The Queen of Stone: Thorn of Breland (5 page)

Harryn Stormblade
. It was easy to see why the Citadel wanted to recover the knight. Few people in Thorn’s line of work believed that the current peace would hold, and the support of a true hero of legend would be a powerful tool for any leader who sought to claim the throne of Galifar. “And what of my original assignment?”

That is equally important. You must find a way to accomplish both goals
.

“Lovely.” But Thorn smiled as she considered the challenge, and the pain began to fade. “So what am I supposed to do? Steal the statue and bring it back to Breland? I don’t think it’s going to fit in my glove.”

If that were the goal, I wouldn’t have even mentioned the mission. You won’t be stealing a statue. You’ll free the man
.

Thorn looked at the dagger. “That sounds more promising. How do we do that?”

‘The kiss of the Queen of Stone.’ Spells can reverse petrification, but they’re useless in this case. Sheshka, the so-called Queen of Stone, is no ordinary medusa. We’ve recovered a few of her victims in the past, and we’ve never been able to restore them. But ‘the medusa’s kiss’ is a ritual the creatures themselves use to negate the effects of their deadly gaze. There is great power in that book—magic of transformation and divination. I believe that what it says is the truth. We can’t
release Harryn Stormblade from his bondage, but Queen Sheshka can. And as one of the most powerful warlords in Droaam, she’ll undoubtedly be in attendance at this diplomatic gathering, as will you
.

“So I don’t need to steal a statue,” Thorn said. “I just need to find a statue, kidnap the queen of the medusas, force her to reverse a curse, and smuggle a legendary warrior out of Droaam, all without causing an international incident.”

Yes. Sheshka’s death is an acceptable loss, provided Breland can’t be blamed for it
.

“Oh, that was the only thing I was worried about.” Thorn’s mind raced as she considered the variables. This was what she’d been trained for, and after months of rehabilitation at the Citadel, it was good to have a challenge. “I don’t suppose you’ve got some sort of trick hidden in your pommel for protecting me from a medusa’s gaze?”

You’ ll be protected
.

“Is there a ‘how’ somewhere in this conversation?”

No. We both have our orders, Lantern Thorn. I am to give you the information you need, when I decide you are ready to receive it
.

The angry spark was burning in the shards again. “And why is that? Why do I suddenly have a metal nursemaid?”

There were some at the Citadel who were concerned about you returning to the field so soon after the incident at Far Passage. Master Zane hoped that this book would be a false lead, and that you would not have to undertake this mission. However, even with your injuries, he believes you are best suited to the task
.

“So you’re keeping secrets from me for my own good.”

You’re angry
, the cold voice whispered.
Is that normal for you?

Thorn cursed under her breath, but she knew the dagger was right. The memories of Far Passage, the pain of the
stones … they were playing games with her emotions. This wasn’t who she was. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She thought of her father, of the smile on his face when he saw her after a long absence. She thought of the mission and the challenges she had to overcome. The pain receded, and she was herself again.

“Reconnaissance is first priority,” she said. “I’ll need the information if I’m going to manage the rescue … and I think we’ll have to leave quickly once it’s done.”

I concur
.

“Is there anything else I need to know tonight?”

There is nothing more that I may say
.

Thorn narrowed her eyes. “That’s not quite an answer, is it?”

Steel said nothing.

“That’s fine. I need the sleep. I think tomorrow will be an interesting day.”

Thorn closed the shutter on the lantern, and the room fell into darkness. Through the blinds of the windows, the moonlight cast purple shadows across the floor.

T
he laughter of ghosts woke Thorn from her sleep and she sat up. As her thoughts cleared, she realized that the laughter wasn’t a remnant of her nightmare … it was a sound outside her window.

Gnolls. Lots of gnolls. Thorn reached for her shiftweave and gauntlets.

“Delegates of foreign lands!” The voice was curt and rough, loud enough to echo across the plaza. “Present yourselves! We leave with the setting moon!”

