Son of Khyber

CHAPTER SEVEN

Dragon Towers Lharvion 20, 999 YK Black Blade ale,” Thorn said, licking the foam from her lips. She slipped a chunk of sharp Karrnathi cheese to the rat on her lap. “It’s hardly worth dying for.”

The rat nibbled on the cheese but gave no other response. Thorn wondered if Zae was watching at that moment and what she made of the comment. While Thorn didn’t care much for the brew, it had proven to be her ally tonight. Sorghan made his home in the Deneith enclave in Dragon Towers, a veritable fortress protected by the best soldiers and wards the house could muster. She’d cracked harder targets, but not many-and never operating on her own, with no resources to speak of and no allies. But Thorn knew soldiers, and she guessed that Sorghan wouldn’t spend his Farnight in the enclave canteen. At which point it became a question of identifying his favorite haunts. Thanks to Steel, she knew that Sorghan was born and raised in Karrnath. One could find Karrnathi Nightwood ale in any Ghallanda tavern, but Sorghan came from the city of Karrlakton, and that meant he’d been nursed on the product of the Black Blade Brewery. There was only one inn that served the brew in Dragon Towers: the Lion and Goat, whose trade sign was a statue of a chimera with the dragon’s head knocked off of it. A few greased palms confirmed her suspicions. Sorghan was a regular, and the barman expected him to show when the evening hours rolled by.

Her preparations made, Thorn made her way to the Deneith enclave, watching the gates from the shadows of the nearest alley. The sketch she’d been given was a good one, and she easily spotted Sorghan when he emerged from the stronghold. If assassination were her only goal, she could have struck on the street the moment he was safely away from the watchful eyes of the Deneith guards. But she still hoped to find a way to win the trust of the Tarkanans without killing the marshal, and so she’d shadowed him as he’d made his way to the inn. Now she watched him from a dark corner, surrounded by off-duty mercenaries and the scents of sweat and spilled beer.

Sorghan was drinking alone tonight, and lightly. It seemed that he was a man who never let his guard down. His back was against the wall, and his free hand rested on his blade. He’d worn his armor to the bar, dark leather reinforced with rivets of blackened steel. He was waiting for someone. He’d turned away two companions in the time it had taken Thorn to finish her beer. But he’d yet to notice her.

He’s protected from poisons, Steel told her. He has a spatial pocket woven into his right gauntlet, as you have in your own gloves. I can’t tell you what’s within.

She tapped the dagger once.

I trust that you know what you’re doing, Lantern Thorn. His chilly emphasis on the word “Lantern” suggested that he still had his doubts. My first loyalty is to the Citadel, and I will be obliged to give a full accounting of your actions.

Thorn lifted her hand from the blade and considered her options. Killing him wasn’t the challenge. As a Dark Lantern, Thorn had been trained in the arts of espionage and counterespionage. Skilled as she was when it came to bypassing a lock or shadowing a mark, assassination was her specialty. She’d already considered three possible ways she could finish Sorghan before he could rise from his chair. And if she’d just wanted him dead, that would have been enough. She’d studied the building, even gone so far as to rent a room on the upper floor. She could cripple him with a swift blow, take to the stairs in the ensuing chaos, and slip out the window before anyone could follow.

Unfortunately, his death alone would accomplish nothing. She needed the brooch, and she couldn’t predict how long it would take to retrieve it from his body. And in a room full of Deneith troops, every second would be precious. Besides, in spite of her anger at the Twelve, Thorn still hoped to keep Sorghan alive. She could look into Fileon’s claims once the mission was over, but for now she’d prefer to get Sorghan safely out of Sharn.

Thorn glanced down at the rat. The creature had finished the last crumb of cheese, and Thorn tucked it into her pouch. Time to act.

A trip to the bar provided her with two more flagons of Black Blade. So armed, she strode over to the corner and took a seat at the table.

“That seat is claimed, my lady.” Sorghan’s voice was deep and rough, and his gray eyes could have been chips of flint. Thorn could see the silver brooch, but he wasn’t wearing it on his cloak. Instead, it was pinned to his armor, partially hidden by dark wool.

“Quite. It was good of you to save it for me.” She pushed a flagon across the table. “I’m happy to repay the favor.”

“I’m in no mood for company.”

“It’s not up to you, Marshal Sorghan.” Thorn let her hood slide back and ran her fingers along the edge of her dragonmark. “I’m afraid I’m on family business.”

Thorn had changed before entering the bar. There was more to the work of the Lantern than mere muscle and steel. During her days in the Citadel, she’d learned to work a few spells. It wasn’t something that came easily or often, but in times like this, it was invaluable. She’d woven an illusion that hid her face and form, and now she appeared to be a minister of House Deneith with the Mark of Sentinel traced across her face. She’d darkened her hair and sharpened her features, highlighting the Karrnathi ideals of beauty.

