The Queen of stone

CHAPTER TWELVE

The Jul Kartaal Droaam Eyre 18, 998 YK

It is always a question of blood," the elf said, running a whetstone along the edge of his gleaming scimitar. "Our blood is a thing to be treasured, our bond to the powers of the past. To abandon such a gift to go worship a bonfire… I can see why you won't speak. There are no words to defend such an action."

The speaker was Saer Vordalyn, a warrior from the kingdom of Valenar. After the attack at Korlaak Pass, the gnolls had reassigned passengers to the remaining carriages. And so Breland and Thane had been blessed with Vordalyn's company for the last five days, a gift that had made the journey an exceptionally trying time.

The elves of Valenar thrived on conflict in all forms and believed that by fighting, they honored their fallen ancestors. They'd come to Khorvaire as mercenaries during the Last War, only to turn on their Cyran paymasters and lay claim to that kingdom. In the years that followed, they'd sold their services to all sides. While few generals trusted them, the Valenar were, without question, deadly soldiers.

Vordalyn was certainly interested in fighting, whether with steel or words. He'd spent the last five days probing his traveling companions, searching for any sign of weakness or any subject that proved uncomfortable. Minister Luala was his target of choice; she was an elf living among humans, and she had set aside the traditions of her ancestors to follow the Silver Flame. Vordalyn seemed determined to provoke her into breaking her vow of silence, but so far his barbs had shattered against her serenity. The minister simply smiled at his jibes, which in turn pushed the warrior to try harder. This blunt opening was surely just the beginning of a more elaborate and insulting scheme.

Vordalyn watched Luala as he sharpened his blade. The weapon was already honed to a razor edge; it was said that the swords of the Valenar could draw blood from the wind. Thorn suspected that this was just another tactic in Vordalyn's little game. The presence of the naked blade set the bodyguards on edge, while the sound of stone on steel was grating to all. Thorn found it particularly annoying. It might have been her imagination, but the grinding triggered the pain in her skull, the crystal shard grating against bone.

"I don't know, Vordalyn," Thorn said. "I don't think so much of your blood."

The elf turned to face her, a slight smile on his lips. "That's hardly surprising. Clearly your ancestors had little self-regard, to carelessly mingle the blood of two races. Do you even know who it was who brought elven blood into your line, or are you a mongrel with no history to speak of?"

"My mother was an elf," Thorn said. "She came to my father after the Valenar turned on Cyre. She told him that it was impossible to wipe that betrayal away, and that she'd rather destroy her bloodline than pass such treachery on to another generation."

This was a lie. Thorn's mother was an elf of Southern Aerenal, with no ties to the warriors of the north. Thorn had only the faintest memories of her mother, and her father had been loath to speak of her. Whatever had happened between them, it had been a painful parting, and Thorn hated to see her father cry. Nonetheless, she saw Vordalyn's hand tighten around the hilt of his scimitar, and she knew she'd landed a solid blow.

"We did not steal our realm from Cyre. Our ancestors held that ground thousands of years before humans first set foot on Khorvaire. It was ours by right."

"Oh, I see," Thorn said. "Your ancestors-those great heroes whose blood you treasure-conquered the land long ago. And then what happened? They were chased back to Aerenal by goblins, weren't they?"

"Dragons," Vordalyn said, nearly snarling. "Dragons attacked our homeland, and we had to leave Khorvaire to the goblins. My ancestors ran toward battle, not away from it."

"Thousands of years ago. And you've been meaning to come back ever since, but you waited until a civil war was going on and you could stab someone in the back. I understand. Your blood's just not as strong as it was. You wouldn't want a real challenge."

Vordalyn hissed and his blade rose an inch. Thorn wasn't worried. Vordalyn couldn't attack her without causing an international incident. He'd spent the last few days trying to provoke someone else into starting a fight. But if Vordalyn struck the first blow, it would be disastrous, and he knew it.

"My ancestors gave their word," he growled. "They would not return to this land until they were asked. The Queen of Cyre called us across the water. She freed us from that oath, and freed us to reclaim our heritage."

"Yes… freed you to betray a weakened nation. Is that what those glorious ancestors of yours did? Would they be so proud of what you've done? Do you suppose your children will look back and say, 'I treasure the memory of my father, who always turned on his trusting allies?'"

