The fading dream

CHAPTER THREE

Wroat, Breland B arrakas 20, 999 YK

The king of Breland was in a foul mood.

“I assure you, boy, I will find whoever is responsible for this outrage and make them pay if I have to do it with my own two hands!” King Boranel ir’Wynarn roared. “To unleash such forces against my blood in my own city! There shall be a reckoning, I assure you of that.”

The conference room was deep in the Tower of the Citadel. The walls were stone quarried from the Black Pit, infused with mystical energies that served as a natural shield against all forms of scrying. Magical symbols were inscribed around the border of the walls, creating a field that prevented any sound from escaping the room. There would be no eavesdropping there.

“We know that you had nothing to do with this attack, Your Highness.” Essyn Cadrel spoke for the Cyrans. Prince Oargev sat silently at his side; Thorn wasn’t sure if the prince was still recovering from the attempted assassination or if he simply didn’t know how to deal with his boisterous cousin. “And we are grateful for the service of your Shields; if not for your Thorn, we might both have perished.”

The king turned to Thorn. “Is that so?”

Thorn felt cold sweat on her skin and struggled to find words. Protecting the Prince of Cyre was one thing, but he was Boranel. For a moment she was little Nyrielle Tam again, listening to her father’s tales of the great deeds of their king. Her father had been her hero, but Boranel had been his hero. “I was part of a team, Your Majesty. Without Lanner and Delru, there’s no telling what would have happened.”

Boranel nodded. “Well said. But this isn’t the first time your deeds have been brought to my attention. Sit with us, Thorn. Take some wine.”

“I’m just here escorting the prince, Your Majesty. I doubt that I’m cleared for this briefing.”

Boranel chuckled. “You are if I say you are. Sit. Drink. Perhaps you could tell us a tale of one of your adventures while we wait for Vron.”

“There’s no need to wait.”

Thorn breathed a sigh of relief as the Lord Commander of the Dark Lanterns entered the room. Vron was cast in shades of black and white. If his skin was as white as snow, then his eyes were shards of ice, clear and colorless. His hair was soft and pale, snow falling onto the frozen ground. He wore the black dress uniform of the Dark Lanterns, and a silver medallion gleamed at his throat.

“Be seated,” Vron said. “We have much to discuss tonight. The first order of business: the attack on the Cyran entourage. Allow me to add my apologies to those of the king, Prince Oargev. If I had the slightest warning that such a plan was afoot, I would have ensured that you had additional protection. I have teams investigating the scene of the attack, and I assure you that you will know the results as soon as we do. However, there is one thing we can do immediately.”

Vron walked over the Thorn. “Lantern, I understand you directly engaged one of the assailants?”

Thorn nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

“Take my hands,” he said, holding his arms before him. His fingers were long and slender, his grip warm. “I want you to remember the battle. Think about your opponent-every detail, every angle. The sound of voice and breath. Relive that moment for me.”

And so she did, closing her eyes and placing herself back in that moment. Pieces began to come together. Dark shiftweave, the flash of metal at the neck. The words he’d said in the moment before his death. The prince will fall, and Galifar burn…

“Until our home has been returned.” It was the voice of the assassin, there in the room.

Thorn opened her eyes, and there he was. Piercing gray eyes, the twisting scar running down his cheek. Mid-thirties, most likely, despite the silver in his hair. He held up his hands, and smoke flowed from the palms, solidifying into the wand and the misty shield Thorn remembered.

“Your conclusions, Lantern?” His voice was slightly distorted, an effort to synthesize an accent from the few words Thorn had heard.

“Setting aside the wand, he’s well equipped for urban operations-shiftweave and a weapon that’s both versatile and concealable. I don’t recognize the weapon, but his sword and wand style suggests either the Fifth Crown of Cyre or the Royal Eyes of Aundair.” Thorn cast her mind back, reliving the battle again. “His accent sounded like southern Cyre, and the slogan is a modified version of that used by Dannel’s Wrath.”

