Son of Khyber: Thorn of Breland (3 page)

That was hardly surprising. Steel was certainly distinctive. Forged from blackened metal, he had a crimson circle inlaid on his pommel, and a red furrow running down the center of the dark blade.

Fileon glanced over at her. “A fine weapon. Do you know its name?”

“Name?”

“This is an assassin’s blade, from Savean’s forge. It has been a long time since I’ve held one, but it is not a thing you forget. So you do not know its name? How then did you come by it?”

Savean’s forge? The name meant nothing to her—and Steel had never spoken of his origins.

She’d taken too long to respond. “You try my patience, sister. I warn you, should I deem you an enemy, you will not leave this place alive.” The mark along Fileon’s arm burned with eldritch fire. “There is power in you, but I have lived with this darkness for decades, and you cannot stand against me. Now tell me: where did you get this blade?”

“Lharen. My … partner.”

“Yes,” Fileon said. “I taste a hint of truth here. And did this Lharen give you the dagger?”

“No,” Thorn said. “I took it from his corpse.”

Fileon said nothing. He just watched her, waiting for her to continue.

“He was my mentor. My guide.” My love, she thought, though she didn’t speak it aloud. “He taught me everything I know. And I killed him.” It was a lie; Steel had been given to her by her handler Zane, on her first mission after Lharen’s death. But it was close enough to the truth for her to draw on the emotion, reliving the pain and loss—and she saw Fileon respond to it.

“Your first kill.”

“Yes. The mission … it was bad. We lost the rest of the team. I was angry. Afraid. We were arguing, and I seized his wrist. And he screamed. I still hear that cry in my nightmares, see his face as he died.”

Fileon nodded, watching and waiting.

“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” Thorn took a deep breath. She thought about the actual circumstances of Lharen’s death, and the tears came easily. “Without him … I’d have died years ago. But it was my fault. And I could feel this
thing
on my face. I panicked. I took his knife, and I ran.”

“You are the Keeper’s handmaiden now, sister. You hold death within your grasp. You showed this with the ogre, when you used your touch instead of this brutal axe. So why not revel in this gift? Why carry a blade at all?”

The answer was obvious. “The pain.”

“Yes,” Fileon said, savoring the word. “Tell me of it. What do you feel, when you use your mark?”

“Pure agony,” she said. “It overwhelms all other sensations. It’s as if the mark is burning through my flesh. Then that pain flows through me and into whomever I’m touching. It’s awful. It leaves me feeling … empty.”

Fileon nodded. “Your gift takes a difficult form, different from my own. I doubt you will lose your eye as I have lost my arm. But yours is the path of madness. If you cannot master this pain, it will destroy you.”

Lovely, Thorn thought. Thanks for mentioning that, Zane. Her living tattoo was designed using the memories of a man who carried a true aberrant dragonmark, and according to Zane and Steel, the pain Thorn felt when she used it was the same as the true heir. Then again, Thorn had been living with pain ever since Far Passage.

“You won’t take the blade from me,” she said. “It’s all I have left of him. I won’t let it go.”

Fileon chuckled and set the pouch on the floor. “Have no fear, sister. It is my task to learn what you possess, nothing more. And take solace—you cannot be blamed for your first kill. You could not have known the power within you. You are innocent of that first death. The second and third—those are something different. But enough of this. Let me look at you. Remove your clothing and sit on the bed.”

She took a step back. “What?”

“Remove your clothing, child. I must study your flesh.”

Thorn shook her head. “My mark is on my face, and that’s all you need to see. I’m no Forgelight whore.”

The halfling laughed, but there was little humor in it. “Oh, sister, the fires of my passion burned out long ago. But whatever I have become, I am a healer still. You may bear your blessing on your face, but our marks are a heavy burden, and they can touch the mind and body in many ways.” He glanced meaningfully at his arm, then back at her. “You have spoken of the agony you feel when you use your gift. I would know the nature of it. It is possible I can ease your pain and prevent it from spreading.”

Thorn hesitated. It was a reasonable request, but under the circumstances full cooperation would be more suspicious than this resistance. She met his gaze for a moment, then pulled off a glove.

“Lie on your back, sister,” he said when she was done undressing. “Let me look at you.”

Surely he would expect Thorn to be uncomfortable with the situation, so she didn’t worry too much about him sensing her unease. But it wasn’t any modesty that troubled her as the crippled halfling ran his fingers along her skin. This was the ultimate test, and if Fileon’s powers were as great as he claimed, her life depended on the answer. Everything she’d said so far had been a lie—but the mark around her eye was the greatest lie of all. Zane had promised her it would hold up to any examination. But he wasn’t the one in the condemned building with the deadly hand of the halfling tracing the pattern on her face.

“Intriguing,” he said. “I’ve never seen lines quite like this before. But that is the nature of our gifts, what sets us aside from the Twelve. No two marks
are exactly alike. Now turn over and lie down on your stomach.”

This would be the second challenge. Thorn did as he asked and heard a sharp intake of breath as Fileon looked at her.

Two shards of crystal were embedded in Thorn’s back. A deep purple Khyber dragonshard emerged at the top of her spine, while a rosy Eberron dragonshard protruded from the base. Fileon ran his finger around each shard.

“Is there pain?”

“Yes,” she said. There was no reason to deny it. The rosy shard gave her less trouble, but the shard in her neck was a constant torment, a dull pain that had become a part of her life.

