“No,” Thorn whispered.
“Yes. I was driven from the house, and I fled to the wilds. I could not bring myself to take my own life, but I couldn’t trust myself around the living. I spent years alone in the plains, hunting with no weapon save my deadly touch. Then a woman found me and showed me that I was not a monster. That I could control this gift. That I need not be alone.”
Thorn touched the mark surrounding her right eye, the twisted red lines mirroring the designs on Fileon’s withered arm. “You mean-”
“Yes, sister. We can help you. We can show you that this power is a blessing, not a curse. But there is much I would know before I will take you to our great hall. Surely you are carrying weapons and tools, remnants of your last mission for the Citadel. Remove each article of clothing and each object of value that you possess. Place it on the floor and tell me its function.”
It was a strange mirror of the way her missions typically began, with the Citadel quartermaster cataloguing and demonstrating her equipment. Now it was her turn to sort through her tools.
“Intrusion.” She had dozens of picks and similar tools concealed in her cloak and various pouches. She spread her cloak on the floor and laid the collection on top of it. Skeleton keys, wires for threading a simple lock, powders and stranger substances needed to detect and bypass magical wards.
The halfling smiled. “Good. Such skills will prove useful in the days to come. I will need to evaluate you further. But continue. What else do you carry?”
“Arcana.” A few more objects from hidden pouches. Spiders in tiny vials, scraps of wool, other items that were seemingly useless but played a vital role in performing various spells.
Fileon studied each object. “The spider’s walk will prove most useful. Invisibility… disguise… What about levitation?”
Thorn shook her head.
“A pity. Continue.”
“Concealed defense,” she said, holding up the silver bracelets she’d been wearing. She clicked them together, and the metal shifted and unfolded, each bracelet expanding into a vambrace of blackened mithral that covered most of a forearm. “Spellforged for enhanced durability and an increse in reaction time.”
Fileon nodded as she returned the bracers to their smaller size. “Continue.”
She held a bracelet in her left hand. She concentrated, and the silver band vanished. “There’s an extraplanar pocket bound to each glove,” she explained. With a thought, she called the bracelet back. “Each one is capable of holding a single object at a time.”
“And what do you have within your right glove?” he asked.
He’s a sharp one, she thought. Setting the bracelets down, she brought her hands together, bracing herself for the weight of the weapon she called forth. It was an axe, with a haft of gnarled darkwood and deadly metal on either end. The axehead was a broad, curved blade, nicked and scarred from generations of conflict. The other end bore a double-edged spearhead. It was a brutal tool, the weapon of a butcher.
Fileon raised an eyebrow. “Strange design. And this is the work of the Citadel?”
“No. It’s called a myrnaxe, forged by the gnolls of Droaam. A trophy from a previous mission.” She set it on the floor, running a finger along the edge of the spearhead. “The lower blade is alloyed with silver and byeshk- there’re a lot of strange creatures in Droaam, creatures who can only be harmed by such metals.” The axe had been a gift from a mercenary warrior after she’d saved his life, and the silver spear had saved her when she’d been hunted by werewolves.
“Yes. A useful tool, to be certain. A thing one might use when fighting a massive foe. An ogre, perhaps.”
Dolurrh! He was sharp. Thorn hadn’t used the axe in that battle precisely because she’d known Fileon was watching-and she needed him to see her use her aberrant mark. “I suppose. I carry it for the silver, but I’m not really comfortable with the weight. I prefer a knife.”
“Then show me the blades you carry,” he said.
There were six of them. Three were balanced for throwing. One was a tiny knife, only useful if poison was employed. The fifth was a simple battle blade. And then there was Steel. Fileon’s eyes lit up when he saw the dagger, and he picked it up to study it more closely.
That was hardly surprising. Steel was certainly distinctive. Forged from blackened metal, he had a crimson circle inlaid on his pommel, and a red furrow running down the center of the dark blade.
Fileon glanced over at her. “A fine weapon. Do you know its name?”
“Name?”
“This is an assassin’s blade, from Savean’s forge. It has been a long time since I’ve held one, but it is not a thing you forget. So you do not know its name? How then did you come by it?”
Savean’s forge? The name meant nothing to her-and Steel had never spoken of his origins.
She’d taken too long to respond. “You try my patience, sister. I warn you, should I deem you an enemy, you will not leave this place alive.” The mark along Fileon’s arm burned with eldritch fire. “There is power in you, but I have lived with this darkness for decades, and you cannot stand against me. Now tell me: where did you get this blade?”
“Lharen. My… partner.”
“Yes,” Fileon said. “I taste a hint of truth here. And did this Lharen give you the dagger?”
“No,” Thorn said. “I took it from his corpse.”
Fileon said nothing. He just watched her, waiting for her to continue.
“He was my mentor. My guide.” My love, she thought, though she didn’t speak it aloud. “He taught me everything I know. And I killed him.” It was a lie; Steel had been given to her by her handler Zane, on her first mission after Lharen’s death. But it was close enough to the truth for her to draw on the emotion, reliving the pain and loss-and she saw Fileon respond to it.
“Your first kill.”
“Yes. The mission… it was bad. We lost the rest of the team. I was angry. Afraid. We were arguing, and I seized his wrist. And he screamed. I still hear that cry in my nightmares, see his face as he died.”
Fileon nodded, watching and waiting.
“I didn’t mean to hurt him,” Thorn took a deep breath. She thought about the actual circumstances of Lharen’s death, and the tears came easily. “Without him… I’d have died years ago. But it was my fault. And I could feel this thing on my face. I panicked. I took his knife, and I ran.”
“You are the Keeper’s handmaiden now, sister. You hold death within your grasp. You showed this with the ogre, when you used your touch instead of this brutal axe. So why not revel in this gift? Why carry a blade at all?”
The answer was obvious. “The pain.”
“Yes,” Fileon said, savoring the word. “Tell me of it. What do you feel, when you use your mark?”
“Pure agony,” she said. “It overwhelms all other sensations. It’s as if the mark is burning through my flesh. Then that pain flows through me and into whomever I’m touching. It’s awful. It leaves me feeling… empty.”
Fileon nodded. “Your gift takes a difficult form, different from my own. I doubt you will lose your eye as I have lost my arm. But yours is the path of madness. If you cannot master this pain, it will destroy you.”
Lovely, Thorn thought. Thanks for mentioning that, Zane. Her living tattoo was designed using the memories of a man who carried a true aberrant dragonmark, and according to Zane and Steel, the pain Thorn felt when she used it was the same as the true heir. Then again, Thorn had been living with pain ever since Far Passage.
“You won’t take the blade from me,” she said. “It’s all I have left of him. I won’t let it go.”
Fileon chuckled and set the pouch on the floor. “Have no fear, sister. It is my task to learn what you possess, nothing more. And take solace-you cannot be blamed for your first kill. You could not have known the power within you. You are innocent of that first death. The second and third-those are something different. But enough of this. Let me look at you. Remove your clothing and sit on the bed.”
She took a step back. “What?”
“Remove your clothing, child. I must study your flesh.”
Thorn shook her head. “My mark is on my face, and that’s all you need to see. I’m no Forgelight whore.”
The halfling laughed, but there was little humor in it. “Oh, sister, the fires of my passion burned out long ago. But whatever I have become, I am a healer still. You may bear your blessing on your face, but our marks are a
