The Queen of Stone: Thorn of Breland (13 page)

Vordalyn’s scimitar was poised in the air above her. Jharl had drawn back his bow, and Ghyrryn was ready to strike. Drego Sarhain was watching, but Thorn didn’t expect him to reveal his magical powers to the Brelish and gnolls in order to defend her; whatever had passed between them at the Duurwood camp, they were agents of different nations, and he had a mission of his own.

Vordalyn sat down, sheathing his scimitar. Something shifted in the air. A silk cloth attached to Vordalyn’s helmet fluttered, and he pulled it across to hide his lower face, leaving only his eyes exposed. He immediately closed his eyes, retreating into private meditation. No apology, certainly. But under the circumstances, Thorn was content with the victory. On the other side of the wagon, Drego Sarhain winked at her, and Minister Luala actually smiled.

The travelers had been together for six days, and small talk had been exhausted. Had the Brelish been in a wagon of their own, Toli or Beren might have been more talkative,
but Toli had no intention of revealing anything in the presence of the Thranes. In the beginning, Drego had told stories to pass the time. But Toli and Vordalyn had no interest in the heroes of the Silver Flame, and it was a poor setting to share war stories. Vordalyn’s aggressive comments had driven the conversation for the last few days, and since he had finally backed down, silence reigned in the wagon.

Thorn didn’t mind. She had much to think about. The ache in her skull had faded. She rubbed a finger against the stone.
They cannot be removed
, the Jorasco healer had told her.
Cutting them out would cause great damage to the spine. They have become a part of you
.

But what were they, really? Why did the pain come and go? Was it purely physical—the shard rubbing against bone—or was magic involved, or some sort of energy that caused the agony?

The last few nights had been calm. The hunters and their wolves had lived up to their promises; five days had passed with no new attacks. Thorn had done more scouting, studying the other delegates, but with no compelling threat, she’d spent most of her time with her countrymen. The last thing she wanted was to arouse any suspicions. They would arrive at the Great Crag before sundown, and then her mission would truly begin.

She’d slept more soundly since that first night, but the dream still troubled her. She’d tried to discuss it with Steel, but he refused to take interest.
Considering that I do not dream, I’m ill-equipped to offer any insight. Perhaps you should try talking to your bedroll
. She often had dreams in which her actions didn’t make sense, but never so vivid. The sensation of watching her body move on its own, of hearing such cruelty in her own voice … it still sent a shiver down her spine.

And then there was Drego. Surely his presence proved there was nothing to the dream. The two of them were soldiers on the opposite sides of a conflict. They’d had
little private contact since that night. The experience had shown that they could work together, but if it came to it, she would kill him to protect Breland, and she’d expect no better treatment from him. Perhaps that’s all the dream was—a dramatization of a possible future. But she still felt a chill when she met Drego’s gaze, still felt the sword in her hand as it pierced his skull.

As the hours passed, Thorn sensed that they were drawing closer to the Great Crag. In the confines of the coach, the passengers could see nothing. But Thorn heard the sounds of traffic on the road, of other wagons and columns of troops. There were cries in the air, the calls of wyverns, and a few voices that had to be harpies, though none were raised in song. Minister Luala seemed ill at ease, and Toli kept his hand on his sword. Vordalyn kept his gaze fixed on Thorn. She knew that he was trying to unnerve her, and she had no intention of responding, so she ignored him. Occasionally she brushed a finger against Steel to ask if he could identify a strange sound.

In time, the wagons came to a halt. The rear flap was drawn back, revealing a patrol of armored ogres accompanied by a handsome young man—a human with fine, dark features and wavy black hair. Ghyrryn raised a hand before anyone could speak. The man said nothing; he stepped into the wagon, glanced at Ghyrryn, then looked slowly around the coach, pausing to study each face.

Doppelganger
, Steel whispered. Thorn was inclined to agree. While the young man appeared human, it seemed more likely that he was some sort of creature with the power to read thoughts, seeking signs of hostility or treachery. As a Lantern, Thorn had been trained to resist such attempts. Taking a deep breath, she let her thoughts fall into a peaceful pattern, steady waves in the deep ocean. As she’d expected, Thorn felt the faint hint of an alien presence as the youth’s gaze passed over her—a touch of curiosity, something she might have dismissed as her own
subconscious if she weren’t trained to recognize it. The young man turned to Ghyrryn, inclined his head, and stepped out of the wagon.

Soon they were traveling again, rising up a sharp incline—the final approach to the Crag itself, Thorn guessed. She heard dozens of voices outside the wagon—chattering goblins, rumbling ogres, creatures speaking in different languages. Then the voices were drowned out by a loud grinding sound and an impact that shook the ground. It came from the rear of the wagon, and as the coach drew to a halt, Thorn could imagine the source. They were inside the Great Crag, and the doors were closed.

Ghyrryn was the first on his feet. He had a lantern in one hand, filled with cold fire. “Remain together,” he said, assertive as ever. “Go where we say. The Crag is full of dangers, and you will not place yourself at risk. Listen to your guards. Obey the Drul. Now follow.”

The gnoll threw open the canvas flap, holding up the lantern to light the way. The chamber beyond was pitch black. Most of the creatures who lived in Droaam could see in darkness, and the Crag wasn’t designed for those who preferred the light of the sun. Many of the delegates were moving gingerly in the darkness, but Thorn’s enchanted ring allowed her to see through the shadows beyond the torchlight.

The Crag was astonishing. The chamber was enor-mous—the wagons were surrounded by open space, and the curving ceiling was at least fifty feet above her. The walls seemed to be the raw stone of the mountain, but they were too smooth and even to be natural. This was the product of magic or fine craftsmen.

