a simple cry of rage. She struck before Drix could find his balance, the blade sinking into his heart. He felt a horrible chill, followed by bright pain as the blade was torn free. Then he was falling again, warmth spreading over his chest as he collapsed atop the dead boy.
The blood of our hearts… is one, Drix thought. He couldn’t feel his arms or legs, just that fading spot of pain and warmth in his chest. Then something pulled him away. It was the queen who’d stabbed him, her pale eyes and the stone in her crown blazing as she stared at him. The sky itself was on fire, a brilliant light that turned the woods to shadows. And another shadow rose above the trees, a great spire, a lone tower that he should have seen long before, seared into his vision by the blinding sky.
The fire in the sky grew brighter even as Drix’s vision faded. He could still hear the faint strains of music, and only one thought went through his head as the queen tore her crown from her head and knelt over him.
It’s a dream, he thought.
Then it ended.
CHAPTER ONE
Wroat, Breland B arrakas 20, 999 YK
It was raining in Wroat, but the downpour couldn’t wipe the stench of smoke and urine away from Westgate. A pair of filthy dwarves were quarreling over the corpse of a dead rat, likely the first real meat either had seen in days. Others watched the fight from alleys and broken windows.
Wake up. This is no place to let your mind wander.
The voice was a whisper in Thorn’s mind, cold and sharp as a blade. Hardly surprising, given the source. She tightened her grip on the hilt of her dagger. “Trust me, Steel,” she murmured. “I know what I’m doing.”
Then perhaps you’d enlighten me. You’re supposed to report to Essyn at the eighth bell. Why are we across the river?
“There’s someone I have to meet. It’s not a mission, Steel. Nothing you need to worry about.”
When it brings you to Westgate at dusk, it’s definitely something I have to worry about.
A warforged scout scuttled toward her, a battered soldier made from leather and iron and given life so he could die for the crown. He held out his arm in a pitiful gesture, and Thorn saw that the little scout was missing his left hand. He wore a sign around his neck that read Need Repairs, Copper for Steel. Sovereigns Smile on You.
Thorn quickened her pace, moving out of his path.
No sympathy for the constructed?
“They aren’t all daggers with shining souls,” Thorn murmured. She drew Steel from his sheath, laying his blade across her inner forearm. “Alley to the left. Junk pile just ahead. Three more scouts lying in wait. And in case you didn’t notice, your little friend was missing his hand because he had a retractable sword in his forearm.”
You’re awake after all. My apologies.
“I’ve been to Westgate before.”
A century ago Westgate was a thriving market. I remember a poet from Metrol in that square; he’d drawn a larger crowd than you’d find at the Sharn Opera.
“And I suppose you killed him?”
Of course. He was inciting people against the queen. And he rhymed “Wroann” with “groan.”
“So the Last War was fought over Cyran poetry?”
You have to draw the line somewhere, Lantern Thorn. Gro-ann is as good a place as any.
“Very funny. Now I’m afraid it’s into the glove for you. My contact has a thing about weapons.”
Steel vanished before he could respond, drawn into the pocket of space bound to Thorn’s gauntlet. She could produce him with a thought, but for the moment she needed him out of the way. The dagger was her partner, but what lay ahead was between her and her blood; she didn’t want the Citadel involved.
The little room smelled of bandages and antiseptic salves. An oil lamp spilled light across the room-a small chamber dominated by a camp bed with bloodstained sheets. A young man sat on the bed, dipping a surgical blade into a copper bowl filled with clear fluid.
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he said without looking at her. “Unless you’re just here for dreamlily or alcohol, in which case you can save us both time by leaving.”
“I wouldn’t mind a drink, Nandon,” Thorn said softly. “But I came looking for a friend.”
The man’s fingers tightened on the knife as she spoke. He looked at her, one eye a clear, emerald green, the other a cloudy white. He stood up, carefully setting the bowl on a bedside table. The scalpel was still in his hand. “And what makes you think you’ll find one here?”
She tossed a package on the bed. “I brought you a birthday present.”
Nandon kept his good eye on her as he picked up the parcel. He unwrapped it with one hand, keeping hold of the scalpel. At last he glanced down at the wooden case. “Jorasco?” he said, noting the dragonmarked seal. Setting down the knife, he opened the case. It was a full kit from the House of Healing, complete with panacean salves and a cleansing blade. The blade alone was worth more than all of the goods Thorn could see in the shop. The half-elf took out each item in turn, checking the seals on each vial. At last he looked back at Thorn.
“Very well,” he said. “You’ve bought time, not a friend.”
“I wanted to help you on your birthday, little brother. I’d hoped you’d do the same for me.”
Nandon scowled. He hated being called “little brother,” and not without reason; her extra five minutes didn’t give Thorn a great deal of seniority. Still, when they were children and alone, it had always been Nyrielle who’d stood up to the bullies, Nyrielle who made sure they had food.
“Not the first present you’ve given me, Sister.” He stared at her, and she looked away from his pale eye. “Are you certain you want me to return your favors?”
Thorn shook her head. “I don’t have time for this, Nan. I came here because I thought that we could help each other. Because something strange is happening to me, and I thought it might be happening to you as well. Because I thought my brother might like to see me on our birthday. If I’m wrong, just say so and I’ll let you get back to your slum.”
Nandon stood up, his good eye gleaming. “You can’t just walk in here with a handful of healing potions and dismiss what I’m doing here. This is your fault.”
Thorn was surprised by his vehemence. “What’s my fault?”
“This.” He waved a hand, taking in the blood on the bedclothes and the squalor of the surroundings. “All the work of little boys and girls playing at soldiers. You know who lives in this slum, Sister? Veterans who lost their homes in the war and those too badly crippled to work.”
“It seems I’ve been busy.”
“You and the rest of them. You couldn’t wait to follow in Father’s footsteps, couldn’t wait to sharpen your sword and shed more blood.”
Thorn fought to hold her temper in check. It was an old argument, one they’d been having since the day their father died. “The people you care for, Nandon, your cripples and homeless veterans, who destroyed their homes? I fight the enemies of our nation. The people who did that damage.”
“You’re still working for war instead of peace. As long as the Five Nations struggle with one another, there will always be more victims.”
“Who said the Five Nations were fighting?” Thorn said with a smile. “I’m looking after Oargev of Cyre today.”
Nandon opened his mouth then closed it again. “The Prince in Mourning?” he said slowly.
“That’s right. Lord of New Cyre, where our king has graciously allowed tens of thousands of Cyran refugees to settle in the wake of the Mourning. I know you think I’m a soldier, Nan. But believe it or not, I want peace too.”
He shook his head. “And what would you do then, if the Five Nations are reunited?”
“The same thing our father wanted,” Thorn said. “Come home to my family. I’m relying on you to start one.”
For a moment his gaze locked with hers. Then he smiled for the first time since she walked through the door.
