Son of Khyber

CHAPTER TWO

Lower Dura Lharvion 15, 999 YK

The halfling led Thorn through a maze of alleyways and winding stairs. For an old man and a cripple, he moved with a quick, sure step, even when scaling rain-slicked stone.

“Where are you taking me?” Thorn asked. The little man didn’t look back. “The path to your new home is a long one, and it is not yet the time for revelation.”

Thorn stopped beneath a torn awning, rainwater dripping around her. “No, I think this is exactly the time for revelations.”

The little man glanced back at her; he slowed his pace but kept walking. “Stay where you stand, if that is your wish. We shall never meet again, and you shall never know the truth that lies within your blood. Is that your desire?”

Thorn paused for a moment, before moving to join the withered halfling. “If this is some sort of trick, I will kill you,” she said.

The old man smiled.

They climbed the steps in silence. A pair of planks half-hid a door with the seal of condemnation set into the wood. The halfling drew out a key on a light chain, opened the door, and slipped inside. Thorn squeezed through the gap in the plank barricade and followed the little man into the shadows.

The door closed behind her. There were no windows, and the room was fully dark. But Thorn could see the halfling perfectly, and she could smell the oil in the lamp he was struggling with. Two months ago, she’d thought that the ring she wore on her left hand sharpened her senses, allowing her eyes to pierce the deepest gloom. So much had changed over those last two months… and she still had more questions than answers. In any case, the halfling had no knowledge of her supernatural senses; and so she kept still, playing the part of the blind woman as he struggled with the lamp.

The lantern burst to life, crackling and sputtering. A thin mattress was set across a small table, with a chamber pot to one side. Shelves held salted meat and an assortment of weaponry. A safehouse, and not much of one.

Thorn drew Steel. “I don’t know what you’re playing at with your talk of a new home. I don’t know who you are. But I assure you, I’m not about to start a twisted little family with you here.”

The dry chuckle echoed off the walls. “Calm, sister. We are family already. And this is a place of trial, not a destination.”

Thorn kept her blade leveled at the halfling. “Tell me what this is all about.”

“No. I am not the one on trial here, and I need say nothing.”

“Trial?” Thorn said.

“I know what you are, and what you have been… Lantern Thorn.”

There it was. The success of her mission-and possibly, the length of her life-depended on these next few moments. “How do you know that name?”

“Do you deny that it is yours? That you are an agent of the King’s Citadel, one of the deadly eyes of the king?”

Thorn looked away. “I was. For years. Not anymore.”

“Yes… so I have heard.” He gestured at the mattress on the floor. “Put away your blade. Sit. There are many questions you must answer, if you are to earn a place in our family.”

“Family…” Thorn echoed. “You’re Tarkanan, aren’t you?”

The halfling smiled slightly, but Thorn could feel the intensity of his gaze. “Yes. I am Fileon, of the House Tarkanan. Were you looking for us?”

She had been. And she’d been watching this Fileon these last few days, even as he’d been shadowing and stalking her. But she needed him to believe otherwise, to trust her. I’m exhausted, she thought. Afraid. Betrayed. She embraced these feelings and let them flow through her voice and into her posture.

“No,” she said. “I was running. I just wanted to find a place to hide. And everyone knows that the towers of Sharn cast long shadows.”

“Then you are fortunate to have caught my eye, sister.” He ran his hand along his withered arm. “And I have never been one to trust in luck. Put away your blade, and tell me of the one you killed.”

Careful, Steel told her. His touch can kill. If he suspects you, this could be a ploy.

Thorn was all too aware of the danger. Steel had worked with dozens of Lanterns over the course of the past century, and his advice to her was often annoyingly patronizing. This could be a trick, but it was a chance she’d have to take. Keeping her eyes fixed on Fileon’s, she slowly sheathed her blade. “I’ve killed many.”

“You know the one I mean,” Fileon said. “Your first true kill, slain with the power in your blood. The one whose death drove you from your life as a Lantern, changed you from a trusted servant of the king to a common cutpurse in the slums of Sharn. How did he die, your first kill? A helping hand, as you reached out in the heat of battle? Or was he your partner in more ways than one, slain in the height of your passion?”

“Damn you to Dolurrh,” Thorn growled. She let her fingers rest on Steel’s hilt but left the weapon sheathed.

“I am no stranger to the realm of the dead.” The halfling drew back his cloak, exposing his withered arm. “Born to House Jorasco, I was taught to preserve life. I studied the healing arts, learned the seven signs of grayroot fever and three ways to prevent infection in the deepest of injuries. I dreamed of the day that the mark of healing would appear on my skin, when the power of life itself would flow through my blood.”

