Keith Baker - The Queen of stone

"We have other things to discuss. What did you make of that meeting?"

Drego released her hand, a pained expression on his face. "Very well, my lady, very well. To the matter at hand."

"Droaam is a young nation. The Daughters of Sora Kell arrived less than twenty years ago. Before that…"

"Chaos," Drego said. "My people know more of it than most. Crusaders of the faith would often venture into the savage lands of the west, dedicating their lives to destroying all the evil that they could until they themselves fell in battle. Few returned, but some journals have been recovered."

"And what qualifies as 'evil' in this tale?"

"Any monster that would threaten the settlers to the east… people of Breland, I'd like to point out. So my ancestors gave their lives to protect yours. If not for my great-greatgrandfather, you might never have been born."

Thorn refrained from pointing out that her mother wasn't even from Khorvaire. "So we're practically brother and sister."

Drego placed his hand over hers, and his smile wasn't exactly fraternal. "I wouldn't go that far. But in those days, there was no semblance of a nation. Ogres, trolls, giants-the stronger creatures enslaved the weak. When Galifar collapsed into war, the beasts of Droaam became more aggressive, but their attacks were still random, uncoordinated."

"And then the Daughters of Sora Kell arrived."

"Yes. Force is the only language these warlords understand, and thirteen years ago, the hags appeared with an army of trolls and other creatures. I don't know about you, but we've never been able to determine how they gathered such a powerful force in secret. Within a year, their opponents were either dead or sworn vassals. And here we are today."

"Sworn vassals are only as good as the oaths binding them," Thorn said. "From what I've heard, some in this land are glad to serve the Daughters. The gnolls are supposed to be a loyal bunch. But fear is the mortar that holds Droaam together, and if you're a tyrannical giant, it may hurt to bend your knee to some tiny crone."

"Which brings us to tonight's encounter. Did you recognize the name Callain?"

It meant nothing to Thorn, but Steel whispered in her ear, and she repeated the words aloud. "Callain of the Final Word. Leader of a flight of harpies accused of multiple counts of banditry."

"The Wind Howlers."

"Yes," Thorn said. "I believe so."

"So it seems that we're bait," Drego said. "The Daughters invite delegates to the Great Crag, ostensibly to negotiate full recognition as a sovereign nation. Death of a delegate at the hands of monsters would be an embarrassment at best-at worst, a cause for war. If any of these warlords wants to challenge the Daughters, all they need to do is kill the delegates. Small wonder your gnoll friend isn't promising to keep the rest of us alive. I imagine they'll have their paws full as it is."

"There's more to it," Thorn said. "That elf… he said that Callain couldn't resist the opportunity because of the 'approaching storm.' What did he mean? And what did Ghyrryn say that made those hunters so angry?"

"That was odd," Drego said. "The worg warned the gnoll leader about speaking to 'the blessed.' Then our friend said… what's the best way to put this?" He closed his eyes for a moment, running his fingers along the back of Thorn's hands as he considered it. "Less blessed by the day. Less? Or… a blessing more common? It's not an easy translation."

Thorn mulled things over. "So the Daughters don't trust their vassals, and they're probably using us to draw out traitors. All this against the backdrop of a coming storm and a fading blessing." Her eyes widened. "Could they be talking about House Tharashk?"

Drego frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Think about it. Those people in black were trackers. One was a half-orc. We know House Tharashk has dealings with Droaam, and the half-orcs of House Tharashk carry the Dragonmark of Finding-the perfect tool for a bounty hunter, and the pillar of their house. What if that 'blessing'-their dragonmark-is fading away?"

"That seems far-fetched. One of the hunters was an elf, but that doesn't mean Aerenal is involved."

"You're right." Thorn sighed. "And I've never heard of Tharashk having a great love of wolves. Blessings and wolves… no clever ideas?"

"I'm afraid not," Drego replied. But Thorn saw a flicker in his eyes-a moment of doubt.

"What?"

"It's nothing," he said.

"Don't hold back on me now," she said. "There's still time for me to return that wedding dress."

"No," he said. "Really, it's nothing. I don't know what this is about. But it sounds like something may be afoot in the Crag that concerns both our nations after all. I suggest we get some rest. Perhaps the sun will shed new light on this."

"You're wise beyond your years," Thorn said. "Until the morning, then." She began to stand, then paused. Drego was still holding her hand.

"I said that we should get some rest," he said, a slight smile on his lips.

"I see," Thorn said. "And would you like to come to my pavilion? I'm sure my friend Toli would be happy to see you."

"With you at my side, I would need no tent but the sky, no blanket but the grass," he said. She looked down at him. He was a handsome man, with cheekbones a kalashtar would envy, and piercing eyes. Even after their adventure in the woods, his skin was flawless, his hair perfect. She considered Steel's words… he's attracted to you, and we can use that.

"Not tonight, Flamebearer Sarhain," she said, pulling her hand free. She smiled at him. "You'll have to convert me first."

He slid down to the ground, placing his hand over his heart and giving a heavy sigh. Thorn turned her back on him and walked toward the Brelish pavilion.

The Duurwood Camp Droaam Eyre 13, 998 YK

The brilliant light of the moons made it difficult to sleep. Thorn remembered seeing four full moons in the sky when she was a child, marveling at the multihued light they cast across the land. The moons waxed and waned at different rates, and now Dravago and Nymm were growing wider and brighter. Within a few nights, six of the twelve moons would be full.

While Thorn had little interest in history and the academic significance of such events, the topic had come up on the long wagon ride. Drego explained that over two centuries had passed since the last such spectacle. It was a natural wonder, but for Thorn it was simply annoying. She was a restless sleeper at the best of times, and the shimmering light was too much. She pulled her blanket up over her head. It was scratchy and hot, but anything was better than the glare.

The darkness was a blessing, but Thorn's thoughts were troubled. The campfire spat and crackled, and the sounds mingled with images of the battle with the harpies-the crushed corpses at the bottom of the gorge and the smell of blood. Thorn tried to push the thoughts away, but the charnel stench grew stronger with each moment. She heard moans, sobs, and distant cries of pain. She was certain it was all in her imagination; it was too distant, too faint, and she'd heard no sounds of battle.

Then she heard the sound of a steel blade shifting in a mailed fist, the rasping noise of armor plates brushing against one another. A soldier in full plate mail, and only a few steps away from her. Thorn threw aside the blanket and rose to her feet, reaching for Steel.

But Steel wasn't at her side. And she wasn't in the camp anymore. Wagons, tents, even the others who had been sleeping around her-were nowhere to be seen. She couldn't even say if it was still night, because the sky was filled with thick clouds of smoke, reflecting the light from fires burning across the land before her.

She saw that she was dressed in a gown of red and black glamerweave, better suited to the ballroom than the battlefield. Illusions had been woven into the cloth, giving the red pigments the liquid intensity of fresh blood. Red leather covered her arms and legs: thigh-high boots stretched up beneath her skirts, and gloves rose past her elbows. The fingertips of the gloves were open, revealing long, curved nails painted with black enamel. The only familiar aspect of the scene was the pain at the base of her skull; the upper gem was throbbing against her flesh.