The fading dream

CHAPTER TWO

Wroat, Breland B arrakas 20, 999 YK

Thorn arrived at the Cyran consulate as the final bell was ringing the hour. Footmen were preparing the royal carriage, hitching the team of stallions and polishing the brass. Thorn had become quite familiar with that carriage over the course of the past few weeks, ever since she’d been assigned to Prince Oargev’s security detail. When she’d been sent to the refugee settlement of New Cyre, she’d seen the assignment as punishment. She’d pushed the edge of her orders in her previous mission. For all that she was looking after a prince, he was a prince without a country; his current holdings were temporary gifts. Thorn and the three King’s Shields assigned to Oargev were more an honor guard than anything else-a show of Breland’s continued friendship with the last branch of the Cyran crown. As expected, the journey to Wroat had been entirely without incident. For all that Oargev was a celebrity, her skills were wasted there.

Something was different. There was a second coach in the courtyard, a drab vessel compared to the grand royal coach. Yet the prince’s footmen were preparing it as well, and Thorn could see a magewright inside the cabin inscribing protective glyphs on the floor. Then there was Essyn Cadrel. Dressed in bright silks, Essyn had the look of a bard, and that’s what he’d been in his younger days. Since the Mourning, he’d been Prince Oargev’s confidant. Thorn had quickly discovered that he was also the closest thing the prince had to a spymaster. Oargev was a passionate man, but he’d been raised as a noble and a knight, not a schemer. It was Essyn Cadrel who kept one ear to the ground and one to the window, pulling on the threads scattered across the shadows. If Cadrel was personally inspecting the coach, there was more to it than an idle delivery.

A man in the dress of a mercenary guard caught sight of Thorn and raised a hand. She didn’t recognize the uniform, but she knew his face. “You’re cutting things close,” he said.

Thorn grinned. “I was through the gate when the bell rang, Jovi. Lovely outfit you’ve got there. Did the prince dress you tonight?”

Jovi smiled and touched a finger to one of the spots of rust on the chain shirt he was wearing. “The old man did, if that’s close enough. And I’m guessing he’ll have some ideas for you.” He snorted. “I’ll wager you didn’t expect to be playing dress-up at the whim of a landless boy when you swore your oath to the Shields, eh?”

“True enough,” Thorn said. Of course, she’d sworn a different oath than Jovi.

Both Thorn and Jovi served the King’s Citadel, the elite forces of the Brelish crown. The Citadel was divided into multiple arms: The King’s Swords were the toughest soldiers in the land, called in when brute force was the only answer. The King’s Wands specialized in magic, including investigating mystical crimes, protecting the land from supernatural threats, and bringing arcane power to bear in times of war. The King’s Shields were the bodyguards of the royal line, trained to spot any threat and ready to lay down their lives to protect those placed in their charge, in the case before Thorn, Oargev ir’Wynarn.

Both Jovi and Oargev believed that Thorn served the King’s Shields and that she was there to protect Oargev. In fact, Thorn belonged to the fourth arm of the Citadel: The King’s Dark Lanterns. The Lanterns were the eyes of Breland, and its hidden hands-spies, inquisitives, and when the situation called for it, assassins. Jovi, Delru, and Lanner were there to protect the prince. Shield Thorn had to protect him too. But Lantern Thorn was there to watch, though so far, there’d been little to see.

Perhaps that night would be different. “So what are we dealing with? A decoy operation?”

“It seems the thorn is sharp.” Essyn Cadrel was an old man with lines around his eyes and snow white hair that fell to his shoulders. “Though I admit it’s a tired, old plot. Yes, his highness has an appointment on the island tonight with his noble cousin Boranel. The royal carriage will be taking Parliament Road to the Queen’s Bridge. We’ll follow a different route, with the prince inside.”

Thorn frowned. “Why the extra precautions?”

The adviser waved one hand dismissively. “Truth be told, I’m a touch ashamed of this production. There’s been a few rumors. Nothing confirmed. Hardly even credible.”

Steel stirred in Thorn’s grip. Then why the effort?

The question was already on Thorn’s lips. “It seems like a great deal of work for a threat you don’t actually believe in.”

Cadrel shrugged. “His highness has been troubled of late, and he demanded the extra effort. I do whatever I can to comfort my prince.”

That seemed plausible enough. While Thorn hadn’t spoken much with Prince Oargev, she’d spent a great deal of time around the young prince over the course of the past two weeks, and he had seemed to become increasingly agitated as they drew closer to the Brelish capital. “What about these rumors, then? What’s the nature of the threat?”