The gnolls led the envoys deeper into the chamber. Goblins scurried about, tending to the draft animals and retrieving luggage. Thorn detected large, hunched figures standing at the very edge of her vision—trolls and ogres. The flickers from the gnolls’ torches gave hints about the
fearsome weapons they carried. Guards … I hope, she thought to herself.

Movement in the air above drew her attention. She looked up, but saw nothing. She was certain something had been there—she’d felt the motion.

An orb hung above them in the chamber, and it began to glow faintly. Its light grew brighter until it shimmered with the pale radiance of a full moon. The light revealed the giant soldiers ringing the chamber, huge creatures dressed in leather and steel.

Below the light, where Thorn had sensed movement, a massive figure stood proudly, feet firmly planted on nothing but air. Pale blue skin gleamed in the magical light, and muscles rippled as he stared down at them. He had the physique of an ogre, the bearing of a barbarian king, and a gleam of intelligence in his eyes. He wore black silk with silver trim, and two horns rose from his forehead. He was handsome and fierce, and Thorn couldn’t help but think of the tales of demon princes of Shavarath. But he was no demon. He was an oni, an ogre mage—mighty and magical, but still a native of Eberron.

“Honored guests!” His voice was deep and rich, with the timbre of a master storyteller. “You have traveled far and faced great dangers. Your journey is at an end. I am Drul Kantar, and I welcome you in the name of the Daughters of Sora Kell, benevolent queens of the sovereign nation of Droaam.

“I will serve as your guardian and guide in the days that lie ahead. It will be my honor to learn your ways and teach you ours, to help us become one people here and in the world beyond. But let us leave the business of diplomacy to the morrow. You have all made sacrifices to be here, and my queens wish to reward you for your journey.

“Tonight you will be our guests at a grand celebration, presided over by the glorious Sora Katra herself. Lords and ladies, prepare yourselves for an evening that will become
legend for centuries to come. We stand on the precipice of history. Now let us
leap!
”

As he spoke the final syllable, the vizier spread his hands wide and fireworks burst forth from his outstretched fingers, brilliant serpents that danced among the delegates below. The ogres and gnolls roared their approval, and a few of the envoys joined in the applause. Thorn was impressed. Whoever this Drul Kantar was, there was no denying his charisma.

“Looks like it’s going to be an interesting night,” she murmured.

Indeed
, said Steel.
Now get to work
.

D
iplomatic accommodations.” Beren snorted, glaring at the tiny chamber. “Boldrei’s bloody feet! This isn’t a guest suite—it’s a prison cell!”

“The Daughters may have more prisoners than noble guests, my lord,” Thorn said, setting Beren’s bags on the floor. She was accustomed to working in hard conditions, and the journey from Graywall was hardly luxurious, but the Crag had brought this experience to a new low. The bunk in Thorn’s room must have been designed for a goblin; she doubted she could sleep without curling into a ball.

Lighting in the complex ranged from dim to completely dark. The oni provided each of them with an enchanted light—a rod suffused with cold fire, providing constant, pale blue illumination. The delegates and their servants were expected to take these everywhere, including their private quarters; only a few chambers or halls had permanent fixtures. It made a certain amount of sense—the tunnels within the Crag had been built by creatures whose eyes could see in the deepest darkness.

Thorn was sure it was a power play. The Daughters of Sora Kell wanted the delegates to be disoriented, to
reinforce the power they wielded. The darkness didn’t trouble Thorn—if anything, it would be useful when she attempted to explore the subterranean palace. But the ring that allowed her to see in the dark was a tool of her trade, and she needed to be careful not to reveal it; there was no reason for a simple aide to have such an object. She took care to cling to her torch and to stumble occasionally in the dim light.

“Do you need any help?” Thorn wasn’t sure where to put Beren’s belongings, but she was there to assist him. It seemed the least she could do.

“No need, Nyri. I’m sure you have preparations of your own to attend to.” Beren snapped his fingers, and his bag opened of its own accord. Clothes drifted up onto the bunk, where an invisible force carefully folded them. “After one too many jobs where my aide lacked the skills for domestic tasks, I learned a few tricks of my own. You’d be surprised how far you can get with just three spells. For example,” he gestured again, and Thorn felt a tingle against her skin as magical energy wiped away the dirt and sweat of the road. The ambassador passed his hand over his own clothes, and stains vanished. “There we are … ready for the feast. Not the easiest thing to master, but I wish I’d picked it up long ago. I do believe I spent a year covered in mud and grime when I was fighting on the western front.”

“Have you met Sora Katra before?” The thought had lingered in her mind ever since she’d heard that the hag would be attending the feast. Thorn had dealt with her share of princes, and she’d spoken with King Boranel on three separate occasions. But the Daughters of Sora Kell weren’t just the rulers of some savage land. Each was a legend in her own right, the stuff of nightmares and children’s tales.

Thorn’s father had told her a dozen stories of Sora Katra, the clever hag whose gifts always turned on the
hero who sought her aid. And her brother Nandon had loved to tell her about Sora Maenya, whispered tales in the dark about the hag who would consume entire villages, the giantess who had—according to Nandon—developed a special taste for tender Khoravar girls. This inevitably resulted in ‘Sora Maenya’ grabbing her in the middle of the night, though the monster typically chose to tickle her instead of devouring her. As she’d grown older, she’d set these stories aside, along with the legends of the Lady of the Plague, the Lord of Eyes, and the other monsters of youth.