Keith Baker - The fading dream

The glowing lines of the seal had risen up from the floor, and they formed a cage of light around the eladrin and Drix. As they sang, the lines twisted and shifted. For a flash, Thorn saw a crescent-the moon-and-eye symbol of Shan Doresh. The shimmering symbols spread out and realigned and pulled back in to form a labyrinthine pattern. The song sped up as the lines shifted, focusing on a single section of the maze, pulling in, closer, closer…

The song became a scream. The white-silver lines of light turned blood red, and for an instant Thorn saw a monstrous shape outlined in the glow: a face-just a face-but the eyes were blazing pools, the mouth a hungry pit of flame. Around Thorn, the eladrin were screaming, and those howls of pain and fear were still forming a horrifying song.

Thorn couldn’t reach Drix. Whatever that thing was, it was completely surrounding him. But she seized Tira and pulled. The eladrin was rigid, and some force held her in place. Cursing, Thorn called on the dragon’s strength, feeling the familiar anger and might. Whatever power was binding Tira, it was no match for the dragon. She staggered back from the circle and collapsed, dead weight in Thorn’s arms.

And with that, silence and darkness fell over the room. The snarling horror vanished; the eladrin fell to the ground; and the light slowly faded from Drix’s heart, down to the faint pulse that was always there.

It took an hour for the eladrin to recover, and none of them were pleased. Tira had called them back to the room with the silver table and served wines and cordials. The lords and ladies drank deeply, and though no one spoke, Thorn could tell the tension was building with each moment.

Tira leaned against the table. Her eyes were dim, her breath ragged. “We can do no more. Were we to try again, that horror might manifest itself fully. And yet it was not a completely wasted effort.”

“But we didn’t see anything,” Thorn said.

Tira raised her head. “Details, no. I saw the wider picture. I saw enough. Taer Doresh has returned to its first ground, the land it held in the time of my grandfather.” She gestured at the wall, and a map of Khorvaire took shape across the surface. “There, in the northeastern woods.”

“The wilds of the Lhazaar Principalities,” Thorn said, studying the map. “Far from anything. Can you teleport there?”

Tira shook her head. “Only a few among us possess the power to travel such distances, and we could not take others with us. And you heard the prisoner. Doresh is expecting us. He will have wards to keep us from slipping between worlds. All we would do is alert him to our presence.”

Those words were enough to break the spell of silence that had gripped the ghaele. “Perhaps we cannot defeat him in time,” Syraen said, his voice filled with cold frustration. “We can defeat him nonetheless. Let us assemble our forces. If we are to fade from this world, let us go in battle.”

The gnome-lord of Pylas Pyrial shook his head. “Your people are warriors, Winter. Mine are poets. I will not send them to die. If our spire falls, better that they find new homes among the people of this world. We may never return to Thelanis. But we do not have to fall.”

“What if we go?” Drix said.

“I agree with Pyrial,” the Rose Queen said. “I would still see how the bough survives without the trunk.”

“What makes you think they will let you be?” Joridal said. “How did the goblins find us so quickly? What stirs the Karrns to aggression? Perhaps you will survive the fall of the Tree. But if these dreamers want their vengeance, they will come for you, and they have the stone of your spire.”

“What if we go?” Drix said.

“Joridal is right,” Syraen said. “We have been attacked. We must strike back while we can, or we give our foes the chance to strike again. We will not live in fear.”

While they were talking, Drix took a piece of parchment out of one of his pouches. He rolled it up, creating a cone. He drew a few symbols on the parchment then took a deep breath and held it up to his mouth. When he spoke, his voice was as loud as thunder.

“What if we go?”

The ghaele fell silent and looked at him.

“He’ll sense your presence,” Drix said, “because you’re creatures like him. But what if Thorn and I go? What if we get the stones for you?”

All eyes turned to Thorn.

“You swore to serve us in this matter,” Tira said. “With the questions and where they lead. And I still hold the truth of you. What say you?”

That I’d like a simple job fighting ogres and werewolves, she thought. And yet… What really happened in this place, beloved? She heard Drego’s voice in her mind and wondered what Tira might be able to tell her.

“It doesn’t matter. We’d never get there in time. Even with an airship.”

“I wasn’t thinking of an airship,” Drix said. “There’s an Orien enclave in Ascalin, abandoned since the Mourning.” He rubbed a hand over his heart. “I think… I think I could get the teleportation circle working. Take us to the closest circle. There’s got to be one nearby, somewhere in the Principalities.”

Thorn looked at the map. “And then we charter an airship, or a Vadalis bird. It’s possible. But how would you get an Orien circle to work for you?”

“Trust me. I can do it.”

Thorn looked at the eladrin. “Ascalin is still too far away if we’re traveling by foot. We could try this. But you’ll need to get us to Ascalin and quickly.”

“It is done,” Syraen replied. “My retinue came on hippogriffs. If you speak of the ruins of the north, my soldiers can take you there. It would be hours, no more.”

“Then let’s get ready,” she said.

Drix hugged her then. Her first instinct was to push him away, her Citadel defense training flashing to the fore. She pushed it down and hugged him back.

“We can do this,” he said. “Together. We can save the world.”

“Recover the shards, no more,” Tira said. “You cannot conceive of the power Shan Doresh has at his disposal.”

Syraen nodded. “Save the Tree. Bring us the stones. If there is war to be fought, we shall fight it.”

“I’m not arguing that,” Thorn said. “Just give me my equipment and show us to the hippogriffs. Let’s take the battle to the dreaming citadel.”

The Ruins of Ascalin The Mournland B arrakas 25, 999 YK

Where’s a griffon when you need one?” Thorn muttered. It was the first time she’d ridden a hippogriff, and it was proving to be a difficult experience. The beast balked at the unfamiliar sensation of Thorn on its back. Luckily the beast had been trained to follow the movements of the flight leader, and rough as it was, all Thorn really had to do was hold on. And with Drix on his own hippogriff and the flight leader well out of earshot, she finally had the chance to have the conversation she’d been waiting for.

She drew Steel, holding tightly to the stirrup horn with her free hand. “I think we’ve got a few things to talk about.”

What did you have in mind?

“I still think this idea that the Mourning was caused by stabbing Drix is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

I’ve never disagreed with that. However, it may very well be the source of the malady affecting the Silver Tree itself. The levels of necrotic energy around the Tree were far higher than anywhere else we’ve been in the Mournland. As deadly as the region is, there is a sickness in that place. Curses are real. Even if they are deluded to think that they destroyed Cyre, they may well have sealed their own fate.

“In which case, saving them and leaving them in Breland’s debt may be the best outcome.”