The Fading Dream (4 page)

T
horn arrived at the Cyran consulate as the final bell was ringing the hour. Footmen were preparing the royal carriage, hitching the team of stallions and polishing the brass. Thorn had become quite familiar with that carriage over the course of the past few weeks, ever since she’d been assigned to Prince Oargev’s security detail. When she’d been sent to the refugee settlement of New Cyre, she’d seen the assignment as punishment. She’d pushed the edge of her orders in her previous mission. For all that she was looking after a prince, he was a prince without a country; his current holdings were temporary gifts. Thorn and the three King’s Shields assigned to Oargev were more an honor guard than anything else—a show of Breland’s continued friendship with the last branch of the Cyran crown. As expected, the journey to Wroat had been entirely without incident. For all that Oargev was a celebrity, her skills were wasted there.

Something was different. There was a second coach in the courtyard, a drab vessel compared to the grand royal coach. Yet the prince’s footmen were preparing it as well, and Thorn could see a magewright inside the cabin
inscribing protective glyphs on the floor. Then there was Essyn Cadrel. Dressed in bright silks, Essyn had the look of a bard, and that’s what he’d been in his younger days. Since the Mourning, he’d been Prince Oargev’s confidant. Thorn had quickly discovered that he was also the closest thing the prince had to a spymaster. Oargev was a passionate man, but he’d been raised as a noble and a knight, not a schemer. It was Essyn Cadrel who kept one ear to the ground and one to the window, pulling on the threads scattered across the shadows. If Cadrel was personally inspecting the coach, there was more to it than an idle delivery.

A man in the dress of a mercenary guard caught sight of Thorn and raised a hand. She didn’t recognize the uniform, but she knew his face. “You’re cutting things close,” he said.

Thorn grinned. “I was through the gate when the bell rang, Jovi. Lovely outfit you’ve got there. Did the prince dress you tonight?”

Jovi smiled and touched a finger to one of the spots of rust on the chain shirt he was wearing. “The old man did, if that’s close enough. And I’m guessing he’ll have some ideas for you.” He snorted. “I’ll wager you didn’t expect to be playing dress-up at the whim of a landless boy when you swore your oath to the Shields, eh?”

“True enough,” Thorn said. Of course, she’d sworn a different oath than Jovi.

Both Thorn and Jovi served the King’s Citadel, the elite forces of the Brelish crown. The Citadel was divided into multiple arms: The King’s Swords were the toughest soldiers in the land, called in when brute force was the only answer. The King’s Wands specialized in magic, including investigating mystical crimes, protecting the land from supernatural threats, and bringing arcane power to bear in times of war. The King’s Shields were
the bodyguards of the royal line, trained to spot any threat and ready to lay down their lives to protect those placed in their charge, in the case before Thorn, Oargev ir’Wynarn.

Both Jovi and Oargev believed that Thorn served the King’s Shields and that she was there to protect Oargev. In fact, Thorn belonged to the fourth arm of the Citadel: The King’s Dark Lanterns. The Lanterns were the eyes of Breland, and its hidden hands—spies, inquisitives, and when the situation called for it, assassins. Jovi, Delru, and Lanner were there to protect the prince. Shield Thorn had to protect him too. But Lantern Thorn was there to watch, though so far, there’d been little to see.

Perhaps that night would be different. “So what are we dealing with? A decoy operation?”

“It seems the thorn is sharp.” Essyn Cadrel was an old man with lines around his eyes and snow white hair that fell to his shoulders. “Though I admit it’s a tired, old plot. Yes, his highness has an appointment on the island tonight with his noble cousin Boranel. The royal carriage will be taking Parliament Road to the Queen’s Bridge. We’ll follow a different route, with the prince inside.”

Thorn frowned. “Why the extra precautions?”

The adviser waved one hand dismissively. “Truth be told, I’m a touch ashamed of this production. There’s been a few rumors. Nothing confirmed. Hardly even credible.”

Steel stirred in Thorn’s grip.
Then why the effort?

