“What if we go?”
The ghaele fell silent and looked at him.
“He’ll sense your presence,” Drix said, “because you’re creatures like him. But what if Thorn and I go? What if we get the stones for you?”
All eyes turned to Thorn.
“You swore to serve us in this matter,” Tira said. “With the questions and where they lead. And I still hold the truth of you. What say you?”
That I’d like a simple job fighting ogres and werewolves, she thought. And yet… What really happened in this place, beloved? She heard Drego’s voice in her mind and wondered what Tira might be able to tell her.
“It doesn’t matter. We’d never get there in time. Even with an airship.”
“I wasn’t thinking of an airship,” Drix said. “There’s an Orien enclave in Ascalin, abandoned since the Mourning.” He rubbed a hand over his heart. “I think… I think I could get the teleportation circle working. Take us to the closest circle. There’s got to be one nearby, somewhere in the Principalities.”
Thorn looked at the map. “And then we charter an airship, or a Vadalis bird. It’s possible. But how would you get an Orien circle to work for you?”
“Trust me. I can do it.”
Thorn looked at the eladrin. “Ascalin is still too far away if we’re traveling by foot. We could try this. But you’ll need to get us to Ascalin and quickly.”
“It is done,” Syraen replied. “My retinue came on hippogriffs. If you speak of the ruins of the north, my soldiers can take you there. It would be hours, no more.”
“Then let’s get ready,” she said.
Drix hugged her then. Her first instinct was to push him away, her Citadel defense training flashing to the fore. She pushed it down and hugged him back.
“We can do this,” he said. “Together. We can save the world.”
“Recover the shards, no more,” Tira said. “You cannot conceive of the power Shan Doresh has at his disposal.”
Syraen nodded. “Save the Tree. Bring us the stones. If there is war to be fought, we shall fight it.”
“I’m not arguing that,” Thorn said. “Just give me my equipment and show us to the hippogriffs. Let’s take the battle to the dreaming citadel.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Ruins of Ascalin The Mournland B arrakas 25, 999 YK
Where’s a griffon when you need one?” Thorn muttered. It was the first time she’d ridden a hippogriff, and it was proving to be a difficult experience. The beast balked at the unfamiliar sensation of Thorn on its back. Luckily the beast had been trained to follow the movements of the flight leader, and rough as it was, all Thorn really had to do was hold on. And with Drix on his own hippogriff and the flight leader well out of earshot, she finally had the chance to have the conversation she’d been waiting for.
She drew Steel, holding tightly to the stirrup horn with her free hand. “I think we’ve got a few things to talk about.”
What did you have in mind?
“I still think this idea that the Mourning was caused by stabbing Drix is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”
I’ve never disagreed with that. However, it may very well be the source of the malady affecting the Silver Tree itself. The levels of necrotic energy around the Tree were far higher than anywhere else we’ve been in the Mournland. As deadly as the region is, there is a sickness in that place. Curses are real. Even if they are deluded to think that they destroyed Cyre, they may well have sealed their own fate.
“In which case, saving them and leaving them in Breland’s debt may be the best outcome.”
Yes, even if only one has agreed to negotiate, it’s still a worthwhile outcome. Of course, if you could acquire the stone in Drix’s chest yourself, you know Breland could use immortal soldiers.
“And that’s my real question,” Thorn said. “The shards in my back. Why do they believe that they are fey treasures?”
Why do you believe that they aren’t?
“You told me they weren’t magical!”
They do not radiate an aura of magical energy. That’s a far cry from saying they aren’t magical.
“So you think they’re shielded.”
It’s the most logical explanation. “The Quiet Stone,” they called it. What if its power is to conceal? I know that you’re trained to resist divinations, but your talent for it has always been remarkable. I’ve never been able to detect the aura of any item in your possession. Even now, I know your inventory-your gloves, bracers, shiftweave, pack-but I can’t read the auras of any of it.
“So let’s pretend that is indeed the case, that there’s a magic stone in my back and I’ve never known about it. How is that possible?”
The shards were already there when I was assigned to work with you. I was told it was an accident during the mission at Far Passage.
“That’s right. We were sent to sabotage an arcane core. There were hundreds of dragonshards bound to the core-I was struck by a score of them. Our fey friends said one of these stones was stolen by a dragon. How’d they end up in the hands of an Aundairian arcanist? And how does it just happen to be the stone that hits me?”
It does seem rather unlikely. I fail to see any more logical alternative, however.
“I wish I did. None of this makes sense.”
I’m more concerned about Essen Cadrel. If we are to believe what he said, it sounds as though this eladrin had been impersonating him for an extended period of time… since he first reappeared following the Mourning and took his position in Oargev’s retinue.
“It would explain how Oargev’s childhood jester developed the skill to be a spymaster,” Thorn said.
To what end? This Shan Doresh seems focused on vengeance against the other eladrin. So why infiltrate the Cyran court? And if he accomplished that so easily… Do they have agents in other nations?
“You’re right,” Thorn said. “Something doesn’t add up. Keep thinking about it. That’s our destination up ahead. Stay alert. Strange auras, the slightest fluctuation in mystical energy… if you sense anything, you tell me.”
Understood.
The hippogriffs dropped down toward Ascalin. Thorn blinked, squinting down at the streets below. There were people on the streets, and the cold-fire lanterns were still burning. She could see a crowd gathered around a street performer, a man performing tricks with trained animals. After the lonely desolation of Seaside and the slow rot of the Silver Tree, it seemed impossibly mundane. She could see farmers selling their wares in the small market square, a group of children playing circle games, a procession leaving the temple of the Sovereign Host. For a moment she smiled. Then she realized something was terribly wrong.
No one was moving.
The children were frozen in their game. The spectators were raising their arms to cheer for the performing, but there were no cries of joy, no laughter, no applause. It was a moment frozen in time. And there was something else. Where the cold-fire lanterns spread their light, Thorn could see that the city was gleaming. It seemed as though the city were covered with a thin layer of ice, for all that it was too warm for anything to freeze. But she could see the light reflecting off every surface and even off the people standing around the lampposts.
Thorn held Steel out as the hippogriff swooped toward the ground. “Impressions?”
None at this distance, he replied. Strong necrotic resonance, the same energies I’ve felt across the Mournland. Not especially powerful, though-nothing compared to the darkness around the Silver Tree.
The hooves of the hippogriffs left craters in the ground when they landed, cracks spreading out from the point of impact like fine spiderwebs. It wasn’t ice after all; it was glass. Thorn slid out of the saddle, carefully testing the surface. Not as bad as slick ice, she thought. But certainly treacherous footing. They’d come down in a wide