Sorghan’s eyes betrayed no hint of surprise nor emotion of any sort. Thorn was hard-pressed to tell if her disguise affected him on any level. “Continue.”

“You’re to return to Karrlakton, immediately.”

He remained utterly impassive. “And why is that?”

Thorn smiled. “I’m afraid it’s a delicate matter, Marshal. Not one I can discuss in such a public space.”

“A matter of some urgency, it would seem. Such that you could not wait for me at the enclave.”

Thorn shrugged. “My instructions are quite clear. There are things I am to share with you and you alone.” She looked away. “And I will admit to having a… personal interest in a private meeting. The tales of your exploits are most impressive.”

She saw the slightest hint of a smile on his lips. “Tales of my many victories in battle?”

Now she met his gaze and returned the smile. “Oh, those too. I have a room here. Perhaps when you’ve finished your ale, I could share my messages.”

“Why wait?” Sorghan pushed back his stool and rose from the table. “I’ve had enough to drink for the moment. And if you wish a demonstration of my skills, I should like to have my head clear.”

“Of course.” Illusion hid Thorn’s belt pouches, but she could still find them, and she reached down and ran her fingers along the body of the rat. The creature was slightly stiff, its breathing slow and steady. The soporific she’d slipped into the cheese had clearly taken effect. Smiling, she rose and walked to the stairs. “Follow me, Marshal Sorghan. We have much to discuss.”

The Lion and Goat might have had an exceptional selection of beer, but its rooms left much to be desired. Thorn’s quarters were cramped, the linens were stained, and there was a long crack in the mirror that hung on the wall. Thorn pulled the shutter on the everbright lantern, and the light of the cold fire filled the room. Behind her, Sorghan shut the door.

Thorn considered the situation. “This may be hard to-”

Sorghan was upon her before she could finish. He grabbed her hair and pulled hard, jerking her head back. He had a knife at her neck, a narrow dagger that felt like a sliver of ice.

“No words,” he said. “Hands on the table, spread wide.” He pressed the point of the frigid dagger against her throat.

Thorn’s instincts urged her to retaliate, to break his hold. But Sorghan was a Sentinel Marshal, and his reflexes could easily match her own. For now, it was best to play along. She leaned over, spreading her fingers against the desk. What game was he playing?

He pressed his hand down against the back of her neck, rubbing his fingers along the skin until he reached the embedded shard. Thorn’s illusion only fooled the eyes, and though he couldn’t see the stone, he could feel it.

“Drop the glamer,” he growled.

She tried to speak, but the instant she opened her mouth the chill blade pressed into her throat. She could feel her blood freezing on contact with the blade.

“No words.”

Thorn reached out with her thoughts, pulling on the threads of magic surrounding her. There was a tingle as the magic faded, and in that instant Thorn moved. She threw herself backward, slamming her head into his nose. She fell back with him, tumbling to the side before he could regain his balance and cut her throat. She rose to her feet, Steel in her hand.

That went well, Steel said.

Thorn ignored him. “Stop. I’m trying to save your life, you fool!”

Sorghan laughed. “Of course you are. And the one who warned me that a piece of aberrant scum with a stone in her neck would try to kill me… I suppose that was a trick of some sort?” He drew his rapier, and his frigid dagger steamed in the warm air.

“Nothing is what it seems,” she said. “I’m working for the Twelve.”

“Your own flesh proves you a liar,” he snarled. “No one of tainted blood could ever sit at Alder’s table.”

“I’m not an aberrant, you thrice-damned idiot! I’m working to infiltrate the Tark-”

Sorghan’s skills were as good as she’d heard. The dagger struck her before she’d even seen him move. The blade sunk into her chest, but she barely felt any pain. A terrible chill drowned all sensation. Her blood was freezing in her veins, and she could barely find the strength to draw breath.

“I care nothing for the schemes of weaklings,” Sorghan said. “It’s time we destroyed Tarkanan’s brood. Beginning with you.” He lunged, sword glittering in the light of the cold fire. He shouldn’t have gloated. The shock of the icy dagger’s blow had stunned Thorn, and if he’d struck immediately, Sorghan might have finished her. As it was, she had enough presence of mind to stagger backward, staying just out of his reach.

It was hard for Thorn to focus on anything except for the terrible chill, and she had no time to study the wound. At least the cold held any pain at bay.

Sorghan struck again, and this time there was no room to retreat. Instinct took over as Thorn stepped forward, knocking the blade out of line with an armored bracer and charging at Sorghan. Too close for him to bring his rapier to bear, she smashed him to the floor. There was no time for thought or regret. She lashed out with Steel, a blow that should have buried the blade in his throat.