The question was already on Thorn’s lips. “It seems like a great deal of work for a threat you don’t actually believe in.”

Cadrel shrugged. “His highness has been troubled of late, and he demanded the extra effort. I do whatever I can to comfort my prince.”

That seemed plausible enough. While Thorn hadn’t spoken much with Prince Oargev, she’d spent a great deal of time around the young prince over the course of the past two weeks, and he had seemed to become increasingly agitated as they drew closer to the Brelish capital. “What about these rumors, then? What’s the nature of the threat?”

“An embarrassment to us all. You’ve spent enough time among us to know just how passionate the young prince is about restoring Cyre. But there are those among his scattered subjects who expect him to work miracles … as if he could somehow lift the mist from the Mournland with a wave of his hand.”

Thorn nodded. Oargev worked closely with the lords of the Five Nations. But ever since the Day of Mourning, there had been those who were unsatisfied with his diplomatic efforts. Breland had given refugees a place to live, but many among them wanted a true kingdom of their own, and some were angry Oargev hadn’t made it happen. “I’ve heard about the riots in Stormreach and Fairhaven,” Thorn said. “But you think that some of the refugees might actually attack the prince? What would that accomplish?”

Cadrel spread his hands sadly. “Who can decipher the whims of madmen, my dear?”

“How solid is this? Do we have a sense of numbers and organization?”

“Not at all, I fear. Truly, Shield Thorn, this is more a matter of intuition than anything else. I collect rumors, and I’ve heard many since we arrived in this fair city. Cyrans speaking angrily in a Riverside tavern. An officer’s blade from the Fifth Crown turning up in a flea market. An accusation that some among the King’s Wands are selling arms to dissidents. I’ve heard a dozen other tales, and there’s no reason to assume that any of
them are connected. And yet … I’m a storyteller, my lady. To weave a fine tale, you always start with disparate threads. It’s bringing them together that makes it art. And here, tonight … I see a group of elite soldiers, trained in the use of sword and wand. I see powerful weapons gone missing from the king’s own arsenal. An appointment our lord cannot pass up, and an attack on the royal carriage. Most likely just a fanciful tale, but his highness likes a good story, and he doesn’t want to see this one come to pass.”

Seems a little farfetched, if that’s really all he’s got
, Steel said.
There’ve been tales of corruption within the Wands for the last century. Nonetheless … the Fifth Crown is an urban strike force, trained to make assaults deep within enemy territory
.

Thorn tapped Steel’s hilt thoughtfully. She’d clashed with the Fifth Crown at the end of the war, well before she’d received Steel. She’d been lucky to survive the experience. A resentful group of former soldiers, selling all they could to raise enough gold to buy mystical weapons on the black market … it might be unlikely, but she could see why Cadrel would be concerned. “What’s the plan?”

“Gal will take the prince’s place in the royal carriage. The house guards will join him there, so anyone who knows our staff will see them. His highness will travel in this coach, disguised and guarded solely by you Brelish. We’ll follow Blackmarket, and take the King’s Bridge—a foolish route, to be sure, but that’s the point. A merchant envoy, bringing goods to Brokenblade Castle.” He glanced at her black clothing and the vambraces of blackened mithral protecting her forearms. “Do you have something in gray?”

“I think I can find something suitable.” She closed her eyes and let her fingers pass down along her torso,
crafting an image in her mind. She could feel her clothing changing with her thoughts. Her working clothes were formed from shiftweave, fabric enchanted to hold a wide range of forms. A moment’s work and she was dressed in the clothes of a simple laborer, complete with mud stains on her gray breeches; puffy sleeves covered her vambraces. “Satisfactory?”

“I would prefer a darker gray but it’ll do. I believe that’s his highness approaching now. I’d like you on the back of the coach, if you will.”

