The Queen of stone

CHAPTER TWENTY — NINE

The Ossuary Droaam Eyre 20, 998 YK

She found no darkness, because she had no eyes to see. Neither pain nor the lack of pain; she had no nerves or muscles. She couldn't even give form to these ideas, for she had no mind to channel her thoughts. All she could truly feel was a sense of loss, that everything had been stripped away from her… even though she could no longer explain what "everything" had been.

She felt no sense of time. Years might have passed, or seconds. She couldn't trap memories in the stone pathways of her mind; she knew only that once it had been different.

Then something changed. A thousand sensations passed over her in an instant, along with the awareness that there were such things. Pain. Cold. Fear. And then Thorn was back in her body, struggling to stand on legs that were suddenly able to bend.

A stone knight stood before her, his open hands spread at his sides. He was a large man, tall and muscular. He wore no helmet, and his features were rough, but handsome. His was a face that had seen many battles, hardened by fire and steel. He was dressed in plate mail, and it was the armor of a soldier on the battlefield, not the ornate gear of a jousting knight. The only adornments on the armor were the dents and scars from the hundreds of blows it had turned aside. That the man could fight in such heavy armor was a testament to his strength. The only decoration he wore was the symbol on his tabard, barely visible on the statue. The cloth was torn, but Thorn could see the outline of a shield on his chest, bearing a simple silhouette of a crown. The Shield of the Crown.

Harryn Stormblade.

Memory followed sensation, flowing back into Thorn's mind. With this came the realization that Sheshka stood directly behind her; a serpent was brushing against the back of her head. "Help him! Quickly!"

In studying the trap, Thorn realized that she couldn't disable it. But she could sense the power within the ward, and that it would take time to rebuild its energy after being discharged. Only a living creature could trigger the effect; she couldn't have thrown a rock through the field. Knowing that Sheshka had the ability to restore her flesh had given her the answer. Her sacrifice had drained the ward. They had only seconds to act before the magical field was restored.

Sheshka leaned close to the petrified knight. It was the image Thorn had seen on the last page of the golden book-the knight standing before the griffin, the hydra with its heads coiled above the medusa. Sheshka pressed her lips against Harryn's neck, and stone became metal and flesh.

Thorn waited. The instant she saw the change, she grabbed the man's arm, pulling him out of the petrifying trap. He followed, confused, staggering in his heavy armor.

"Sheshka!" Thorn shouted.

The petrification glyphs have been restored, Steel said.

Thorn spun around, barely remembering to close her eyes. Sheshka tumbled into her, and the two fell to the ground. Although she'd lost her balance, she was still flesh and blood. The medusa's snakes hissed and snapped at the air. Steel scolded her for trusting their fate to Sheshka's hands. Caught between them, eyes squeezed shut, Thorn found herself laughing… something she'd had little opportunity to do in Droaam. She continued to chuckle as Sheshka pulled free, struggling to regain her footing and her dignity. To her surprise, the medusa queen extended a hand and helped pull Thorn to her feet.

"Thank you," she told the medusa. "You could have just left me-you promised only to restore Harryn."

"You have spilled the blood of my enemies. You called to me when I stood on Dolurrh's doorway. You were not born in my egg-clutch, and I offer nothing to your nation. But you are my sister, Thorn." Her voice was weary, and the motions of her vipers were sluggish. It seemed that the act of restoration was an effort for her.

Thorn pulled back her hood and drew down the mask covering her lower face. "It's Nyrielle," she said. "Nyrielle of Breland."

If Sheshka was surprised, she gave no sign of it. "I am honored by your trust, Nyrielle Tam. But it is as Thorn that you saved my life. And it is Thorn who must face the road ahead. You have your prize. Now you must decide what to do with him."

It seemed strange that the knight had remained silent throughout her conversation with Sheshka. On the other hand, he didn't know her, and he was undoubtedly confused. She turned to speak to him, but her voice died before it left her tongue.

Harryn Stormblade stood before her. At least, his body did. His face was as blank and expressionless as it had been when it was cast in stone. His eyes were unfocused, staring vaguely ahead.

