The Queen of Stone: Thorn of Breland (6 page)

She considered the guardsmen as they climbed the ladder into the coach. Despite Beren’s jibes, she knew Boranel wouldn’t leave his cousin in the hands of fools. Grenn was a dwarf, and his ease with his armor and the notches on the hilt of his sword spoke of long service. He smiled at Thorn, but if there was any interest in his gaze, it was simple lechery. This man was a soldier, chosen for strength and courage. Thorn was certain he’d lay down his life for his charge without a second thought—provided he saw the enemy coming.

Toli was cut from different cloth. He was taller than Beren, and his dark skin hinted at Seren Islander blood. Thorn could tell that the guard’s breastplate was uncomfortable for him; she hated inflexible armor herself. The true tell was his eyes. It was subtle; he was a professional. But Thorn could see him studying her, searching for concealed weapons or other threats, just as she’d done with the Aundairians. King’s Shield, she thought. One of the elite bodyguards of the realm, trained to protect the king himself. Good thing, she mused. With a rescue and a kidnapping to plan, I won’t have much time to keep him safe.

Toli knew his work. He stopped Beren from climbing into the wagon, carefully testing each rung himself. He disappeared into the wagon for a moment, then appeared at the door of the carriage and offered his hand to Beren. “Please enter, my lord.”

The interior of the wagon confirmed Thorn’s suspicions.
Troop transport
. The weapon racks were empty, as were the hard wooden benches. But the odor remained, and it didn’t take the nose of a gnoll tracker to recognize the scents of oiled steel, sweat, and damp bugbear fur. Bugbears and gnolls were taller than humans, and the benches were too high and wide for comfort.

As they tried to settle themselves, a gnoll climbed up into the wagon. Unlike his cousins, his fur was black, with a crest of red-orange running from his forehead to the base of his spine. Like most gnolls, he had spotted fur; gray patches mottled the coarse blackness. All together, it gave the impression of a line of flame along his back, with flecks of ash blowing across his body.

Thorn could see Toli tensing, his hand slipping to the hilt of his sword. The gnoll wore a small, wedge-shaped shield on one arm. The lower end tapered to a narrow point, sharpened on either side, and Thorn could imagine it being used to disembowel a foe at close range. His other hand held a long axe with steel at both ends. One head was a heavy crescent blade. The other was a spearhead, sharpened along the edges. The ugly weapon showed as much wear as Grenn’s sword; Thorn was certain this beast knew the business of war.

“Ghyrryn.” The gnoll pounded his chest with the blunt edge of his shield. He spoke slowly, straining to form words in the common tongue around his snout full of sharp teeth. Nonetheless, his voice was clear and deep. “You are in my charge. Breland, this side.” He gestured to his right.

“Lord Beren will sit where he chooses,” Toli snapped, moving between the nobleman and the gnoll.

“We’d be happy to have Lord Beren ir’Wynarn on our side of the wagon,” came a voice from the back of the carriage. The speaker had climbed up moments ago, and Thorn hadn’t seen him behind the gnoll.

Toli looked as surprised as Thorn, and that made her feel a little better. It was the bodyguard’s job to notice such things, after all. She took measure of the newcomer, and liked what she saw. Human, male, late twenties—the picture of a young courtier. His short brown hair was perfectly groomed. His white silk shirt was spotless and bright. Black breeches. Tall boots of oiled leather. A fine black doublet with glittering silver embroidery along the collar and cuffs, woven into patterns of silver flame. His amulet caught her eye: a small silver arrowhead with the image of a flame engraved on the surface.

“Breland, on the right,” the gnoll growled. “Thrane, left.”

Toli frowned. Twelve nations, seven wagons. Some of the delegates would be sharing coaches. “Lord Beren. Please sit here, between Grenn and myself.”

“Oh, I’d planned to speak with Nyri during our trip,” Beren said cheerfully. “I hate to leave a lady without a suitable companion, and Olladra knows the two of you are terribly dull.”

