The Queen of stone

CHAPTER THREE

The City of Graywall Droaam Eyre 11, 998 YK

Three full moons hung in the sky over Bone Lane. Graywall was a nocturnal city, and those creatures that shunned the sun came out to barter and fight under the light of the moons. Bursting out of the Bloody Tooth, Thorn ran headlong into the milling throng of monsters. She pressed into the crowd, darting between the legs of giants and leaping over goblins, weaving her way through the maze of flesh and fur. An orc stepped into her path, a squat warrior with steel-tipped tusks and an ugly cleaver. As soon as he caught her eye, the orc gave a strangled cry, dropping his blade and hurling himself out of her way.

A narrow alley lay to her right, and Thorn ducked into the opening. She'd done some scouting before her meeting-a little labyrinth of narrow passages hid that way, too small for any ogre or troll to follow. She took a moment to rest and to remember the path to return to the palace.

A puddle of water lay ahead of her, and Thorn studied her reflection. Her skin was covered with coppery scales, her teeth sharp needles, and her hair was a mane of living serpents, coiled as if ready to strike. The face of a medusa. It was the first spell she'd cast in the Bloody Tooth-an illusion to cloak her appearance, disguising herself as this monster. The people of Droaam dealt with medusas, and they knew the deadly consequences of meeting a medusa's gaze. Though Thorn's eyes lacked that mystical power, the fear was sufficient to shake even Xorchylic. The disguise wouldn't hold up under long examination, but it had served its purpose. Her reflection blurred as the mystical energies faded, and Thorn could see her own true face. She reached into Kalakhesh's sack and retrieved her dagger.

"We're safe," she whispered.

I doubt it, Steel said. Disguised or not, you revealed yourself to Xorchylic. He'll be able to track your thoughts.

"Please," Thorn said. "I know we haven't worked together before, but I am a Dark Lantern. I learned counter-divination my first year."

And Xorchylic is a mind flayer, one of great power. Your technique is impressive, but we can only guess at his mental abilities.

"You didn't see his eyes," Thorn said. "Whatever powers he might have, he was too surprised to get a lock on me."

Then he will find another way. The trackers of the Znir Pact can follow a trail better than any hound, and your scent is all over that tavern.

"I have a plan," Thorn said. "And I don't need to explain every detail to my dagger." She returned the dagger to its sheath before Steel could respond.

Thorn had learned only a handful of spells… brief invisibility, disguise, the power to leap a great distance or cling to a sheer surface for a few moments. Her greatest trick was a ritual that concealed her scent and hid all traces of her passage. Thorn had planned to use it to cover her escape, but her ability to draw on magical energy was limited-and she hadn't expected to cast so many spells in the Bloody Tooth. She reached out with her thoughts, flexing her fingers and whispering the first syllable of the spell, but it was no use. Without the power, the words had no effect, and she couldn't draw from the source of the magic. But there were other ways to block pursuit.

Thorn moved deeper into the maze of alleys. The three moons above spread light and shadow across her path. Rhaan's pale blue radiance blended with the reddish light of Aryth to cast a purple hue across the city. Faint Sypheros was shadowy even when it was full. The orange moon, Olarune, wouldn't be truly full for at least a few days, but this was the month of Eyre, and her moon was especially bright. Once it was high in the sky, Thorn imagined the night would be nearly as bright as full day.

She emerged in a small courtyard, a convergence for alleys leading to the major streets. The air was filled with a foul stench, hot blood and bitter chemicals, and even though she'd been prepared for it, Thorn had to pause to hold back the bile in her throat. The pavement was dark, crusted stone, and Thorn realized she was walking across dried blood.

A high, sharp scream rang out to her left, only to be cut off by the sound of steel on stone and a bugbear's laughter. Thorn didn't reach for her blades. There was no danger here. The sounds and the blood both came from a slaughterhouse, where the bugbear butchers were preparing meat for a city of monsters. The tannery next door processed the hides produced by its neighbor, and together the industries produced the vile odor that permeated the courtyard. The smell was enough to turn Thorn's stomach, and it would be a thousand times worse for any creature with a sensitive nose. All she had to do was mask her scent, rubbing some of the offal from the killing floor across her clothing. Even if they used trackers, the stink would cover her true scent, making her indistinguishable from any other slaughterhouse worker. She had only one problem: the beast sitting in front of the slaughterhouse gate, calmly devouring a pair of equine legs.

