The Queen of Stone: Thorn of Breland (4 page)

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 décor 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.”

W
hen she was a girl, Nyrielle Tam wanted to be a soldier, to fight for Breland like her father. She’d been raised on tales of Brelish bravery and the noble values of her homeland and her king. Other nations were full of villains and madmen. The Thranes were blinded by zealotry. The Cyrans were arrogant cowards, and they would surrender the kingdom to elves and goblins. The Karrns desecrated the bodies of the dead to create zombie armies, and who could say what horrors would fill the world under a Karrnathi king. And the people of Aundair relied on dark magic to slaughter their enemies. By the time Nyrielle was a teenager, though, Aundair and Breland were allies, and people didn’t tell those stories as often.

In childhood stories, Breland was a land of opportunity, a place where even the nobles respected the common man, where the lords were truly servants of the people. It was a land of industry and progress, the greatest hope for the future.

As she grew older, Nyrielle learned to recognize propaganda. She could even imagine what the children of Thrane or Karrnath might have been told about Breland. Its people placed gold above honor. Its industrial might spawned
corruption and crime. The nobles had no control over their subjects, and the people had largely abandoned their faith in the gods. Slander and lies, but all with the same hint of truth as those childhood tales of other lands.

The people of Breland were more pragmatic than their cousins in other lands, less devoted to Sovereigns and Flame. And there were those who said that the noble families—even the great King Boranel, a hero who’d fought in the vanguard of many a battle—were no longer necessary. It was the royal succession to the throne of Galifar that had brought about a century of war; many believed that the proper response was to abandon the institution of the monarchy and start anew.

For all that, Nyrielle believed in Breland. Her homeland wasn’t the paradise of her childhood. But she believed that the king was a good man, that he believed in justice and the rights of his people, and that when the war was over he would tend to the wounds of the nation.

Whenever her father returned home, those wonderful weeks or months before the battles began anew, she forced him to teach her the ways of sword and shield. When her father was away, Nyrielle would wrestle and race with her brother Nandon and the other Khoravar children, building her strength and speed and waiting for the day that she could serve alongside her father on the field of battle.

That day never came. On the 12
^th
of Barrakas, 992 YK, a courier arrived. Her father was dead, killed in a skirmish with Cyran troops. She barely remembered her mother Jaelari, who had left when Nyrielle was just a child. Her father told her that Jaelari had returned to Aerenal, the distant land of the elves, but that she had left a great treasure behind—four beautiful emeralds in the green eyes of her twin children. But those emeralds wouldn’t pay her father’s debts. Their home was sold and the children put to the streets.

Nyrielle and Nandon were luckier than most orphans of the war. The Khoravar—those who carried the blood of human and elf—of Wroat looked after their own. Nyrielle’s father had no relatives in the neighborhood, so others took turns providing shelter for the teenagers. But it was hard for Nyrielle to be grateful.

After the death of his father, Nandon turned against Breland, spitting on the war and all Five Nations. For Nyrielle, the dream of serving Breland was all she had left. Her father had died in the war, but he’d believed it a cause worth dying for. She devoted every moment to her dream, drilling with sticks, chasing rats to build her speed, and waiting for the day she would follow in the footsteps of her father.

She enlisted three years later, and in the training camp she met Zane. At the time, he appeared to be a handsome lieutenant; she learned that it was only one of his many faces. He was impressed by her talents and her lineage; he’d known her father. Zane said that if she truly wished to serve Breland, he knew better ways to do it—battlefields more dangerous than the Crying Fields or the Thrane front. Zane gave her an introduction to the King’s Citadel, the hidden hand of the Brelish crown.

The Citadel had many branches. The King’s Shields were charged to protect members of the royal family. The King’s Wands were the magical experts of Breland, and they provided mystical tools and training to the other branches. The King’s Swords were the fist of Breland, deadly soldiers called in when force was the only answer. Nyrielle had first hoped to be a Sword, but her greatest strength wasn’t her skill with weaponry. That honor went to her cunning and her speed, her ability to observe and adapt. And so she was inducted into the King’s Dark Lanterns.