Vordalyn rose in a blur of motion, his blade a gleaming streak as he brought himself on guard. His eyes were locked on Thorn's. She didn't flinch or even move-she just smiled at him. On either side, the gnolls had drawn their weapons. Jharl had an arrow to his bowstring, and Ghyrryn raised his axe.

"Sit down," Ghyrryn said. "We need only protect delegates. You can be fought."

It was the wrong thing to say to a warrior in search of release; Thorn could see Vordalyn tensing in preparation. He wanted the gnolls to attack him, to have some excuse to release his anger.

"And what tales will your children tell of this day?" she said, her words low and fast. "Is this the day their father threatened a servant and killed those who sought to protect her? Shall we get someone to paint a portrait?"

Vordalyn's scimitar was poised in the air above her. Jharl had drawn back his bow, and Ghyrryn was ready to strike. Drego Sarhain was watching, but Thorn didn't expect him to reveal his magical powers to the Brelish and gnolls in order to defend her; whatever had passed between them at the Duurwood camp, they were agents of different nations, and he had a mission of his own.

Vordalyn sat down, sheathing his scimitar. Something shifted in the air. A silk cloth attached to Vordalyn's helmet fluttered, and he pulled it across to hide his lower face, leaving only his eyes exposed. He immediately closed his eyes, retreating into private meditation. No apology, certainly. But under the circumstances, Thorn was content with the victory. On the other side of the wagon, Drego Sarhain winked at her, and Minister Luala actually smiled.

The travelers had been together for six days, and small talk had been exhausted. Had the Brelish been in a wagon of their own, Toli or Beren might have been more talkative, but Toli had no intention of revealing anything in the presence of the Thranes. In the beginning, Drego had told stories to pass the time. But Toli and Vordalyn had no interest in the heroes of the Silver Flame, and it was a poor setting to share war stories. Vordalyn's aggressive comments had driven the conversation for the last few days, and since he had finally backed down, silence reigned in the wagon.

Thorn didn't mind. She had much to think about. The ache in her skull had faded. She rubbed a finger against the stone. They cannot be removed, the Jorasco healer had told her. Cutting them out would cause great damage to the spine. They have become a part of you.

But what were they, really? Why did the pain come and go? Was it purely physical-the shard rubbing against bone-or was magic involved, or some sort of energy that caused the agony?

The last few nights had been calm. The hunters and their wolves had lived up to their promises; five days had passed with no new attacks. Thorn had done more scouting, studying the other delegates, but with no compelling threat, she'd spent most of her time with her countrymen. The last thing she wanted was to arouse any suspicions. They would arrive at the Great Crag before sundown, and then her mission would truly begin.

She'd slept more soundly since that first night, but the dream still troubled her. She'd tried to discuss it with Steel, but he refused to take interest. Considering that I do not dream, I'm ill-equipped to offer any insight. Perhaps you should try talking to your bedroll. She often had dreams in which her actions didn't make sense, but never so vivid. The sensation of watching her body move on its own, of hearing such cruelty in her own voice… it still sent a shiver down her spine.

And then there was Drego. Surely his presence proved there was nothing to the dream. The two of them were soldiers on the opposite sides of a conflict. They'd had little private contact since that night. The experience had shown that they could work together, but if it came to it, she would kill him to protect Breland, and she'd expect no better treatment from him. Perhaps that's all the dream was-a dramatization of a possible future. But she still felt a chill when she met Drego's gaze, still felt the sword in her hand as it pierced his skull.

As the hours passed, Thorn sensed that they were drawing closer to the Great Crag. In the confines of the coach, the passengers could see nothing. But Thorn heard the sounds of traffic on the road, of other wagons and columns of troops. There were cries in the air, the calls of wyverns, and a few voices that had to be harpies, though none were raised in song. Minister Luala seemed ill at ease, and Toli kept his hand on his sword. Vordalyn kept his gaze fixed on Thorn. She knew that he was trying to unnerve her, and she had no intention of responding, so she ignored him. Occasionally she brushed a finger against Steel to ask if he could identify a strange sound.

In time, the wagons came to a halt. The rear flap was drawn back, revealing a patrol of armored ogres accompanied by a handsome young man-a human with fine, dark features and wavy black hair. Ghyrryn raised a hand before anyone could speak. The man said nothing; he stepped into the wagon, glanced at Ghyrryn, then looked slowly around the coach, pausing to study each face.

