Keith Baker - The fading dream

“They aren’t my people,” Cadrel said. “They might have been once, but now they are creatures of the Mournland. Who can explain the madness this place might bring?”

“I can see how spending too much time here might drive you mad,” Thorn said, glancing at Drix. The tinker was whistling cheerfully, ignoring the conversation. “But that doesn’t explain the breacher. Or how Dal survived the first attack. Or how he got to Seaside before us. You anticipated the attack on the prince. So you must have known something.”

“I told you. Angry words, the presence of the Fifth Crown… it was a danger, nothing more. I didn’t even realize that the Covenant of the Gray Mist was involved.”

It’s possible he’s telling the truth, Steel whispered. But it seems unlikely. He’s supposed to be Oargev’s eyes and ears.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Thorn said, addressing Steel and Cadrel at the same time. “When was the last time you had a report from the Covenant?”

“To be honest-”

“Are you sure this is the right time for that?” Thorn said.

Cadrel sighed. “My dear, we may be allies this month, but we both know that there can only be one king of Galifar, and if you’re being honest with yourself, you know who that should be. You serve your king. I serve mine.”

“Does there really have to be a king of Galifar?” Drix yelled back.

“Yes,” Thorn told him. “We fought a war about it. Perhaps you remember.”

“Oh. That’s what we were fighting about? Are you sure?”

Thorn sighed. “Master Cadrel, I believe you were about to be honest with me, which would be a refreshing change. When was the last time you had a report from the Covenant?”

“They never reported to me,” Cadrel said. “The Covenant was handpicked by the prince and reported to him directly. I remember when Cazalan Dal was chosen, and I remember seeing him at New Cyre once or twice. But they always found their way to the prince without me; I heard their news from him.”

“Why would they avoid you?”

“I don’t think they were avoiding me as such,” Cadrel said. “You saw the situation in New Cyre. Today I may be Oargev’s closest confidant. But he’s had quite a few favorites over the years, some more trustworthy than others. I think the agents of the Covenant consider themselves to be the direct servants of the Cyran crown and consider any intermediary to be beneath their notice.”

“Servants who now see fit to destroy that crown.”

“Which brings us back to madness.”

“I think it’s going to rain,” Drix called back. A faint roll of thunder followed his words.

“They’re well organized for madmen,” Thorn told Cadrel. “And I’d like to find out how they knew we’d make landfall at Seaside when we never planned on it. I hope you’re being honest with me, Cadrel.”

Cadrel spread his hands. “I am as transparent as glass, my dear.”

“Perhaps you weren’t listening,” Drix said again. “Rain.”

Something in his tone gave Thorn pause. “You’re wearing a cloak, Drix.”

“Yes, but it’s-oh. You don’t know.”

Cadrel heard the fear. “What is it, lad?”

“The rain… it’s dangerous.”

“I don’t understand,” Cadrel said. “It burns? How bad is it?”

“You know in Seaside? The way the clothes were left behind, but no bodies?”

“What about it?” Thorn was afraid she already knew the answer.

“That’s because it rained. The cloak will be fine. But if it gets too wet, well…”

Dolurrh. Literally. “We need shelter. How much time do we have?”

Drix looked at the sky. All Thorn could see was the swirling, gray mist; she had no idea how he was predicting the weather. Perhaps it was just something he felt, like the emotional currents in the mist itself. “Three minutes. Maybe four.”

There was no time for a clever response and no shelter to be found. The ground around them was gray and barren; perhaps the deadly rain wiped out all life. Whatever the truth, there wasn’t so much as a tree trunk to be seen.

“You’ve been here before,” Thorn said. “You survived it then. What did you do the last time?”

“I climbed in a hole,” Drix said.

“We don’t have time to dig now.”

“I know,” Drix said. “And I’m not sure it’s big enough for all of us.”

The thunder came again, louder. Cadrel looked up at the sky. “Perhaps we could make a sort of tent of our cloaks…”

Ask him about the hole, Steel said. Quickly. Ask him how big it is.

Brilliant, Thorn thought. But she repeated the question.

“We might all fit,” Drix said. “I just don’t know about the air. We’d have to leave it open a bit. More than I’d like. It might drip in, and that’s no good.”

“What do you mean?” Thorn said. The thunder rolled again. There was no time for guessing games. “Just… show us the hole!”

Drix laid his cloak down across the ground. He stuck a few stakes into the hem, securing it against the ground.

“That’s what I was thinking,” Cadrel said. “But if this… rain… soaks through the cloth, it will kill us, yes?”

“I don’t know if it kills,” Drix said. “But we’d certainly go away. That’s why I’ve got the hole.” Reaching into one of his many pouches, he took out a piece of soft, black cloth. He unfolded it, spreading it out across the ground.

Wonderful, Thorn thought. He is mad. If we’re lucky, that means he’s wrong about the rain too.

Drix continued to spread the black cloth across the soil. It was a broad circle, about three feet across. He looked up and smiled. “Do you want to go first, Thorn?”

“Go wh-?” The question died in her throat. Drix’s hand was resting on the black circle-no, in the black circle. As if it were resting on the rim of a giant hole.

It’s an extradimensional pocket, Steel said. Like your gloves and your pouch, but with a far larger opening. It’s an amazing design; I’ve never seen one that could be folded that way.

“It was a gift,” Drix said. “But you’d better get in quickly. We’re running out of time.”

Thorn slid beneath the makeshift tarp and pushed her foot into the portable hole. There was nothing there, just open space. She could feel a change in the temperature; it was pleasantly warm in the hole. Gingerly she dropped down along the edge. The space inside was wider than the mouth. She stood in a small, spherical chamber, perhaps six feet across.

A moment later, Essyn Cadrel dropped down after her. “Remarkable,” he said.

Drix followed. Reaching up, he grasped the edges of the hole, and to Thorn’s surprise, he pulled them together.

He’s folding the cloth, she realized. I wonder what happens if someone else picks it up?

“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.