The fading dream

CHAPTER ONE

Wroat, Breland B arrakas 20, 999 YK

It was raining in Wroat, but the downpour couldn’t wipe the stench of smoke and urine away from Westgate. A pair of filthy dwarves were quarreling over the corpse of a dead rat, likely the first real meat either had seen in days. Others watched the fight from alleys and broken windows.

Wake up. This is no place to let your mind wander.

The voice was a whisper in Thorn’s mind, cold and sharp as a blade. Hardly surprising, given the source. She tightened her grip on the hilt of her dagger. “Trust me, Steel,” she murmured. “I know what I’m doing.”

Then perhaps you’d enlighten me. You’re supposed to report to Essyn at the eighth bell. Why are we across the river?

“There’s someone I have to meet. It’s not a mission, Steel. Nothing you need to worry about.”

When it brings you to Westgate at dusk, it’s definitely something I have to worry about.

A warforged scout scuttled toward her, a battered soldier made from leather and iron and given life so he could die for the crown. He held out his arm in a pitiful gesture, and Thorn saw that the little scout was missing his left hand. He wore a sign around his neck that read Need Repairs, Copper for Steel. Sovereigns Smile on You.

Thorn quickened her pace, moving out of his path.

No sympathy for the constructed?

“They aren’t all daggers with shining souls,” Thorn murmured. She drew Steel from his sheath, laying his blade across her inner forearm. “Alley to the left. Junk pile just ahead. Three more scouts lying in wait. And in case you didn’t notice, your little friend was missing his hand because he had a retractable sword in his forearm.”

You’re awake after all. My apologies.

“I’ve been to Westgate before.”

A century ago Westgate was a thriving market. I remember a poet from Metrol in that square; he’d drawn a larger crowd than you’d find at the Sharn Opera.

“And I suppose you killed him?”

Of course. He was inciting people against the queen. And he rhymed “Wroann” with “groan.”

“So the Last War was fought over Cyran poetry?”

You have to draw the line somewhere, Lantern Thorn. Gro-ann is as good a place as any.

“Very funny. Now I’m afraid it’s into the glove for you. My contact has a thing about weapons.”

Steel vanished before he could respond, drawn into the pocket of space bound to Thorn’s gauntlet. She could produce him with a thought, but for the moment she needed him out of the way. The dagger was her partner, but what lay ahead was between her and her blood; she didn’t want the Citadel involved.

The little room smelled of bandages and antiseptic salves. An oil lamp spilled light across the room-a small chamber dominated by a camp bed with bloodstained sheets. A young man sat on the bed, dipping a surgical blade into a copper bowl filled with clear fluid.

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he said without looking at her. “Unless you’re just here for dreamlily or alcohol, in which case you can save us both time by leaving.”

“I wouldn’t mind a drink, Nandon,” Thorn said softly. “But I came looking for a friend.”

The man’s fingers tightened on the knife as she spoke. He looked at her, one eye a clear, emerald green, the other a cloudy white. He stood up, carefully setting the bowl on a bedside table. The scalpel was still in his hand. “And what makes you think you’ll find one here?”

She tossed a package on the bed. “I brought you a birthday present.”

Nandon kept his good eye on her as he picked up the parcel. He unwrapped it with one hand, keeping hold of the scalpel. At last he glanced down at the wooden case. “Jorasco?” he said, noting the dragonmarked seal. Setting down the knife, he opened the case. It was a full kit from the House of Healing, complete with panacean salves and a cleansing blade. The blade alone was worth more than all of the goods Thorn could see in the shop. The half-elf took out each item in turn, checking the seals on each vial. At last he looked back at Thorn.

“Very well,” he said. “You’ve bought time, not a friend.”

“I wanted to help you on your birthday, little brother. I’d hoped you’d do the same for me.”

Nandon scowled. He hated being called “little brother,” and not without reason; her extra five minutes didn’t give Thorn a great deal of seniority. Still, when they were children and alone, it had always been Nyrielle who’d stood up to the bullies, Nyrielle who made sure they had food.

“Not the first present you’ve given me, Sister.” He stared at her, and she looked away from his pale eye. “Are you certain you want me to return your favors?”

Thorn shook her head. “I don’t have time for this, Nan. I came here because I thought that we could help each other. Because something strange is happening to me, and I thought it might be happening to you as well. Because I thought my brother might like to see me on our birthday. If I’m wrong, just say so and I’ll let you get back to your slum.”

Nandon stood up, his good eye gleaming. “You can’t just walk in here with a handful of healing potions and dismiss what I’m doing here. This is your fault.”

Thorn was surprised by his vehemence. “What’s my fault?”

“This.” He waved a hand, taking in the blood on the bedclothes and the squalor of the surroundings. “All the work of little boys and girls playing at soldiers. You know who lives in this slum, Sister? Veterans who lost their homes in the war and those too badly crippled to work.”