“Just one moment.” It was Boranel. The king had risen from his chair and strode over to examine the assassin. “You’re saying this brute was Cyran? Attacking his own lord?”

“It’s a possibility.” The killer’s Cyran accent faded as he spoke, returning to the cool tones of the changeling Vron. “Dannel’s Wrath is a group of Cyran militants primarily active in the city of Stormreach; they advocate the creation of a new Cyran state in Xen’drik, including Stormreach itself. But in the past, they’ve shown little hostility toward the prince.” He turned to the Cyrans. “Your Highness, Master Cadrel, do you have any thoughts on the matter?”

The prince wouldn’t look at the effigy of the assassin; his forehead glistened with cold sweat. Cadrel spoke for him. “I’m sorry, my lords, lady. Surely you understand that this has been a difficult evening for his highness.”

“I’m sure it has,” Boranel growled. “And an even worse one for the King’s Shields that died protecting him, along with the civilians caught in the crossfire. My subjects, Cadrel. If you know more about this-”

“I assure you, Your Majesty, I’ve never met this man in my life.”

“There’s something wrong with him,” Thorn said. She stood up, walking carefully around the disguised Vron. The changeling had drawn the image directly from her mind, and she cast her thoughts back. “Look at his left side. These scars-what injury would cause this sort of puckering?”

“I’m no healer,” Boranel said. “It’s the work of magic, I should think.”

“That’s only the beginning,” Thorn said. “His left arm is longer than the right. His leg as well. I didn’t notice it, not consciously, yet thinking back, there was something strange in his movement.”

“Interesting,” Essyn Cadrel said. “Yes, I see it now. As if he was a figure of wax, warmed and then stretched a little.”

“And what about that pin on his collar?” Thorn said. “That’s not the Fifth Crown insignia or Royal Eyes. So what is it? It’s easily removed. So why wear it on an assassination?”

Vron ran his fingers over the pin. Boranel squinted at it and shook his head. Cadrel examined it for a few moments then stepped away. “All this is based on a fleeting glimpse,” he said. “Perhaps you missed a crucial detail.”

“I assure you, the technique has been quite effective in the past,” Vron said. “I drew the image directly from Thorn’s mind, and the mind remembers more than we can imagine.”

“Be that as it may,” Cadrel said, “we can’t be certain that this man is everything he seems. This warping effect suggests a flawed perception; his accent could be the same as well. If you have something else to discuss-”

“I know him,” Oargev said.

All eyes turned to the prince. “Your Highness,” Cadrel said, raising his hands. “You’re exhausted.”

“I know him,” Oargev repeated. “I should have known it would be him.”

Vron released the image, and the color slowly drained from his skin and his eyes. His clothes shifted, the weapons disappearing from his hands; a moment later the commander of the Dark Lanterns was restored. “Pray continue, Your Highness. Who tried to kill you?”

Oargev stared off into the distance. “His name is Cazalan Dal. He served with the Fifth Crown, as you surmised. He was devoted to my mother, Queen Dannel. And when the war came to an end, he swore to serve me.”

“Your Highness,” Cadrel said. He reached out and placed a hand on the prince’s arm.

Oargev pulled away and rose to his feet, turning to face Boranel. “You have shown us nothing but kindness since the Mourning, Cousin. You gave us shelter when all other doors were closed. But I was born to be a king, not a glorified mayor. My people want their homeland restored.”

“I am a king, Oargev,” Boranel said. “And I’ve been a soldier. The hardest battle you’ll face in either arena comes when your people want something you cannot give them. The Mourning wasn’t your fault. And you can’t make it go away.”

“You don’t know that,” Oargev said, and there was a hard edge to his gaze. “You don’t know what caused the Mourning.”

“Five years and none of us know,” Boranel said.

“I’ve been trying.” Oargev looked back at the changeling Vron, as if seeing the man he had been moments before. “I gathered the best Cyre had to offer-soldiers, wizards. And I brought them together in the Covenant of the Gray Mist.”

Finally the pin made sense. A silver and gray wedge, with a black hand on top of it. “And Cazalan was in the Covenant?” Thorn said.

