Keith Baker - The Queen of stone

Sheshka's death is an acceptable loss, provided Breland can't be blamed for it. Those were Steel's words back in Graywall. Thorn fought the urge to draw Steel; she was dying to know what wards were shielding Sheshka. But guards stood everywhere in the banquet hall, and drawing a dagger near one of the leading lights of the nation didn't seem like the right move at a diplomatic gathering. She held her position behind Sheshka, listening to the conversation.

"… that we can settle this between ourselves during this gathering," the medusa said. "If not, you would be welcome in Cazhaak Draal."

"A generous offer." Beren raised an eyebrow. "But what would your Sovereigns say about it?"

"The Daughters of Sora Kell have done much for the people of Droaam." The medusa had a musical voice with a pronounced sibilance; her syllables flowed together in a hypnotic song. "They have shown savages the value of civilization, and taught petty tyrants that there is more to life than dominating a wretched pack of goblin slaves. But my people have never been savages or slavers. I am a queen in my own right, Lord Beren, and I held the granite throne centuries before the Daughters came to us. Droaam is stronger today than it was at the start of your Last War. But I am the Queen of Stone, and I will choose the path of my people."

Interesting, Thorn thought. She'd missed the start of the conversation, but nonetheless… back at the Duurwood, Zaeurl's children told the gnolls that there were warlords whose interests clashed with those of the Daughters. Sheshka's name had been mentioned. Could the medusa have been connected to the attack on the bridge? Suddenly, the idea of her death being an acceptable loss seemed more appealing.

"I'll bear that in mind, Queen Sheshka. Let us speak on it tomorrow-"

Beren noticed Thorn as he was talking. His expression barely shifted; she detected the slightest acknowledgement, the merest shift in his eyes. But Sheshka noticed. Her serpents hissed softly as she turned to face the newcomer. She wore no hood or veil-nothing to cover her deadly gaze-and although Thorn knew that Beren was still healthy, she instinctively glanced away. Never look at a medusa. Everyone knew that.

"Noble Sheshka," Beren said, "This is my aide, Nyrielle Tam."

"Charming," Sheshka said. If a serpent could sing, it would hope for such a voice. "Young. Look at me, child. Let me see your eyes."

I don't think Beren is worried that I'll be petrified, Thorn thought. She raised her head to face the medusa queen.

Sheshka's eyes were closed. The serpents were coiled around her face, staring at Thorn. Can she see through their eyes?

"Yes," she said, "charming. Now I suppose we should take our places; it's unwise to anger Sora Katra. We'll speak tomorrow, Lord Beren."

"My thanks for your time," Beren said. "I hope that the interests of Breland and Cazhaak Draal lie on the same path."

"Hope is a fine thing," Sheshka said. "We will learn the truth of it tomorrow." The medusa turned and walked away. A path opened before her; even the monsters of Droaam respected the queen's deadly gaze.

"Fascinating," Beren said, moving to join Thorn. Nearby, Toli was watching the crowd. She didn't envy the bodyguard. It would be challenge enough to watch for weapons in such a crowd, but half the guests had claws, fearsome teeth, or magical powers. Any of them could become a threat at a moment's notice.

"What was that about?"

"Queen Sheshka wishes to speak privately, tomorrow afternoon," Beren said. He held out his arm and she accepted it. "She was maddeningly vague about the subject, but it seemed that she was suggesting an alliance between Breland and her people, even if we fail to come to an agreement with Droaam as a whole. I'm not sure whether to be grateful that the powers of Droaam aren't completely united behind the Daughters, or worried about getting drawn into some sectarian conflict."

An envelope lay next to each place setting, labeled with a name. This was as formal as a royal gala in Wroat. They found their places at a long table.

"Let's see," Beren said. "Here I am… Toli, on my left, good. It looks like they have already accounted for Grenn's death." He sighed, and Thorn remembered that he'd hand-picked the guard. "Nyri, this looks like a mistake. They've put a 'Thorn' on my right. I don't see you at the table at all."

Thorn felt a chill as she looked at the envelope. It was her code name as a Dark Lantern. Who'd written this? Was it a warning? She couldn't help but wonder what name was listed on Drego's envelope.

"I'd rather not be separated, Lord Beren. Why don't I sit here-if this 'Thorn' shows up, we'll worry about it then."

Beren nodded. "Yes, a fine thought. 'Thorn'… considering where we are, I wouldn't be surprised if he's some sort of spiny ogre, and Arawai knows that's the last thing I need at my shoulder."

Thorn forced a smile and took her seat at the table.

"Well met!" the hobgoblin ambassador struck the table with a fist. "I am Munta the Gray, lord of the Gantii Vus, and-in this place-voice of Haruuc of the Crimson Blade! Who are my companions this evening?"

The Brelish weren't alone at their table. In the wagons, they'd been paired with the Thranes; tonight they'd been seated with the delegates from Darguun and the gnomes of Zilargo. Munta the Gray had surely been a fierce warrior in his youth, but now he was an old man. What must have been considerable muscle was running to fat. He was dressed for war, as befit the reputation of his people; curling horns adorned a steel helm chased with brass, and a light breastplate carried the sigil of a fanged maw wreathed in flames.

"I am Councilor Jolira Jan Dorian of Korranberg." Jolira was young, for a gnome-or so she appeared. The people of Zilargo had a talent for illusions, and there was no telling if the envoy was showing her true face. She was even smaller than a goblin, and more delicate. In many ways she seemed like a beautiful doll, a miniature dressed in lovely robes and decked with jewels. She wore no armor and carried no sword, but her hair was held back with long pins, and Thorn was certain these were charged with magical power. "My companions are Councilor Alidan Lorridan Lyrris of Trolanport and Councilor Mordan Sel Sarin of Zalanberg, together representing the Triumvirate of Zilargo. Ember is our guardian."

This was another surprise. Most nations had sent a single ambassador accompanied by guards or perhaps an aide, but the gnomes had three envoys and a single defender-a warforged. Built by House Cannith during the Last War, the warforged were wood and steel constructs given life through magic. Ember was an impressive figure; he reminded Thorn of a scarecrow, lean and deadly, limbs and torso cast of blackened adamantine. A glyph was carved into his metal forehead, and both this sigil and the eyes of the warforged burned with a fierce crimson light.

Beren made the introductions for the Brelish. That left one more stranger at the table-the man sitting next to Thorn. As disturbed as she'd been by the place card indicating her secret name, her dinner companion proved a worthy distraction. No chair waited at his place, merely a massive bearskin spread out across the floor. His tankard was the size of a barrel, and his crystal plate as wide as a wagon's wheel. The oversized setting was novelty enough, but then the guest arrived.

He was a giant.

No mere ogre, but a true giant… a creature Thorn had only heard of in the tales explorers brought back from Xen'drik. As Thorn had seen, the ogres-and even the oni-were quite bestial in appearance; no one could mistake them for humans. The newcomer had no such fearsome demeanor-no fangs, no claws, no horns on his forehead. His skin was jet black, his hair the brilliant red of a bonfire, and he was extremely muscular. Setting aside the color of his skin, at a great distance he could easily have been mistaken for a dwarf of the Mror Holds, a proud miner baron. Up close, it was obvious that he was over three times the height of a man, and that he could crush Thorn's head between his thumb and forefinger. Even sitting on the floor, he towered over the table.