Mourning.”
CHAPTER THREE
Wroat, Breland B arrakas 20, 999 YK
The king of Breland was in a foul mood.
“I assure you, boy, I will find whoever is responsible for this outrage and make them pay if I have to do it with my own two hands!” King Boranel ir’Wynarn roared. “To unleash such forces against my blood in my own city! There shall be a reckoning, I assure you of that.”
The conference room was deep in the Tower of the Citadel. The walls were stone quarried from the Black Pit, infused with mystical energies that served as a natural shield against all forms of scrying. Magical symbols were inscribed around the border of the walls, creating a field that prevented any sound from escaping the room. There would be no eavesdropping there.
“We know that you had nothing to do with this attack, Your Highness.” Essyn Cadrel spoke for the Cyrans. Prince Oargev sat silently at his side; Thorn wasn’t sure if the prince was still recovering from the attempted assassination or if he simply didn’t know how to deal with his boisterous cousin. “And we are grateful for the service of your Shields; if not for your Thorn, we might both have perished.”
The king turned to Thorn. “Is that so?”
Thorn felt cold sweat on her skin and struggled to find words. Protecting the Prince of Cyre was one thing, but he was Boranel. For a moment she was little Nyrielle Tam again, listening to her father’s tales of the great deeds of their king. Her father had been her hero, but Boranel had been his hero. “I was part of a team, Your Majesty. Without Lanner and Delru, there’s no telling what would have happened.”
Boranel nodded. “Well said. But this isn’t the first time your deeds have been brought to my attention. Sit with us, Thorn. Take some wine.”
“I’m just here escorting the prince, Your Majesty. I doubt that I’m cleared for this briefing.”
Boranel chuckled. “You are if I say you are. Sit. Drink. Perhaps you could tell us a tale of one of your adventures while we wait for Vron.”
“There’s no need to wait.”
Thorn breathed a sigh of relief as the Lord Commander of the Dark Lanterns entered the room. Vron was cast in shades of black and white. If his skin was as white as snow, then his eyes were shards of ice, clear and colorless. His hair was soft and pale, snow falling onto the frozen ground. He wore the black dress uniform of the Dark Lanterns, and a silver medallion gleamed at his throat.
“Be seated,” Vron said. “We have much to discuss tonight. The first order of business: the attack on the Cyran entourage. Allow me to add my apologies to those of the king, Prince Oargev. If I had the slightest warning that such a plan was afoot, I would have ensured that you had additional protection. I have teams investigating the scene of the attack, and I assure you that you will know the results as soon as we do. However, there is one thing we can do immediately.”
Vron walked over the Thorn. “Lantern, I understand you directly engaged one of the assailants?”
Thorn nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
“Take my hands,” he said, holding his arms before him. His fingers were long and slender, his grip warm. “I want you to remember the battle. Think about your opponent-every detail, every angle. The sound of voice and breath. Relive that moment for me.”
And so she did, closing her eyes and placing herself back in that moment. Pieces began to come together. Dark shiftweave, the flash of metal at the neck. The words he’d said in the moment before his death. The prince will fall, and Galifar burn…
“Until our home has been returned.” It was the voice of the assassin, there in the room.
Thorn opened her eyes, and there he was. Piercing gray eyes, the twisting scar running down his cheek. Mid- thirties, most likely, despite the silver in his hair. He held up his hands, and smoke flowed from the palms, solidifying into the wand and the misty shield Thorn remembered.
“Your conclusions, Lantern?” His voice was slightly distorted, an effort to synthesize an accent from the few words Thorn had heard.
“Setting aside the wand, he’s well equipped for urban operations-shiftweave and a weapon that’s both versatile and concealable. I don’t recognize the weapon, but his sword and wand style suggests either the Fifth Crown of Cyre or the Royal Eyes of Aundair.” Thorn cast her mind back, reliving the battle again. “His accent sounded like southern Cyre, and the slogan is a modified version of that used by Dannel’s Wrath.”
“Just one moment.” It was Boranel. The king had risen from his chair and strode over to examine the assassin. “You’re saying this brute was Cyran? Attacking his own lord?”
“It’s a possibility.” The killer’s Cyran accent faded as he spoke, returning to the cool tones of the changeling Vron. “Dannel’s Wrath is a group of Cyran militants primarily active in the city of Stormreach; they advocate the creation of a new Cyran state in Xen’drik, including Stormreach itself. But in the past, they’ve shown little hostility toward the prince.” He turned to the Cyrans. “Your Highness, Master Cadrel, do you have any thoughts on the matter?”
The prince wouldn’t look at the effigy of the assassin; his forehead glistened with cold sweat. Cadrel spoke for him. “I’m sorry, my lords, lady. Surely you understand that this has been a difficult evening for his highness.”
“I’m sure it has,” Boranel growled. “And an even worse one for the King’s Shields that died protecting him, along with the civilians caught in the crossfire. My subjects, Cadrel. If you know more about this-”
“I assure you, Your Majesty, I’ve never met this man in my life.”
“There’s something wrong with him,” Thorn said. She stood up, walking carefully around the disguised Vron. The changeling had drawn the image directly from her mind, and she cast her thoughts back. “Look at his left side. These scars-what injury would cause this sort of puckering?”
“I’m no healer,” Boranel said. “It’s the work of magic, I should think.”
“That’s only the beginning,” Thorn said. “His left arm is longer than the right. His leg as well. I didn’t notice it, not consciously, yet thinking back, there was something strange in his movement.”
“Interesting,” Essyn Cadrel said. “Yes, I see it now. As if he was a figure of wax, warmed and then stretched a little.”
“And what about that pin on his collar?” Thorn said. “That’s not the Fifth Crown insignia or Royal Eyes. So what is it? It’s easily removed. So why wear it on an assassination?”
Vron ran his fingers over the pin. Boranel squinted at it and shook his head. Cadrel examined it for a few moments then stepped away. “All this is based on a fleeting glimpse,” he said. “Perhaps you missed a crucial detail.”
“I assure you, the technique has been quite effective in the past,” Vron said. “I drew the image directly from Thorn’s mind, and the mind remembers more than we can imagine.”
“Be that as it may,” Cadrel said, “we can’t be certain that this man is everything he seems. This warping effect suggests a flawed perception; his accent could be the same as well. If you have something else to discuss-”
“I know him,” Oargev said.
All eyes turned to the prince. “Your Highness,” Cadrel said, raising his hands. “You’re exhausted.”
“I know him,” Oargev repeated. “I should have known it would be him.”
Vron released the image, and the color slowly drained from his skin and his eyes. His clothes shifted, the weapons disappearing from his hands; a moment later the commander of the Dark Lanterns was restored. “Pray continue, Your Highness. Who tried to kill you?”
Oargev stared off into the distance. “His name is Cazalan Dal. He served with the Fifth Crown, as you surmised. He was devoted to my mother, Queen Dannel. And when the war came to an end, he swore to serve me.”
“Your Highness,” Cadrel said. He reached out and placed a hand on the prince’s arm.
Oargev pulled away and rose to his feet, turning to face Boranel. “You have shown us nothing but kindness