“The first to take the vow,” Oargev said.

“I met Cazalan Dal,” Cadrel said. “He had dark hair and no disfigurement whatsoever. How could this be him?”

“Until I sent him into the Mournland,” Oargev said sadly. “We can’t imagine the things he saw there. He came to me in New Cyre a year ago, twisted as you saw him. What had been done to his mind was worse than his body. He begged to be relieved of his duties. And I… I sent him back. He was still the best I had. And I needed to feel that I had accomplished something.”

All you did was send a man to die, Thorn thought. She kept her words to herself.

“Oargev…” Boranel said.

“I should think that you of all people would understand, Cousin. You are Breland in the hearts of your people. For those who fought and died for our kings and queens, I am the last of the royal line. I am Cyre. It falls to me to find a way to restore our homeland. Yet here we are, almost five years later, and what have I achieved?”

“Don’t demean your work with New Cyre,” Cadrel said, putting a hand on the prince’s shoulder. “Your Majesty, Your Highness, together you have created a beacon for Cyrans to rally around.”

“A village,” Oargev said. There were tears glittering in the corners of his eyes. “It’s not enough. I’ve heard them whispering. Saying that we’re Brelish in all but name, that I’ve betrayed my mother. The anger grows. They need someone to blame. I thought Cazalan would bring me an answer. Instead the Mourning has turned him against me.”

“It’s a battle you can’t win,” Boranel said. “You need to face that. You need to find a way to make your people understand.”

“There must be an answer,” Oargev said. His fists were clenched, forehead shining with sweat. “And I will find it.”

“And perhaps we have,” Vron said.

“Not every problem has a solution. There’s a time to-” Boranel’s voice simply faded in his throat as he realized what the changeling had said. “What do you mean?”

Vron smiled. “So far we’ve only talked about the attack on his highness. I asked you here for an entirely different reason because, as it turns out, we have our first lead on the Mourning.”

Oargev’s eyes widened. “Explain.”

“I will, Your Highness. But please sit. It’s not a simple story, and if you wish to hear what I have learned, you must be patient.” As the others took their seats, Vron walked across the room and placed a hand on the wall.

Light spilled across the black stone. The glowing colors flowed together, swirling around like oil over water. Within moments the glow resolved into the image of a tower in a forest. The trees were dusted with ice and snow, and a harsh wind tugged at the branches. The walls of the tower gleamed in the sunlight. It’s covered with ice, Thorn thought. No, it’s made of ice. She could see the shadows of people moving within the walls, and three shapes rose from the top of the spires: fierce griffons with fur and feathers of pure white, wearing armor that seemed to be carved from ice. Each griffon had a rider, knights in ivory armor carrying bows and lances. The beasts drew closer and closer, and the lead warrior raised her hand, twisting her fingers in the complex patterns of a spell. Suddenly the wall went black.

“We retrieved those images from the woods of western Karrnath,” Vron said. “We’ve never been able to scry on the location for more than a minute. The Karrns discovered the tower three years ago; as far as they know, there was nothing in that forest until that point. The fortress is garrisoned by a group of elves that have no cultural bonds to Aerenal or Valenar.”

“Eladrin.” The voice belonged to a newcomer, a young man standing in the doorway. He was dressed in rough-spun peasant clothes, and what stood out the most was his gear-an assortment of belts and pouches overflowing with tools and sundry goods. His hair was short, sandy, and disheveled, and a slight beard covered his chin. He grinned, as if talking with kings and princes were an everyday occurrence. “They look like elves, but they’re not. They call themselves eladrin.”

“You can speak in a moment,” Vron said. “Until then, let me focus on the critical facts. This forest is in the domain of a Count Jadan Thul, a Karrnathi warlord who served with distinction during the Last War. We know that Thul sent envoys to these strangers and received no response. These eladrin never ventured more than a few miles from the tower and took no overtly hostile action against Thul or his holdings. But they refused to explain their presence or indeed to make any sort of contact with Count Thul.”

Essyn Cadrel raised an eyebrow. “A colorful story but what does it have to do with the Mourning?”

