Cadrel close on her heels.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Mournland B arrakas 23, 999 YK

  They’re your people,” Thorn said. “Surely you’ve got some idea. They were waiting for us.”

  It was difficult to keep track of time. The sky was hidden by the glowing, gray mist; it might have been midnight, but it might have been noon. They’d run for as long as they could stand it, trying to get away from the empty city and to escape possible pursuit. The land around them was withered and gray. They followed the old trade road, which proved to be a gloomy path. Seaside was a port town, and most of the traffic came by sea. But there had been travelers on the northern road on the Day of Mourning. The first caravan had been devoid of all signs of life, just like Seaside itself. Horses’ harnesses stood empty, coachmens’ uniforms caught in the seats or on withered branches. The second was perfectly preserved with no signs of cause of death or even fear on the faces of the travelers. Their eyes were still open, and they looked as if they’d be warm to the touch. They were simply frozen, caught halfway on a journey they’d never complete.

  “They aren’t my people,” Cadrel said. “They might have been once, but now they are creatures of the Mournland. Who can explain the madness this place might bring?”

  “I can see how spending too much time here might drive you mad,” Thorn said, glancing at Drix. The tinker was whistling cheerfully, ignoring the conversation. “But that doesn’t explain the breacher. Or how Dal survived the first attack. Or how he got to Seaside before us. You anticipated the attack on the prince. So you must have known something.”

  “I told you. Angry words, the presence of the Fifth Crown… it was a danger, nothing more. I didn’t even realize that the Covenant of the Gray Mist was involved.”

  It’s possible he’s telling the truth, Steel whispered. But it seems unlikely. He’s supposed to be Oargev’s eyes and ears.

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Thorn said, addressing Steel and Cadrel at the same time. “When was the last time you had a report from the Covenant?”

  “To be honest-”

  “Are you sure this is the right time for that?” Thorn said.

  Cadrel sighed. “My dear, we may be allies this month, but we both know that there can only be one king of Galifar, and if you’re being honest with yourself, you know who that should be. You serve your king. I serve mine.”

  “Does there really have to be a king of Galifar?” Drix yelled back.

  “Yes,” Thorn told him. “We fought a war about it. Perhaps you remember.”

  “Oh. That’s what we were fighting about? Are you sure?”

  Thorn sighed. “Master Cadrel, I believe you were about to be honest with me, which would be a refreshing change. When was the last time you had a report from the Covenant?”

  “They never reported to me,” Cadrel said. “The Covenant was handpicked by the prince and reported to him directly. I remember when Cazalan Dal was chosen, and I remember seeing him at New Cyre once or twice. But they always found their way to the prince without me; I heard their news from him.”

  “Why would they avoid you?”

  “I don’t think they were avoiding me as such,” Cadrel said. “You saw the situation in New Cyre. Today I may be Oargev’s closest confidant. But he’s had quite a few favorites over the years, some more trustworthy than others. I think the agents of the Covenant consider themselves to be the direct servants of the Cyran crown and consider any intermediary to be beneath their notice.”

  “Servants who now see fit to destroy that crown.”

  “Which brings us back to madness.”

  “I think it’s going to rain,” Drix called back. A faint roll of thunder followed his words.

  “They’re well organized for madmen,” Thorn told Cadrel.
“And I’d like to find out how they knew we’d make landfall at Seaside when we never planned on it. I hope you’re being honest with me, Cadrel.”

  Cadrel spread his hands. “I am as transparent as glass, my dear.”

  “Perhaps you weren’t listening,” Drix said again. “Rain.”

  Something in his tone gave Thorn pause. “You’re wearing a cloak, Drix.”

  “Yes, but it’s-oh. You don’t know.”

  Cadrel heard the fear. “What is it, lad?”

  “The rain… it’s dangerous.”

  “I don’t understand,” Cadrel said. “It burns? How bad is it?”

  “You know in Seaside? The way the clothes were left behind, but no bodies?”

  “What about it?” Thorn was afraid she already knew the answer.

  “That’s because it rained. The cloak will be fine. But if it gets too wet, well…”

  Dolurrh. Literally. “We need shelter. How much time do we have?”

  Drix looked at the sky. All Thorn could see was the swirling, gray mist; she had no idea how he was predicting the weather. Perhaps it was just something he felt, like the emotional currents in the mist itself. “Three minutes. Maybe four.”

  There was no time for a clever response and no shelter to be found. The ground around them was gray and barren; perhaps the deadly rain wiped out all life. Whatever the truth, there wasn’t so much as a tree trunk to be seen.

  “You’ve been here before,” Thorn said. “You survived it then. What did you do the last time?”

  “I climbed in a hole,” Drix said.

  “We don’t have time to dig now.”

  “I know,” Drix said. “And I’m not sure it’s big enough for all of us.”

  The thunder came again, louder. Cadrel looked up at the sky. “Perhaps we could make a sort of tent of our cloaks…”

  Ask him about the hole, Steel said. Quickly. Ask him how big it is.

  Brilliant, Thorn thought. But she repeated the question.