As a child, Nyrielle Tam had dreamed of being a soldier. Instead, she became a spy, a saboteur, and when necessary, an assassin. She became Thorn, Dark Lantern of Breland.

Open the book to the final page
, Steel said.

“Why?”

Are you questioning your orders, Lantern Thorn?
Steel’s voice was a chilly whisper in her mind.

“I don’t take orders from a piece of metal,” Thorn snapped. “And I don’t like being kept in the dark about the nature of a mission. What aren’t you telling me? Why is Zane keeping secrets?”

I have been part of the Dark Lanterns for one hundred and twelve years
, Steel said.
I remember when the Lanterns served the King of Galifar, not simply Breland. I have aided true heroes, and if you think shepherding a wounded agent is some sort of honor, you—

Thorn dropped the dagger and the voice ceased abruptly. She ran her fingers over the shard embedded at the base of her skull, feeling the pressure of crystal on bone and the fire in her nerves. Thorn hated herself for giving in to the pain. She took a deep swig from the open bottle and almost choked. It was iced tal, and if that wasn’t bad enough, it was sweetened with honey. I didn’t think they served children here, she thought bitterly.

The red circle on the dagger glowed with a faint light, but Thorn ignored it. She picked up the sack she’d taken from Kalakhesh and studied its contents. A small loop of leather cord, just large enough to fit around a finger. A much longer coil of lightweight silk rope. A few sets of rags, the clothes of a goblin servant; a clink of glass against glass revealed vials of dark liquid wrapped up in the filthy clothes. She found a raven’s quill and a few folded pieces of parchment covered with writing in the goblin alphabet.

Thorn examined each item, opening a vial to sniff the potion within, considering the cipher used on the parchment notes, testing the quill on the blanket—as she expected, it was enchanted to write on any surface.
Finally, she opened the leather-bound book, turning to the last page.

Light suffused the vellum. Golden ink flowed like quicksilver, settling into words. Half the page was taken up by a picture. It showed a statue of a handsome knight, his hands at his sides, his sword absent. A woman leaned close to him, a woman with golden skin and a mane of snakes for hair. Stone monsters flanked the knight and the medusa; a mighty griffin reared up behind the warrior, a fierce hydra stood across from him. Thorn looked at the words below the image.

Without his sword, the Knight of Storms was a man divided, bereft of his past and his glory. In this state he faced the Queen of Stone and met her pitiless gaze. Now, he who had been the most loyal servant of the King was made subject to the Queen of Stone and left among the ghosts of the Crag. Three keys are needed to free him from his eternal slumber—his sword, his past, and the forgiving kiss of the Queen of Stone
.

Thorn picked up the dagger. “I’m listening.”

Harryn Stormblade is alive
. Steel’s voice was cold, but he said nothing about her earlier outburst.

Every child heard the stories. The Knight of Storms, the child of Thronehold, one of the greatest champions of unified Galifar. “He disappeared over two hundred years ago,” Thorn said.

In Droaam. And now he’s been found
.

“In a picture book?” Thorn shook her head. “I’m impressed with the glowing pages and the magic ink, but what makes you think this is anything but a goblin scam to lighten the Brelish treasury by a few thousand galifars?”

Because we’ve found the statue. It’s in the Great Crag. Kalakhesh confirmed it when he contacted us
.

“Well, if Kalakhesh said it, it must be true.” The crystal in her neck reacted to her frustration, and
the pain increased with her anger. She struggled to calm her thoughts and quiet the stone.

The Silent Knives have nothing to gain from it, and you know that. Kalakhesh said that we wouldn’t betray Darguun for such a sum—the same holds true for his masters. We have independent confirmation of the existence of this statue—a sketch made by one of our envoys, when the Daughters sought to be recognized at Thronehold. At the time, we assumed it was no more than a monument, a mockery of a fallen hero. Now we know it is the hero himself, most likely given to the Daughters as tribute. Your mission is to recover Harryn from the Great Crag
.