“Indulge me a moment more,” Vron said. “As you might imagine, Count Thul was perturbed by the presence of these strangers in his domain. However, his forces had been seriously depleted in the Last War, and he needed time to rebuild. In Olarune of 998, Thul moved against the citadel of ice. He suffered a stunning defeat. Though few in number, these strangers possess warriors with skill to rival the Valenar and arcane power to match that of Aundair. And yet, since repelling Thul’s attack, they have taken no further action, and they have ignored envoys from Thul, from King Kaius of Karrnath, and our own ambassadors.”

“Get to the point,” Oargev snapped. The prince was on his second goblet of wine, and his hand was shaking slightly.

“I understand your frustration, Your Highness. But everything needs to be in context. You see, the Karrns are not the only people who have encountered these eladrin.” Vron tapped the wall again, and a map of Khorvaire appeared. “As of last week, we’d managed to locate and identify three different eladrin towers, each of which appeared sometime within the last four years. In addition to the ice fortress in Karrnath, there is a tower along the northwest edge of the Khraal jungle of Darguun, and another here, in Zilargo. But in all this time, we’ve never been able to get an agent inside one of these eladrin fortresses. We knew next to nothing about their origins, intentions, or capabilities. Until last week.”

Vron turned to the young man. “This is Marudrix Juran Cannith. Years ago-almost five years, in fact-he stumbled upon one of these mysterious towers. A fortress in Cyre, not far from the old village of Seaside.”

“They call it Shaelas Tiraleth,” the tinker said. “It means ‘the Court of the Silver Tree.’ Because it’s the largest of their cities and there’s this big tree and, well, it’s-”

“The Mourning, Lord Vron,” Oargev snarled. “I’m still waiting for your explanation.”

To Thorn’s surprise, Cadrel spoke calmly. “Patience, Your Highness. I would see where this leads. Lord Vron, you said that this discovery occurred almost five years ago. Was it a date of any special significance?”

Vron smiled. “Indeed it was. The twentieth of Olarune. On that day, young Drix was traveling in Cyre’s southern woods when he encountered a group of eladrin. Believing him to be responsible for the death of their own prince, they pierced his heart with a cursed blade. From what we can tell, this happened at the precise moment that the Mourning began.”

Oargev was on his feet. “I don’t understand. Are you suggesting that my nation was destroyed in an attack against a farmboy?”

“That would be ludicrous, Your Highness.” Vron looked over at Drix, who was fidgeting. “But it seems that they know more than we do about it. Drix?”

The young man took a step forward. He tugged at the buttons of his shirt. “Lord Oargev…”

“Your Highness,” Cadrel corrected quietly.

Drix flushed. “Your Highness,” he said quickly, “I can’t explain to you all the things I’ve seen. I’m a tinker and I’ve got no skill with words. These eladrin… their city… it’s a magical place. A place of wonders-”

Oargev rose to his feet, and his eyes were hard. “Get to the point, boy.”

“They say they can end the Mourning.”

Oargev stepped closer to Drix until he was barely inches away from the tinker. His voice was quiet and steady, colder than Thorn had ever heard it, and his hand was on the jeweled hilt of his dagger. “Is this a joke, Vron? Are you laughing at my people and our pain?”

Drix spoke before the changeling or the king could respond. If he was afraid of the prince, he didn’t show it, but his smile had faded slightly. “They aren’t your people,” he said, his quiet voice carrying across the still room. “And you don’t know their pain.”

That was all it took. Oargev’s dagger was in his hand, the blade gleaming in the light. “How dare you?” he hissed. “You know nothing!”

Thorn took a step forward, intending to interpose herself between the two, but she heard a voice in her mind, Vron’s voice. Hold, Lantern! She froze, but it seemed she was the only one who heard the telepathic order.

“Oargev!” Boranel roared, rising to his feet. Essyn Cadrel knocked his chair aside in his haste to rise. Quick as they were, they weren’t fast enough to interfere.

