The Fading Dream (9 page)

“That’s not something to joke about.”

No, I suppose not. Still, perhaps you should find out more about his connections to the house
.

“I suppose I will.” Thorn ran a hand over her pouches and pockets, making sure all her tools were in place. Satisfied, she walked out of the crew quarters and made her way toward the helm.

Shargon’s Tooth
was a small vessel, built to carry commando teams behind enemy lines. Given that her companions weren’t in the cabin, there were only a few places they could be. She found Drix and Cadrel in the chamber that served as a galley and observation deck, just behind the helm. Drix had a small crossbow set on the table with wheels and twine laid out on a cloth next to it; he was polishing a gear. Cadrel looked over as she entered.

“Our guardian rises,” he said. “Did you sleep well, my dear?”

“Well enough,” she replied. “Let’s get to business. Would you mind clearing the table?”

The tinker looked sadly at his unfinished work. He
carefully folded the cloth and tucked his tools away. As soon as the space was available, Thorn laid out a map.

“Scrying is unreliable in the Mournland,” she said. “This map is the best we have, based on the preexisting geography of Cyre and what information we’ve received from survivors and scouts, including you, Drix.” She pointed at a spot along the southern coastline. “Your report places this eladrin spire roughly here, northeast of the old village of Seaside. We’ll be making landfall as close to Seaside as possible. We know that the Green Road is still partially intact. That will serve as our guide as we move toward the southern woods. From there, it’s up to you to show us the way.”

Drix nodded. “I remember the path,” he said. “But you won’t be able to sleep. The forest … it’s different now. Hungry. You can’t stand still.”

“We’re prepared,” Thorn said. She reached into the pouch at her side. Like her gloves, the space within was larger than the pouch itself; a thought called the leather wineskin to her hand. “The good news is that we’ve got Irian tears. A few drops of this will keep you going through the night and help fight the effects of exhaustion. You don’t want to take too much of it, but we should be all right.”

“Good news, hmm?” Cadrel said. “I trust there’s bad to follow it?”

Thorn sighed. “I’m afraid so.” She reached into the pouch again and drew out a thin rod. Six inches of it were covered with a rubbery, greenish substance. “Troll sticks. Not actual troll, I think, but you wouldn’t know it from the taste. The stick grows the meat; it takes about three hours for it to grow back. It’s about as unpleasant as anything you’ll find in the Mournland, but at least it’s not poisonous. So that takes care of basic survival.”

“There’s nothing basic about survival in what lies ahead of us,” Drix said. “Food’s good but let’s not forget about the ghosts. And the hungry wind. And the voices in the mist.” He smiled slightly, as if he were remembering a childhood vacation.

“Good questions,” Thorn said, privately wondering how many of those things were real and how many existed in only the tinker’s head. “I need to know what you can do in a fight.”

“I was stabbed through the heart,” Drix said. “Does that count as a fight?”

“You walked away from it, so I guess that counts. That stone of yours … just how effective is it? Will it really protect you from any sort of injury?”

“I don’t know,” Drix said with a shrug. “It healed me from the stabbing. And the boulders. And the bear. And the crab that glued me to its back …”

I know he sounds slightly mad
, Steel said as Drix continued to list his misfortunes.

“Slightly?” Thorn smiled at Drix, drumming her fingers against Steel’s hilt. She wondered how many of his supposed injuries actually occurred.

Nonetheless, the power I’m sensing in that stone is remarkable. And something that will stand out to anyone else who might look for it
.

Lovely, she thought. “Do you know how to use that crossbow?”

“Hmm?” Drix said, ceasing his reverie of pains. “Well, not that one specifically. I’m still working on her. She’s not finished. But she means well. When I’m done, she’ll aim herself.”

Thorn sighed. “And you, Cadrel? I see you’re wearing a blade today. Do you know how to use it?”

“Indeed.” Cadrel stepped away from the table, and suddenly his short sword was in his hand. “I know I did
little to impress you in our last altercation; I thought it best that I stay by the prince. I’m no match for you, my dear, but I’ve fought a few duels in my day.”