Thorn took a step toward him, gently waving a hand before his face. No reaction. "Harryn?" she said. "Lord Stormblade, can you hear me?"

Nothing. He stood up straight, and he'd followed when Thorn had pulled his arm. But there was nothing to suggest that a single conscious thought floated in his head.

"You said a few centuries wouldn't hurt him," Thorn said as she drew Steel, holding him out toward the placid warrior.

"I said that mere centuries of imprisonment would leave no mark on the soul," Sheshka said, and there was true sorrow in her lovely voice. "It has not. You see him as I saw him last, so many years ago."

"What are you talking about?"

"The Stormblade and I… we knew each other for a time. Centuries ago. I was young, and I sought adventure and excitement as all youths do. There was darkness in the land, and while it could not threaten Cazhaak Draal, I had followed it south. I met Harryn. In another time, we might have been enemies, but he had a different quest." Sheshka's eyes were closed and her serpents were very still; they were draped down around her shoulders, so still that they could have been mistaken for hair. "I let fear gain the upper hand and I parted our ways before he faced his final foe. The next time I saw him, he was in this condition."

"And it didn't occur to you to mention this earlier?"

A few of Sheshka's vipers rose up around her shoulders. "You asked me for the Stormblade, and I have given him to you. I have lifted my gaze from him. What afflicts him is none of my doing. I have fulfilled my promise."

Steel had taken a long time to study the serene knight, and he whispered in Thorn's thoughts. This may have been the work of magic, but there is no ongoing mystical resonance. This isn't a curse that can be broken. A spell isn't clouding his thoughts-his mind has been taken away.

Taken away. Thorn thought about the stories her father had told her, the tales of the Shield of the Crown. The Stormblade. "What happened to his sword?"

"You see him as I found him," Sheshka said. "Unarmed and helpless. I could not take him to Cazhaak Draal. There would have been no place for him there. But he was a brave warrior, and I did not wish him to be taken by the beasts of the land. So I changed him and I left him, another guardian among the stone ghosts of the Great Crag."

"It's the thrice-damned sword," Thorn said. Three keys, and I found only one.

"What makes you so certain?"

"I read it in a book," Thorn said. "'Without his sword, he was bereft of his past, and so he met the Queen of Stone.' It said that I'd need to find 'his sword and his past.' If you don't know where his sword is, it seems like a lost cause."

Sheshka's serpents had risen around her head-not hissing, simply watching, tongues flicking out to taste the air. "Tell me of this book. I do not see how anyone could know of such a thing."

"No need to tell when I can show." The tome was still stored in her left glove; a thought brought it into her hand.

Sheshka's reaction was as dramatic as it was unexpected. She took a step backward, and as she did so, all of her vipers spread out to their full length, baring their fangs and hissing. Venom dripped to the floor. Her eyelids flickered, and Thorn sensed that it took effort for her to keep them closed. "Where did you get that?"

"An acquaintance," Thorn said. "No longer with us, I'm afraid. He didn't give me any details."

"His death is no surprise to me. You have carried this thing through Droaam and lived to speak of it! While standing before Sora Katra herself!" Her snakes were writhing wildly as if in pain.

"What is it?"

"I know the people of the east tell tales of Sora Katra and Sora Maenya. I'm sure you've heard how Maenya binds the souls of her victims to their skulls, and sleeps on a bed of the damned. But it seems you know little of Sora Teraza."

"As I recall, she's the one who's not so bad-the one who gave me the helpful note."

"She follows a different path from her sisters. That makes her no less dangerous. She is the oldest of the three, and her ways are mysterious even to them. It's said that she has a library in the Crag, filled with the lives of heroes and prophets."

Thorn frowned, more puzzled than angry. "There's a room in the library of Wroat filled with the lives of prophets. What's so strange about that?"

"Not accounts of their lives… the lives themselves. Until now, I have heard this only as rumor, and I could be mistaken. But the face on the book is just as I have heard. Teraza must have claimed him, taken his story from him-and left this shell behind."