Thorn relaxed. The manticore hadn’t betrayed her, and the Pact hadn’t tracked her to the Calabas. This was simply business; this was why she was in Droaam.

For a thousand years, the land to the west of Breland had been a savage frontier. Trolls lurked in mountain passes while harpies and wyverns circled the peaks. Many bold warriors traveled west to slay horrors in the name of Galifar; few returned. But over the centuries, these monsters posed little threat to the lands beyond the Graywall Mountains. The creatures weren’t organized. Warlords laid claim to land and then fought the other monsters to hold it. Now and again, a flight of harpies or pack of worgs would venture east to prey on human settlers, but for the
most part the monsters had more interest in battling their own kind. Then came the Daughters of Sora Kell.

Thirteen years ago, the hags appeared in the west accompanied by an army of ogres, trolls, and other fearsome creatures. Through sheer force and fear they bent the warlords to their will, but they wanted more than power—they wanted a kingdom. The Daughters declared the land west of the mountains to be the sovereign territory of Droaam. Soldiers scoffed at the idea that the beasts of the west could create any sort of nation; surely it would collapse within a decade, and the name of Droaam would be forgotten.

Cyre fell before Droaam. While the Mourning destroyed the heart of Galifar, Droaam built cities and roads, expanding the city of Graywall and the capital, the Great Crag. The hags asked for a voice at the Treaty of Thronehold, but the lords of the eastern nations scoffed at the idea. It was bad enough that Darguun and Valenar were sitting at the table, but those nations had armies and had fought in the Last War. Droaam was a joke, and surely it would be gone in a year. Perhaps, with the war over, Breland would take the time to cleanse the area once and for all.

If it was a joke, no one was laughing any longer. Three years had passed since the Treaty of Thronehold, and Droaam was stronger than ever. Through House Tharashk, the monsters of Droaam found employment as mercenaries and laborers, and the people of the Five Nations saw for themselves the power these creatures possessed. The leaders of the Thronehold nations began to wonder what forces the Daughters of Sora Kell had at their disposal … and then the invitations arrived. The hags had asked the leaders of the twelve nations recognized under the Treaty of Thronehold to send representatives to the Great Crag, to reconsider counting Droaam among their number.

It was hard to imagine King Boranel accepting a hag or a mind flayer as a fellow monarch. But it was an excellent chance to get a spy into the heart of Droaam. Thorn’s
original mission had been a simple one: Observe. Gather information. Find out as much as possible about Droaam’s capabilities and intentions. Watch the delegates of the other nations. Breland wouldn’t be the only nation with eyes—or knives—at the assemblage.

Thorn had wanted to bathe, but she had no time with the convoy to the Great Crag already gathering. She pulled on her courtier’s dress. Dark brown with russet trim and the bear of Breland on the breast, it complemented her auburn hair and dark green eyes. Next came the traveling cloak, and finally her gloves.

Like the rest of her wardrobe, her gloves were made from shiftweave, and she adjusted them to match her outfit; leather gauntlets transformed to long silk gloves. Their appearance meant little to Thorn—what mattered was the pocket of space mystically bound to each glove. One held her rapier; in a fight, she preferred something with more length than a dagger. The other held the book—the chronicle of Harryn Stormblade.

Thorn mentally checked the placement of the dozen professional tools hidden on her person and hid Kalakhesh’s sack inside her traveling bag. Shouldering the bag, she made her way into the hall. A polished marble orb was set on a pedestal at the top of the landing. Thorn placed her palm on the orb and felt a slight breeze blow across her skin. The cleansing stone was an Aundairian innovation. As its energy passed over her, it drove dirt and oil from skin, clothes, and hair. In addition, it dispersed the lingering odor of the slaughterhouse, replacing it with a hint of fresh rain. Thorn didn’t think any of the creatures outside would be looking for her, but it never hurt to be careful. She took a loaf of brown bread from a silver platter in the atrium and walked onto the Roar.