“And magic? I know you can weave a disguise. What other surprises do you have?”

“It’s a poor entertainer who reveals every trick,” Cadrel began.

“And a foolish one who goes to the Mournland,” Thorn said. “This is no stage, Cadrel. I need to know exactly what you’re capable of.”

“You wound me, my dear. Still, this is an adventure unlike any I’ve ever been on; I suppose I must bend my own rules. I do know a few tricks of illusion, yes. I can disguise my own face and form. I can cast a false image for a minute or two, though one without sound or substance. Once upon a time, I could hone this to craft a burst of bright light, dazzling an opponent for a few moments, though I’m afraid it’s been some time since I’ve tried such a thing.”

Thorn nodded. It was still more than she’d expected; perhaps the old man wouldn’t be the liability she’d thought. Still, an elderly duelist and a tinker with an unfinished crossbow? Not the most impressive team she’d worked with.

“Cadrel, would you give me a moment alone with Drix?”

Essyn smiled, giving a slight bow. “Certainly. I’ll go check with our lovely captain; we must be close to our destination by now.”

Thorn turned back to Drix as Cadrel left the room. The tinker was looking wistfully at his crossbow. She studied him, noticing the curve of his eyes, the slight points to his ears. “It seems we have something in common,” she said.

He looked up at her, puzzled.

She tapped an ear. “Elf blood. How far back in your line does it go?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “My father was Khoravar, and his mother.” The word literally meant
child of Khorvaire
, but the more common term was
half-elf—
the blended race formed from the mingling of human and elf blood. Thorn was Khoravar herself, but first generation; her mother was an elf from the island nation of Aerenal.

“I didn’t realize there were Khoravar in House Cannith,” she said. “I thought only humans could carry the Mark of Making.”

“That’s what they say,” Drix said sadly. “My mother took me back to Making once, to meet my grandparents. To go to school there, I think. They didn’t want me. The Jurans are tinkers, and that’s all we’ll ever be. That’s what they say. Dirt in our blood.”

“Did you talk to your family about this?” She pointed at his heart.

“My family is dead,” he said, looking away. “Killed in the Mourning. The barons in Breland didn’t want me before. I’m not going to them now.”

Thorn nodded thoughtfully. He seemed sincere enough. There were times when he seemed a little unhinged, but at the moment it seemed it was just pain, emotional or otherwise. “Why are you doing this?” she said. “With that stone, you’re all but immortal. Why would you want to give that up?”

He looked at her, and she could see the sorrow in his eyes. “It’s not mine. Not me. It’s the Mourning. I can feel it. The sorrow, the anger … I can feel it.”

He seemed serious. She squeezed Steel’s hilt. “Really?”

“It weaves my flesh and blood together, but the pain … the pain never truly goes away. It doesn’t belong in me. I know that.”

It’s possible the stone holds psychic impressions of the dead
, Steel said.
Considering he’s just said that he’s in constant physical pain, delusions seem more likely
.

Even as she listened, Thorn felt a pulse of pain from the shard embedded in her neck. Her stones were just shrapnel, not magical gems, but she’d lived with them for almost a year, dealing with the pain and sheer sense of
wrongness
that came with them. In the darkest times, she’d turned to drink and dreamlily to chase that pain away. She was slowly growing used to them. The pain was still there, but it wasn’t as crippling as it had once been. Still, there was a time when she’d have done almost anything to escape from it. If Drix felt anything like she had, she could understand why he’d want it out.

“I know you think the pain is driving me mad,” Drix said. “It’s not. It’s
not
. It’s the voices. The faces. I need to make it stop, to let their spirits rest.”

“I understand,” Thorn said. She felt a flicker of sorrow and a touch of guilt for having let her distrust of Cannith get the better of her before. Magic stone or not, his life was tough enough as it was.

Drix sighed, looking out the porthole. “Why are we traveling underwater, anyway?”