“I’m certain your aide can take care of herself,” Toli said, with a meaningful glance at Thorn.

“So Lord Beren
won’t
sit where he chooses?” Thorn asked innocently. She saw the corner of the Thrane’s mouth twitch slightly.

Toli wasn’t amused. “Lady Tam, I hope that you understand the dangers we face in this place. We will do our best to defend you, but our first priority is to protect Lord Beren. Please let us do that.”

Beren raised a hand. “Look here, boy—”

“He’s right, Lord Beren.” Thorn nodded to Toli. “I’m sorry for being rude. But you must listen to your guards.”

The gnoll was tired of the discussion. “Sit now,” he growled. “Others wait outside. Caravans leave before sun rises.”

The Brelish took their seats on the hard bench. The
Thrane diplomat sat across from Thorn, flashing a brilliant smile at her. The gnoll moved deeper into the wagon, making room for the remaining members of the Thrane delegation. First came a soldier dressed in a lightweight shirt of polished chain mail. Her sword was drawn, and the engraved blade gleamed in the fading moonlight. Thorn guessed that the steel was mixed with silver. The Thrane warrior studied Beren and his guards with obvious distaste, but sheathed her weapon and took a seat alongside her countryman.

A second soldier helped an elderly elf woman up the ladder into the wagon. The elf wore the habit of a priestess of the Silver Flame, and judging from the pale parchment of her skin and her sunken eyes, she had to be at least four hundred years old—almost as old as the church itself. Apparently, the Thranes weren’t concerned about having a delegate who could defend herself if a brawl broke out—or they trusted that the Silver Flame would protect her. For a moment the priestess met Thorn’s gaze, and looking into the pale eyes of the elf made Thorn think of her mother. Where was she now? What had led her to Khorvaire thirty years ago, and why had she been so quick to leave?

This was no time to ponder the past. A few more gnolls climbed into the wagon, and they spoke in their own tongue—a strange mix of hoots, whines, and fluting sounds that she never would have expected from creatures with such canine appearance. At long last the black gnoll that had called himself Ghyrryn closed the back flaps of the wagon and sat down next to Thorn. He gave a long cry, and a moment later, the wagon lurched forward. The journey to the Great Crag had begun.

T
he benches were uncomfortable, and the wagon bumpy and unsteady on the rough road. The passengers had to clutch the edges of their seats to keep from sliding or falling. Toli and Grenn had passed the first hour of the trip glaring at their Thrane counterparts. For their part, the Thranes sought to project cool disinterest, but the tension was there.

Toward the end of the war, Thrane had been one of Breland’s greatest rivals. Beset on all sides and hamstrung by the betrayal of its mercenary forces, Cyre had been pushed into a desperate position, struggling to defend its remaining territory against the constant pressure of Breland, Karrnath, and Darguun. Breland had formed alliances with Aundair and Zilargo, and Karrnath was too far away to pose a true threat. Which left Thrane as the most significant danger to Brelish security.

Early in the war, the people of Thrane had turned away from the rule of royalty and fully embraced the Church of the Silver Flame, and the faith served them well in the struggle. When the conflict began, the standing army of Thrane was far smaller than that of Breland or Karrnath, and it lacked foundries to produce the weapons of war.
But whereas its army was small, its civilian militias were vast. The followers of the Silver Flame were charged to fight against darkness, and villagers trained with spear and bow. Two centuries earlier, they had exterminated the werewolves and shapechangers of the western woods; that same zeal gave them the courage to defend their nation against human foes.

Beyond the courage of the commoner, the priests of Thrane were true miracle workers. The people of Breland were pragmatists by nature, never fond of things they couldn’t measure or prove. The work of a wizard was based on formulas and arcane science, and the Brelish could grasp it. But the magic of a cleric was a thing of pure, trusting faith, and when it came to faith, few people could match the Thranes.

“How did you come to be in civil service, Lady … Tam, was it?” They were the first words the envoy had spoken since the trip began. “I thought I knew the sixty families of Sharn as well as the royal lines of Galifar, but I don’t recall ever hearing the name Tam.”