“I know pain,” Drix said. He grabbed the dagger by the blade, the edge sinking into his flesh as he wrapped his fingers around it. His grip was strong, and he pulled the weapon free from Oargev’s hand. The prince staggered back, his anger turning to surprise.

Thorn made her way quickly to Drix’s side. He was shaking slightly, and she could see blood flowing between his fingers. Whatever could have driven him to do such a thing? His hand was still clenched tightly around the blade; they’d need a healer and quickly. Behind her, Cadrel and Boranel had reached the shocked prince, each taking an arm.

Then Drix opened his hand. There was a strange moment of silence as the blade fell, clattering against the floor. There was blood on his hand but only a trickle, not the fountain Thorn expected to see. The knife had indeed cut to the bone, but the wounds seemed to melt away. There was still blood against the skin, but his maimed hand was whole again.

“Sovereigns and Six,” Boranel whispered. “What is this?”

“A demonstration.” Vron’s voice was cold and stern. “Prince Oargev, sit. In light of what you have been through recently, I have indulged your theatrics to this point, but you are a guest in this city and this nation, and you would do well to remember that. King Boranel, you have my deepest apologies for this display. Now if you will sit down, I will explain everything.”

Essyn Cadrel helped the prince back to his seat. The prince was still shaking, but Cadrel’s expression was simply thoughtful.

“I know the story I’ve presented sounds ludicrous,” Vron told them. “Mysterious elves appear in Cyre on the Day of Mourning, and now claim that they can reverse the cataclysm. And yet, as you yourself said, Prince Oargev, it’s been almost five years and we still know almost nothing about the Mourning. What we do know is that these eladrin have access to magic we cannot duplicate.” He looked at Drix. “Show them.”

The tinker pulled open his shirt. Thorn’s eyes widened.

There was a stone embedded in his flesh. A crystal set into his left breast, where his heart should be. They stared at the large, clear jewel that appeared to be filled with swirling gray mist.

“We don’t know exactly what it is,” Vron said. “Just that it holds a power unlike anything we’ve ever seen from Cannith or the Arcane Congress. It can’t be removed, and it heals any injury Drix suffers within moments.”

“They called it the Heart of the Spire,” Drix said. While his breathing was slightly ragged, his voice was steady and strong. “They said… that they took my heart, so they gave me theirs. That its strength would allow us both to survive until the wound could be healed.”

Oargev’s temper was building again. “What does this have to do with the Mourning?”

To Thorn’s surprise, Drix actually smiled. “I’m just a tinker. This sort of magic is beyond me. But they told me that if they could restore me, they could restore the broken land as well,” Drix said. “That when they’d struck at me, they’d been crippled as well. And that by healing my wound, they could heal all our wounds.”

Oargev scowled. “I was wrong to draw my blade beneath your roof, Vron. But you do me a disservice by subjecting me to these ravings.”

“Patience, Your Highness.” Cadrel was examining the stone. “We have been quick to judge and to lash out. We still haven’t heard all that Vron has to say.”

“Thank you,” the changeling said. “We are faced with a number of simple facts.” He pointed at the map on the wall. “The feyspires exist. The events in Karrnath show that these eladrin possess both military might and magical skill. And yet we knew nothing of their presence until after the Day of Mourning. Now we have word that the eladrin say that the disaster crippled them even as it destroyed Cyre, and it is the Mourning itself that brought the hidden cities into the open. Ridiculous? Perhaps. But when coupled with proof of magic we cannot duplicate, it’s something we at least have to consider. And then there is the claim that they can restore stricken Cyre. It sounds like a fairy tale. Yet it’s just possible that we are living in a fairy tale, and we have nothing to lose from testing their claims.”

“I agree with Vron,” Boranel said. “Listen to yourself, Gev. Mere moments ago you were complaining when I told you there might be no answer to the Mourning. Now one has been placed before you and you don’t even want to test it?”

Oargev raised his hands, cheeks flushed with shame and wine. “I apologize again. This… I… You must understand. I’ve struggled with this for years. I face nightmares both awake and asleep. Nothing I’ve tried has borne fruit, and just hours ago I was attacked by a man I once trusted as much as anyone in this room. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you, and we should follow any lead.”