“It seems I’ve been busy.”

“You and the rest of them. You couldn’t wait to follow in Father’s footsteps, couldn’t wait to sharpen your sword and shed more blood.”

Thorn fought to hold her temper in check. It was an old argument, one they’d been having since the day their father died. “The people you care for, Nandon, your cripples and homeless veterans, who destroyed their homes? I fight the enemies of our nation. The people who did that damage.”

“You’re still working for war instead of peace. As long as the Five Nations struggle with one another, there will always be more victims.”

“Who said the Five Nations were fighting?” Thorn said with a smile. “I’m looking after Oargev of Cyre today.”

Nandon opened his mouth then closed it again. “The Prince in Mourning?” he said slowly.

“That’s right. Lord of New Cyre, where our king has graciously allowed tens of thousands of Cyran refugees to settle in the wake of the Mourning. I know you think I’m a soldier, Nan. But believe it or not, I want peace too.”

He shook his head. “And what would you do then, if the Five Nations are reunited?”

“The same thing our father wanted,” Thorn said. “Come home to my family. I’m relying on you to start one.”

For a moment his gaze locked with hers. Then he smiled for the first time since she walked through the door. “I don’t know about that.”

“Why not? Surely you haven’t split with Calassa?”

The tension ran out of him. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Nyri. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I just… I lost a boy today. Green fever.” He tapped the case she’d given him. “If I’d had this a day ago, he’d still be alive. But people down here can’t afford Jorasco goods. They can’t afford magic, and without it, it’s all too hard to work miracles.”

Thorn stepped forward and held out a hand. He ignored it and embraced her, holding her close for a moment. Then he took a step back and looked at her.

“So… something strange, you say?”

Thorn hesitated for a moment, trying to find the words. “Have you noticed anything unusual about yourself these last few months?”

“Certainly. My allergy to dustmoss has gotten worse. My memory’s not as sharp as it used to be. And I’m quick to lose my patience with evasive sisters. Do you have a point?”

“How well can you see in the dark?”

“My vision’s as good as it ever was, at least since the accident,” Nandon said. “Our mother’s blood still runs in my veins. Why? Is your eyesight failing you?”

“No, no. I’m not talking about seeing clearly in starlight, Nan. I mean full dark-reading a book in a closet at night.”

Nandon frowned. “Of course I can’t do that. Are you… are you saying that you can?”

Thorn nodded slowly. “Yes. And that’s just the beginning.”

Nandon looked away, the scowl back on his face. “I don’t know what this is about-” He fell silent as he looked back and saw what Thorn was doing. She had her hand in the oil lantern, holding her palm to the flame. There was no smell of burning flesh, no pain; the flame licked against her skin without touching it.

“That’s trivial defensive magic,” he said.

“Which I’m not using,” Thorn replied. “And I’ve faced far worse than a candle flame. I survived an Aundairian fireball. On my last mission, I fell into a river of lava below Sharn and walked away without a mark. I don’t know what’s going on, Nandon. I thought… I thought maybe you were going through the same thing.”

He pulled her hand from the lamp, studying the skin and sniffing it. Then he held out a finger and gingerly extended it toward the lantern flame. He pulled it swiftly away the moment it made contact. “It seems not. You’re serious about this, Nyri? You swear this isn’t some sort of prank?”

“On our father’s name, Nandon. I wouldn’t joke about this. I don’t know what to think. I thought I might be developing an aberrant dragonmark, but I’ve looked everywhere I could and found nothing. It’s… it’s frightening. I’d hoped that as a healer-and as my brother-you might be able to give me some answers.”

Nandon nodded gravely. “I need you to tell me everything. From the very first symptom.”

And so she did. She told him how her senses had grown so sharp that she could not only see in deepest darkness, but sense the presence of an invisible man from the sound of his feet and the shifting currents of air. She described the bursts of strength that had let her throw an ogre across a room, though she couldn’t maintain that power for more than a moment. She reiterated her seeming immunity to fire. Thorn revealed the troubling dreams of the woman in red and the silver tree with leaves of gold. After taking a deep breath, she quietly mentioned the deadly touch that came in her moments of deepest pain or fury, snuffing out the life of an opponent and using that power to heal herself. As she spoke, he examined her, testing her claims and searching for any signs of a dragonmark or other exterior trait that could explain her evolving powers. It didn’t take long for him to find the first anomaly: the crystal shards embedded in her neck and spine.

“Where did these come from?” he said.

“I can’t tell you everything,” Thorn said. “It was a mission-”

“And it’s more than my life is worth to know, hmm? Is it more than your life is worth? Because this is definitely unusual.”

