friends driven mad and watched my lover waste away. Now you come to us, just as the Son of Khyber said you would. A Dark Lantern with shards in her spine. An assassin with skills to match our best, touched by Khyber in our moment of need. Quite fortunate for us, yes?”
“Not so fortunate for me,” Thorn said. She couldn’t tell-was he questioning her story? She ran her fingers over her mark. “I’m the one who’s going to be spat on when people see my face.”
Dreck spoke before Fileon could respond. “Release this anger, both of you. Yes, beloved, our blessing is a burden. And you, Shaper of the Young, do not fear what destiny has given us. For what are dragonmarks but the symbols of the great Prophecy itself? It is fate that marked the Lantern and brought our paths together.”
“So I’ve been told,” Fileon said. He looked back at Thorn. “Perhaps the hand of Khyber truly is at work. If so, you should have no trouble with the task that lies ahead.”
She nodded. “You said that today I’d face our true foes. What did you mean by that?”
Fileon drew a leather cylinder from his robes and passed it over the table. It held two sheets of parchment. The first was a sketch of a brooch, an engraved circle crossed with a pin in the shape of a silver sword. The second was the image of a man-a weathered soldier with close-cropped hair and a grim stare, with the tell-tale lines of a dragonmark visible on his neck.
“This should be no challenge for one of your skills,” Fileon said. “Not so different from work you have done in the past. The brooch you see there is an heirloom of House Deneith. It is currently in the possession of Sorghan d’Deneith, of the Sentinel Marshals.”
“You want me to rob a Sentinel?” It was no easy challenge. House Deneith bore the Mark of Sentinel, and their magical gifts sharpened their senses and strengthened their defenses. The house brokered mercenary services across Khorvaire, selling the skills of soldiers and bodyguards. The Sentinel Marshals were the most elite agents of the house, empowered to pursue criminals and fugitives from one end of Khorvaire to the other. Still, she’d expected something more than this.
“Not at all,” Fileon said. “I expect you to kill him then take the brooch from his corpse.”
And there it was. The true test. It was one thing for Thorn to steal something from a house enclave; property could be replaced. But killing a lord of the house, one of its elite forces… if Thorn was an agent of the Twelve, she’d have to refuse.
If she was an agent of the Twelve.
Her first response was simple enough. “I told you before. I won’t kill for gold.”
“This is no contract killing. We have many enemies, and this man is one of them. He hunts our kind for sport, using his authority to cover up his crimes. When the Sentinel Marshal tells the city watch that his aberrant victim was a wanted murderer, who do you think they believe?”
“And were his victims murderers?”
Fileon shrugged. “Not all. I can assure you, if he learned of your existence, he would take great pleasure in hunting you down. Should the Citadel choose to pursue you, Sorghan might well be the tool they use.”
Thorn hesitated. She knew what the Citadel would expect of her: agree to do the job, then find some way to save the innocent man without breaking her cover. But in that moment, she felt a pang of doubt. Fileon’s story of betrayal came back to her. And in truth, she’d seen fear and hatred in the eyes of strangers this past week, even in the miserable depths of Sharn. She thought of little Zae being hunted by Deneith troops.
She pushed the image away. She had a job to do, and with that in mind, her course was clear. She picked up the parchment. “Very well.”
Dreck was watching her with his mismatched eyes. He spoke. “Pray pardon my impertinent words, beloved, but I would know your mind. When you were still in service to your king, would you hesitate to kill an assassin preying on the Brelish people?”
“No, I wouldn’t,” she said. “Because I chose to serve Breland. I wasn’t forced into it by a chance affliction. And just because I’ve been driven from the Citadel doesn’t mean that I’ve turned on Breland.”
Fileon joined in. “And what if our goals conflict with the interests of Breland? What if Sorghan is a Dark Lantern-a Lantern responsible for the deaths of hundreds of our people?”
Thorn met his gaze and held it. “You say that you were betrayed by Breland, Fileon. And I believe you. But you of all people should know what it means to serve the Citadel. If anything betrayed me, it was my own body. I killed Lharen. I’m the murderer here. I know that my life has changed forever, that there’s no turning back. And I’ll deal with this marshal for you. But Breland is still my home.”
Fileon nodded slowly, and in that moment his hard demeanor softened. “I would be disappointed if it were otherwise. Loyalty is a thing that must be earned, and I would think less of you if you were so quick to shed your allegiance. But you will learn the shape of things, as I have. Breland was your home. But now, the only shelter you will find is with those who share your mark. Khyber is your country now.”
Thorn relaxed. She’d guessed that Fileon was testing her again-seeing how quickly she’d abandon her principles, how eager she was to please him. It seemed that she’d made the right move.
“I appreciate all you’ve done for me,” she said. “Before you found me, I was alone. Afraid. You’ve helped me regain control of my life, and I’m grateful for that. If you want to send me after this Deneith murderer, I’ll do it. But don’t expect me to kill another Lantern. Not yet.”
“Acceptable,” Fileon said. “And so I leave you to your work. How you accomplish this task is up to you. We cannot call upon the wealth of Breland, and you will have to make use of the resources that you already possess. I have no tools or weapons to give to you. But there is one thing that I wish you to take with you.”
He knelt under the table, and a moment later he emerged again. There was a small bundle of gray fur in his hand, twitching and watching Thorn with beady black eyes.
A rat.
“I trust you, Sister Thorn. I believe that it is destiny that has brought you to us at this time. But I must be certain. You will carry these eyes with you, and through him, Zae will watch over you. Should you be caught, we will know. Perhaps we will be able to send aid.”
And should I betray you, you’ll know, Thorn thought. She’d been planning to find a way to warn the marshal, to give him a chance to escape. This would make things difficult. Of course, he is just a rat. It would be tragic if I happened to cross paths with a hungry alley cat.
Fileon lowered his hand to the table, and the rat scampered over to Thorn. “I trust you’ll take care of her,” he said. “Consider that your third task. I need to know that you can protect as well as kill. And I’m sure you understand the importance of preserving our lines of communication.”
Thorn smiled. “Of course,” she said, holding out her hand. The rat scampered up onto her arm. “I won’t disappoint you.” So much for the cats.
“Then go,” Fileon said. “And when we meet again, I trust that you will have the brooch in hand.”
The sun was setting against the mountains, and the tall spires of Sharn cast long shadows across the streets and bridges of Dragon Towers. The district was largely dominated by the enclaves of the dragonmarked houses, and most of the people on the streets bore the emblem of one of the houses somewhere on their clothing. There were few beggars. House Deneith supplemented the local constabulary with its own mercenary troops, and they took care to keep the riffraff off of their doorstep. Thorn had raised the hood of her cloak to hide her false dragonmark, and she put her hand on Steel as she made her way toward the Deneith enclave.
Silent protocol, Steel whispered in her mind.
Zae’s rat was nestled in one of Thorn’s belt pouches. It was quite calm. Thorn wondered if it was well trained, or if the aberrant girl was controlling its actions from afar. Fileon claimed that she would be watching Thorn’s actions. Could she eavesdrop on her conversations as well? The safest answer was to assume that she could. The silent protocol was simple: one tap for yes, two taps for no, a rubbing motion with her thumb if the answer was uncertain.
Do you intend to kill Sorghan d’Deneith?
She rubbed her thumb along the hilt. She was still considering her options, and none of them were especially promising.
The Twelve are the motive force behind this mission, and they will not look kindly on the murder of one of their own.
It was the wrong thing to say. She bit back an angry response. The rat was peering up from her pouch, and this was not the time to debate the politics of the Citadel.