Seven long wagons were spread across the plaza, their interiors hidden beneath canopies of painted cloth. Dozens of gnoll warriors moved around the convoy, and
a knot of gargoyles circled in the sky above the square. Thorn examined the closest soldier—seven to eight feet in height with spotted reddish fur, blunt snout, gleaming green eyes, and strength to rival bugbears. His limbs were long and lanky, and his legs were jointed like those of a dog. Despite the awkward appearance, none of them had any trouble standing or walking upright. The nearest gnoll wore a jerkin of black leather set with iron rivets, and he held a bow taller than Thorn. He glanced at her and grinned. It was difficult to tell if it was meant to be friendly or aggressive.

“People of foreign lands!” The gnoll who had called them out to the Roar shouted. “I will tell you what carriage to ride in. I will hear no argument, and my soldiers will prevent any battles between you. Leave your struggles in this place. I care nothing for your nations, for crimes done to you or your brood. My task is to bring you safely to the Three, and if you must be chained for your safety it will be done.”

Thorn glanced around the plaza at the other delegates. The dwarves from the Mror Holds, with jewels and finery fit to rival the King of Breland. The Aundairians—but which was the wizard, and which the spy? Everyone had fallen silent, waiting for the gnoll to speak.

“Aundair! Brown coach!”

Thorn watched the delegates as they moved. Both the servants had hidden pouches and pockets woven into the lining of their cloaks. One would be carrying the many tools of arcane magic—pinches of sulfur, cat whiskers wrapped in paper, little balls of guano from which to conjure fire. The other would have poisons, weapons, lock picks, and tools … the same things Thorn had hidden on her person.

Unless, of course, they were both sorcerers
and
spies.

“Breland! Blue coach!”

Gray was about as close to blue as anything on the
plaza, so Thorn made her way toward the gray wagon. She spotted two soldiers in the red and gold uniform cloaks of the Brelish Royal Guard, escorting a familiar figure.

“Nyrielle! There you are!” Lord Beren ir’Wynarn beamed as he caught sight of her, and his escorts turned to face her. “Gentlemen, Nyrielle is here as my aide. Nyri, meet Toli and Grenn, the worst layabouts my cousin could find. I’d say the bear was trying to kill me, but I think you and I could take on these brutes ourselves, eh?”

Thorn laughed, but it was Nyrielle who answered. “Normally, I could fight an even dozen, my lord, but I slept poorly last night. You’d be unwise to rely on me today.”

“Then I suppose it falls to me,” Beren grumbled, grinning behind his beard. “Good thing I’m up to the challenge. Did I ever tell you about my victory over the champion of Kalnor Pass?”

“I’ve had the honor of hearing the tale, Lord Beren, but I’ve always heard it said that your royal cousin King Boranel fought that battle.”

Beren waved this aside. “Oh, I let it be spread about that way, yes. Good for morale. But you ask Boranel where the brute’s axe is … and then come to my manor and see what hangs above the hearth.”

Thorn liked Beren, though she doubted that she’d ever be invited to his mansion. A senator and cousin of the king, he’d spent his younger years in battle. Age was beginning to take its toll; streaks of gray snaked through his golden hair, and there were new lines in his face. But he retained strength and pride. He might not be able to fight a dozen gnolls, but he was likely a match for either of his bodyguards.

Thorn guessed that this was how he’d drawn the assignment. The Crag Summit might be an excellent opportunity for espionage, but the diplomatic goals were equally important. Breland needed someone brave enough to sit across the table from a medusa, and someone smart
enough to match wits with Sora Katra herself. Beren might not be a hero of legend, but of all the senators she’d met, he was the best.

Thorn doubted Beren knew everything about her mission—especially this business with the Stormblade statue—but Zane had told her that Beren would give her a free hand. She might be attached to the delegation as his aide, but Lord ir’Wynarn was a capable man. She suspected that he wouldn’t call on her too often over the course of the summit.