“It’s just shrapnel. There was a magical weapon that was both empowered and protected by a swarm of dragonshards. It exploded when it was destroyed, and I was struck by a number of shards. They couldn’t remove those two.”

“And did they say why?” Nandon rubbed a salve across the stone in her neck, and a numbing sensation spread across Thorn’s skin. He put on a pair of spectacles with a strange assortment of lenses and began shifting between them.

“They said that the shards had bonded to the nerves, that they couldn’t be removed without causing considerable damage.”

“And so they have.” Nandon prodded at the top stone, but due to the numbing gel, she could barely feel the touch. “Do they cause you pain?”

“The top one, absolutely. It’s been getting better, but at times it’s agonizing. The lower one, no. Occasionally I feel chills but nothing more.”

He poked at the stones again. “And I just have to ask, as you’re a hero of Breland and queen of the shadows… I’ve heard you Lanterns are trained to evade divination magic, so you can conceal all your magical tricks and weapons. Are you using those techniques now?”

“No.”

He sighed. “I was afraid of that. I don’t know what this is about, Nyri, but I don’t like it. I’m not picking up any sort of magical resonance from these stones. But they are completely bonded to you. I can’t say for certain with the tools at my disposal, but I think they’ve actually fused to the bone itself. That shouldn’t be possible without powerful magic, and yet there’s no energy in the stones.”

“Which means what?”

“The first possibility is that this accident where you were injured involved a wave of transformative energy, and you’re still feeling the impact. Or it could be that the stones are themselves shielded-that there is magical energy within them, but that it’s shielded to evade detection. I just can’t imagine why someone would do that, if these were just random shards among thousands.” He sat down on the bed, tugging on a strand of hair. “But if there’s no power in the stones, there’s no explanation. Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”

Thorn hesitated. “There is one other thing,” she said at last. “On my last mission, a man told me… I was a dragon.”

“A man told you this? Just idle conversation?”

“Well, he wasn’t exactly a man… more of an ancient demon of deception. So you see my problem.”

Nandon sighed. “You do lead an interesting life, Sister. I’ll grant you that.”

“Is it possible?”

Nandon looked at her. “Of course it’s not possible. You’re my sister. You nearly took my eye playing with sticks when we were children. Your mother was an elf, your father a man as normal as any other, and we were born at nearly the same moment. If you were a dragon, don’t you think you would have eaten Gali Das those days he used to beat us?”

“I wish I could have.”

Nandon frowned. “Still, it would explain the immunity to fire and even the sharp senses. Fundamental traits that persist even through a transmutation in form. In the tale of the Thirteen Thieves, the dragon can sense the boy even when he’s invisible, just as you describe. But it’s foolishness. How could you be a dragon? Where are your wings?”

“Well, the same mission where I discovered my keen senses, I thought that I became an actual dragon.”

Nandon stared at her. “And you didn’t think this was worth mentioning?”

“I was battling a demon, and in another plane of existence… reality was distorted. Honestly, I didn’t know what to believe. It’s never happened since then. I’ve tried to force a change and nothing happened.”

Nandon was on his feet, searching the shelves. “I don’t know, Nyri. I don’t know. What does your Citadel say? Surely they have better tools for a broad-spectrum mystical analysis than I do.”

“Nothing at all. But honestly… I don’t know who to trust anymore, Nan.”

“You’re the one who chose a life in the shadows,” he said.

“I know. And I still believe in what I do. But something is happening to me, and I don’t understand it.”

“It’s going to be all right,” he said. “Let little Nandon sort things out for once. Just let me draw a vial of your blood and take a lock of your hair. I have a few ideas, but it will take time to get what I need and perform the rituals.”

“Thank you,” Thorn said, feeling a slight tingle in her eyes. “I’m sorry, Nandon. Sorry I haven’t been here. It’s just-I’m doing what Father would have wanted.”

He raised a hand. “Let’s not start that now. You need my help; I’m helping. Let’s make sure you’re all right. Then we can debate what’s best for Breland and what our father should have done. For now you’re my patient as well as my sister. And I imagine you’ve got places to be. You said you had a prince waiting for you?”

Traveler’s tricks! Thorn grabbed her jerkin. “Yes, and I’ll need to run if I’m going to make it by the eighth bell. How long until you’ll know anything?”

“Three days, at the least. More likely a week or two.”

“You know how to contact me in an emergency. Otherwise I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

He embraced her once more, holding her tighter than before. “Don’t be gone so long this time, Nyri.”

She nodded then broke the hug and headed for the door. “May Olladra smile on you, little brother.”

“And you, my sister.”

Thorn broke into a run as soon as she was on the street. A thought brought Steel back into her hand.

And was it a productive meeting, Lantern Thorn?

“We’ll see,” she said. “But it was certainly worth the trip.”