Keith Baker - Son of Khyber

The nature of the mission precluded the use of any local Sharn Lanterns. You were available. You’re proficient in the operation of Riedran tattoos, something required by this assignment.

“That’s all?”

Need there be more?

“I don’t know,” Thorn said. She ran a finger across her false mark. “Yesterday, Fileon asked me to tell him about the first time I killed someone with my aberrant dragonmark.”

And your answer appeared to satisfy him. Of course, the mark you’ve been given doesn’t actually kill. However, given the diversity seen in aberrant marks, this shouldn’t be a concern. The worst outcome I can imagine is that he will believe that you’re holding back.

“Am I?”

No. The tattoo allows you to cause debilitating pain but would only kill someone who is in a severely weakened condition.

“I’m not talking about the tattoo.” Thorn held the dagger before her, studying the unreflective black steel of the blade.

What then?

“Toli. Perhaps you remember him? Tall, King’s Shield, a little hairy in the end… and dead because I touched him.”

Your point, Lantern Thorn?

“Do I have an aberrant dragonmark?”

Don’t be ridiculous. Surely you remember when this mark was applied. And it does not kill.

“But I do, it seems.”

Toli died under mysterious circumstances. Perhaps it was a side effect of the curse that transformed and controlled him. Even if you were somehow responsible, you have no mark of your own-and if you have no mark, it logically follows that you have no dragonmark.

“And are you so certain that I don’t have a mark? What if it’s hidden beneath my hair? What if it’s invisible?” She touched the dragonshard embedded at the base of her neck. “What about this? Could there be power within it?”

No, Steel said. One of my primary functions is the analysis and identification of magical auras. If there were any power in those stones, I would know.

Thorn said nothing. Steel knew as well as she did that auras could be hidden. And beyond that… Steel was the closest thing she had to a partner. But ever since Droaam, she sometimes wondered whether she could trust him. She knew that his first loyalty was to the Citadel. He’d withheld information from her before, sharing the details of a mission when he deemed it necessary. And he’d told her that her enhanced senses came from her ring-something she knew to be a lie. Was it an honest mistake? Or was he keeping secrets from her?

If you slept poorly, you have my sympathies, Steel said. But I suggest you set your concerns aside and focus on the mission at hand. Your observations show that Tarkanan has relocated its primary base of operations. You must earn their trust and make your way into the inner circle-and determine the identity and plans of their new leader.

“The Son of Khyber,” Thorn murmured.

Yes. And at the moment we know little save that name. It falls to you to learn his true name and nature. And as such, I suggest you prepare for the coming dawn.

He was right. She surely had a hard day ahead of her. “Fileon said that the mark might cause madness,” she said. “Perhaps I can use that.”

It would explain your strange habit of talking to your dagger.

“Madness.” Thorn smiled as she returned Steel to his sheath, but her suspicions lingered.

Thorn met her second Tarkanan at breakfast, and he came as a surprise. Dreck was a warforged, one of the construct soldiers produced by House Cannith. But he was no warrior. His metal body was tall and lean, with long arms and an assortment of rings on his delicate fingers. But what caught her eye when she met him was the acid-green mark traced across the side of his face, gleaming brighter than the torchlight. It appeared to be an aberrant dragonmark-something that surprised her and Steel alike. The warforged were artificial beings, with alchemical fluid instead of blood, and Thorn had never heard of a warforged manifesting any sort of dragonmark. The warforged set a plate of sausages on the table.

“You seem troubled, Sister Thorn.” Fileon handed Thorn a warm biscuit.

Breakfast was a simple meal, but after her days on the street, anything warm and fresh was a blessing. Fileon’s eyes were cold and appraising. Hardly surprising. Her cover story was sound enough and explained her skills and equipment, but revealing her background as a Lantern was a calculated risk.

“I don’t know if I belong here. I want to learn to control this curse. But I’ve heard of House Tarkanan. You’re thieves and assassins. Killers for hire.”

“And there is no blood on your hands?” A hint of a smile played across Fileon’s withered lips. “The dwarf you killed yesterday-that was for Breland, was it?”

“I was defending myself.”

“As are we. You are a citizen of a new nation, and you wear our flag on your face. And make no mistake, we are at war. The dragonmarked houses have long fueled the fires of public fear. How have you been treated since your mark appeared? What do you see when people look you in the eye, when they see the lines across your face?”

Thorn met his gaze. “No one paid me to kill that man.”

“A thousand pardons, beloved.” Dreck said, his voice deep and musical. His choice of words was strange, yet somehow seemed natural from him. Thorn wondered if he’d been designed to be a bard, or simply a living instrument. “I wonder what path you have walked. In your prior service, did you take payment from the crown? What do you truly know of those whose blood you’ve spilled? Are you so certain that your deeds served the people of Breland, and not simply the whims of king and courtiers?”

“You know nothing about what I’ve done,” Thorn snarled, rising from her seat.

Fileon’s voice was cold. “You are correct, of course. We know nothing of your life. But tell me: Do you know the origins of our house, Sister Thorn? Not the War of the Mark. Not the Tarkanan name. Just the house of thieves and killers. Do you know how we began?”

Thorn shook her head.

“You are younger than I, but old enough to remember the last decade of the war. In the north, the floating fortress of Chydris fell at the battle of Cairn Hill. To the west, the Daughters of Sora Kell emerged from the darkness to proclaim their kingdom of monsters. To the east, the loyalty of the goblins was called into question. King Boranel and his ministers were desperate to find new sources of power-forces that could be rallied within the borders of Breland.”

Thorn sat down. The last time she had seen her father, he’d been posted to Sterngate, to guard against goblin treachery. “I remember.”

Fileon took a bite of sausage, chewing for a moment. “One of Breland’s greatest resources was the King’s Citadel. The Dark Lanterns provided invaluable intelligence throughout the war. And we both know that there are silent killers among the Lanterns-though surely, assassination has always been a practice of last resort.”

“Make your point.”

“In 989, the Citadel forged a new unit. A squad of elite assassins. There were others who’d received the same training, who had the same equipment, but these killers had an edge that had never been brought to bear.”

“Aberrant dragonmarks,” Thorn said.

“Yes. Before that, aberrants were treated much as they were anywhere else. Even those who wished to serve the nation were often driven into lives of crime or forced to hide their marks. And in truth, there were few aberrant marks of great power then-few who could kill with a touch. It was with my generation that the strength spoken in legends was seen again. The ministers of the Citadel sought to harness this force. And so we finally had the chance to work together, to unlock the full potential of our powers.”