The fading dream

CHAPTER FOUR

The Thunder Sea B arrakas 22, 999 YK

She knew she wouldn’t make it in time. She couldn’t find the path. She was running through the forest and searching for the light. Hundreds of fireflies swarmed through the woods, false sparks trying to lead her astray.

A wave of pain rolled through her. It wasn’t a scream. It was the agony of the land, shared by everything around her. Trees shook and a multitude of cries rose up in the night, wolf and songbird united in torment. If Thorn couldn’t find her way, they’d all be dead soon.

At last she reached the clearing, and there it was. A tree, its trunk cast in silver, polished to a mirror finish. Boughs spread wide enough to cover a great hall, covered with glowing leaves of gold. She ran and as she did, she could see that the tree was even taller than she’d imagined. Its limbs were twined with the stars, and she could feel its roots sinking deep down into the earth. The tree didn’t draw sustenance from the soil, no-it was the earth that drew strength from the tree. It was a tree of worlds, binding earth and sky together, forming a bridge between shadow and substance.

And she was too late.

The mirror finish was growing cloudy, cracks running up along the trunk. Leaves were falling and the stars with them. She couldn’t see the roots wither, but all around her, both plant and beast withered and died. She could feel the life running out of her own body, feel her flesh rotting on the bone. She could barely stand, and she staggered toward the tree, hoping that it might be different than before, that she would reach the tree in time to stop the decay, to save herself.

She never had and now it was no different. Her legs gave out beneath her and she fell. The earth cracked around her as razor-edged shards of silver fell from the sky. The tree was dying, and there was nothing she could do.

Thorn woke up with a start.

She desperately wanted a breath of fresh air, a cool, night wind to clear her thoughts. A glance at the window reminded her why that wasn’t going to happen. It wasn’t a window at all; it was a porthole, with the murky depths of the Thunder Sea stretching out into the darkness. And all around her was a low thrum, a vibration that she could feel in the floor and air alike, the pulse of the elemental spirit driving the ship through the water.

Nightmares were nothing new for her, especially since Far Passage. She often dreamed of Lharen’s death and the shards ripping through her flesh. But this dream was something else. She’d been dreaming of the tree for almost a month. Although it was not every night-not quite-it was always the same, though each time the vision was stronger.

Stupid dreams. She’d hoped that Nandon might be able to tell her something about it, that it might be connected to her other troubles. She’d had other nightmares over the past years, visions of the horrific deeds of the dragon Sarmondelaryx and a woman who could be Thorn’s twin dressed in red leather and black silk, a woman who was also somehow Sarmondelaryx. Haunting as those were, those were of a different order of magnitude than the dreams of the silver tree. The vision that pulled her from her sleep had a visceral power that pulled at her.

Thorn was wearing her nightshirt; she whispered a word, and the fabric twisted and stretched, shifting to her traveling clothes. She picked up Steel.

“What’s the good word?”

Ten bells and all’s well, he said. At least, the ward preventing this vessel from cracking beneath the pressure of the water is stable, and the magic that purifies the air you breathe continues to function. Despite having been banished from her house, your captain seems to have the elemental empowering the vessel under control. For the moment.

“Yes… thanks for reminding me just how many things could go wrong on this little boat.” Thorn pulled on her gloves and slid her bracers into place on her forearms. She picked up Steel again and tapped the blade on her palm, sighing.

Is something troubling you?

“Our companion. Marudrix.”

I should like to properly analyze his aura. There’s a limit to what I can do when sheathed, and I would have liked to have observed his recovery when Oargev attacked him.

“We could stab him.”

You don’t like him?

Thorn sighed. “No… he seems like a good kid, I suppose, if a little strange. But I don’t like his family.” Just months earlier, Thorn had been assigned to infiltrate House Tarkanan, a criminal guild formed by people with aberrant dragonmarks, a group long oppressed by the dragonmarked houses. House Cannith had been the motive force behind the assignment, and Thorn was still angry about the merchants giving orders to the Brelish crown. “Merrix d’Cannith was operating a creation forge in Sharn. A direct violation of the Thronehold edicts and a threat to Brelish security.”

Then I suppose it’s lucky for him that someone destroyed the forge instead of passing the information to the proper authorities.

Thorn flushed. “It was necessary to maintain my cover. Besides, you know Sharn. Merrix would have just bought off the inspectors.”

I see. And is it your opinion that Merrix posed an imminent threat to Breland? You stopped him just before he could set his warforged army in motion?

“Perhaps you’ve forgotten the warforged assassins he had down there? It may not have been an army, but the terms of the treaty are quite clear, and he was violating them. When someone with that sort of power considers himself to be above the law, that’s a threat.”

And you’re not simply trying to justify the fact that you were responsible for the death of his son.

“His son was a monster!”

His son was an artificial creature. As an inorganic sentient myself, I’m not sure I like this term “monster.”