“An embarrassment to us all. You’ve spent enough time among us to know just how passionate the young prince is about restoring Cyre. But there are those among his scattered subjects who expect him to work miracles… as if he could somehow lift the mist from the Mournland with a wave of his hand.”

Thorn nodded. Oargev worked closely with the lords of the Five Nations. But ever since the Day of Mourning, there had been those who were unsatisfied with his diplomatic efforts. Breland had given refugees a place to live, but many among them wanted a true kingdom of their own, and some were angry Oargev hadn’t made it happen. “I’ve heard about the riots in Stormreach and Fairhaven,” Thorn said. “But you think that some of the refugees might actually attack the prince? What would that accomplish?”

Cadrel spread his hands sadly. “Who can decipher the whims of madmen, my dear?”

“How solid is this? Do we have a sense of numbers and organization?”

“Not at all, I fear. Truly, Shield Thorn, this is more a matter of intuition than anything else. I collect rumors, and I’ve heard many since we arrived in this fair city. Cyrans speaking angrily in a Riverside tavern. An officer’s blade from the Fifth Crown turning up in a flea market. An accusation that some among the King’s Wands are selling arms to dissidents. I’ve heard a dozen other tales, and there’s no reason to assume that any of them are connected. And yet… I’m a storyteller, my lady. To weave a fine tale, you always start with disparate threads. It’s bringing them together that makes it art. And here, tonight… I see a group of elite soldiers, trained in the use of sword and wand. I see powerful weapons gone missing from the king’s own arsenal. An appointment our lord cannot pass up, and an attack on the royal carriage. Most likely just a fanciful tale, but his highness likes a good story, and he doesn’t want to see this one come to pass.”

Seems a little farfetched, if that’s really all he’s got, Steel said. There’ve been tales of corruption within the Wands for the last century. Nonetheless… the Fifth Crown is an urban strike force, trained to make assaults deep within enemy territory.

Thorn tapped Steel’s hilt thoughtfully. She’d clashed with the Fifth Crown at the end of the war, well before she’d received Steel. She’d been lucky to survive the experience. A resentful group of former soldiers, selling all they could to raise enough gold to buy mystical weapons on the black market… it might be unlikely, but she could see why Cadrel would be concerned. “What’s the plan?”

“Gal will take the prince’s place in the royal carriage. The house guards will join him there, so anyone who knows our staff will see them. His highness will travel in this coach, disguised and guarded solely by you Brelish. We’ll follow Blackmarket, and take the King’s Bridge-a foolish route, to be sure, but that’s the point. A merchant envoy, bringing goods to Brokenblade Castle.” He glanced at her black clothing and the vambraces of blackened mithral protecting her forearms. “Do you have something in gray?”

“I think I can find something suitable.” She closed her eyes and let her fingers pass down along her torso, crafting an image in her mind. She could feel her clothing changing with her thoughts. Her working clothes were formed from shiftweave, fabric enchanted to hold a wide range of forms. A moment’s work and she was dressed in the clothes of a simple laborer, complete with mud stains on her gray breeches; puffy sleeves covered her vambraces. “Satisfactory?”

“I would prefer a darker gray but it’ll do. I believe that’s his highness approaching now. I’d like you on the back of the coach, if you will.”

A group of guards in Cyran green and gold escorted a handsome young man, the jewels on his crown sparkling in the light of the cold-fire lanterns. Thorn had met Gal back in New Cyre; the changeling’s family had served the Cyran crown as body doubles since before the Last War. A strange life to be sure, yet one he excelled at; if she didn’t know the plan, Thorn would never have guessed the difference. Gal had mastered Oargev’s cocky smile, his confident stride, even the way he wore his crown just a little cocked. And he’d even worked in the tension Thorn had noted in the prince, the faraway look in his eyes.

Footmen helped the false prince into the carriage. Guards took their posts, and a few cavalry soldiers spread out in front and behind. The great gates were opened, and the coach rolled out onto the streets of Wroat.

Those who followed were less remarkable. A group of servants loaded a few casks and crates on the smaller wagon. Smiling, Essyn Cadrel made an elaborate gesture, and his clothes shifted and changed. He was no doppelganger, but as a bard, he’d learned a trick or two with illusions. Within seconds he was a little younger, a little plumper, with clothes suited to a middle-class merchant, not ostentatious enough to stand out, but prosperous enough to possibly have business at the castle. Three footmen helped him into the coach and followed him up. Only the keenest of watchers would have recognized the youngest member of the trio as Prince Oargev himself and the others as King’s Shields.