Doppelganger, Steel whispered. Thorn was inclined to agree. While the young man appeared human, it seemed more likely that he was some sort of creature with the power to read thoughts, seeking signs of hostility or treachery. As a Lantern, Thorn had been trained to resist such attempts. Taking a deep breath, she let her thoughts fall into a peaceful pattern, steady waves in the deep ocean. As she'd expected, Thorn felt the faint hint of an alien presence as the youth's gaze passed over her-a touch of curiosity, something she might have dismissed as her own subconscious if she weren't trained to recognize it. The young man turned to Ghyrryn, inclined his head, and stepped out of the wagon.

Soon they were traveling again, rising up a sharp incline-the final approach to the Crag itself, Thorn guessed. She heard dozens of voices outside the wagon-chattering goblins, rumbling ogres, creatures speaking in different languages. Then the voices were drowned out by a loud grinding sound and an impact that shook the ground. It came from the rear of the wagon, and as the coach drew to a halt, Thorn could imagine the source. They were inside the Great Crag, and the doors were closed.

Ghyrryn was the first on his feet. He had a lantern in one hand, filled with cold fire. "Remain together," he said, assertive as ever. "Go where we say. The Crag is full of dangers, and you will not place yourself at risk. Listen to your guards. Obey the Drul. Now follow."

The gnoll threw open the canvas flap, holding up the lantern to light the way. The chamber beyond was pitch black. Most of the creatures who lived in Droaam could see in darkness, and the Crag wasn't designed for those who preferred the light of the sun. Many of the delegates were moving gingerly in the darkness, but Thorn's enchanted ring allowed her to see through the shadows beyond the torchlight.

The Crag was astonishing. The chamber was enor-mous-the wagons were surrounded by open space, and the curving ceiling was at least fifty feet above her. The walls seemed to be the raw stone of the mountain, but they were too smooth and even to be natural. This was the product of magic or fine craftsmen.

The gnolls led the envoys deeper into the chamber. Goblins scurried about, tending to the draft animals and retrieving luggage. Thorn detected large, hunched figures standing at the very edge of her vision-trolls and ogres. The flickers from the gnolls' torches gave hints about the fearsome weapons they carried. Guards… I hope, she thought to herself.

Movement in the air above drew her attention. She looked up, but saw nothing. She was certain something had been there-she'd felt the motion.

An orb hung above them in the chamber, and it began to glow faintly. Its light grew brighter until it shimmered with the pale radiance of a full moon. The light revealed the giant soldiers ringing the chamber, huge creatures dressed in leather and steel.

Below the light, where Thorn had sensed movement, a massive figure stood proudly, feet firmly planted on nothing but air. Pale blue skin gleamed in the magical light, and muscles rippled as he stared down at them. He had the physique of an ogre, the bearing of a barbarian king, and a gleam of intelligence in his eyes. He wore black silk with silver trim, and two horns rose from his forehead. He was handsome and fierce, and Thorn couldn't help but think of the tales of demon princes of Shavarath. But he was no demon. He was an oni, an ogre mage-mighty and magical, but still a native of Eberron.

"Honored guests!" His voice was deep and rich, with the timbre of a master storyteller. "You have traveled far and faced great dangers. Your journey is at an end. I am Drul Kantar, and I welcome you in the name of the Daughters of Sora Kell, benevolent queens of the sovereign nation of Droaam.

"I will serve as your guardian and guide in the days that lie ahead. It will be my honor to learn your ways and teach you ours, to help us become one people here and in the world beyond. But let us leave the business of diplomacy to the morrow. You have all made sacrifices to be here, and my queens wish to reward you for your journey.

"Tonight you will be our guests at a grand celebration, presided over by the glorious Sora Katra herself. Lords and ladies, prepare yourselves for an evening that will become legend for centuries to come. We stand on the precipice of history. Now let us leap!"

As he spoke the final syllable, the vizier spread his hands wide and fireworks burst forth from his outstretched fingers, brilliant serpents that danced among the delegates below. The ogres and gnolls roared their approval, and a few of the envoys joined in the applause. Thorn was impressed. Whoever this Drul Kantar was, there was no denying his charisma.

"Looks like it's going to be an interesting night," she murmured.

Indeed, said Steel. Now get to work.