Cadrel patted the prince’s arm. “We’ve all been under too much stress of late,” he said. “So what is the next step? We need to heal this lad, is that all?”

Vron glanced at Drix. He’d closed his shirt, and he ran a finger over the hidden stone.

“They need to remove the stone,” Drix said. “Cure the wound.”

“It sounds simple enough, I know,” Vron said. “Unfortunately, it’s anything but. Healing balms and spells treat the stone as if it was a living part of him. We’ve tried to cut it out ourselves, but any wound heals instantly. The artificers tell me there’s a phenomenal amount of power in the stone, and if there’s any truth to the idea that the stone is linked to the Mourning, well, we don’t want to do anything too dangerous. We can’t remove it. But they can.”

“So why haven’t they?” Oargev said. “What are they waiting for?”

“The stones,” Drix replied. “The queen of the feyspire told me that she’d gather the lords when the time was right. But she needed me to find two more stones, and bring them with me to the spire.”

“It seems these eladrin have been hidden on Eberron far longer than we knew,” Vron said. “The shard used to preserve Drix’s life is one of a set. Apparently some of these crystals have been lost, and Drix needs to find two more before he can return to the spire to be healed.”

“She said I’d find them in the last days of the searching moon, in the shadow of a broken blade,” Drix said. “Two kings would meet, and I would find two stones, wrapped in thorn.”

“Interesting,” Cadrel said. “The searching moon would presumably be Barrakas, and we are in its last days.”

“The Citadel stands in the shadow of Brokenblade Castle,” Vron said.

Cadrel nodded. “And if we grant his highness his true title as King of Cyre, two kings are indeed meeting tonight.”

“Which leaves…” Thorn paused. “You can’t be serious.”

“We haven’t worked closely in the past, Lantern Thorn, but I assure you, I’m always serious.”

“What do you mean?” Oargev said. “ ‘Wrapped in thorn.’ Do you know where these stones are hidden?”

“Come, Lantern,” Vron said. “Show us a stone wrapped in Thorn.”

Turning her back to the others, she pulled up her hair, revealing the glittering crystal embedded in the base of her skull. It was far smaller than Drix’s stone heart, and there was no mist swirling within, but the tinker gasped when he saw it.

“Yes!” Drix said. “That’s one of them. She showed me, in my thoughts. The queen.”

“This is no fey treasure, Lord Commander,” Thorn said. “You know exactly how I came by it.” The shards in her spine were shrapnel, the scars of the explosion at Far Passage. There had been thousands of dragonshards surrounding the arcane core, and Thorn had been struck by dozens; the two she retained were simply the only shards they couldn’t remove.

“There’s still a great deal we don’t know about that incident,” Vron said. “Could you show the other shard, Lantern?”

“Yes, sir.” None of this makes any sense. Still, she pulled her shirt up, revealing the lighter stone embedded in her spine.

“Two stones,” Drix whispered. “And you’re Thorn.”

Oargev and Boranel seemed equally baffled by the turn of events.

Cadrel spoke first. “And so it seems that our life is just a fairy tale,” the old bard said. “Grand in its way. What comes next? A ritual under the towering oaks of the Eldeen Reaches with five moons in the sky?”

“I have no idea, my lord.” Vron gestured to Drix. “The boy is supposed to take the stones back to the feyspire in Cyre. The stones can’t be removed from Thorn, so clearly she has to go with him.”

“Now young Thorn has irremovable shards?” Boranel grumbled. “What happens when hers are removed? Will Galifar be restored?”

“We can only hope so, Your Majesty,” Vron said. “When I first heard Drix’s tale, I thought of you, Lantern. It seems improbable to say the least, yet no more than the idea that the Mournland could be restored.”

The stones removed… The stone in her neck was like a dagger digging into Thorn’s flesh. She’d been told that she’d simply have to bear the pain; the idea that it might be possible to have the stone removed was unhoped for. “Where are we going?”

