Keith Baker - The fading dream

“I will, Your Highness. But please sit. It’s not a simple story, and if you wish to hear what I have learned, you must be patient.” As the others took their seats, Vron walked across the room and placed a hand on the wall.

Light spilled across the black stone. The glowing colors flowed together, swirling around like oil over water. Within moments the glow resolved into the image of a tower in a forest. The trees were dusted with ice and snow, and a harsh wind tugged at the branches. The walls of the tower gleamed in the sunlight. It’s covered with ice, Thorn thought. No, it’s made of ice. She could see the shadows of people moving within the walls, and three shapes rose from the top of the spires: fierce griffons with fur and feathers of pure white, wearing armor that seemed to be carved from ice. Each griffon had a rider, knights in ivory armor carrying bows and lances. The beasts drew closer and closer, and the lead warrior raised her hand, twisting her fingers in the complex patterns of a spell. Suddenly the wall went black.

“We retrieved those images from the woods of western Karrnath,” Vron said. “We’ve never been able to scry on the location for more than a minute. The Karrns discovered the tower three years ago; as far as they know, there was nothing in that forest until that point. The fortress is garrisoned by a group of elves that have no cultural bonds to Aerenal or Valenar.”

“Eladrin.” The voice belonged to a newcomer, a young man standing in the doorway. He was dressed in rough-spun peasant clothes, and what stood out the most was his gear-an assortment of belts and pouches overflowing with tools and sundry goods. His hair was short, sandy, and disheveled, and a slight beard covered his chin. He grinned, as if talking with kings and princes were an everyday occurrence. “They look like elves, but they’re not. They call themselves eladrin.”

“You can speak in a moment,” Vron said. “Until then, let me focus on the critical facts. This forest is in the domain of a Count Jadan Thul, a Karrnathi warlord who served with distinction during the Last War. We know that Thul sent envoys to these strangers and received no response. These eladrin never ventured more than a few miles from the tower and took no overtly hostile action against Thul or his holdings. But they refused to explain their presence or indeed to make any sort of contact with Count Thul.”

Essyn Cadrel raised an eyebrow. “A colorful story but what does it have to do with the Mourning?”

“Indulge me a moment more,” Vron said. “As you might imagine, Count Thul was perturbed by the presence of these strangers in his domain. However, his forces had been seriously depleted in the Last War, and he needed time to rebuild. In Olarune of 998, Thul moved against the citadel of ice. He suffered a stunning defeat. Though few in number, these strangers possess warriors with skill to rival the Valenar and arcane power to match that of Aundair. And yet, since repelling Thul’s attack, they have taken no further action, and they have ignored envoys from Thul, from King Kaius of Karrnath, and our own ambassadors.”

“Get to the point,” Oargev snapped. The prince was on his second goblet of wine, and his hand was shaking slightly.

“I understand your frustration, Your Highness. But everything needs to be in context. You see, the Karrns are not the only people who have encountered these eladrin.” Vron tapped the wall again, and a map of Khorvaire appeared. “As of last week, we’d managed to locate and identify three different eladrin towers, each of which appeared sometime within the last four years. In addition to the ice fortress in Karrnath, there is a tower along the northwest edge of the Khraal jungle of Darguun, and another here, in Zilargo. But in all this time, we’ve never been able to get an agent inside one of these eladrin fortresses. We knew next to nothing about their origins, intentions, or capabilities. Until last week.”

Vron turned to the young man. “This is Marudrix Juran Cannith. Years ago-almost five years, in fact-he stumbled upon one of these mysterious towers. A fortress in Cyre, not far from the old village of Seaside.”

“They call it Shaelas Tiraleth,” the tinker said. “It means ‘the Court of the Silver Tree.’ Because it’s the largest of their cities and there’s this big tree and, well, it’s-”

“The Mourning, Lord Vron,” Oargev snarled. “I’m still waiting for your explanation.”

To Thorn’s surprise, Cadrel spoke calmly. “Patience, Your Highness. I would see where this leads. Lord Vron, you said that this discovery occurred almost five years ago. Was it a date of any special significance?”

Vron smiled. “Indeed it was. The twentieth of Olarune. On that day, young Drix was traveling in Cyre’s southern woods when he encountered a group of eladrin. Believing him to be responsible for the death of their own prince, they pierced his heart with a cursed blade. From what we can tell, this happened at the precise moment that the Mourning began.”

Oargev was on his feet. “I don’t understand. Are you suggesting that my nation was destroyed in an attack against a farmboy?”

“That would be ludicrous, Your Highness.” Vron looked over at Drix, who was fidgeting. “But it seems that they know more than we do about it. Drix?”

The young man took a step forward. He tugged at the buttons of his shirt. “Lord Oargev…”

“Your Highness,” Cadrel corrected quietly.

Drix flushed. “Your Highness,” he said quickly, “I can’t explain to you all the things I’ve seen. I’m a tinker and I’ve got no skill with words. These eladrin… their city… it’s a magical place. A place of wonders-”

Oargev rose to his feet, and his eyes were hard. “Get to the point, boy.”

“They say they can end the Mourning.”

Oargev stepped closer to Drix until he was barely inches away from the tinker. His voice was quiet and steady, colder than Thorn had ever heard it, and his hand was on the jeweled hilt of his dagger. “Is this a joke, Vron? Are you laughing at my people and our pain?”

Drix spoke before the changeling or the king could respond. If he was afraid of the prince, he didn’t show it, but his smile had faded slightly. “They aren’t your people,” he said, his quiet voice carrying across the still room. “And you don’t know their pain.”

That was all it took. Oargev’s dagger was in his hand, the blade gleaming in the light. “How dare you?” he hissed. “You know nothing!”

Thorn took a step forward, intending to interpose herself between the two, but she heard a voice in her mind, Vron’s voice. Hold, Lantern! She froze, but it seemed she was the only one who heard the telepathic order.

“Oargev!” Boranel roared, rising to his feet. Essyn Cadrel knocked his chair aside in his haste to rise. Quick as they were, they weren’t fast enough to interfere.

“I know pain,” Drix said. He grabbed the dagger by the blade, the edge sinking into his flesh as he wrapped his fingers around it. His grip was strong, and he pulled the weapon free from Oargev’s hand. The prince staggered back, his anger turning to surprise.

Thorn made her way quickly to Drix’s side. He was shaking slightly, and she could see blood flowing between his fingers. Whatever could have driven him to do such a thing? His hand was still clenched tightly around the blade; they’d need a healer and quickly. Behind her, Cadrel and Boranel had reached the shocked prince, each taking an arm.

Then Drix opened his hand. There was a strange moment of silence as the blade fell, clattering against the floor. There was blood on his hand but only a trickle, not the fountain Thorn expected to see. The knife had indeed cut to the bone, but the wounds seemed to melt away. There was still blood against the skin, but his maimed hand was whole again.