War, the warforged were wood and steel constructs given life through magic. Ember was an impressive figure; he reminded Thorn of a scarecrow, lean and deadly, limbs and torso cast of blackened adamantine. A glyph was carved into his metal forehead, and both this sigil and the eyes of the warforged burned with a fierce crimson light.
Beren made the introductions for the Brelish. That left one more stranger at the table-the man sitting next to Thorn. As disturbed as she'd been by the place card indicating her secret name, her dinner companion proved a worthy distraction. No chair waited at his place, merely a massive bearskin spread out across the floor. His tankard was the size of a barrel, and his crystal plate as wide as a wagon's wheel. The oversized setting was novelty enough, but then the guest arrived.
He was a giant.
No mere ogre, but a true giant… a creature Thorn had only heard of in the tales explorers brought back from Xen'drik. As Thorn had seen, the ogres-and even the oni-were quite bestial in appearance; no one could mistake them for humans. The newcomer had no such fearsome demeanor-no fangs, no claws, no horns on his forehead. His skin was jet black, his hair the brilliant red of a bonfire, and he was extremely muscular. Setting aside the color of his skin, at a great distance he could easily have been mistaken for a dwarf of the Mror Holds, a proud miner baron. Up close, it was obvious that he was over three times the height of a man, and that he could crush Thorn's head between his thumb and forefinger. Even sitting on the floor, he towered over the table.
'I am the Warlord Gorodan, called the Ashlord,' he said. His voice was bass thunder, and the wine in their goblets shook with the sound. 'I am to be your host for this miserable evening. Ask what you will of me… but be warned.' He set a massive hand on the table, shaking everything on it. 'I am hungry and I am cold, and I have no patience for the foolish questions of little men. Now let us EAT!'
The last comment was directed to the room at large. Gorodan's speaking voice was loud enough; when he shouted, Thorn could feel the force of it. The command sent the goblins scurrying, and within moments food began to arrive.
After her earlier experience with the pixie sticks, Thorn chose to avoid anything she couldn't identify, but that still left many options. She knew that gorgon was safe, and it wasn't an easy dish to find in Breland. The sauce was a savory blend of wine and firepeppers; Thorn wondered if the Daughters had imported chefs who understood human tastes, or if they ate such food themselves. Beren's tale of Sora Maenya rose in the back of her mind, and she had a vision of the hag preparing a wine glaze for the three children she had just killed; she shivered and tried to force the image away. Suddenly she wasn't hungry any more.
Her companions were pleasant enough. Munta was surprisingly good company; hobgoblins were known as warriors, but Lhesh Haruuc of Darguun had chosen his envoy well. Soon everyone but the giant was laughing at Munta's tale of the goblin smith trapped inside the suit of plate mail. Councilor Sarin surprised them with a war story; not a tale of the Last War, but an account of a battle fought deep within the Seawall Mountains between kobolds and gnome jewel miners. Sarin had begun his political career as a foreman in the mines.
Councilor Dorian had a talent for weaving illusions, and as Sil Sarin told his tale, she recreated it with shimmering figures of light; even the sullen giant was drawn in by the show. At the end, as everyone cheered the clever victory, Sarin scattered a handful of rubies across the table, gems from the very mine of the tales. The councilor asked everyone to take a ruby as a memory of the evening. Even Toli seemed pleased as he took a ruby; while he hated the Thranes, the gnomes of Zilargo had been strong allies of Breland in the last years of the war.
Clever play, Thorn thought. Beren placed his ruby in his belt pouch, and Thorn slipped it out as he reached for the flagon of wine. Such an object was an ideal target for scrying magic. Assuming the gnomes had a diviner in their party, this friendly gift would allow them to monitor the activities of anyone who kept a ruby. She'd dispose of them later.
Beren and Jen Dorian attempted to draw out the giant. Though still sullen, the warlord's mood had improved as he filled his stomach. 'My tale begins in Xen'drik,' he rumbled, 'far across the Thunder Sea.'
Thorn was sure it was a fascinating tale… but it was also an opportunity. All attention was focused on the giant. Dropping her hand beneath the table, she carefully drew Steel.
Confirm: the envelope at your seat is addressed to Thorn?
She tapped the blade once with her forefinger.
We're in luck, then.
The warlord Gorodan was explaining how he'd violated a taboo of his people, something he considered to be a foolish, primitive superstition. Thorn used the opportunity. 'I'm not sure I understand-could you elaborate on that?'
Sora Teraza is an oracle. It's difficult to determine the full extent of her power-like all the Daughters, the truth is tangled with centuries of legend. We've lost agents in Droaam before due to her prescience. It's not surprising that she'd know your identity. The point is that they know who you are, and you're still alive.
Meaning what? There was a chance they'd have me killed? She had no way to ask this question without raising eyebrows, so she waited for an appropriate moment in Gorodan's story and said, 'That is very interesting.'
The Daughters had to know the nations would send spies. They're probably counting on it. They want to make sure that whatever happens here is heard across Khorvaire. So they know who you are and what you are. But if they knew about your secondary mission, they'd probably have taken direct action by now. Have you looked inside the envelope?
Looked inside? She tapped the blade twice. It hadn't even occurred to her. But Steel was right. They weren't just place cards-there was little reason to use an envelope if not to put something inside.
Obviously you shouldn't open it now, since it's not addressed to you. But you'd best take it with you. In any case, about your companions-
Steel's speech and Gorodan's story were both cut off as the floating lights flared and then dimmed, drawing together to create a single pool of light between the tables. A single figure was silhouetted by the spotlight.
Sora Katra. Mistress of the Mires. The crone who wove curses on her loom. Subject of a hundred stories… all of which ended badly.
'Let us begin,' she said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Great Crag Droaam Eyre 18, 998 YK
Though Sora Katra stood below the light, it didn't touch her. It was more than a trick of illumination. Thanks to her ring, Thorn could see in darkness as clearly as day, yet the figure remained in shadow. Sora Katra's voice was equally mysterious. It was firm, clear, commanding. Feminine. Authoritative. The voice of a queen, of a matriarch who has dominated a family for generations. And yet, the moment she stopped speaking, Thorn had trouble remembering the precise sound of that voice. Surely she had the voice of an old woman-but when Thorn looked back on the evening, she heard a younger voice-a voice she'd always associated with her mother.
But when Sora Katra spoke, all questions vanished. Hers was a voice that could not be ignored.
'None of you have met me before. Yet all of you know me. I was with you in your bed when you first heard the tale of Lord Koltan and the story of the Stone Tree. I spent my youth in the Shadow Marches, but I also moved among you; whenever you told my stories, you brought me to your door.' Her shadow shifted; Thorn could almost make out her shape, but not quite. 'We live in a world filled with illusions, a world of changelings and hidden fiends. I myself have worn a thousand faces and more, for each story calls for something new. We have long known each other, yet this is the first time that we truly meet, and I wish you to see who I am.'
Her shadow shifted again, and the magical lights faded further.
'So remember that first story. Remember what you feared in the night. Remember… and be welcome.'
As she finished speaking, she stepped back and fully into the light. A gasp passed through the assembled envoys, and Thorn couldn't help herself; she stiffened, her grip tightening on Steel's hilt. The figure standing before her had stepped out of her nightmares.
Sora Katra was just as Thorn had imagined from hearing the tale of the Forgotten Princess. She was an old woman, and her skin was as pale as her hair, milky white with a touch of green that hinted at rot. Her skin was
