The Queen of Stone: Thorn of Breland (31 page)

“You’re saying it’s true?”

“Of course it’s true. You want me to restore your virtuous knight, don’t you? Where do you suppose his soul has been all of these years? When you die, your soul flees your body and goes to Dolurrh, where it can rest and find peace. But our power traps the soul in stone. A few centuries may leave no mark, but these soldiers have been bound for thousands of years … and they fell in battle against one of the daelkyr, the destroyers of reason. There is no rest for their spirits. The only thing worse would be if the statues were broken.”

Thorn’s foot struck an object and it skidded across the floor … the frozen face of a bugbear, fallen from its statue. Sheshka smiled.

“The storytellers spoke truly when they said the spirits were trapped and tormented. Where they erred was their assumption that these unfortunates had any power. According to the tales, their ghosts would reach out from the stone to kill those who moved among them … or they would turn the offenders to stone, drawing them into their eternal nightmare.”

“But that part’s
not
true,” Thorn said. The image of the faceless bugbear was lingering in her mind.

“People surely died, disappeared, turned up as statues in the ruins of the Crag. But this is Droaam. Savage trolls and wild cockatrices are a far more likely explanation. Still, the tale kept people from the Crag … until the Daughters of Sora Kell chose to make it the capital of their new nation.”

“So what happened to all of the statues?”

“See for yourself.”

They’d been making their way along curving tunnels, moving deeper and deeper below the surface. As Sheshka
spoke, they stepped into a cavernous chamber—a hall that stretched far beyond the scope of Thorn’s mystic sight. Pillars were spread throughout the hall like trunks of enormous trees. And there, in the darkness, were the petrified guardians of the Great Crag. Hobgoblins in armor, turned to stone in the midst of battle. Goblin peasants, their faces transfixed in fear. Mighty bugbears. Savage trolls. Beasts of war and burden—dire wolves, tribex, even a small wyvern with its wings broken off. Walking forward, Thorn could see no end to the chamber or to the legions of stone. Some of the statues had been positioned with great care, arranged in military formations. Others had been stacked in heaps that rose up to touch the ceiling. Many were missing limbs, or had been disfigured in other ways by the passage of time or malicious intent.

“Here are the thousands that fell at the hand of Orlassk,” Sheshka said. “Along with some petrified in later days. The Daughters have called on the powers of my kin in the past, and in the early days of their rule, more than a few were turned to stone to serve as warning and example, and ultimately condemned to eternity in the Ossuary. And now the Stormblade has joined them.”

“What makes you so sure? You said he could be anywhere.”

“You came to this place in search of the Stormblade, yes? And you were given a message at the welcoming feast. What did it say?”

Thorn thought back. “Nothing lost remains lost forever, not even a bone in an ossuary.”

“There is your answer. You have come in search of something long lost to you. He has been taken from the Crag. And he is here. You should not doubt the words of Sora Teraza.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Thorn said. “If Teraza knew why I was here, why would she
help
me find Harryn?”

“Because she is Teraza,” Sheshka replied. “Sora Maenya
is hunger, the strength of the Three Sisters. Sora Katra is cunning, and she is their voice. But Sora Teraza … she is fate. She watches the wheels of time. She convinced me to come to the Crag, when Droaam was born. Katra’s words serve the Daughters and Droaam, but Teraza serves a higher power, and she always speaks the truth.”

“This is the same woman who tried to have you killed, yes?”

A ripple passed across Sheshka’s mane of vipers—was this a medusa’s shrug? “The Daughters of Sora Kell may be seeking my death, yes. And if Sora Teraza has seen it, it will come to pass. Her words to you will still be true. Harryn Stormblade is here … one more bone in the Ossuary.”

“I assume the wererats were afraid of the stone ghosts,” Thorn said. “Is that going to last?”

