The Queen of Stone: Thorn of Breland (16 page)

“Propaganda,” hissed the warlord. “Your leaders were only interested in spreading the influence of the Church throughout Aundair. You gave the people something to fear, and then you saved them from a force that was never a threat.”

“I cannot claim to know the heart of the Keeper of the Flame,” Luala said. “I cannot know if his motives were pure. But I know that it was a time of horrors. The wolf’s curse has always been feared, and rightly so. It transforms its victims in mind as well as body. One of my childhood friends tore out the throats of his wife and children after succumbing to the touch of the Rat, before we knew what it truly was.

“Back then, in the midst of the eighth century, whatever power it held was magnified a hundredfold. Even in Thrane, we heard the tales. Wolves that walked like men, slaughtering entire villages. A single bite was enough to turn a man into a monster. If the soldiers of the Silver Flame hadn’t responded, the curse would have swept across Aundair and Breland, and then it would have been unstoppable.

“There were casualties, yes. It was a war, and the
infected cared nothing for the lives of others. They did everything possible to mislead our soldiers, to trick them into spilling innocent blood. The tide only turned when the power of the curse itself faded—when it became more difficult for the infected to pass on their affliction. But by then, the people of Aundair were hungry for revenge. And that’s when they began to turn on each other, torturing and burning their own in the name of destroying every last shapeshifter.”

“I’ve read the records,” Drego said. “It’s a blot on the soul of the church. But it was the madness of war. You can’t judge the Silver Flame on the actions of zealots who embraced the faith in search of vengeance.”

“Don’t tell me what I can do,” Zaeurl said. “My people were driven from our homeland, burned out of the woods that had sheltered us for generations. My father was butchered before my eyes, and it was the Mockery’s luck that allowed me to escape.”

“So why didn’t you return?” Drego said. “The madness ended long before I was born. The zealots of the Pure Flame are still strong in Aundair, but you’d never see such things happen today.”

“I have neither forgiven nor forgotten what was done to me and mine.” Zaeurl’s eyes burned, and Drego took a step back; though she held no weapons, the woman felt dangerous. “My family was slaughtered by your kind. And you say it’s over? You’ve spent the last century killing one another. How many years do you think it will be before you start again?” She drew back her lips, and Thorn was certain she heard a growl. “This is a dangerous place I have chosen as my lair, but it is an honest one. My children are treated with the respect they deserve … and if they aren’t, blood is shed. If I ever return to your so-called civilized world, it will be to take vengeance of my own. Perhaps I’ll see you there, minister.”

Zaeurl kept her eyes fixed on Luala’s as she took a step
back, and there was death in that gaze. Then she turned and strode into the crowd. Thorn found that she’d been holding her breath, and she slowly released it.

“Well,” Drego said, after a moment of silence. “I’m glad to see that we’re making such good friends so quickly. Are they actually going to
serve
this food? Personally, I’m famished.”

Drego’s comment turned out to be prescient. Moments later, Drul Kantar’s voice rang out across the hall, amplified by magic.

“Lords and ladies! Honored delegates of the eastern lands! Our feast will now begin, and the great lady Sora Katra will soon arrive to address you all. You have been assigned to tables—I ask that you find your seats at this time.”

Thorn inclined her head to Minister Luala and flashed a smile at Drego. “I must rejoin my lord. Minister, I thank you for your kind wishes, and apologize if my response was unduly harsh. I look forward to speaking with you and Flamebearer Sarhain in the days to come.”

Luala nodded, but her eyes were clouded. The encounter with Warlord Zaeurl was weighing heavily upon her. Drego grinned. “I trust our paths will cross sooner rather than later, my lady.”

Thorn made her way through the crowd, pushing past ogre and goblin alike. An armored warrior turned toward her as she approached. His head was a bleached skull, and points of gleaming fire burned in the sockets.

“Karrns,” she muttered, moving around the undead soldier. All things considered, it was a good choice for a bodyguard. Animated by magic, it didn’t need to sleep and couldn’t be enchanted by the magic of a harpy’s voice. The idea made her shiver—she’d never been comfortable with the walking dead.

She found Beren and Toli still talking with the medusa. The reptilian woman stood half a head taller than Thorn, and her mane made her seem even taller. The serpents that made up her hair were stretched up in the air, peering around to study Beren. The medusa wore a silver collar with a long pectoral ornament; a Khyber dragonshard was embedded in the pendant, and the large purple gem pulsed with a faint inner light. From her jewelry, her posture, and Beren’s interest in the conversation, Thorn guessed that this was Sheshka, the medusa who’d petrified Harryn Stormblade and whose kiss she’d need to free him—if she managed to locate the statue.

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.