Thorn took her place on the back of the coach. Jovi mounted a lean, gray mare and took point. Then the coachman cracked his whip and the carriage rumbled forward, out onto the streets of the Lower Crescent.

If you ask me, we’re running from the prince’s own fears.

“I don’t recall asking.” Thorn held Steel tight against her inner arm, hidden by the baggy sleeves of her gray blouse.

It’s been four years since the Mourning. His people are still scattered, confined to ghettos and resettlement camps.

The coach bounced on a misplaced cobblestone, and Thorn tightened her grip on the rail. She kept her eyes on the crowds milling around the edge of the streets, but no one seemed to be paying any mind to the merchant carriage. “And he blames himself.”

Exactly. We know there are militant Cyran factions out there. Dannel’s Wrath attacked the Lyrandar shipyards in Stormreach a month ago, promising it will get worse until the Cyrans receive new lands. But in their statements they’ve never even mentioned Oargev.

“So he’s afraid that his people blame him… and equally afraid that they just don’t care.”

Precisely.

There was a glint of metal in the crowd, a blur of motion. Thorn shifted Steel into a throwing grip. There! A halfling with a tiny blade in one hand and a leather purse in the other. He was ducking between the legs of the crowd. Thorn’s thoughts raced, evaluating the little man’s path and speed. A cutpurse, or so it seemed; a woman in the crowd was already waving her arms. Likely it was just random chance that was bringing him toward the wagon, and Thorn wasn’t paid to take on the duties of the City Watch. But there was no telling what might be hidden in that pouch, and it seemed as if his path would take him directly under their carriage.

The moment the halfling broke from the crowd, Thorn threw Steel. It was a sound blow, and the pommel of the black dagger struck the cutpurse directly on the bridge of his nose. He dropped the pouch and staggered backward, blood dripping from his broken nose. The crowd descended on the thief, and a watchman pushed his way toward the halfling. There’s one good deed for the day, Thorn thought. Steel flew back to her hand. She caught him and nearly dropped him; his psychic cry was as shocking as a blow.

Western inn! Second floor! Magical attack!

Thorn acted without thought. She could see a gleam of light from the corner of her eye, but there was no time to throw Steel again. Grabbing the railing, she flung herself around the edge of the coach, placing the body of the carriage between her and the enemy. She was reaching for the door when the blast came. Her skin tingled and the world was filled with flame and screams of pain. Broiling wind washed over her, threatening to fling her from the carriage. But she kept her grip, ignoring the stench of burning hair and flesh. The screams were coming from behind her, from the bystanders caught in the blast. The coach itself was still intact. The shielding glyphs carved into the coach had done their job well. Still, there was no telling how long the glyphs would last against a determined assault or what other weapons or spells the attacker could bring to bear. The King’s Shields could protect the prince if there were a ground assault; Thorn intended to take the fight to the assassin.

One quick pull and she was on top of the carriage. She could see the scorched wood on the opposite side of the coach; strong as the defensive enchantments were, they wouldn’t take another blast. And there was the shadowy figure standing in the window of a nearby inn, a wand leveled at the carriage. Thorn didn’t hesitate. It took her two steps to reach the edge of the coach, and on that second stride she leaped, flinging herself into the air.

“Kharbys!” Thorn snapped out the word as she jumped. A buoyant wave of magical force lifted her into the air. It wasn’t true flight, but the little spell was all she needed. The man in the window ducked out of the way as she came crashing in. Thorn rolled to her feet, lashing out with Steel, but the man was out of her reach. He raised his wand, but she was already charging.

Thorn knocked the wand aside before the man could unleash whatever spells were held within, and the weapon skidded across the floor. She made a quick thrust, hoping to catch her enemy in the shoulder and cripple him before the fight even began. She wanted to take him alive if she could. Oargev aside, the man had crippled or killed a host of civilians in the blast. She wanted to know exactly who was responsible for that.

Her enemy wasn’t going to make it easy for her. Thorn hadn’t seen the buckler in his hand, but he knocked Steel out of line with a swift, confident blow. Then the buckler was gone, replaced by a dark blade driving straight at her exposed breast. She twisted away, feeling a shiver of pain as the blade grazed her shoulder.