“I do not know,” Sheshka said. “But I am troubled. From what I know of the rats, they are mostly goblins. Many served on the Graywall in the recent troubles. I know that they serve the Three Sisters. But they have never been bound to the Dark Pack. They struck my cousins in the same way that I was attacked, ensuring I would have no sanctuary. They may lack the courage to follow us, but I fear they are working for another. Whether it is Zaeurl or the Daughters themselves, this place will not be a sanctuary forever.”

The task seemed hopeless. Thousands of statues filled the rooms, and the women didn’t even know which hall held Harryn. Thorn was about to draw Steel, to see if the dagger had any ideas, when the answer occurred to her. She knew where Harryn was. She’d already seen him.

“You’ve been down here before, right?” Thorn said.

“Many times,” Sheshka replied, studying the frozen faces around them. “But in those days, the Stormblade stood in the Great Hall of the Crag.”

“I’m not looking for the Stormblade,” Thorn said. “I’m looking for something else. What’s the largest statue down here?”

Sheshka’s snakes coiled and flexed as she considered this. “There are two giants—one to the north, and one to the south. Then there’s a broken wyvern. Three griffins. But the largest would be the hydra. It must have been raised down here—I don’t think it could fit through the tunnels.”

Thorn nodded. “And is one of the griffins close to this hydra?”

A few of the vipers hissed. “Yes. How did you know?”

“Take me there.”

As they walked, Sheshka’s tales of spirits trapped in stone stuck in Thorn’s mind, and she wasn’t sure which disturbed her more—the soldiers who stood ready to strike, or the severed heads and broken faces scattered around the hall. Worse still was the utter lack of vermin. The hall was too clean, too quiet. What could keep even the insects away?

“There it is,” Sheshka said.

The hydra was frozen in black marble. It was an awe-inspiring sight, with eight reptilian heads coiled back and ready to strike. Thorn couldn’t help but think of Sheshka and the nest of vipers twisting around her head. But the hydra was a huge creature; each of its heads was nearly as large as Sheshka was tall. A griffin had been set across from it, rearing up on stone legs. Thorn had seen this tableau before … the picture on the last page of the golden book.

And there, standing in front of the griffin, was the figure of a man in armor, his arms at his sides. Thorn couldn’t see his features, but she already knew it was the Knight of Storms.

Sheshka recognized him as well. “There!” she cried. She started to run forward, but Thorn tackled her after only a few steps, taking her down to the ground. A serpent snapped at Thorn’s face, but this time she was ready. She batted the snake aside with her open hand.

Sheshka whirled to face her, and Thorn snapped her
eyes shut; she could feel the queen’s anger. “What are you doing?” she hissed.

“Possibly saving your life. Again,” Thorn replied. She’d seen it just in time. A faint ripple in the air—the telltale sign of a magical ward, and a powerful one at that. “Whoever carried the statue down here didn’t leave him unprotected.”

Thorn slowly stood up, drawing Steel from his sheath. “What can you tell me?”

“I know nothing of such things,” Sheshka replied. “I have never encountered a ward down here before.”

Thorn ignored her; it was Steel’s analysis that she wanted.

This is no simple alarm
, he said.
This is strong offensive magic. Poetic. It’s set to petrify anyone who crosses the boundary. Seek a statue, become one yourself
.

Thorn sighed. She hated being right. A pinch of silver dust gave a momentary glimpse of the shape of the ward … a mass of wavering glyphs floating in the air like snowflakes, whirling around the Stormblade statue. It was one of the largest she’d seen; whomever had woven this trap had tremendous mystic skill. Sora Katra? Sora Teraza? Did they send Thorn expecting that she’d join the stone army?

Thorn considered her tools—the picks, powders, and oils that she used to disrupt magical energies. She let a few drops of nightwater fly across the boundary. They evaporated instantly.

It was too powerful, too well woven. She considered the pattern again; it was flawless. It had no gaps to exploit. She couldn’t break it.

But she had another option.

Tucking her tools into her cloak, Thorn stood up. “Sheshka?”