“He was making warforged that looked human. Who knows what he would have done with that power? Spies. Assassins. Replacing people in positions of power.”

Giving his barren wife a child.

Thorn resisted the urge to pull Steel into her glove. “Enough. House Cannith was violating the restrictions placed on its behavior by the Treaty of Thronehold and using the Citadel to fight a personal battle. Tell me that neither of these things trouble you.”

I can’t argue either of those points, Lantern Thorn. Though I don’t see how either apply to Marudrix.

“He’s Cannith-”

And it’s quite a large family. Far larger than the Citadel itself. Do you hold yourself responsible for the actions of every agent of the Citadel?

Thorn frowned. “I just don’t like working for Cannith again.”

And I don’t believe you are. While Marudrix may be a member of the family and an apprentice of the Tinkers’ Guild, there was no mention of Merrix or any other member of the house. If anything, the stranger question is why he made his way to the Citadel instead of turning to his family.

Thorn considered that. “True.”

For all you know, he’s an excoriate like the captain of our ship. Perhaps he was driven from the house for questioning Merrix’s policy on secret creation forges.

“That’s not something to joke about.”

No, I suppose not. Still, perhaps you should find out more about his connections to the house.

“I suppose I will.” Thorn ran a hand over her pouches and pockets, making sure all her tools were in place. Satisfied, she walked out of the crew quarters and made her way toward the helm.

Shargon’s Tooth was a small vessel, built to carry commando teams behind enemy lines. Given that her companions weren’t in the cabin, there were only a few places they could be. She found Drix and Cadrel in the chamber that served as a galley and observation deck, just behind the helm. Drix had a small crossbow set on the table with wheels and twine laid out on a cloth next to it; he was polishing a gear. Cadrel looked over as she entered.

“Our guardian rises,” he said. “Did you sleep well, my dear?”

“Well enough,” she replied. “Let’s get to business. Would you mind clearing the table?”

The tinker looked sadly at his unfinished work. He carefully folded the cloth and tucked his tools away. As soon as the space was available, Thorn laid out a map.

“Scrying is unreliable in the Mournland,” she said. “This map is the best we have, based on the preexisting geography of Cyre and what information we’ve received from survivors and scouts, including you, Drix.” She pointed at a spot along the southern coastline. “Your report places this eladrin spire roughly here, northeast of the old village of Seaside. We’ll be making landfall as close to Seaside as possible. We know that the Green Road is still partially intact. That will serve as our guide as we move toward the southern woods. From there, it’s up to you to show us the way.”

Drix nodded. “I remember the path,” he said. “But you won’t be able to sleep. The forest… it’s different now. Hungry. You can’t stand still.”

“We’re prepared,” Thorn said. She reached into the pouch at her side. Like her gloves, the space within was larger than the pouch itself; a thought called the leather wineskin to her hand. “The good news is that we’ve got Irian tears. A few drops of this will keep you going through the night and help fight the effects of exhaustion. You don’t want to take too much of it, but we should be all right.”

“Good news, hmm?” Cadrel said. “I trust there’s bad to follow it?”

Thorn sighed. “I’m afraid so.” She reached into the pouch again and drew out a thin rod. Six inches of it were covered with a rubbery, greenish substance. “Troll sticks. Not actual troll, I think, but you wouldn’t know it from the taste. The stick grows the meat; it takes about three hours for it to grow back. It’s about as unpleasant as anything you’ll find in the Mournland, but at least it’s not poisonous. So that takes care of basic survival.”

“There’s nothing basic about survival in what lies ahead of us,” Drix said. “Food’s good but let’s not forget about the ghosts. And the hungry wind. And the voices in the mist.” He smiled slightly, as if he were remembering a childhood vacation.

“Good questions,” Thorn said, privately wondering how many of those things were real and how many existed in only the tinker’s head. “I need to know what you can do in a fight.”

“I was stabbed through the heart,” Drix said. “Does that count as a fight?”

“You walked away from it, so I guess that counts. That stone of yours… just how effective is it? Will it really protect you from any sort of injury?”

“I don’t know,” Drix said with a shrug. “It healed me from the stabbing. And the boulders. And the bear. And the crab that glued me to its back…”

I know he sounds slightly mad, Steel said as Drix continued to list his misfortunes.

“Slightly?” Thorn smiled at Drix, drumming her fingers against Steel’s hilt. She wondered how many of his supposed injuries actually occurred.

Nonetheless, the power I’m sensing in that stone is remarkable. And something that will stand out to anyone else who might look for it.

Lovely, she thought. “Do you know how to use that crossbow?”

“Hmm?” Drix said, ceasing his reverie of pains. “Well, not that one specifically. I’m still working on her. She’s not finished. But she means well. When I’m done, she’ll aim herself.”