Thorn looked at the leather-bound book, the stern face staring up at her from the cover. Strength lay in that face, a sense of purpose that was missing in the vacant expression of the man standing behind her.

"Stealing from Sora Teraza…" Sheshka's snakes were twisting about nervously.

"You said it yourself. I had the thing in my hand when Sora Katra was only half a room away, and nothing happened. But I don't need a story. I need his past. I need his sword." She considered the gilded tome again. The proud face. The silver sword gleaming on the spine. "You say she took his story away."

"Yes."

"But he's missing his sword. And he's Harryn Stormblade. His sword is his story. And his story is his past."

Thorn turned to face the knight. He still stared at her, his expression vacant as ever.

"Take it," she said. She thrust the book at him, holding it so he could see the spine. "Take it back."

Harryn's eyes focused on the gilded sword. His hand twitched, and then he slowly raised his arm and reached for the book. The moment his fingers touched the leather, it slipped free of Thorn's grip. It should have fallen to the ground-Harryn didn't have a firm grip on it. Instead, it hung in midair. Mist flowed out from the pages, a gray mist lit from within by a pale blue light.

A blinding flash lit the room, and a crash of thunder sent Thorn staggering back. When her vision returned, the hall was illuminated by the shimmering blue light. But the light emanated from the furrow running down the blade of a gleaming silver greatsword. Harryn's sword was as beautiful as his armor was plain. The blade was perfect, polished to a mirror finish, not a nick on its edge. The knight held the weapon in both hands, and his face had changed. He wore the stern expression Thorn had seen pressed into the black leather. His eyes were hard, and when they fixed on Sheshka, they flashed with anger.

"You!" he cried. Blue-white energy crackled along the blade as he drew it back. He dropped his gaze to the ground, and Thorn knew what would come next.

He lunged forward, but Thorn was ready for him. The knight had turned his back on her, and as he started his charge, she slipped behind him and tripped him, sending him tumbling to the ground.

"Sheshka, go!" she shouted. "Let me deal with this!"

The medusa was already darting away, disappearing into the silent ranks of the stone army. Harryn tried to rise and follow her, but a swift kick put him back on the ground.

This is one of the greatest warriors of old Galifar? she thought. Well, he's been asleep for a few hundred years…

Her overconfidence was nearly her undoing. The knight had been distracted by Sheshka, but his attention shifted to Thorn. As he rose, he was ready for her kick. He caught her foot with one hand and pulled Thorn toward him; it was all she could do to keep from falling.

"What are you?" he growled. In the light of his sword, she could see his eyes, a deep and vivid blue. "Are you one of Drukan's creatures?"

Thorn broke free from his grip and backed away. She kept her hands out before her to show that she wasn't holding a weapon. "I don't know what you're talking about. You've been cursed. I just released you from its effects."

"More lies," he said. She could sense his pain and confusion. He was trying to focus on her, but his eyes were glancing about the room.

"Do you know where you are?" Thorn said. She continued to back away, and he followed her. Thorn wanted to move him away from Sheshka and the petrifying ward. "Do you know how you came here?"

A flicker of doubt crossed his face, but his blade was steady, and he leveled it at her chest. If he charged at Thorn, no one could protect her. "Who are you?" he said.

"I am Thorn of Breland, Dark Lantern of the King's Citadel."

"The King's Citadel." His eyes narrowed. In Harryn's time, the Citadel had served the king of Galifar, not the ruler of Breland, but he knew the name. "And how can I know you haven't been corrupted by Drukan?"

"Because I don't even know who that is," Thorn said. She tried to project all the sympathy and sincerity she could muster. "If you are Harryn Stormblade-you've been petrified for over two hundred years."

Harryn's eyes were fixed on hers. His mouth opened to protest, but he could see the hundreds of statues all around him, mute testimony to Thorn's tale. He stared at her, searching for the slightest hint of deception. She stared back, willing him to believe her.

A sudden sound broke the tension. The howling of wolves, and the deeper call of the dire wolf.

The Children of Zaeurl had found them.