since the Mourning, Cousin. You gave us shelter when all other doors were closed. But I was born to be a king, not a glorified mayor. My people want their homeland restored.”
“I am a king, Oargev,” Boranel said. “And I’ve been a soldier. The hardest battle you’ll face in either arena comes when your people want something you cannot give them. The Mourning wasn’t your fault. And you can’t make it go away.”
“You don’t know that,” Oargev said, and there was a hard edge to his gaze. “You don’t know what caused the Mourning.”
“Five years and none of us know,” Boranel said.
“I’ve been trying.” Oargev looked back at the changeling Vron, as if seeing the man he had been moments before. “I gathered the best Cyre had to offer-soldiers, wizards. And I brought them together in the Covenant of the Gray Mist.”
Finally the pin made sense. A silver and gray wedge, with a black hand on top of it. “And Cazalan was in the Covenant?” Thorn said.
“The first to take the vow,” Oargev said.
“I met Cazalan Dal,” Cadrel said. “He had dark hair and no disfigurement whatsoever. How could this be him?”
“Until I sent him into the Mournland,” Oargev said sadly. “We can’t imagine the things he saw there. He came to me in New Cyre a year ago, twisted as you saw him. What had been done to his mind was worse than his body. He begged to be relieved of his duties. And I… I sent him back. He was still the best I had. And I needed to feel that I had accomplished something.”
All you did was send a man to die, Thorn thought. She kept her words to herself.
“Oargev…” Boranel said.
“I should think that you of all people would understand, Cousin. You are Breland in the hearts of your people. For those who fought and died for our kings and queens, I am the last of the royal line. I am Cyre. It falls to me to find a way to restore our homeland. Yet here we are, almost five years later, and what have I achieved?”
“Don’t demean your work with New Cyre,” Cadrel said, putting a hand on the prince’s shoulder. “Your Majesty, Your Highness, together you have created a beacon for Cyrans to rally around.”
“A village,” Oargev said. There were tears glittering in the corners of his eyes. “It’s not enough. I’ve heard them whispering. Saying that we’re Brelish in all but name, that I’ve betrayed my mother. The anger grows. They need someone to blame. I thought Cazalan would bring me an answer. Instead the Mourning has turned him against me.”
“It’s a battle you can’t win,” Boranel said. “You need to face that. You need to find a way to make your people understand.”
“There must be an answer,” Oargev said. His fists were clenched, forehead shining with sweat. “And I will find it.”
“And perhaps we have,” Vron said.
“Not every problem has a solution. There’s a time to-” Boranel’s voice simply faded in his throat as he realized what the changeling had said. “What do you mean?”
Vron smiled. “So far we’ve only talked about the attack on his highness. I asked you here for an entirely different reason because, as it turns out, we have our first lead on the Mourning.”
Oargev’s eyes widened. “Explain.”
“I will, Your Highness. But please sit. It’s not a simple story, and if you wish to hear what I have learned, you must be patient.” As the others took their seats, Vron walked across the room and placed a hand on the wall.
Light spilled across the black stone. The glowing colors flowed together, swirling around like oil over water. Within moments the glow resolved into the image of a tower in a forest. The trees were dusted with ice and snow, and a harsh wind tugged at the branches. The walls of the tower gleamed in the sunlight. It’s covered with ice, Thorn thought. No, it’s made of ice. She could see the shadows of people moving within the walls, and three shapes rose from the top of the spires: fierce griffons with fur and feathers of pure white, wearing armor that seemed to be carved from ice. Each griffon had a rider, knights in ivory armor carrying bows and lances. The beasts drew closer and closer, and the lead warrior raised her hand, twisting her fingers in the complex patterns of a spell. Suddenly the wall went black.
“We retrieved those images from the woods of western Karrnath,” Vron said. “We’ve never been able to scry on the location for more than a minute. The Karrns discovered the tower three years ago; as far as they know, there was nothing in that forest until that point. The fortress is garrisoned by a group of elves that have no cultural bonds to Aerenal or Valenar.”
“Eladrin.” The voice belonged to a newcomer, a young man standing in the doorway. He was dressed in rough-spun peasant clothes, and what stood out the most was his gear-an assortment of belts and pouches overflowing with tools and sundry goods. His hair was short, sandy, and disheveled, and a slight beard covered his chin. He grinned, as if talking with kings and princes were an everyday occurrence. “They look like elves, but they’re not. They call themselves eladrin.”
“You can speak in a moment,” Vron said. “Until then, let me focus on the critical facts. This forest is in the domain of a Count Jadan Thul, a Karrnathi warlord who served with distinction during the Last War. We know that Thul sent envoys to these strangers and received no response. These eladrin never ventured more than a few miles from the tower and took no overtly hostile action against Thul or his holdings. But they refused to explain their presence or indeed to make any sort of contact with Count Thul.”
Essyn Cadrel raised an eyebrow. “A colorful story but what does it have to do with the Mourning?”
“Indulge me a moment more,” Vron said. “As you might imagine, Count Thul was perturbed by the presence of these strangers in his domain. However, his forces had been seriously depleted in the Last War, and he needed time to rebuild. In Olarune of 998, Thul moved against the citadel of ice. He suffered a stunning defeat. Though few in number, these strangers possess warriors with skill to rival the Valenar and arcane power to match that of Aundair. And yet, since repelling Thul’s attack, they have taken no further action, and they have ignored envoys from Thul, from King Kaius of Karrnath, and our own ambassadors.”
“Get to the point,” Oargev snapped. The prince was on his second goblet of wine, and his hand was shaking slightly.
“I understand your frustration, Your Highness. But everything needs to be in context. You see, the Karrns are not the only people who have encountered these eladrin.” Vron tapped the wall again, and a map of Khorvaire appeared. “As of last week, we’d managed to locate and identify three different eladrin towers, each of which appeared sometime within the last four years. In addition to the ice fortress in Karrnath, there is a tower along the northwest edge of the Khraal jungle of Darguun, and another here, in Zilargo. But in all this time, we’ve never been able to get an agent inside one of these eladrin fortresses. We knew next to nothing about their origins, intentions, or capabilities. Until last week.”
Vron turned to the young man. “This is Marudrix Juran Cannith. Years ago-almost five years, in fact-he stumbled upon one of these mysterious towers. A fortress in Cyre, not far from the old village of Seaside.”
“They call it Shaelas Tiraleth,” the tinker said. “It means ‘the Court of the Silver Tree.’ Because it’s the largest of their cities and there’s this big tree and, well, it’s-”
“The Mourning, Lord Vron,” Oargev snarled. “I’m still waiting for your explanation.”
To Thorn’s surprise, Cadrel spoke calmly. “Patience, Your Highness. I would see where this leads. Lord Vron, you said that this discovery occurred almost five years ago. Was it a date of any special significance?”
Vron smiled. “Indeed it was. The twentieth of Olarune. On that day, young Drix was traveling in Cyre’s southern woods when he encountered a group of eladrin. Believing him to be responsible for the death of their own prince, they pierced his heart with a cursed blade. From what we can tell, this happened at the precise moment that the Mourning began.”
Oargev was on his feet. “I don’t understand. Are you suggesting that my nation was destroyed in an attack against a farmboy?”
“That would be ludicrous, Your Highness.” Vron looked over at Drix, who was fidgeting. “But it seems that they know more than we do about it. Drix?”
The young man took a step forward. He tugged at the buttons of his shirt. “Lord Oargev…”
“Your Highness,” Cadrel corrected quietly.
Drix flushed. “Your Highness,” he said quickly, “I can’t explain to you all the things I’ve seen. I’m a tinker and