Her first impression was of his face. He looks like King Boranel, she thought, knowing that was madness. The strong brow, prominent nose, wide cheekbones, even the thin mustache and goatee… all strikingly reminiscent of Breland's king. Of course, the creature's head was twice the size of Boranel's, and his bloodstained mouth was lined with a double row of vicious teeth. Red, leathery wings spread out as the creature met her gaze, revealing the tawny flanks of a lion. A manticore.

Thorn had seen manticores before. During a mission in the Mror Holds, she was set upon by a gang of dwarf separatists mounted on manticores. This beast was larger than she remembered, his features less bestial than his Mror cousins. And where the eastern manticores had clusters of quills along their tails, this beast had a scorpion's barb. Wings and stinger… part wyvern, she thought idly. And part king. I wonder what Steel will make of this.

"Are you hungry, little one?" the manticore rumbled. Blood dripped onto the stones as he spoke. "You're welcome to a leg. I assume you don't want an arm."

He leaned down and Thorn heard the crack of snapping bone. When he rose again, a human arm dangled from his jaws. Then Thorn saw the bare and bloody torso, the stump of the neck-the corpse of a centaur. The manticore raised his head and wolfed down the arm, keeping one eye fixed on Thorn as he swallowed.

Though Thorn's first instinct was to flee, she held her ground. Compared to the mind flayer, this creature was almost mundane. And the manticore seemed more curious than aggressive; it was testing her.

It was an opportunity.

"I've had all the horse I can stomach for one evening. How's your appetite for flesh?"

"My hunger is all-consuming," the manticore replied. "But you have chosen your shape well. I have no taste for elf, and I see the taint of the old ones in your features." He sank his teeth into the centaur's chest, tearing out the heart and swallowing it. "What brings you to this place?"

"I wanted to take in the air." Thorn took a deep breath and managed not to choke. "I've heard so much about the night breezes of Droaam."

The manticore laughed, thunder echoing off the walls of the square. "I see there is strength within you, despite that fragile frame. But it's not safe to be walking the back paths at night, not with Olarune on the rise."

"That's what I've heard," Thorn said. "But I've never been one to take advice from strangers."

"And are we strangers?" The beast looked at her, a smile on his bloody lips.

Thorn was puzzled by the manticore's increasingly jovial demeanor, but it served her purposes. "Stranger than most."

"Yes," he said, "We are at that."

"Of course, the best place to take in the air is in the air," Thorn said. "Could you help me with that?" Masking her scent was a good plan, but flying out of the square would be even better.

The manticore considered this as he chewed on the centaur's other arm. "You would sit on my back? Hold fast to my mane?"

"That's what I had in mind."

"And you have no fear of my venom?" The stinger twitched, a drop of poison glistening on its tip. "My spite has laid dragons low."

"Give me your word that you'll give me safe passage and I'll trust you."

"And why would you say such a thing, little elfblood?"

"You have an honest face." The truth was harder to explain. She just believed it. She felt as if she'd seen this beast in a dream, that this had all happened before.

The manticore licked a paw and dabbed at his chin. "And the reward? What do you offer for the might of my wings?"

"What do you want?" Thorn knew this was coming, but she didn't know what to expect. The creature had no hands. Did he have any use for gems or gold?

"A story."

"Well, I'm no Phiarlan sage-singer, but-"

The beast laughed again, the rumble echoing around her. "No," he said. "It is your story that I wish to hear. A tale of my choosing, a truth from your past."

Thorn's doubt was echoed by the shard of crystal embedded in her neck. As her eyes narrowed, the stone grew warm and shivers of pain flowed along her spine. Did the beast know her true profession? Did it want some secret of the Lanterns?

