something she knew to be a lie. Was it an honest mistake? Or was he keeping secrets from her?
If you slept poorly, you have my sympathies, Steel said. But I suggest you set your concerns aside and focus on the mission at hand. Your observations show that Tarkanan has relocated its primary base of operations. You must earn their trust and make your way into the inner circle-and determine the identity and plans of their new leader.
“The Son of Khyber,” Thorn murmured.
Yes. And at the moment we know little save that name. It falls to you to learn his true name and nature. And as such, I suggest you prepare for the coming dawn.
He was right. She surely had a hard day ahead of her. “Fileon said that the mark might cause madness,” she said. “Perhaps I can use that.”
It would explain your strange habit of talking to your dagger.
“Madness.” Thorn smiled as she returned Steel to his sheath, but her suspicions lingered.
Thorn met her second Tarkanan at breakfast, and he came as a surprise. Dreck was a warforged, one of the construct soldiers produced by House Cannith. But he was no warrior. His metal body was tall and lean, with long arms and an assortment of rings on his delicate fingers. But what caught her eye when she met him was the acid- green mark traced across the side of his face, gleaming brighter than the torchlight. It appeared to be an aberrant dragonmark-something that surprised her and Steel alike. The warforged were artificial beings, with alchemical fluid instead of blood, and Thorn had never heard of a warforged manifesting any sort of dragonmark. The warforged set a plate of sausages on the table.
“You seem troubled, Sister Thorn.” Fileon handed Thorn a warm biscuit.
Breakfast was a simple meal, but after her days on the street, anything warm and fresh was a blessing. Fileon’s eyes were cold and appraising. Hardly surprising. Her cover story was sound enough and explained her skills and equipment, but revealing her background as a Lantern was a calculated risk.
“I don’t know if I belong here. I want to learn to control this curse. But I’ve heard of House Tarkanan. You’re thieves and assassins. Killers for hire.”
“And there is no blood on your hands?” A hint of a smile played across Fileon’s withered lips. “The dwarf you killed yesterday-that was for Breland, was it?”
“I was defending myself.”
“As are we. You are a citizen of a new nation, and you wear our flag on your face. And make no mistake, we are at war. The dragonmarked houses have long fueled the fires of public fear. How have you been treated since your mark appeared? What do you see when people look you in the eye, when they see the lines across your face?”
Thorn met his gaze. “No one paid me to kill that man.”
“A thousand pardons, beloved.” Dreck said, his voice deep and musical. His choice of words was strange, yet somehow seemed natural from him. Thorn wondered if he’d been designed to be a bard, or simply a living instrument. “I wonder what path you have walked. In your prior service, did you take payment from the crown? What do you truly know of those whose blood you’ve spilled? Are you so certain that your deeds served the people of Breland, and not simply the whims of king and courtiers?”
“You know nothing about what I’ve done,” Thorn snarled, rising from her seat.
Fileon’s voice was cold. “You are correct, of course. We know nothing of your life. But tell me: Do you know the origins of our house, Sister Thorn? Not the War of the Mark. Not the Tarkanan name. Just the house of thieves and killers. Do you know how we began?”
Thorn shook her head.
“You are younger than I, but old enough to remember the last decade of the war. In the north, the floating fortress of Chydris fell at the battle of Cairn Hill. To the west, the Daughters of Sora Kell emerged from the darkness to proclaim their kingdom of monsters. To the east, the loyalty of the goblins was called into question. King Boranel and his ministers were desperate to find new sources of power-forces that could be rallied within the borders of Breland.”
Thorn sat down. The last time she had seen her father, he’d been posted to Sterngate, to guard against goblin treachery. “I remember.”
Fileon took a bite of sausage, chewing for a moment. “One of Breland’s greatest resources was the King’s Citadel. The Dark Lanterns provided invaluable intelligence throughout the war. And we both know that there are silent killers among the Lanterns-though surely, assassination has always been a practice of last resort.”
“Make your point.”
“In 989, the Citadel forged a new unit. A squad of elite assassins. There were others who’d received the same training, who had the same equipment, but these killers had an edge that had never been brought to bear.”
“Aberrant dragonmarks,” Thorn said.
“Yes. Before that, aberrants were treated much as they were anywhere else. Even those who wished to serve the nation were often driven into lives of crime or forced to hide their marks. And in truth, there were few aberrant marks of great power then-few who could kill with a touch. It was with my generation that the strength spoken in legends was seen again. The ministers of the Citadel sought to harness this force. And so we finally had the chance to work together, to unlock the full potential of our powers.”
“Why haven’t I heard about this?” Thorn’s hand slipped down to Steel’s hilt, but the dagger remained silent.
Fileon laughed, and the sound was cold and harsh. “We were an experiment, sister. We were effective, certainly. I assure you, the power that flows through my blood more than makes up for my weakness of limb. I have killed for Breland, as have you.”
Thorn tapped a finger against Steel’s pommel, but there was no voice in her mind. “So what happened?”
“We were discovered by agents of House Phiarlan, revealed to the Twelve. Oh, none of us know precisely what was said, but it’s not difficult to imagine. The barons raging before the king. Threatening to withdraw their support. The Sivis stones silent, no longer carrying word between armies. No more warforged, no siege staves from the Cannith forges. No Deneith troops. Against that, what were we? Useful tools. But not useful enough.”
“So you were disbanded.”
Fileon’s eyes narrowed. “We were betrayed. They sought to use us one last time. We were sent into Darguun. Sent to die. And most of us did. Those who survived found no support waiting, no egress from that hostile land. Lesser folk might have surrendered to the Keeper’s embrace. But Thora Tavin endured, and in her we all found strength. In time we made it to Sharn. By then we’d found proof of the betrayal, of the threats made and gold paid by the Twelve. We could not return to the Citadel. Yet the crown had done its duty to the houses. It abandoned us. There was no reason for them to waste precious resources pursuing us further. Tavin was determined that no others of our kind would be used as we had been used-or threatened by the houses. During the War of the Mark, Halas Tarkanan decided to stop the persecution of his people, and turned frightened fugitives into an army. Here, in this manor, we swore to follow in his footsteps, to become House Tarkanan, to gather our people and protect them from the Twelve.”
Fileon stood, his eyes shining, and he pulled back the sleeve covering his withered arm. Pulses of angry red light flowed across the ugly mark.
“We are killers,” he said, “and we are thieves. That is our destiny, scribed on our flesh by the Prophecy and made possible by the training of your king. But now we kill who we please, and we use that gold for the good of our own, to find the lost and help them control their gifts before they are taken by madness, prejudice… or the treachery of the Twelve.
“And now…” He stared into her eyes. “You stand on the same precipice I found myself upon seven years ago. You served your nation loyally. But because of your blood, they have turned on you. And if you stand on your own, you will find that you have many enemies. Your mark is visible, hard to hide. There will be many among the common folk swayed by centuries of propaganda. They will call you monster. And there are those among the houses of the Twelve who enjoy hunting our kind. I’ve heard some Tharashk hunters and Deneith marshals actually cut the skin from their victims and keep the tanned hide as trophies.”
“Why should I trust you?” Thorn said.
He laughed, cold and hard. “It is I who should ask that question of you, my sister. For I am the only one you
