was all too easy to let the scents paint a vivid picture of what lay beyond.
“How far until we reach the shoreline?” she said.
“I don’t know,” Cadrel replied. “The mists cling close to Cyre. Less than a mile, to be certain. We’ll find out when we run aground.”
“I know where we need to go,” Drix said. He set down his oar and moved to the back of the boat. “The mists don’t bother me. You row. I’ll take the rudder.”
Cadrel glanced at Thorn and raised an eyebrow. “And how is it the mists don’t touch you, boy?”
“Call me ‘boy’ again, and I’m going to start calling you ‘old man,’ ” Drix said with a grin. He certainly didn’t seem to be put out by their eerie surroundings. “They touch me. You just get used to it after a while, and it took me a long time to find my way out of this place. The mists reach into your heart, feeding your hopes and spilling out sorrows. Just keep rowing. Don’t let go of your oar. And don’t dwell on anything bad.”
“I’ve faced sorrow before,” Thorn said.
“Then you’ll face it again and worse,” Drix said. “Find someone to talk to. A friend who’s always there. Your dagger, perhaps. He seems like a kind soul.”
Thorn found herself smiling, in spite of the grim wall ahead. She tapped Steel’s hilt. “Did you hear that, little dagger friend? You’ve got a kind soul.”
“You shouldn’t mock him,” Drix said. “You’ll need every friend you can find.”
“Right.” She patted Steel’s hilt again. “I’m sorry, little dagger.”
Very amusing, the both of you, Steel said. I just hope he actually knows where you’re going. I’ve heard many unpleasant stories about traversing the mists, and even sheathed I can sense the negative energy ahead of us. Be careful.
“Are you prepared, Lady Thorn?” Essyn Cadrel had set his oar in position, raised and ready for another stroke.
“Not yet,” Thorn said. “Drix, you can get us to the coastline, but there’s no telling how far this extends from there. How’s your sense of direction once we reach land?”
Drix looked into the mists. “Good enough. It’s not just a matter of direction. If you spend enough time in the mists, you can recognize the voices. It’s sort of like wind, but it’s emotional. You learn to follow your feelings. I could do it with my eyes closed. And closing your eyes isn’t a bad idea, actually. You might want to do that.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Thorn said. “But you can do it? How long do you think it’s going to take?”
“There’s no way to know, really,” Drix said. “An hour. A day. Two at the most.”
“We could be walking in that soup for two days?”
“Perhaps,” Drix said. “You won’t really notice if we do. You’re going to have other things on your mind.”
“Which is why we need to be prepared.” Reaching into the supply pack, Thorn pulled out an assortment of gear. She tossed a harness at Cadrel, an array of straps and hooks. “Put this on. I’m going to link us together. We don’t want to get separated in this muck.” She ran a length of rope through connecting loops and produced other pieces of equipment. “You’ve got the troll rod if you get hungry. The cold-fire flare will help in the dark-”
Drix shook his head. “No lantern will help in there. You’ve only got one source of light that matters- hope.”
Thorn stared at him, but he seemed to be completely serious. “I’m going to ignore that,” she said. “But even if it’s true, we may need the light on the other side. Careful with the Irian tears; only take a sip if you’re feeling completely overwhelmed or exhausted.”
“Irian tears,” Cadrel said, running a finger along the fluid-bearing pouch at the top of the harness. “Marvelous. The light of the Sovereigns, distilled into wine.”
“Let’s hope Olladra has greater gifts for us than wine,” Thorn said. She took her seat and hefted her oar. “Ready?”
Drix nodded.
Cadrel shrugged. “I suppose I am.”
The prow of the boat disappeared into the mists. Then it was all around them.
The first thing she noticed was the silence. The mist absorbed all sound. She could feel her oar strike the water, but she couldn’t hear the splash. The rich scent of blood surged into her nostrils, and for a moment she could see through the fog, see the ocean of blood around her, stripped bones bobbing on the surface like driftwood. Then the vision faded, and she was back in the cold, damp gloom.
It was one thing to hear the effect described, another to actually be caught within the isolating gloom. “Cadrel?” she said. “Drix?”
There was no response. We’re moving forward, so they must both still be there, Thorn thought. If Cadrel stopped rowing, we’d be going in circles.
Just to be sure, she reached out to where Cadrel had been. She felt the pressure of his body against her hand. Still there. Nonetheless, there was a disturbing numbness to the sensation, a slight chill in her nerves with no sense of the warmth in the old man’s body. Another vision flashed through her mind, of the mist clearing to reveal the rotting corpses sharing the boat with her, Drix’s dead eyes staring straight ahead.
Just keep rowing, she thought.
With no sight and no sound, there was no way to know how close they were to the shore and only the vaguest sense that they were moving forward at all. At times the mist clung to her skin; it was more like thick cobweb than fog, and she could feel it tugging at her arms, trying to reach beneath her gloves and caress her skin. She clenched her teeth together and kept rowing, and the sensation passed.
It might have been hours. It might have been minutes. The hardest thing was holding on to hope. She told herself that every stroke was bringing her closer to shore, but she couldn’t really believe it. More and more, she found herself thinking that she’d never see the light again, that they’d never find their way out, that she’d be rowing until the oar rotted away and she was left alone to drift in the mist.
Was it beginning to fade? She could see Cadrel next to her, his silhouette becoming clearer with each moment. Or was it Cadrel? The shadow seemed too lean, a younger man, lacking Cadrel’s beard. Then he spoke.
“So you still don’t remember. You still think you’re Thorn.”
It took all of her will to hold to her oar, to continue rowing. She knew she was imagining it. But she remembered that voice and those words.
Drego Sarhain.
When she’d met him, he was serving as an agent of Thrane. In time, she’d discovered his true nature. He was a demon of deception, an ancient fiend engaged in a shadowy war she still knew nothing about. And in their last meeting, he’d claimed to know things about her she still didn’t want to believe.
“You’re Sarmondelaryx. The Angel of Flame. The Devourer of Souls. Condemned by the Conclave of Argonnessen, yet they need you, if the prophecy is to fall as they wish it. Embrace the dragon within you. Embrace her power. Let us be together and mock dragon and tiger alike.”
“No,” she whispered. She knew the voice was only in her imagination. But in the utter silence and gloom, it was easy to drift into the memory, to have something to hold on to. She remembered that gleam in Drego’s eyes as he looked at her.
“Every time you draw on her power, she grows stronger,” he whispered. “It’s only a matter of time.” She could see him, lying on the ground and looking up at her, her dagger against his throat.
And the boat ran aground. The jolt shook the vision from her mind, and she was back in the utter silence of the mists.
Setting down the oar, Thorn reached out, finding Drix and Cadrel. Fears lingered at the back of her mind as Drix’s hand closed around hers, but she pushed them away. The water was cold and silent, and a moment later, they were on dry land.
Drix took the lead, and Thorn let the rope play out to give him a little room. The ground shifted beneath her feet: sand. Once she had a hand free, she drew Steel.
“I don’t know if you can hear me,” she said. “But I’m thinking Drix had the right idea.”
I can hear you perfectly, Steel said. The world around Thorn was silent, but his whisper was still clear in her head. Are you having difficulty?
“Thank Onatar for the smith that made you,” Thorn said. After the endless silence, the familiar voice was an anchor. “I can’t hear a damned thing.”