A group of guards in Cyran green and gold escorted a handsome young man, the jewels on his crown sparkling in the light of the cold-fire lanterns. Thorn had met Gal back in New Cyre; the changeling’s family had served the Cyran crown as body doubles since before the Last War. A strange life to be sure, yet one he excelled at; if she didn’t know the plan, Thorn would never have guessed the difference. Gal had mastered Oargev’s cocky smile, his confident stride, even the way he wore his crown just a little cocked. And he’d even worked in the tension Thorn had noted in the prince, the faraway look in his eyes.

Footmen helped the false prince into the carriage. Guards took their posts, and a few cavalry soldiers spread out in front and behind. The great gates were opened, and the coach rolled out onto the streets of Wroat.

Those who followed were less remarkable. A group of servants loaded a few casks and crates on the smaller wagon. Smiling, Essyn Cadrel made an elaborate gesture, and his clothes shifted and changed. He was no doppelganger, but as a bard, he’d learned a trick or two with illusions. Within seconds he was a little younger, a little plumper, with clothes suited to a middle-class merchant, not ostentatious enough to stand out, but prosperous enough to possibly have business at the castle. Three footmen helped him into the coach and followed him up.
Only the keenest of watchers would have recognized the youngest member of the trio as Prince Oargev himself and the others as King’s Shields.

Thorn took her place on the back of the coach. Jovi mounted a lean, gray mare and took point. Then the coachman cracked his whip and the carriage rumbled forward, out onto the streets of the Lower Crescent.

If you ask me, we’re running from the prince’s own fears
.

“I don’t recall asking.” Thorn held Steel tight against her inner arm, hidden by the baggy sleeves of her gray blouse.

It’s been four years since the Mourning. His people are still scattered, confined to ghettos and resettlement camps
.

The coach bounced on a misplaced cobblestone, and Thorn tightened her grip on the rail. She kept her eyes on the crowds milling around the edge of the streets, but no one seemed to be paying any mind to the merchant carriage. “And he blames himself.”

Exactly. We know there are militant Cyran factions out there. Dannel’s Wrath attacked the Lyrandar shipyards in Stormreach a month ago, promising it will get worse until the Cyrans receive new lands. But in their statements they’ve never even mentioned Oargev
.

“So he’s afraid that his people blame him … and equally afraid that they just don’t care.”

Precisely
.

There was a glint of metal in the crowd, a blur of motion. Thorn shifted Steel into a throwing grip. There! A halfling with a tiny blade in one hand and a leather purse in the other. He was ducking between the legs of the crowd. Thorn’s thoughts raced, evaluating the little man’s path and speed. A cutpurse, or so it seemed; a woman in the crowd was already waving her arms.
Likely it was just random chance that was bringing him toward the wagon, and Thorn wasn’t paid to take on the duties of the City Watch. But there was no telling what might be hidden in that pouch, and it seemed as if his path would take him directly under their carriage.

The moment the halfling broke from the crowd, Thorn threw Steel. It was a sound blow, and the pommel of the black dagger struck the cutpurse directly on the bridge of his nose. He dropped the pouch and staggered backward, blood dripping from his broken nose. The crowd descended on the thief, and a watchman pushed his way toward the halfling. There’s one good deed for the day, Thorn thought. Steel flew back to her hand. She caught him and nearly dropped him; his psychic cry was as shocking as a blow.

Western inn! Second floor! Magical attack!

Thorn acted without thought. She could see a gleam of light from the corner of her eye, but there was no time to throw Steel again. Grabbing the railing, she flung herself around the edge of the coach, placing the body of the carriage between her and the enemy. She was reaching for the door when the blast came. Her skin tingled and the world was filled with flame and screams of pain. Broiling wind washed over her, threatening to fling her from the carriage. But she kept her grip, ignoring the stench of burning hair and flesh. The screams were coming from behind her, from the bystanders caught in the blast. The coach itself was still intact. The shielding glyphs carved into the coach had done their job well. Still, there was no telling how long the glyphs would last against a determined assault or what other weapons or spells the attacker could bring to bear. The King’s Shields could protect the prince if there were a ground assault; Thorn intended to take the fight to the assassin.