Thorn shrugged. “It’s just a safety precaution. These vessels were built during the Last War, used to sneak behind enemy lines. The Mournland may be neutral territory, but the last thing we need is a chance encounter with Darguul slavers. This way we get to Seaside quickly and safely.”

“So we’re safe here?”

“We should be,” Thorn said. “Between the speed of the vessel and our reinforced hull, no natural creature can pose a threat to us. And we’re too far down for a ship to even notice us.”

The impact surprised them both.

There was a groan of strained wood. Thorn braced herself against the table as the floor shook. Drix’s unfinished crossbow slid across the floor, and Drix stumbled and fell to his hands and knees.

“Of course, I’ve been wrong before,” Thorn said.

T
horn drew Steel as she headed for the helm. “Report,” she said.

There was a momentary fluctuation in the bonds connecting the elemental to the ship
.

“That’s not a good thing.” The floor rolled beneath her as Thorn made her way down the narrow hall, and she braced herself against the wall to keep from falling.

Essyn Cadrel was already on the bridge with Captain Shaeli. The captain’s dragonmark was glowing slightly in the dim light, and the Khoravar woman cursed under her breath. She clung tightly to the gleaming wheel.

Thorn saw Cadrel’s eyes widen, and she realized Steel was still in her hand. She lowered the dagger. “What’s going on?”

“It seems we’ve found a souvenir of the Last War,” Cadrel replied.

“Cyran breacher,” the captain said. The words were an effort.

“I fought on the ground,” Thorn said. “What’s that?”

“A nightmare,” Shaeli said. She gasped as the ship shuddered again.

Breachers are a joint creation of House Cannith and the binders of Zilargo
, Steel told her.
A warforged leech built to prey on elemental vessels. The first impact must have been it latching onto the hull. Now it’s fighting the captain for control of the elemental core. If it overcomes her willpower, it’ll loose the elemental and shatter the vessel. Even if it doesn’t, it will carve a hole through the hull
.

“Lovely.” Thorn murmured. “How do we fight it?”

“No weapons,” Shaeli said. Her breathing was shallow, her voice strained. “I’ll try … to surface. You might survive the wreck.”

I’m afraid she’s correct. On a normal ship, you might be able to target the breacher from above. On this vessel, by the time it penetrates the hull, it will be too late
.

“Get to the hatch,” Shaeli whispered. “Lifeboat.”

“And what about you, Captain?” Cadrel said.

“Must remain … If I let go … it’s over.”

The ship shook again. Thorn’s mind raced. There was no way for her to fight an enemy outside the ship, and if it punched a hole in the hull, the water would finish them before battle was an option. Then a memory came to her. Merrix d’Cannith shattering a warforged soldier with a single touch, in the tunnels below Sharn.

Drix was still in the galley when she returned. He’d spread the pieces of the crossbow across the table again and seemed oblivious to the threat.

“Drix!”

“Oh, hello again.” He smiled at her. “What’s wrong?”

Thorn pulled Drix from his chair, sending tools and twine tumbling to the floor. “We’ve only got a few minutes before this ship gets cracked like an egg. Can you do anything about it?”

“What could I do?” Drix said, seeming honestly curious.

Thorn strode into the hall, pulling Drix with her. She could feel the vibrations as the breacher drilled into the hull, and she followed the sensations. “You’re Cannith, aren’t you? Can’t you do anything?”

“I’m just a tinker,” Drix said. “I fix things. Make things work better.”

Host above, Thorn thought. He certainly isn’t Merrix. “Have you ever fixed a warforged?”

“Yes,” Drix said.

They entered the heart of the vessel. There ahead of them was the elemental core—a swirling sphere of the bluest water Thorn had ever seen, suspended in a cage inscribed with glowing sigils. The sphere was shaking, pseudopods lashing out to strike at the bars. And to the side, Thorn could feel the breacher grinding into the wall, separated from them by less than a foot of wood; if not for the mystical force strengthening the hull, it would surely be through already.