Reaching down, she caught the crippled demon between her jaws. She raised him up in the air, slowly crushing him. And then, as she felt his resistance fading, she unleashed her anger. Fire flowed through her teeth, and Drulkalatar was at the heart of the flames. His bones melted away, his body vaporizing in the intense heat. But she could still feel the last trace of his presence, the essence of his evil. His spirit. And before he could slip away, she swallowed him. She felt a flash of pure hatred, surprise, and fear. And then he was gone.
Thorn’s eyes snapped open. She was lying in her bunk. The crystal shard in her neck burned against her flesh, and for a moment she felt Drulkalatar’s presence at the heart of it, as if the demon lord were driving a red-hot dagger into her spine. She staggered off the bunk and made her way to the infirmary, clutching at her neck.
“Dreamlily,” she told the halfling minding the stores. The narcotic was one of the few things she’d found that could ease the pain of the shards when it reached this level. And she still felt Drulkalatar’s gaze weighing on her, the gleaming eyes of the predator.
The halfling hadn’t seen Thorn before and was readying his stock to tend to any Tarkanans who might be injured in the attack on the forgehold. Even before he opened his mouth, Thorn knew that he wasn’t going to help her. “What seems to be the probl-”
She gripped the front of his shirt and lifted him off the ground. Her pain and anger must have triggered the mysterious power within her, for he felt all but weightless as he rose in her grip. “Dreamlily,” she snarled. She tossed him back against a pile of bandages, harder than she’d intended. “Now!”
The halfling rose to his feet and scampered over to a chest of drawers, producing a small clay vial from within. He tried to find his voice and to protest as he turned around, but Thorn’s fierce gaze silenced him, and he handed her the vial. She stood there, glaring at him, and he reluctantly gave her a second vial.
Thorn swallowed the acrid liquid as she strode from the room, and a chilling numbness spread across her nerves. The stone still burned, but the pain was a distant thing, something she’d heard about but forgotten. She made her way back to her bunk and collapsed on the plank. Around her, Tarkanans were beginning to stir, some arming and preparing for the morning meal. Thorn simply pulled Steel to her and lay on the bed, wrapping her arms around the dagger.
Not such a good night, then.
Thorn said nothing. The dreamlily held the physical pain at bay, and the memories of the dream began to fade. But painful pieces remained. The agony as the lightning took her, and the lingering sensation of Drulkalatar’s eyes watching her. She’d had the same dream at least once a month since she’d left Droaam, each time more vivid and painful than the last.
The mystery was almost as bad as the pain. The dream was as much as she could remember about the conclusion of her mission to the Great Crag-and like a dream, the memories were hazy and hard to focus. Her handlers at the Citadel said it was likely an effect of facing a powerful demon. Such creatures warped reality with their presence, and they could twist memories without even trying. What had truly happened that night? In the dream, she’d become a dragon. And it felt so real, so true. Her tail, her wings, the fire in her blood… it was as if these things had always been a part of her, something she had simply forgotten.
Floating in the cocoon of the dreamlily, she replayed the dream in her mind. It was fading again, slipping away. But there was one point she hadn’t seen before. The fire in her blood, the anger that seemed to give her remarkable bursts of strength, the power that she felt when she’d drained the life from Sorghan… she’d felt it in her dream. It was the burning power of the dragon’s blood.
But what did it mean?
And who was the Angel of Flame?
“On your feet, sister Thorn!” It was Brom, leaning on his massive arm. “The time for sleep is done. We will be working together this day, and there are many preparations to make.”
Thorn looked at him. The dreamlily highlighted his unusual features-the reptilian eye, his wildly mismatched hair and teeth, the patches of scales and chitin scattered across his skin. For a moment she was gripped by the thought that she was looking into a mirror reflecting her soul, that she’d suffered psychic injuries as terrible as Brom’s physical afflictions. She opened her mouth, trying to find the words to explain, but now the dreamlily caught her tongue. “I see myself in your teeth,” she told him.
Brom frowned, puzzled. “Shake off your dreams, little one. There’s a war to be fought.” He scooped her out of bed with his powerful arm and propped her up against the bunk. The pain of the shard was fading, and as usual, it was drawing the dreamlily haze away with it. The dose she’d taken should have kept her sedated for hours, but ever since Far Passage, she’d found that even the strongest narcotics could only affect her for a few minutes. At least they still helped with the pain. She worked through the fading fog, gathering her equipment and following Brom. But she could still hear the words from her dream echoing in her head. This time it wasn’t the demon’s threats that haunted her. It was her own voice.
I am the Angel of Flame.
What did it mean?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Ashblack Lharvion 21, 999 YK
I thought I was done with sewers,” Thorn muttered. The Cannith forgehold was hidden deep below the foundry district of Ashblack, and the Tarkanan force had spent the better part of an hour trudging through muck and grime. It was fortunate for Thorn that she had a nose clip in her basic kit. Some of the others were still wincing from the stench. But even without the odor, she was still covered with mold and excrement. The glamorous life of the Dark Lantern, she thought.
It was hard to imagine Merrix d’Cannith coming through the sewers, and according to Daine, he didn’t. There was another way to reach the forgehold, but it was infested with wards and guards, and if they were pursued, the Cannith forces would know the lay of the land. Once he knew where the forgehold was, Daine had been able to plot a different route-less scenic, certainly, but safer for what they had in mind. If Daine was right, the gate to the forgehold lay just ahead of them. It was time to set the plan in motion.
Thorn and Xu’sasar took the lead, relying on darkvision as they crept forward through the light-less tunnels. This ability still bothered Thorn. Useful as it was, it was one more power that she couldn’t account for-senses sharper than even her elven mother had possessed. But now was not the time for doubts or questions.
She spotted a series of runes carved into the floor ahead, and she raised her hand. Xu’sasar froze as Thorn examined the sigils. They were painted black, barely visible against the dark stone, but there was no mistaking the purpose or power of these warding runes. Concentrating on them, Thorn could feel the energy surging, waiting to be unleashed.
“Aaren,” she whispered. For a moment, the runes were outlined in violet flames, and then the fires faded. A part of Thorn was surprised. For all his confidence and charisma, she still couldn’t entirely believe the story of the Son of Khyber. Yet he claimed to have plucked this password from the memories of the Cannith heir, and it had indeed shut down a ward she’d have been hard-pressed to break on her own.
Thorn pulled a piece of chalk from a pouch and made a mark along the floor. She didn’t know how long it would take the runes to recharge, and she wanted to make certain Daine and the others spotted the trap. Gesturing to Xu’sasar, she made her way forward.
The gate lay just ahead. A powerful illusion masked it, and most people would never guess that the cracked wall of the ancient tunnel was a magical facade. Even now, Thorn could feel the magic pressing against her mind, quietly suggesting that she look the other way. Of course, this was exactly what she’d been trained to spot, an illusion that hid the gate.
But the gate wasn’t what she was here for. The warding runes were just the first line of defense. The second was better hidden and far more dangerous. It was pure luck that the Cannith baron had decided to impress his son by revealing it. Thorn paused, closing her eyes. She listened to the sounds around her: the rustle of a rat moving along the dusty stone, the pounding of her own heart, the whisper of Xu’sasar’s movement. Now she listened to the wind, feeling the faint flow of air against her skin and building a picture of her surroundings. The greatest challenge was not trying too hard. This gift was most effective on an instinctive level. It was hard for her to consciously