But it didn’t.

It felt as if she’d struck a block of ice, as if the air had solidified before her blade. Sorghan was a warrior of House Deneith, heir to the Mark of Sentinel. And the powers of this mark defended the bearer from harm.

“Your blood is no match for mine!” Sorghan snarled as they wrestled on the floor. At the moment it was true. Thorn’s wound was sapping her strength. Her fingers were numb, her vision fading at the edges. Sorghan spun her to the floor and pulled his icy dagger from her chest, raising the steaming blade for the killing blow.

And in that instant, she hated him. Not for his bigotry, his treacherous attack, or even the fact that he was about to kill her. There was no conscious thought, just pure, primal emotion. And that rage gave her the strength she needed to press her open hand against his chest. For a moment, she felt nothing but fury, then Sorghan collapsed on top of her, his dagger clattering across the floor.

Sorghan was dead weight, and he slumped to the side as Thorn pushed him away. It was then that she realized that both cold and pain were gone. Blood stained her vest along a gash where the dagger had struck her, but the flesh beneath was pure and unmarred.

It had happened again.

Thorn rose to her feet, expecting to feel weak and unsteady. Instead she felt stronger than ever. Filled with energy. Sorghan lay still, and a quick examination confirmed her suspicions. He was dead. His skin was pale and cold, his mouth twisted in a grimace of pain, but there wasn’t a mark on his body.

She picked up Steel. “What happened to him?”

He died. I should think that was obvious.

Thorn nearly threw the dagger at the floor. “This isn’t a joke, Steel! What did you see?”

There was a burst of arcane energy at the moment you touched him, consistent with the use of a dragonmark or offensive spell. It would appear that you drew out his lifeforce and used it to heal yourself, as you did with Toli in Droaam.

“But I didn’t cast a spell.”

If you say so.

Thorn shook the dagger. “I didn’t mean to kill him!”

In doing so, you saved your own life. For the second time. A useful talent, in my opinion.

That was a sobering thought. “But I don’t know how. Have I… am I an aberrant?”

Not unless you have a dragonmark. But there are other possibilities.

“Such as?”

You could be a demon. Disguised in human form.

“Oh, brilliant deduction. And I never noticed?”

In this scenario, I’d assume that you’ve been concealing your identity for some sort of sinister purpose. Though admittedly doing a poor job of it.

Thorn took a deep breath, resisting the urge to fling Steel across the room. Fear and anger warred within her. The dragonshard at the base of her neck had come alive, burning against flesh and bone, and she seized on that familiar pain, using it to anchor her racing thoughts.

“I need to know what’s going on, Steel. I’ve been lucky so far. But damn it, this is my cover story. I’m supposed to be here because I can kill with my touch and I can’t control it. Well, guess what? I can kill with my touch, and I can’t control it. And I’ve got Sentinel Marshals trying to kill me. I’m really starting to think I’m on the wrong side of this one.”

You have no aberrant dragonmark-

She drove the dagger into the floor and released it. “You don’t know that! You don’t have any explanation for what’s going on. What if the mark is in the back of my throat? What if it just hasn’t appeared yet?”

Steel couldn’t answer when he wasn’t in her grip. The red disk on his pommel gleamed, almost like an eye.

“Damn it, Steel,” Thorn said. “I just keep thinking of Fileon’s stories. The Twelve sending him to his death. We aren’t doing this job for Breland. And now this. Sorghan was ready to kill me just because I was an aberrant. And for all I know, I am. For all I know, I do need these people.” Her dream of Far Passage returned to her mind, the vision of Mayne falling at her touch. The anger was gone. All that was left was the pain of the shards and uncertainty. She reached out and picked up Steel. “If I can’t control this, how long before I do kill someone I care about?”

I suppose you’re lucky that your only friend is a dagger. His mental voice was softer than usual. I apologize for questioning your judgement, Lantern Thorn. I hope that you have earned the Tarkanan’s trust with your actions. Sorghan’s death is unfortunate, but I can testify to your attempt to protect him. I sympathize with your concerns, but I urge you to set them aside and proceed with the mission.

“Well, I’m glad I have your approval. I’d hate to replace you.” Thorn picked up Sorghan’s fallen blade and tucked it into her belt. “Now, unless you’ve got something useful to contribute, I’ve got a murder scene to clean, a brooch to claim. And I suppose I might as well wake up the rat.”

That’s right, Steel whispered. I guess I’m not your only friend after all.

“So it seems.” Thorn studied Sorghan, considering how best to deal with the corpse. His words echoed in her thoughts: The one who warned me…

“And it seems I have new enemies, as well.”