Keith Baker - Son of Khyber

Lharen pulled free from Thorn’s grip. “There’s no time for this, Nyrielle! Reinforcements will be here soon. It’s the job. Breland has to come first.”

Thorn still wasn’t convinced. “If I came alongside you, if I held the shield…”

“Then we’d both die. There’s no time for this. We need to act now.”

Thorn bit back her words. He was right. They were agents of the King’s Citadel; they’d all sworn to lay down their lives in the service of Breland. But walking into a wall of razors… she took his hand again, gently this time. “This will not be forgotten,” she said.

“I doubt you’ll get the bards singing of it, unless you want to start the war anew,” Lharen said. He was right, of course; none of their work could ever be known beyond the Citadel. Still, he smiled as he held her hand. “You remember. You survive this. That will be enough.”

He pulled free of the others and activated Mayne’s shield. Raising the hood of his cloak and wrapping the garment around his body, he took a deep breath and ran towards the whirling shards.

Rattling thunder filled the room, the sound of shards smashing and shattering against his shield. The fabric of Lharen’s cloak rippled, but its defensive enchantment was holding. Lharen was slowly pushing his way through the storm, and the charm repelled the stones before they could harm him.

He was almost through the barrier when the enchantment broke.

Lharen shuddered as the shards slammed into him. He howled, and he was surrounded in a bloody mist. The sound was a knife in Thorn’s heart. She’d told the truth when she had told Fileon that the scream still haunted her; she’d simply lied about its source.

And then he was through. He collapsed against the pillar, blood seeping through the torn cloak.

Thorn came as close to the barrier as she dared. “Lharen?”

The sorcerer coughed, blood spraying across the core, and Thorn thought he would fall. But he wrapped his fingers around a mithral tube and pulled himself to his full height. “I’ll survive,” he said then coughed again. He fumbled in his satchel and pulled a scroll from its steel case. “Long enough. Now move away.”

Lharen began the ritual as Thorn joined Mayne by the tunnel mouth. Blood dripped onto the parchment as he spoke, but Lharen’s voice never faltered. The words on the scroll burst into iridescent flame, a cold fire that flowed up Lharen’s arm. His voice grew stronger and deeper as the flames surrounded him. The scroll dissolved into ash and silver dust; the blaze flowed up along Lharen’s left arm and was gone.

Lharen dropped to his knees, but a handprint remained where he’d touched the core-a hand of fire, growing brighter with each moment that passed.

“Go,” he said, the pain making his voice tight. He coughed more blood. “My thoughts… hold the power in check. Get clear.”

Thorn nodded. Lharen’s blood was pooling on the floor. And none of them could survive another trip through the whirling wall. She still didn’t want to leave him. “I meant what I said, Lharen. This won’t be forgotten.”

“I know,” he said. “And I know-”

He jerked, choking. Then Thorn saw the crystal embedded in the side of his head, a shard that had pierced his skull. He fell forward into the deadly wall. Thorn spun and shoved Mayne with all her might, pushing him down the corridor.

And the core exploded.

A wave of force lifted Thorn and flung her down the corridor. This wave had teeth. Crystal shards filled the burning wind. Impact with the floor drove the breath from her lungs, and she could feel the dragonshards piercing her flesh, blood running down her back.

A strong hand pulled Thorn to her feet. Mayne. Blood ran from a few wounds, but Thorn had saved Mayne from the worst of it. “Can you stand?” he asked.

Wait, Thorn thought. This isn’t right. This isn’t how it happened. In reality, the force of the explosion had knocked her out. It had been days before she’d woken.

She felt dizzy. She reached out to stabilize herself, pressing her hand against Mayne’s chest.

He screamed. Her hand felt as though it was on fire, and she could feel energy flowing up from her arm. Mayne’s scream faded far too quickly, and he collapsed, dead weight against the ground. For her part, Thorn felt stronger than ever, as if Mayne’s strength had been added to her own. It was a familiar sensation. It had happened once before. In the Great Crag of Droaam, she’d been wounded by a werewolf who had once been her ally. She’d touched him, and he’d fallen, just like this-as if she’d stolen his lifeforce to survive.

“But that’s not what happened here,” she whispered.

“How do you know?” The voice rang out from behind her. A woman’s voice, familiar and full of cruel mirth.

Thorn spun, her dagger in her hand. A mirror stood before her. She was dressed in a gown of black and red silks, the colors of a moonless night and fresh blood. Long boots of red leather covered her legs, and matching gloves ran up her arms; the fingertips had been removed, revealing curving nails painted with black enamel and sharpened into claws.

It’s only a dream, Thorn told herself. She’d passed out when she’d struck the ground, and she’d never seen Mayne again. They’d told her that he succumbed to his own injuries after getting her to safety-that a tiny dragonshard had found its way to his heart. But all that she knew for certain was that she’d passed out at Far Passage, and she’d never seen Mayne again.

“Who are you?” she demanded, dagger at the ready. Dream or no dream, she was ready for a fight. “What do you want?”

Her dark reflection laughed, tossing back her hair. The light caught a stone at the base of her neck, and Thorn felt a piercing pain against her own spine And then she was awake. Lying in her bed in Dragon Towers, the Khyber shard throbbing in her neck. She ran her fingers across the mark surrounding her right eye. It was a forgery-part Citadel magic, part Riedran living tattoo-and it seemed it was good enough to fool Fileon.

But was Fileon the one being fooled? When she had been assigned to the Far Passage, she’d been given her magical ring, told that it would let her see in the deepest shadows. That had been a lie. Thorn pulled the ring from her finger, as she had done many a night before. Her vision was unchanged, every detail revealed in sharp black and white.

Never a gift at all. It was the crone Sora Teraza who had said that-the infamous oracle of Droaam. Never a gift at all, she’d said, handing Thorn her ring. This is not the gift you were given, and what you were given was not a gift.

There was nothing for it. She needed to talk to her partner.

She leaned over and pulled her belt from the bedpost. She drew Steel and laid the blade across her legs.

We are not being observed by magical means. His voice was clear and calm, a deep whisper in her mind.

“Good,” she said. “Let’s talk about the first man I killed.”

Dragon Towers Lharvion 16, 999 YK

You’ll have to be more specific. Steel’s psionic voice was calm, betraying no hint of emotion. The first man you killed on this assignment? Since we became partners? In your life?

“Why was I chosen for this mission, Steel?”

House Cannith and the Twelve are concerned about the apparent growth of House Tarkanan in recent years. Specifically, they believe that a new leader within the house poses a threat to their operations. Cannith barons approached the Citadel, which agreed to investigate the matter both as a favor to House Cannith and as a matter of Brelish security… and to eliminate the threat if it exists.

“I know all that,” Thorn said, slightly annoyed. The dagger’s psychic voice had a condescending tone that often got on her nerves. “But why was I chosen for this assignment?”