Thorn sighed. “And you, Cadrel? I see you’re wearing a blade today. Do you know how to use it?”

“Indeed.” Cadrel stepped away from the table, and suddenly his short sword was in his hand. “I know I did little to impress you in our last altercation; I thought it best that I stay by the prince. I’m no match for you, my dear, but I’ve fought a few duels in my day.”

“And magic? I know you can weave a disguise. What other surprises do you have?”

“It’s a poor entertainer who reveals every trick,” Cadrel began.

“And a foolish one who goes to the Mournland,” Thorn said. “This is no stage, Cadrel. I need to know exactly what you’re capable of.”

“You wound me, my dear. Still, this is an adventure unlike any I’ve ever been on; I suppose I must bend my own rules. I do know a few tricks of illusion, yes. I can disguise my own face and form. I can cast a false image for a minute or two, though one without sound or substance. Once upon a time, I could hone this to craft a burst of bright light, dazzling an opponent for a few moments, though I’m afraid it’s been some time since I’ve tried such a thing.”

Thorn nodded. It was still more than she’d expected; perhaps the old man wouldn’t be the liability she’d thought. Still, an elderly duelist and a tinker with an unfinished crossbow? Not the most impressive team she’d worked with.

“Cadrel, would you give me a moment alone with Drix?”

Essyn smiled, giving a slight bow. “Certainly. I’ll go check with our lovely captain; we must be close to our destination by now.”

Thorn turned back to Drix as Cadrel left the room. The tinker was looking wistfully at his crossbow. She studied him, noticing the curve of his eyes, the slight points to his ears. “It seems we have something in common,” she said.

He looked up at her, puzzled.

She tapped an ear. “Elf blood. How far back in your line does it go?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “My father was Khoravar, and his mother.” The word literally meant child of Khorvaire, but the more common term was half-elf-the blended race formed from the mingling of human and elf blood. Thorn was Khoravar herself, but first generation; her mother was an elf from the island nation of Aerenal.

“I didn’t realize there were Khoravar in House Cannith,” she said. “I thought only humans could carry the Mark of Making.”

“That’s what they say,” Drix said sadly. “My mother took me back to Making once, to meet my grandparents. To go to school there, I think. They didn’t want me. The Jurans are tinkers, and that’s all we’ll ever be. That’s what they say. Dirt in our blood.”

“Did you talk to your family about this?” She pointed at his heart.

“My family is dead,” he said, looking away. “Killed in the Mourning. The barons in Breland didn’t want me before. I’m not going to them now.”

Thorn nodded thoughtfully. He seemed sincere enough. There were times when he seemed a little unhinged, but at the moment it seemed it was just pain, emotional or otherwise. “Why are you doing this?” she said. “With that stone, you’re all but immortal. Why would you want to give that up?”

He looked at her, and she could see the sorrow in his eyes. “It’s not mine. Not me. It’s the Mourning. I can feel it. The sorrow, the anger… I can feel it.”

He seemed serious. She squeezed Steel’s hilt. “Really?”

“It weaves my flesh and blood together, but the pain… the pain never truly goes away. It doesn’t belong in me. I know that.”

It’s possible the stone holds psychic impressions of the dead, Steel said. Considering he’s just said that he’s in constant physical pain, delusions seem more likely.

Even as she listened, Thorn felt a pulse of pain from the shard embedded in her neck. Her stones were just shrapnel, not magical gems, but she’d lived with them for almost a year, dealing with the pain and sheer sense of wrongness that came with them. In the darkest times, she’d turned to drink and dreamlily to chase that pain away. She was slowly growing used to them. The pain was still there, but it wasn’t as crippling as it had once been. Still, there was a time when she’d have done almost anything to escape from it. If Drix felt anything like she had, she could understand why he’d want it out.

“I know you think the pain is driving me mad,” Drix said. “It’s not. It’s not. It’s the voices. The faces. I need to make it stop, to let their spirits rest.”

“I understand,” Thorn said. She felt a flicker of sorrow and a touch of guilt for having let her distrust of Cannith get the better of her before. Magic stone or not, his life was tough enough as it was.

Drix sighed, looking out the porthole. “Why are we traveling underwater, anyway?”

Thorn shrugged. “It’s just a safety precaution. These vessels were built during the Last War, used to sneak behind enemy lines. The Mournland may be neutral territory, but the last thing we need is a chance encounter with Darguul slavers. This way we get to Seaside quickly and safely.”

“So we’re safe here?”

“We should be,” Thorn said. “Between the speed of the vessel and our reinforced hull, no natural creature can pose a threat to us. And we’re too far down for a ship to even notice us.”

The impact surprised them both.

There was a groan of strained wood. Thorn braced herself against the table as the floor shook. Drix’s unfinished crossbow slid across the floor, and Drix stumbled and fell to his hands and knees.

“Of course, I’ve been wrong before,” Thorn said.