“Of course,” he said. There was something in his voice that troubled her. He sounded pleased, as if he’d been expecting to find the shards. “How did this occur?”

“A mission. We were sent into one of the dragon-shard repositories of House Tharashk. I’ve never seen so many jewels. But we underestimated the wards. It was Mayne who triggered them. And suddenly this whirlwind rose up—a living storm of dragon-shards. It shredded Mayne. I was already running when it hit me. Lharen saved me, got me out alive. They removed most of the shards. But these two … they say that they’ve bonded with the nerves. They’d cripple me if they were removed.”

The story was a lie, but not far from the truth—even if it was Lharen who’d died, and Mayne who’d saved her. The stones were an old injury, not some secret weapon. Fileon ran a finger around the lower shard, surely noticing the many small scars on her back. Finally he stepped down from the stool.

“Most interesting,” he said. “But I see no cause for concern. Get dressed.”

“So we’re done?”

“We’ve yet to begin, Sister Thorn.” He smiled, and it was as cold and sharp as any blade. “You must learn to control your gift, and quickly. The one I serve has need of you. But it is my task to make sure you are ready for the challenges that lie ahead. And I make no promise that you will survive that experience.”

“I’m used to long odds,” she said. “If you can free me from this curse, I’ll do whatever you want.”

“There is no freedom for us, sister.” The halfling rubbed his withered arm. “But follow me, and you will learn what power is. Come. Destiny awaits.”

Dragon Towers

I
t seems the life of the aberrant isn’t all bad, Thorn thought. Sure, there’s the fear and prejudice. Possible madness and disfigurement. But for a bed like this, it just might be worth it.

She stretched, enjoying the sensation of silk against her skin. A flask of Zil brandy had helped to dull the throbbing pain of the shard in her neck. She could still feel the shard burning, but the drink put a comforting distance between her and the pain.

Fileon had brought her to the manor in the Dragon Towers district of Sharn. Thorn had spent the last week on the streets, living in alleys and living on scraps and salvage. A warm meal and strong drink were blessings, and it had been years since she’d slept in a bed to match this one. The private chamber was a pleasant surprise, but it confirmed the fears Zane had raised in her mission briefing. House Tarkanan was on the move.

The King’s Citadel of Breland had been monitoring the house since it first appeared and carved out a bloody niche in the underworld of Sharn. So far, it was
just another criminal guild, and organized crime was a part of life, especially in the City of Towers. Now the Twelve claimed that the Tarkanans were involved in a plot that threatened dragonmarked houses and nations alike. True or not, the aberrant house were up to something. The Citadel had a rough idea of just how many members House Tarkanan had in Sharn, and if this data was remotely accurate, the house had moved its primary base of operations. Thorn expected she’d be sharing a room with half a dozen Tarkanan soldiers, but she’d barely seen that many in her brief tour of the manor.

Following dinner, Fileon had brought her to her quarters and instructed her to rest. “Tomorrow you will be tested,” he told her. “Muster what strength you possess.”

She’d tested the door and found it locked. Nothing she couldn’t handle, but there was no need to risk raising suspicions. She had to gain Fileon’s trust so he would lead her to the true heart of the house.

So rest it was. Lying back against down pillows, she let her thoughts drift. The shard in her neck continued to burn, a dull beacon of pain that faded as she fell asleep.

Thorn dreamed …

The guard never heard Thorn’s approach. She clapped her hand over his mouth and drew her blade across his throat. He struggled wildly, but his strength quickly faded as the blood poured from his neck, and within seconds he was still. Thorn dragged his body behind one of the many crates scattered around the room. She pulled a cleansing token from her cloak and dashed it to the ground; it evaporated in a silent,
iridescent burst that wiped the blood from the floor. Thorn took the wand that had fallen from the guard’s hand and tucked it into her belt. No trace remained of the death.

Secure
, she thought.

Let’s go
, Mayne’s voice returned.

Two shadows slipped out from behind the crates and joined her. Mayne and Lharen, her partners. It was Lharen’s magic that linked their thoughts. Mayne was their muscle, when it was required. So far, this job had taken more finesse than force. Whatever Minister Adal was developing here, he’d sunk a great deal of resources into protecting it. The mystical wards were lethal and well hidden. And the guards were surely members of the elite Knights Arcane, armed with powerful wands in addition to their own skills with sword and spell. The least of them could fill a room with flame with just five words. When facing such enemies, stealth and speed were the only options. Thorn and her companions couldn’t give these enemies time to bring magic to bear.

The target’s just ahead
. Mayne’s thoughts pressed into her mind, calm and steady.
Just ahead, beyond a narrow corridor. Two guards in the chamber
.

If the information is good
, Thorn replied.

Mayne shrugged.

Thorn slid along the nearest crate, peering carefully around the edge. She could see the passage, and it was narrow indeed. Barely wide enough to walk through, let alone swing a sword. She fixed her eyes on a point at the very center of the entrance. Watch and wait.

As she’d expected, there was a faint ripple, something an untrained eye might dismiss as a trick of the imagination. Thorn knew better. She drew a lens from
a belt pouch and stared through the glass at the empty space; then she rotated the lens, looking through the other side.

An alarm
, she thought.
And the hallway becomes a chokepoint for whatever they can bring to bear
.