Thorn said nothing.

“There is power in my blood,” Fileon said, “but it is no force of life. My first was a soldier. He was dying, but I knew strength remained within him. I fought the healer’s battle, trying to pull him back from Dolurrh’s door by will alone. I pounded on his chest and then pain tore through me, as if I had thrust my arm into the fire.”

Fileon brushed his fingers across his maimed limb, and for a moment the lines of his aberrant mark burned with a baleful light. Then it faded.

“Days passed before I awoke. My mother was there at my bedside, and she told me the truth of my blood. My father was not the man I knew. He was an heir of House Ghallanda, and it was the mingling of their marks that set this seed within me. She sobbed on the bed beside me, begging my forgiveness, and when I reached out to touch her-”

“No,” Thorn whispered.

“Yes. I was driven from the house, and I fled to the wilds. I could not bring myself to take my own life, but I couldn’t trust myself around the living. I spent years alone in the plains, hunting with no weapon save my deadly touch. Then a woman found me and showed me that I was not a monster. That I could control this gift. That I need not be alone.”

Thorn touched the mark surrounding her right eye, the twisted red lines mirroring the designs on Fileon’s withered arm. “You mean-”

“Yes, sister. We can help you. We can show you that this power is a blessing, not a curse. But there is much I would know before I will take you to our great hall. Surely you are carrying weapons and tools, remnants of your last mission for the Citadel. Remove each article of clothing and each object of value that you possess. Place it on the floor and tell me its function.”

It was a strange mirror of the way her missions typically began, with the Citadel quartermaster cataloguing and demonstrating her equipment. Now it was her turn to sort through her tools.

“Intrusion.” She had dozens of picks and similar tools concealed in her cloak and various pouches. She spread her cloak on the floor and laid the collection on top of it. Skeleton keys, wires for threading a simple lock, powders and stranger substances needed to detect and bypass magical wards.

The halfling smiled. “Good. Such skills will prove useful in the days to come. I will need to evaluate you further. But continue. What else do you carry?”

“Arcana.” A few more objects from hidden pouches. Spiders in tiny vials, scraps of wool, other items that were seemingly useless but played a vital role in performing various spells.

Fileon studied each object. “The spider’s walk will prove most useful. Invisibility… disguise… What about levitation?”

Thorn shook her head.

“A pity. Continue.”

“Concealed defense,” she said, holding up the silver bracelets she’d been wearing. She clicked them together, and the metal shifted and unfolded, each bracelet expanding into a vambrace of blackened mithral that covered most of a forearm. “Spellforged for enhanced durability and an increse in reaction time.”

Fileon nodded as she returned the bracers to their smaller size. “Continue.”

She held a bracelet in her left hand. She concentrated, and the silver band vanished. “There’s an extraplanar pocket bound to each glove,” she explained. With a thought, she called the bracelet back. “Each one is capable of holding a single object at a time.”

“And what do you have within your right glove?” he asked.

He’s a sharp one, she thought. Setting the bracelets down, she brought her hands together, bracing herself for the weight of the weapon she called forth. It was an axe, with a haft of gnarled darkwood and deadly metal on either end. The axehead was a broad, curved blade, nicked and scarred from generations of conflict. The other end bore a double-edged spearhead. It was a brutal tool, the weapon of a butcher.

Fileon raised an eyebrow. “Strange design. And this is the work of the Citadel?”

“No. It’s called a myrnaxe, forged by the gnolls of Droaam. A trophy from a previous mission.” She set it on the floor, running a finger along the edge of the spearhead. “The lower blade is alloyed with silver and byeshk-there’re a lot of strange creatures in Droaam, creatures who can only be harmed by such metals.” The axe had been a gift from a mercenary warrior after she’d saved his life, and the silver spear had saved her when she’d been hunted by werewolves.

“Yes. A useful tool, to be certain. A thing one might use when fighting a massive foe. An ogre, perhaps.”

Dolurrh! He was sharp. Thorn hadn’t used the axe in that battle precisely because she’d known Fileon was watching-and she needed him to see her use her aberrant mark. “I suppose. I carry it for the silver, but I’m not really comfortable with the weight. I prefer a knife.”

“Then show me the blades you carry,” he said.

There were six of them. Three were balanced for throwing. One was a tiny knife, only useful if poison was employed. The fifth was a simple battle blade. And then there was Steel. Fileon’s eyes lit up when he saw the dagger, and he picked it up to study it more closely.

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.”