"Very well," she said at last. "But it must be my story, and mine alone. I will not reveal any secrets that could harm my friends."

"Acceptable," the manticore said. He had cleaned the blood from his fur and face. He rose and stretched his front legs. His movements revealed powerful muscles-a sinuous grace in his leonine limbs, a touch of draconic majesty in his outstretched wings. He knelt before her. "Mount, lady. I will not harm you on this journey."

"And when we reach our destination?"

"You will not feel my sting under the light of these moons, little one," he replied. "You are safe until I have my story, and there will be another time for that."

Hardly a reassuring answer. But the image of Xorchylic still lingered in her mind, and the memory of the pale white eyes of the flayer drove Thorn onto the creature's back.

The manticore rose to his feet, and Thorn sank her fingers into his fur. She was already beginning to regret the decision. The Mror riders had saddles and stirrups.

"Before I take to the air, I should know where you wish to land."

"The Calabas," she said. "Someplace quiet. I don't want to cause a disturbance, especially at this hour."

"Of course." Thorn could feel the manticore's rumbling laughter shaking his sides. Then the beast leaped forward and rose sharply into the air, and suddenly laughter was the least of her worries.

Thorn didn't speak as they flew over the streets of Graywall. The wind drowned out all other sound. Thorn twisted on the creature's back, shifting her balance to keep from falling. Was this all a cruel game? The manticore promised that he wouldn't harm her, but that left Thorn free to kill herself.

Balancing on the creature's back took most of her concentration, but Thorn was able to take in the view of Graywall stretched below her.

Humans typically built cities on flat land, clearing obstacles from their way. Graywall was built in a mountain pass, a valley choked with tors and chunks of stone, but the city absorbed and assimilated them. Buildings merged into the edges of cliffs. Stonework was bound to hills that had served as lairs for gnolls and gargoyles long before the architects came. Beyond this blend of raw stone and artifice, the city had the same bizarre traits she'd noticed on the ground.

At a glance, the buildings seemed rough, functional, almost perfectly uniform. The roofs were an odd design-wide slabs of stone interlaced like a deck of cards, presumably supported by plaster or pillars below. The stone had the same subtle patterning she'd seen on the alley walls, and the faint shadows seemed to ripple in the moonlight, like the surface of a quiet pool. It was bright enough to discern each building under the light of the three moons, but the appearance would be quite different on a dark or cloudy night, when the moons hid their faces from the world.

The Calabas was something else entirely. It might have been plucked from another land and dropped into Graywall as punishment. This was the foreign quarter, home to merchants, explorers, exiles, and others who dared deal with the savage creatures of the west. Built by the architects of the dragonmarked House Tharashk, it was designed for the comfort of humans and their kin. Coldfire lanterns spread light across the streets. Ogres or trolls would have to crouch to fit through the doorways of most buildings, and many of the hostels and taverns had painted walls and windows of glass-sharp contrast to the stark stone of the city proper.

True to his word, the manticore descended in a quiet spot behind a Tharashk warehouse. Most of the inhabitants of the Calabas kept the hours of their homelands, and compared to the bustle outside the Bloody Tooth, the streets of the quarter were peaceful.

"What story do you want to hear?" Thorn asked, once she'd stumbled to the ground. Her legs were weak and the world was spinning around her, but she kept her mind fixed on one simple thought: don't vomit on the manticore.

"No. Now is not the time," the manticore said, looking down at her. "You have forgotten the story I wish to hear. We will meet again, under different moons."

"What do you-"

He was gone before she'd finished the sentence, leaping over her and rising into the sky. He circled above her, and for a moment his shadow passed across the orange face of Olarune. Then he was lost amid the darkness and the stars.

The manticore's words followed her as Thorn made her way to the plaza known as the Roar. Even as her balance returned and her stomach settled, the memories of the conversation haunted her. Are we strangers? What did he mean by that? What tale from her past could interest a creature from this savage land? Could he have fought in the war? In the final years of the war, House Tharashk had brokered the services of monstrous mercenaries… could this manticore have served under a Brelish banner?

