“And what have you seen of this one?”
Albanon frowned, trying to make sense of what he had seen. “You’re not just a dragon any more,” he said.
“This one is a dragon, the Voidharrow, and the Plaguedeep. This one is the plague that will consume you.”
The demon’s mouth opened wide, and a cloud of vapor billowed out. Tiny red crystals shimmered in the air and spread slowly out from the hulking creature.
As Kri jumped back from the spreading cloud, Albanon hurled a blast of fire at the demon. It roared its pain and lurched forward, sending the scarlet cloud eddying around it. Kri called down a column of light that sent the demon sprawling to the ground and also dissipated the portions of the cloud that it touched.
A lingering wisp of cloud touched one of the fey hounds, seeped in through its nostrils, and immediately started to alter the poor beast. Jagged crystal protrusions sprouted from its back as it howled its agony. Its forequarters flattened, its legs splayed to the sides, and its head curled in on itself.
Careful not to get too close to the remaining wisps of the toxic cloud, Immeral cut the hound-demon’s head from its broad shoulders with a single swing of his sword. With a gesture, the huntmaster ordered the other eladrin and their hounds away from the tower, back to where their horses waited.
Albanon followed, forming a clearing among the thorns for the eladrin to sit comfortably. Kri threw himself down on the ground, still short of breath from the exertion of their long flight across the plain. Albanon settled with the others, enjoying a moment of quiet after all the chaos of the battle.
“Well,” Immeral said after a moment, “had I known at Moonstair that I was speaking to the son of the Prince of Thorns, I would have offered to escort you to your father’s palace.”
“And had I known you were my father’s huntmaster,” Albanon said, then paused. “I don’t know what I would have done, actually.”
Immeral laughed, the clear, musical sound of the fey’s wild delight. Just like the smells on this side of the Moon Door, that laugh stirred up Albanon’s memories of home, of feasts in secluded glades and races along woodland trails.
“Why did you come to the tower?” Albanon asked.
“As soon as you left the Palace of Thorns, your father turned his attention to the Whitethorn Spire. He had paid it little heed for decades, and it had almost faded from his consciousness entirely. When he cast his gaze this way again, he discovered that the tower was breached-something was here that shouldn’t be. Well, we saw what that was.”
“And he sent you here, to …?”
“To protect you, yes.”
“And we thought you were chasing us.”
Immeral laughed again, but without mockery. “Oh, my friend,” he said through his laughter, “if we had been chasing you, you would not have reached the tower.”
“Although your command of the thorns was impressive,” another one of the hunters added.
“Indeed,” Immeral said. “You gave us a worthy chase-better than we’ve had in years.” The smile faded from his face. “Of course, that left us all more tired once we arrived than we might have been. Probably cost us a couple of hounds.”
“I know I’m lucky to be alive,” another hunter-the one Kri had healed-said. He nodded to the priest. “Thank you.”
“Without your help in that battle, Albanon and I would be dead for certain,” Kri said. “We owe you our gratitude and our lives.”
“You are the son of my lord and master,” Immeral said to Albanon. “You need only to ask my help, and I will give it. Whatever the circumstances.”
“Thank you.”
Albanon sat back and looked up at Sherinna’s tower. Splendid, the last legacy of his apprenticeship with Moorin, was perched atop the arch over the open door. Everything else around him was a part of his life that was new and at the same time old. Kri, his new mentor, was passing on to him a tradition that came from his own grandmother, whose tower this had been. His father’s huntmaster had just promised Albanon his aid, and the very brambles of the Plain of Thorns acknowledged his noble birthright.
This is who I am, he thought. A prince of the Feywild, heir to the legacy of the Order of Vigilance. His eyes found Splendid again. Not some bumbling apprentice. Not anymore.
And not ever again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Is it the dragon?” Shara whispered.
“I can’t tell,” Uldane replied. “It’s dark down there, and … foggy?”
Shara’s vision cleared enough to show her what the halfling was talking about. Eddies of mist billowed up the stairs from the chamber at the bottom. She took Quarhaun’s hand and got to her feet, as slowly and quietly as she could manage.
“Should I take a look around down there?” Uldane asked.
“No. Whatever it is, it knows we’re here. You’re not going to sneak past it. The first one down is going to be the first one attacked. And that’s going to be me.”
“We should send some lizardfolk warriors down first,” Quarhaun said. “Get a sense of what we’re up against. Force the dragon to reveal itself, if it is him.”
Shara looked for any hint of humor in the drow’s face and saw none. “What?” she asked.
“They’re expendable, Shara. You’re not.”
“I don’t send anyone into danger I’m not willing to face myself.”
“Officers with that attitude rarely live long enough to get promoted.”
“I’m not an officer, Quarhaun. I’m an adventurer. I’m not here because some baron or general sent me here to achieve some military objective.”
“Why are you here?”
“I’m here because that dragon killed almost everyone in the world that ever meant anything to me. And after I killed him once, he didn’t have the decency to stay dead, which means I get the pleasure of killing him again. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll get to kill him a third time-once for Borojon, once for Cliffside, and once for Jarren.”
“And so you’re going to walk boldly into what’s probably a death trap, not even knowing if whatever is down there is the dragon or not. You can’t kill the dragon if you’re dead.”
“I have no intention of dying. Tell the warriors to come down with me, if you want. We’ll face it together, whatever it is.” With one hand on the wall to make sure she didn’t slip again, she started down the stairs into the darkness and the mist.
Damned dragon probably heard every word of that, she thought. She smiled to herself. Good.
Quarhaun hissed instructions to the lizardfolk, and Uldane trailed behind her with a fresh sunrod. The sound of water dripping on stone and plinking into pools echoed up the stairway. Mist billowed around her feet as she reached the bottom of the stairs, and she peered ahead into a large, open chamber.
Water poured down slime-covered walls as the swamp worked slowly to absorb the ancient building. As it splashed to the ground it rose in fine droplets of mist that draped the floor of the room and rose in eddying clouds above it. Streamers of moss hung from jutting stones in the worn walls, waving in the water coursing over them. A gurgling sound came from somewhere near the center of the room, suggesting that the water was draining out before it could fill the room entirely.
Shara didn’t see the dragon. It was hard to imagine the mist cloaking something that large, but not inconceivable-and there were corners of the room she couldn’t see without stepping fully into the archway. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the lizardfolk warriors arrayed behind her, clubs and maces held at the ready, shields ready to block, and their eyes fixed on her.