Only then was Thorn able to recognize details about her foe, as their blades clashed and they circled the room. His weapon was formed of shadow bound to a solid hilt, and it could shift between sword and shield to be whatever he needed. With each thrust and riposte, she was able to see more. Straight thrust, sidestep and move in, keep the distance close. Human. Male. Silver-gray hair. Gray eyes. Ugly scar on the left side of his face. Striking with the shield, evade and use the momentum against him. Dark skin. A build pairing speed and strength in equal amounts. Loose, black clothes sewn from enchanted shiftweave, more effective than any mundane camouflage. A blow to the throat, parry and lash out with a pommel to the face. A badge on his collar, a silver wedge with gray enamel. Leg sweep, leap over and kick low.

The kick connected and the man staggered back. Thorn didn’t hesitate; she threw Steel, burying the blade in her enemy’s right shoulder. She didn’t call him back; she wanted the assassin off balance. Instead, she ran forward, raising her empty hands for an overhead blow.

A weaker man would have been in shock from his wounds, but her opponent didn’t hesitate. His shadow-blade shifted into its shield form, and he brought it forward to meet her fists. An easy defense if she struck with her empty hand. But as the blow fell, she reached into her left glove and pulled another weapon out of the space bound within-a wicked axe with a long, curved blade on one end of the haft and a vicious spearhead on the other. Thorn didn’t strike with either blade; she just brought the full weight of the axe down on her enemy’s injured arm. As she’d hoped, it was more than he could bear. The man dropped to his knees, his shadowy weapon collapsing into the form of a short rod and rolling from his grasp. Holding her axe with both hands, Thorn knocked him to the floor, pressing one knee into his chest and the haft of her axe into his throat.

“Enough,” Thorn hissed. She could feel blood matting her sleeve, and the shard in her neck pulsed like an angry wasp digging into her spine. She wanted to drive her spear into his throat. “You’ve got an appointment across the bridge, you bastard.”

The man struggled ineffectively, blood flowing from his shoulder and his breath coming in ragged gasps. A moment more and he’d pass out. He met Thorn’s gaze, and his eyes were wild. “The prince will fall,” he rasped. “And Galifar burn until our home has been returned.”

“You’re not burning anything-” Even as she spoke, Thorn felt an awful spark of doubt. The wand! It had fallen on the floor, across the room…

But somehow it was back in his hand.

Fire filled the room. The force of the explosion hurled her off of the man and slammed her against the wall, driving the air from her lungs. There was a sharp crack, and in a shower of soot and plaster, both floor and ceiling collapsed. Thorn was caught in the cascade and rolled into a ball as she fell. The chaos took only a moment. Then all was still save for the cries of those injured and trapped by the burning debris.

Thorn carefully rose to her feet, shifting aside the few pieces of rubble that had fallen on top of her. Smoke and ash filled the air, and her clothes were smoldering; the wood around her was seared, and she could smell blood and burned flesh. Aside from her bruises and scrapes, she was unhurt. Whatever power shielded her from flame had saved her yet again. She should have been blinded and choking on the thick smoke; instead it gave her no more trouble than cool fog, and even though she couldn’t see, she knew where the rafters had fallen, her mind painting a picture using the sound of crackling flames and the shifting pressure of air and ash. She returned the axe to its pocket of space within her glove and reached out to Steel with her thoughts. Charred wood shifted as the dagger pulled free and flew to her hand.

Get out of here immediately, he told her. The building could collapse at any moment.

“And our friend?”

Little left of him. What’s there will keep. Best to see to Oargev. It seems I was wrong to question his fears.

“Just coming to that conclusion, are you?” Thorn pushed through the rubble as quickly as she could, dodging the chunks of wood that fell from the ceiling. “What’s out there? Are there more of them?”

No significant mystical signatures. But I didn’t sense the presence of the assassin until he charged the wand for the initial strike.

“Lovely.” A moment later she was out of the smoke and back in the clear air of the street, or at least as clear as riverside Wroat ever was. While the walls of the Cyran coach had survived the blast, one of the wheels was shattered, and those horses that had survived were too badly injured to move. One of the King’s Shields was helping Essyn and Oargev out of the battered wagon. The other Shield, Delru, had leaped down from the coach and was scanning the streets. He leveled his crossbow at Thorn as she emerged then lowered it as he recognized her.

“The Watch and the Wands should be here in minutes,” he said as Thorn approached.

“We’re not waiting,” she said.

“Jovi’s not back-”

“Which means he may have died buying us the time you’re wasting,” Thorn snarled. “This wasn’t the work of one man. Lanner, take point on that alley. Your Highness, stay close to him.”

