The Fading Dream (7 page)

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 guest 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.”

“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.”