The Fading Dream (13 page)

“I can’t close it,” he said. “There’s not enough air for all of us. We’ll have to leave it open. Just try to stay away from the water.”

The thunder came again, and they heard the rain, rattling down against Drix’s cloak. It sounded more like hail than rain, heavy drops pounding against the cloak like staccato drumbeats. Cadrel murmured a word, and a globe of cold fire appeared in his hand, filling the tiny chamber with light. Thorn could see more details. They were standing on a red blanket of soft wool with an image of a warforged warrior stitched into the surface. The walls were covered with sketches, sheets of paper pasted against the dark surface; most of them appeared to be designs for small crossbows. It seemed that Drix had been working on the crossbow problem for some time. Tools were scattered underfoot, along with winches, stocks, and other pieces of half-built weaponry.

The first drop of water soaked through the cloak and fell to the floor. It looked harmless enough, but the memory of those empty streets and the abandoned caravan was enough to keep Thorn from putting Drix’s warning to the test.

“How long will this go on?” Cadrel said. A drop of water landed on his sleeve, and he hissed in pain.

“I don’t know,” Drix said. “It’s rain. It might only last for a minute; it might last for hours. Or days. I never had to leave the hole open before. It never really mattered.”

“The opening’s too big,” Thorn said. The water dripped in more steadily, a pool beginning to form on the ground. “If air is the problem, we need to make the hole narrower, to make a tube.” She picked up a few long crossbow bolts. Drix saw what she was doing; rooting around, he produced a sheet of leather and some twine.

“Let me do it.” He quickly wrapped the quarrels in the leather and lashed them together. He worked two
additional bolts through the bunch horizontally, creating a base to hold it up. There was only one problem.

“There’s too much water coming down,” Thorn said. The cloak was soaked, and it was flowing more freely. “There’s no way for you to close the opening without getting wet.”

Drix said nothing, just took a step forward. Thorn caught his shoulder.

“You’re the reason we’re here. You’re the only one who knows where we’re going. And if not for you, we’d all be dead right now. We need you.”

He smiled at her gently and brushed her hand away. “Don’t worry about me.”

He took a step forward and pushed the makeshift tube up through the opening. Water flowed down his arm, and he cried out in pain. But he kept moving. He reached up, pulling at the edge of the hole, drawing it more tightly around the quarrels. His sleeve was soaked, and Thorn could see the flesh and muscle shriveling, wasting away as the damp cloth pressed against it. It should have taken only seconds to dissolve his arm and surely kill him.

But it didn’t.

She could see the damage. A drop of water then another fell onto his face, and as they slid down his cheeks, they dug ugly furrows, flesh and blood seeming to evaporate at the touch, tearing holes though his cheeks until she could see tooth and gum. Yet as quickly as the flesh dissolved, it reformed. The ugly gashes knit themselves together without leaving even a scar. It was clear that the experience was terribly painful; Drix was moaning quietly, trembling as he worked with the cloth. But he was alive.

It’s the stone
, Thorn realized. Just as it had healed the cut from Oargev’s dagger, it was protecting him from
the painful rain. It was amazing but it was clear that he was in agony. At last he finished wrapping the tube and collapsed to the floor. The flow of water had almost completely stopped.

Thorn knelt down beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You did it,” she whispered.

He moaned slightly and laid his head against her shoulder. He was still trembling. Cadrel’s globe of cold fire faded, and Thorn could see that the stone in Drix’s chest was glowing slightly, an orb of light beneath his shirt.

“Amazing,” Cadrel whispered.

Drix moaned again. Outside, the thunder roared and the rain kept pouring down.

H
ours passed. The rain slowed but never enough to let them leave. Drix silently fiddled with the pieces of his little crossbow. His wounds were completely healed, but he was still shivering and didn’t want to talk.

“Would you like to hear a story?” Cadrel said.

“Hmm?” Thorn said, turning her drifting attention back to the bard.

“A story,” he said. “It’s what I used to do, you know. I’ve just remembered one that you might find interesting. And I’d be quite interested to hear your thoughts on it, Marudrix.”

The tinker looked up. “I’d love a story. Can you put a crossbow in it?”

“This isn’t one of my own,” Cadrel said. “No, this is an old tale, older than Galifar itself. A story of the elves. And I wonder if it might have something to do with the people we’re going to see.”

“Let’s hear it,” said Thorn.

Cadrel took a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice was low and resonant, filling the hole. “Have you ever wondered why elves don’t sleep?

“When the world was young and Eberron still spoke to her children, the land belonged to the giants, and the worst of all the giants was the Titan King Cul’sir. His heart was filled with greed. There was no treasure he did not covet, and his power was great. The smaller creatures hid in fear of mighty Cul’sir. The goblins cowered in the deepest caverns. The dwarves climbed the highest mountains. The gnomes hid in the darkest woods. There was only one race that had no fear of the giants: the elder elves, oldest of the old.”

“I’m guessing elves wrote this story?” Thorn said.

Cadrel gave her a reproachful look and continued.