Delru grabbed her arm. “We should wait for reinforcements to-”

“Down!” Thorn saw the spark in the shadows even as Steel cried a warning in her mind. She slammed into Essyn Cadrel, knocking him to the ground and shielding him with her body. The spark became a flash, the raw power of the storm harnessed by arcane skill. Delru’s silhouette was seared into Thorn’s eyes as the lightning engulfed him, and the shattered remnants of the carriage fell all around her. She felt the sheer power of the lightning as it passed over her, and just the force of its wake was enough to set her nerves tingling.

“Get to the alley!” Thorn pulled Cadrel to his feet and shoved him toward the edge of the street. She could see Lanner in the mouth of the alley, shielding the prince with a field of shimmering energy projected from his bracer. Delru hadn’t been so lucky. Thorn could see a shirt of light chain mail gleaming in the gaps in his smoldering clothes. The enchantment in the armor had saved the bodyguard’s life, dispersing the full force of the blast. But his skin was charred and cracked, and he’d fallen to one knee. It was a miracle he was still conscious, and he wouldn’t be running anytime soon.

“Go!” he cried, voice rough with pain. Thorn was searching for some sign of their assailant, but Delru had already found the target. He loosed a bolt from his crossbow, firing into a tavern; glass exploded from the other windows as Delru’s quarrel released a charge of concussive force. He pulled back the winch, a second quarrel sliding automatically into place. “Go! I’ll cover you.”

There was no time to hesitate. Thorn raced across the street, and Lanner shifted his shield to make room for her. She slipped past the two Cyrans. “Follow me. Lanner, keep close to the prince. Quickly!”

Wroat was the first human city in Breland, far older than Sharn. When Galifar united the Five Nations, he rebuilt Wroat to be a jewel of the newly unified kingdom… and in the process, he left segments of the old city buried and forgotten. Thorn sprinted down an alley, the others close behind. Cracked steps led down to a rusted gate.

“Through here,” Thorn said. Bars had snapped and fallen away, leaving just enough room to squeeze through the barrier. The tunnel beyond was cold, dry, and dark; the ever-burning lanterns had been scavenged and sold long before.

“No light!” Thorn hissed as Lanner reached for a sunrod. “Form a line and hold hands. I’ll guide you. Lanner, I want you at the rear, and you keep that shield up.” The darkness posed no obstacle to Thorn, and she led them quickly and carefully through the abandoned tunnels, warning them of gaps in the stone and other hazards.

“Aren’t we heading the wrong way?” It was Essyn Cadrel. “It seems to me that we’re moving away from the King’s Bridge.”

“We are,” Thorn said. “You were ambushed on your way there. Whoever attacked us knew your plans. They might have prepared a contingency. So the last thing we’re going to do is to follow your original path. There’s a footpath that runs underneath the Queen’s Bridge. There’s a host of guards at that gate; once we’re there, we’ll be able to get safe passage to the island.”

“Clever,” Cadrel said. “I suppose that it helps a bodyguard to be able to think like an assassin.”

“Oh, yes. I’m doing excellent work tonight. But I’m not the only one, am I?” She tightened her grip on Cadrel’s hand. “Those killers knew exactly where to find us. Either they attacked every coach that left the consulate, or they knew about the decoy operation. How do you explain that?”

“Do not doubt my friend Essyn.” It was the first time Prince Oargev had spoken since the attack. His voice was strong and steady, but there was a great sorrow to it. “This is not his doing. I have seen the anger growing in the eyes of my subjects. I have heard the whispers among my servants. I am certain I have been betrayed by someone within the consulate.”

“I do accept some of the responsibility, Your Highness,” Cadrel said. “I… For all that I proposed the scenario, I didn’t take the threat as seriously as I should have. I saw the pieces and crafted a possible story from them, but I didn’t truly believe it would come to pass. I should have been more careful, should have restricted the number of servants who even knew of the plan. It’s just that I still have trouble imagining any of our own people wishing to do you harm.”

Thorn had her own thoughts on the matter, but it was not the time for them. “We need to get you to the castle. The Citadel will get to the bottom of this.”

“Perhaps they will do so sooner rather than later, Lady Thorn. For the Citadel is our destination.”

“What?”

Where Oargev had retreated into silence, talking was clearly a comfort for Essyn Cadrel. “Perhaps you thought this was a simple diplomatic visit. But we are not going to Brokenblade Castle tonight. We aren’t here to discuss the census of New Cyre or the tax burden we’ve placed on Breland. No, we’ve been called to the tower of the King’s Citadel to speak with Boranel and Lord Vron. The message revealed all too little, though with recent events, I understand their concerns about our security. Nonetheless, one thing was clear: it concerns the Mourning.”