The medusa seemed to know what she was thinking. “This is not an ending.”

Thorn stepped forward, across the line of the ward. For an instant she saw the glyphs shimmering around her. Then she felt the touch of magic, chill tendrils spreading through her bones.

And then she felt nothing at all.

S
he found no darkness, because she had no eyes to see. Neither pain nor the lack of pain; she had no nerves or muscles. She couldn’t even give form to these ideas, for she had no mind to channel her thoughts. All she could truly feel was a sense of loss, that everything had been stripped away from her … even though she could no longer explain what “everything” had been.

She felt no sense of time. Years might have passed, or seconds. She couldn’t trap memories in the stone pathways of her mind; she knew only that once it had been different.

Then something changed. A thousand sensations passed over her in an instant, along with the awareness that there
were
such things. Pain. Cold. Fear. And then Thorn was back in her body, struggling to stand on legs that were suddenly able to bend.

A stone knight stood before her, his open hands spread at his sides. He was a large man, tall and muscular. He wore no helmet, and his features were rough, but handsome. His was a face that had seen many battles, hardened by fire and steel. He was dressed in plate mail, and it was the armor of a soldier on the battlefield, not the ornate gear
of a jousting knight. The only adornments on the armor were the dents and scars from the hundreds of blows it had turned aside. That the man could fight in such heavy armor was a testament to his strength. The only decoration he wore was the symbol on his tabard, barely visible on the statue. The cloth was torn, but Thorn could see the outline of a shield on his chest, bearing a simple silhouette of a crown. The Shield of the Crown.

Harryn Stormblade.

Memory followed sensation, flowing back into Thorn’s mind. With this came the realization that Sheshka stood directly behind her; a serpent was brushing against the back of her head. “Help him! Quickly!”

In studying the trap, Thorn realized that she couldn’t disable it. But she could sense the power within the ward, and that it would take time to rebuild its energy after being discharged. Only a living creature could trigger the effect; she couldn’t have thrown a rock through the field. Knowing that Sheshka had the ability to restore her flesh had given her the answer. Her sacrifice had drained the ward. They had only seconds to act before the magical field was restored.

Sheshka leaned close to the petrified knight. It was the image Thorn had seen on the last page of the golden book—the knight standing before the griffin, the hydra with its heads coiled above the medusa. Sheshka pressed her lips against Harryn’s neck, and stone became metal and flesh.

Thorn waited. The instant she saw the change, she grabbed the man’s arm, pulling him out of the petrifying trap. He followed, confused, staggering in his heavy armor.

“Sheshka!” Thorn shouted.

The petrification glyphs have been restored
, Steel said.

Thorn spun around, barely remembering to close her eyes. Sheshka tumbled into her, and the two fell to the ground. Although she’d lost her balance, she was still flesh
and blood. The medusa’s snakes hissed and snapped at the air. Steel scolded her for trusting their fate to Sheshka’s hands. Caught between them, eyes squeezed shut, Thorn found herself laughing … something she’d had little opportunity to do in Droaam. She continued to chuckle as Sheshka pulled free, struggling to regain her footing and her dignity. To her surprise, the medusa queen extended a hand and helped pull Thorn to her feet.

“Thank you,” she told the medusa. “You could have just left me—you promised only to restore Harryn.”

“You have spilled the blood of my enemies. You called to me when I stood on Dolurrh’s doorway. You were not born in my egg-clutch, and I offer nothing to your nation. But you are my sister, Thorn.” Her voice was weary, and the motions of her vipers were sluggish. It seemed that the act of restoration was an effort for her.

Thorn pulled back her hood and drew down the mask covering her lower face. “It’s Nyrielle,” she said. “Nyrielle of Breland.”

If Sheshka was surprised, she gave no sign of it. “I am honored by your trust, Nyrielle Tam. But it is as Thorn that you saved my life. And it is Thorn who must face the road ahead. You have your prize. Now you must decide what to do with him.”