“The elder elves had no fear, for they had been granted gifts by the Sovereigns and dominion over many things. Summer. Winter. Joy. Dreams. No one giant—not even the Titan King—could match this power. This arrogance was their undoing, for their treasures merely drew the eyes of the greedy Cul’sir. Alone, he could never have challenged an elven citadel. But he assembled the first army of giants, and he brought it to the City of Song and Silence. Had they been silent and hidden, he might have passed by unknowing. Instead, their voices were raised in joyous sound, and so the giants found them, butchered them, and enslaved those few that they spared, stripping them of their magic and mixing their blood with mud. Six elven cities remained, and the lords of the six cities gathered around a silver tree—”

“They probably gathered
in
the tree,” Drix said. He’d set down the crossbow and was listening intently.

“I told you, Drix. It’s not my story.”

“Oh, I know. But I’ve been there. If there was only six of them, I think they’d go inside.”

Thorn opened her mouth to question that, but then she remembered his words at the Citadel. All her attention had been focused on Boranel and Oargev and on
keeping the prince of Cyre from killing the tinker. She hadn’t even thought about the name of the city or how it might relate to the image that had been haunting her dreams. “Does it have golden leaves?”

“Not so much anymore. It used to. Why?”

Cadrel cleared his throat. “I understand that these are unusual circumstances, but in Cyre it’s considered rude to interrupt. And as we are in Cyre at the moment …”

“Sorry,” Drix said. “I really would like to hear the rest of the story.”

Cadrel looked at Thorn and she nodded.

“Very well. The lords of the six cities gathered around—or possibly in—a silver tree. Their combined might was a thing to inspire legends. The Prince of Winter held a sword that could freeze the blood of an army with a single stroke. The Lord of Joy wore a jewel so lovely it could cause the hearts of his foes to burst with joy. But greatest among them was Shan Doresh, the Lord of Dreams. His was the power to draw out the heart’s desire and make it real for a time. But these dreams would not last, and he could not restore those slain in the City of Song and Silence. He urged the others to join together in an army, certain that together they could defeat the Titan King and free those they had taken as slaves. But the others were afraid to fight. And when the battle came, the Lord of Dreams and his subjects found themselves alone.

“Titan fought elf for a full twelve days and twelve nights, with the dark magic of the giants matched against Shan Doresh and the hopes he inspired in his people. Cul’sir knew he could not defeat the Lord of Dreams alone, and so he bargained with the Shadow and received a fearful boon. When Doresh next drew on his gifts, he and his people were pulled fully into the realm of dreams, and they were never seen again. The lords of the elder elves were so ashamed and so terrified that
they fled into the deepest shadows of the world, finally falling through the cracks in those places into the realm of Thelanis. And this is why the elves don’t sleep today; they are too ashamed to face Shan Doresh and acknowledge their cowardice.”

“Isn’t that a bit of a stretch?” Thorn said, settling her hand against Steel’s hilt.

“It may be,” Cadrel replied. “But you saw those images at the Citadel—how much they looked like elves! Combine that with this level of magical sophistication we’re seeing. Where have these eladrin
been
all this time? Hiding on another plane is the only answer than makes sense. And planar studies have shown time and again that Thelanis is our closest planar counterpart. Shifting across that barrier in response to a disaster, hiding there, either coming across occasionally or having our people stumble through the wall and finding them—it’s quite a story but not an impossible one.”

“I suppose not,” Thorn said. “Does it matter to us?”

“Perhaps it doesn’t,” Cadrel replied. “But it’s the chance to learn the truth behind one of the oldest stories I know; I hope you’ll understand if I’m somewhat excited.”

“Of course,” Thorn said. “And thank you for the story. But now … it sounds to me like the rain’s stopped. So if we’re going to get to the bottom of this story—or any other—I suggest we climb out of this hole and get on with our journey.”

Time passed, though the dull gray sky and the effects of the Irian tears made it difficult to say just how long. Thorn felt as if she’d been walking for a week, but rationally she knew it couldn’t have been more than a day. She was still troubled by the memory of Drix’s wounds melting away. Zane’s words echoed in the back of her mind.
Imagine an army of soldiers possessing such power
. And Cadrel’s casual comment,
We may be allies this month, but we both know that there can only be one king of Galifar
.

“Almost there,” Drix said. “There’s the forest up ahead.”

Thorn had heard that the southern forests of Cyre were one of the most beautiful places on Khorvaire—lush and temperate, filled with color and wildlife. What stood before them was a pale shadow. The trees were the first actual living vegetation Thorn had seen since they’d entered the Mournland, but they were just barely alive. Only a few of the trees had any leaves, and there were no sounds of wildlife, not even insects in the air. Thorn saw motion out of the corner of her eye, and she thought it was a snake winding its way up the trunk of a tree. Closer inspection revealed a more disturbing truth. It was a long vine, tipped with an ugly barb.

“Roots, unless I miss my guess,” Cadrel said. “There’s no sustenance from the sun, and who knows if there’s any rain to be had here … or if there is, if the trees can benefit from it. I imagine it seeks sustenance from other sources.”

A new voice rang out through the woods, strong and confidant. “You have good eyes, mortal man. Perhaps I’ll let you keep one of them.”

Thorn cursed and traced a cross on Steel’s hilt. “Back to back, all of you.” She could see shadows all around them. How could she have missed them before? Had they been truly invisible, or were they simply that good at the arts of stealth? She reached into her pouch, calling for the fireball wand she’d taken from Cazalan Dal, and her fingers closed on empty air. The wand wasn’t in her pack anymore.