She wondered if he knew her father.

No, she thought. More likely he was toying with her, taking pleasure in sowing doubt and confusion. Whatever the truth of it, he had served his purpose; Thorn had reached the Roar.

The plaza was lined with taverns, shops, and hostels, all built to cater to travelers and expatriates who longed for a last hint of home in this strange city. It took its name from the bronze statue at the center of the plaza-a mighty dragonne, with the body of a lion and the wings and scales of a dragon. It stood on its hind legs, wings outstretched, roaring at the sky. This was the sigil of the dragonmarked House Tharashk, the House of Finding, and the Tharashk fortress was the most imposing building on the square.

The Tharashk keep was one of the most important outposts of the house beyond its homeland in the Shadow Marches, serving as a central point for prospecting operations along the Graywall Mountains and a recruiting center for the mercenaries the house brought out of Droaam. As governor of Graywall, the mind flayer Xorchylic had granted Tharashk the power to administer justice in the Calabas, and since Thorn had arrived within its bounds, she felt safe from pursuit.

Thorn studied the dragonne. After watching the manticore tear out a centaur's heart, it was hard to be impressed by this chunk of lifeless metal.

Quiet as the plaza was, there were still signs of life in the early hours of the morning. A handful of orcs and half-orcs dressed in Tharashk livery wrestled and laughed. Two dwarves sang a Mror chant outside Dorn's Flagon, a tavern known more for the size of its tankards than the quality of the ale.

The black garb Thorn had worn for the meeting with Kalakhesh would have drawn bemused glances from the Tharashk laborers, so she'd changed on her way to the Roar. Shiftweave allowed Thorn to transform her clothing with a simple thought. Her options were limited to only a few different styles, but the ability to switch garments was invaluable in her line of work.

She changed her outfit to the dress of a courtier traveling on diplomatic business, the bear of Breland embroidered on her breast. A few jewels glittered on her traveling gown-not so many as to invite thieves, but enough to suggest her importance. Her dagger hung from her belt-in Droaam, only a fool would be completely unarmed.

The Tharashk keep was a true fortress, built to withstand riots. By contrast, the building that lay directly across the plaza could have served as a summer palace in the golden age of Galifar; it was built for beauty, not war. Whorled marble pillars supported a sloping roof. A hound carved from basalt stood just beyond the gates, frozen in mid leap. The head and forequarters of the dog were bronzed, sharply visible in the coldfire and the light of the moons. The hindquarters were glass and shadow, as if the dog were appearing from the darkness. Beyond the hound, the five heads of a golden hydra adorned the arch, staring down at approaching travelers. But the walls of the building truly caught the eye: polished black marble that glittered with points of light. Even in brightest daylight, this was a glorious citadel of shadows-a Twilight Palace. The staff were recruited exclusively from the Five Nations and trained to provide comfort to those wealthy travelers who wished to forget they were in Droaam.

The proprietors of the Twilight Palace also went out of their way to erase the scars of the Last War. The decor drew from Galifar at its height. Tall tapestries depicted heroes of the unified kingdom, carefully chosen from each of the Five Nations of Galifar. It was a symbolic effort; more than a picture of Bright Kethan would be needed to bring a Karrn and a Thrane together at one table. But Thorn was always fascinated to see the world of her great-grandfather, a world in which the people of the Five Nations stood as one.

A steward caught her eye with a questioning glance. Thorn wanted a drink. She wanted dreamlily… anything that would make the pain of the burning stones go away. But as she raised her hand, she saw the tapestry that hung behind the steward, the image of the knight with the flashing sword and the fierce red dragon. Harryn Stormblade.

She had no time to waste. Thorn pulled a bottle of dark liquid off the tray of a passing steward, silencing his complaints with two gold coins. She made her way to her room and slid the cover off the coldfire lantern. Passing her hand over the bed, she called the book forth from the space within her glove. She drew the dagger with the crimson furrow, staring at the red circle on the black pommel.

"Steel," she said. "We need to talk."