“To Shaelas Tiraleth, the spire in Cyre,” Vron said. “You may be the first Brelish citizen to see the inside of an eladrin fortress, Thorn.”

“In Cyre,” Thorn said. “In the Mournland?”

“Surely we’ll be sending a team,” Boranel said. Thorn could see the general in him coming to the fore. “I’ll put the full resources of the Citadel to the task. Wands, Swords, Shields-it will be our war against the Mournland.”

Drix raised a hand, but it was Vron who spoke. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Your Majesty. If you’ve been listening to the tale, you know just how paranoid these eladrin are. Drix was told to bring the stones when he returned and nothing else. Even if that wasn’t a concern, you know just how dangerous the Mournland is. With all due respect, Lantern Thorn, you are expendable. We’ll give you the supplies you need, but should you fail in this, it will not be a dramatic blow to Breland. Placing a massive chunk of the Citadel’s forces in such a dangerous field-I cannot condone it, Your Majesty.”

Boranel sighed and the spark in his eyes faded. “Very well, Lord Commander. You were chosen for your judgment. The Lanterns have shed light in the shadows before. I trust you will do so again.”

“You’re not going alone.” It was Oargev.

“I beg your pardon, Your Highness?” Vron seemed genuinely perplexed.

“You’re talking about the fate of my kingdom. The quest I have grappled with for five years. If you think I will stand by while you battle for my nation, you are sorely mistaken.”

“You can’t,” Drix said. As before, the tinker didn’t seem to be concerned with the fact that he was refusing the demands of a king. “I’m just supposed to bring the stones. They don’t like strangers.”

Essyn Cadrel stepped between the two before Oargev’s wrath could grow. “While the boy is impertinent, this time I must agree, Your Majesty. We’ve discussed this before. You are the last of your line, and if you fall, Mishann’s claim is lost. You must remain safe. For Cyre’s sake.”

“I know that,” Oargev said. “I want you to go.”

Cadrel blinked. “Your Highness?”

“You’ve already shown that you understand this business better than I do. You said it yourself, that our lives were becoming a fairy tale. You’re the man who first told me those tales, just as you’ve told me of your adventures. You’ve wandered the world before. Who better to serve me now? Go with them. For Cyre.”

“No,” Drix said. “No strangers.”

Oargev’s face tightened. “Don’t tell me what to do, boy. You claim to hold the fate of Cyre in your hands. I need to trust that you are what you say, that any of this is the truth. If you want my blessing on this, you will have the eyes of the crown upon you. Go with Essyn or I swear I will do everything in my power to stop you.”

Vron raised a hand, but Boranel stopped him before he could speak. “It seems reasonable to me,” Boranel said. “Your boy here will have his stones. Perhaps these elves would bar their gates against a squad of our best. If they’d close their doors against one old man, they’re a cowardly bunch indeed.”

Vron inclined his head. “As you wish, sire.” He turned to Cadrel and Thorn. “I’ve already prepared for the journey; there’s a boat waiting at the Brokenblade dock, ready to take you along the Cyran coast. I’ll need a few hours to gather additional supplies for you, Master Cadrel, and I’m sure you need time to settle your affairs. But I would leave before morning. The sooner we move on this, the better.”

Cadrel was still considering the whole affair. “You’re sure about this, Your Highness?”

Oargev nodded.

A grin slowly spread across the old man’s face. “So be it. I will do my best not to let you down and to return with tales more wondrous that I ever spun in your youth.” He turned to Boranel and bowed. “With your leave, Your Majesty.”

“Of course, and well said.” Boranel clapped Cadrel on the back and walked toward the door. “Sovereigns and Six! I wish I could be going with you. First things first, though-let’s arrange a proper escort for you this time, both to get back to your consulate and to see Oargev to New Cyre. You’ll have every Shield the Citadel can spare until we have you safely home again.”

“Very well, Cousin.” The prince paused by Thorn, looking into her eyes. She could see the fear and uncertainty warring within him. “You served me well this last month. I owe you my life. Serve my people in this, and you will have anything my throne can offer.”