Thorn studied the man sitting across from her. Perfect skin, not a hair out of place, fine clothes—unusual for a nation driven by such an ascetic faith. The priestess had an aura of serenity, and her habit was far simpler than her comrade’s garb, with his glittering embroidered flames. No sign of a weapon, no wand that she could see … was he truly just a diplomat?

“My father was a soldier,” Thorn said. “In Breland, you don’t need gold or noble blood to serve the nation. And what of your lineage? I’d hate to sully your ears with my common speech.”

The man laughed. “No fear of that. I am Drego Sarhain, milady. And surely, I am as common as they come.”

Thorn glanced at his gleaming cuffs. “Rather fine work for a common man.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “Your father was a
soldier; my mother, a seamstress. We each have our heirlooms.” He gestured at the dagger Thorn wore on her belt. “Your father’s blade?”

Perfect!

“Yes, it’s been in my family for generations.” She drew the blade from its sheath. The eyes of the gnolls and the Thrane soldiers locked on her, but she simply laid the dagger across her legs. “I’ve always wondered what stories it could tell, if only it could talk.”

Very funny
, Steel whispered in her mind.
Give me a few moments and I’ll see what I can find
.

“An interesting design,” Drego said, studying the dagger from across the wagon. “Balanced for throwing, yes? May I take a closer look?” He extended his hand.

“I’m afraid not,” Thorn replied. “My father was a very superstitious man, and he left strict instructions concerning treatment of the blade. I’m sure your mother wouldn’t want to see me wearing your clothes, would she?”

“Probably not,” the Thrane said with a smile. “But I wouldn’t mind.”

Thorn raised an eyebrow, glancing slightly toward the priestess. “Why, Lord Sarhain, should you be saying such things in the presence of Minister Luala—a holy woman?”

“You labor under a common misconception, Lady Tam. We have our political differences, but my faith is based on defending the innocent from
supernatural
threats. So unless you’re some sort of disguised demon temptress, I need not shield myself from your presence. And if you must be formal, it’s Flamebearer Sarhain. But if we’re going to spend the next few days sharing a wagon, I’d prefer Drego.”

“Then it’s only fair for you to call me Nyrielle,” she replied. “So … tell me all about Drego Sarhain.”

The diplomat launched into his story—born to parents of low status, studying the courtly ways of his mother’s
customers, reading romance stories in addition to the holy texts of the church, becoming an apprentice to a minstrel until his magical talents were discovered, and, much to his surprise, drawn into government service. It was a good story; some of it might have even been true. But Thorn hadn’t been listening to Drego.

Be careful
, Steel said.
The priestess is wearing protective charms. She’s safe from poisons, and her thoughts are protected from all divinations. Standard diplomatic warding—Lord Beren has much the same. Our guard Toli has a few tricks hidden away. And the two Thrane soldiers have spells strengthening their armor and potions of healing in those beltpouches. But your friend Drego—nothing at all
.

“… so I was asked to perform for Cardinal Krozen himself,” Sarhain was saying.

“Really? How is that possible?” Thorn tapped Steel as she spoke, continuing to feign interest in Drego’s story.

Either he has the same sort of training you do—in which case he’s very good—or he’s using some sort of tool to protect himself from my examination. Either way, it means that he has something worth hiding. He’s not just a simple envoy. The question is whether he’s an envoy at all
.

“That’s fascinating,” Thorn said to both Steel and Sarhain, and the Thrane beamed at her. Whatever he was hiding, he certainly had an enchanting smile. She examined him more closely. No gloves. No cloak. Not even a backpack or a satchel. Only the silver amulet around his neck and an unmarked copper band around one finger. What secrets was he protecting?

“And what of you?” he asked her, having reached the end of his long tale. “What does Nyrielle Tam have to say for herself?”

“Nothing so interesting,” she replied with a shy smile. “I thought I’d follow my father to war, but you know how it is. I’m just not cut out for bloody work.”