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.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Great Crag Droaam Eyre 18, 998 YK
Diplomatic accommodations.' Beren snorted, glaring at the tiny chamber. 'Boldrei's bloody feet! This isn't a guest suite-it's a prison cell!'
'The Daughters may have more prisoners than noble guests, my lord,' Thorn said, setting Beren's bags on the floor. She was accustomed to working in hard conditions, and the journey from Graywall was hardly luxurious, but the Crag had brought this experience to a new low. The bunk in Thorn's room must have been designed for a goblin; she doubted she could sleep without curling into a ball.
Lighting in the complex ranged from dim to completely dark. The oni provided each of them with an enchanted light-a rod suffused with cold fire, providing constant, pale blue illumination. The delegates and their servants were expected to take these everywhere, including their private quarters; only a few chambers or halls had permanent fixtures. It made a certain amount of sense-the tunnels within the Crag had been built by creatures whose eyes could see in the deepest darkness.
Thorn was sure it was a power play. The Daughters of Sora Kell wanted the delegates to be disoriented, to reinforce the power they wielded. The darkness didn't trouble Thorn-if anything, it would be useful when she attempted to explore the subterranean palace. But the ring that allowed her to see in the dark was a tool of her trade, and she needed to be careful not to reveal it; there was no reason for a simple aide to have such an object. She took care to cling to her torch and to stumble occasionally in the dim light.
'Do you need any help?' Thorn wasn't sure where to put Beren's belongings, but she was there to assist him. It seemed the least she could do.
'No need, Nyri. I'm sure you have preparations of your own to attend to.' Beren snapped his fingers, and his bag opened of its own accord. Clothes drifted up onto the bunk, where an invisible force carefully folded them. 'After one too many jobs where my aide lacked the skills for domestic tasks, I learned a few tricks of my own. You'd be surprised how far you can get with just three spells. For example,' he gestured again, and Thorn felt a tingle against her skin as magical energy wiped away the dirt and sweat of the road. The ambassador passed his hand over his own clothes, and stains vanished. 'There we are… ready for the feast. Not the easiest thing to master, but I wish I'd picked it up long ago. I do believe I spent a year covered in mud and grime when I was fighting on the western front.'
'Have you met Sora Katra before?' The thought had lingered in her mind ever since she'd heard that the hag would be attending the feast. Thorn had dealt with her share of princes, and she'd spoken with King Boranel on three separate occasions. But the Daughters of Sora Kell weren't just the rulers of some savage land. Each was a legend in her own right, the stuff of nightmares and children's tales.
Thorn's father had told her a dozen stories of Sora Katra, the clever hag whose gifts always turned on the hero who sought her aid. And her brother Nandon had loved to tell her about Sora Maenya, whispered tales in the dark about the hag who would consume entire villages, the giantess who had-according to Nandon-developed a special taste for tender Khoravar girls. This inevitably resulted in 'Sora Maenya' grabbing her in the middle of the night, though the monster typically chose to tickle her instead of devouring her. As she'd grown older, she'd set these stories aside, along with the legends of the Lady of the Plague, the Lord of Eyes, and the other monsters of youth.
But a decade ago the Daughters of Sora Kell emerged from myth and laid claim to Droaam. And tonight she'd be dining with one of them… sitting in the same hall as the Mistress of the Mires, Lord Koltan's Doom, the Spinner of Gold and Lies. And where there was one sister, could the others be far away? Nandon's midnight tales echoed in her mind. Maenya eats the flesh and drinks the blood, but she saves the soul, binding it forever to the bones of her victim. She sleeps on a bed made from the skulls of children, and their ghostly cries ring through the cavern, now and until the end of time…
'I've never met Sora Katra,' Beren said, drawing her from her reverie. 'Sora Maenya… that's a different story. When I was just a lad, younger than you are now, I was stationed at Lherenstan, one of our keeps along the Northern Graywall. We were fools to try to settle that land, and to try to hold it during wartime. Breland's too big as it is, and we were too far from home. But there were always tales of gold and dragonshards beyond the Graywall, and greed has long outweighed common sense.'
'Why were you there?' Thorn said.
Beren laughed. 'I know, I know-a tragic waste of such a mighty warrior. My father was to blame. The old man wanted to keep me away from Thrane, to find me a job signing parchments or washing dishes. I knew my duty as a Wynarn. I wanted a sword in my hand, and I found my way to the front lines soon enough. As it turned out, Thrane would have been far safer than Lherenstan.'
'What happened?'
'The tide of violence ebbed and flowed. Months passed with no trouble at all, then some settler or prospector would cross a line. The ogres would raid the villages, and we'd take the fight to them. I did my share of bloody deeds those days, on Aureon's word!'
Thorn was accustomed to Beren's stories, to his jovial bluster. But as he continued, she could tell that something was different about this tale. He still smiled, but the fire in his eyes had faded. He pressed on, as if compelled to speak.
'It was Zarantyr of 972 when she came to our gate. She was a refugee. She told us that her husband and children had been killed by trolls. I'll never forget her. Tall and thin, hair as black as a crow's wing and just as ragged, surrounding her like a shroud woven from the night itself. I could see that her skin was flawless beneath the dirt, and her eyes were as dark as her hair.
'But her spirit impressed me the most-the determination that had carried her so far from Sharn and Wroat, the courage that kept her going after her family was destroyed. She said she was hungry, asked if she could stay