“It’s my honor to serve, Your Highness,” Thorn said with a polite nod. “May the Sovereigns watch over you.”

“Wait a moment, Lantern Thorn.” Vron took Drix outside.

Thorn studied the glowing map on the wall and ran her fingers over the stone in her neck. She was just about to talk to Steel when Vron returned.

“What can I do for you, Lord Commander?”

“For a start, forget that title.” Vron smiled and as he did, his face softened and flowed. His skin was the same pale white, his eyes still shards of glass. They were just smaller and sharper. Cheekbones were higher, his chin slightly pointed. He was still a changeling… a different changeling.

“Zane?”

“For the moment.” Zane was Thorn’s personal handler; he’d recruited her into the King’s Dark Lanterns.

“Was Vron ever here?”

“He was in every way that matters, wasn’t he? There’s a certain level of decorum to a royal briefing, and Oargev surely expected the Lord Commander. But we Lanterns have to deal with more complex situations than the Shields or the Blades. His majesty knows what Vron is doing right now; if my mask keeps Oargev happy, all for the good. Besides, you’re my agent.”

Thorn nodded. It wasn’t the first time Zane had come to her in an unexpected guise, though she’d never seen the changeling impersonate a changeling before. “So what is it you wanted to tell me?”

“What do you think of this assignment?”

Thorn hesitated but she’d never minced words with Zane before. “It seems ridiculous. Do you actually think we can restore the Mournland?”

“No,” Zane said. “I don’t. It’s an entertaining story, and if it somehow turns out to be true… well, it would be a boon to give the thousands of Cyran refugees living off Brelish taxes somewhere else to go. But I think we both know just how likely that is-just as we know that those stones in your neck aren’t eladrin relics.”

“So what am I doing?”

“I don’t believe that these fey are responsible for the Mourning,” Zane said. “Nonetheless, their power is clearly a force to be reckoned with. As far as we can tell, young Drix is essentially immortal. Imagine an army of soldiers possessing such power. Who knows what other secrets are hidden within the walls of that tower? If you can somehow restore Cyre, wonderful. But your primary mission is to acquire as much information about the eladrin as you can, including anything that could provide Breland with an arcane advantage in future conflicts.”

“I see.”

Zane frowned. “Cadrel is a problem. If there are secrets to be gleaned from the tower, we want them to benefit Breland.”

“Are you telling me to eliminate Essyn Cadrel?” Thorn wanted that point to be absolutely clear. She liked the old man. If Zane wanted him dead, he’d have to give an order.

Zane sighed. “It’s not your mission, Lantern Thorn. But the Mournland is a dangerous place, and I’m sure you’ll have your hands full protecting Drix. Make that your priority: don’t risk anything to keep Cadrel alive.”

“Understood. Is there anything else?”

“Yes.” Zane looked at her closely. “The man who attacked you. Cazalan Dal. You’re certain he died?”

“Steel was,” Thorn said. “He was dead center when he detonated the wand, and then the ceiling collapsed. Steel said there was little left of him.”

“Try ‘nothing.’ I received the report from the search teams while I was outside. No traces of any of the attackers, save for the damage of the battle. Bodies, equipment-nothing whatsoever.”

Thorn considered that. “So either someone purged the scene, and quickly, or they all survived.”

“Yes,” Zane said. “And we still don’t know what they were after to begin with. So be careful. Your assassin mentioned the prince by name, so odds are good Oargev is the target. We’ll keep a watch on him. Still, it’s an unknown, and I hate unknowns. Be careful.”

“Of course.”

“Good,” Zane said. “Report to the quartermaster for equipment. Your boat leaves the docks in three hours’ time.”

He left without another word. Thorn remained in the black room, staring at the glowing map. She sat down in one of the chairs and drew Steel.

“Did you get all of that?”

Of course. So now you’re going to fix the Mournland.

“Are we? I thought I was going to rob some elves and maybe kill an old man.”

I’m sure you’ll do what’s best for Breland.

“I always do,” Thorn said. “I always do.”