Thorn realized where they were going, just as they emerged from the stairwell and into chaos.
Khyber’s Gate.
An ogre snarled as Thorn walked into the subterranean plaza. Remembering Dreck’s words, Thorn met the beast’s gaze, running a finger along the mark around an eye. The creature stared for a moment then looked away.
The ogre was far from the only monster around them. A pack of goblins were chattering, clustered around some sort of game. Three orcs engaged in a loud debate with a hyena-like gnoll, shouting in a language Thorn didn’t know. A shifter with matted hair and long claws was wrestling with a bugbear, hissing and spitting as he grappled with the larger creature. At a glance, it was hard to tell if it was sport or a crime in progress.
Thorn had never been here, but she’d heard of it. Khyber’s Gate, the slum below the city. Where those unwelcome in even the lower wards made their homes. Humans mixed among the monsters, but they were an unsavory lot, with the look of deserters or worse. Thorn had heard that you could not buy a room in Khyber’s Gate. Everyone was a squatter in this place, and you held your property with tooth and blade. The crowd around her supported that tale. Knives and clubs were everywhere she looked, and the faint scent of blood mingled with the foul smells she’d noticed earlier.
As grim as the crowd was, they made way for Dreck. Whether it was fear of the mark itself or the connection to Tarkanan, the people of Khyber’s Gate knew to leave the aberrants alone. They were only challenged once, by a drunken orc with a rusty axe. Dreck’s mark flashed in the dim light, and the drunkard’s companions quickly pulled him away.
Deeper and deeper they went. They scrambled over rubble and through vast cracks in the thick foundations of the tower above. Finally they reached a small chamber, and Dreck took Thorn’s arm, pulling her to a halt.
There was a crack in the floor of the room, a jagged chasm just narrow enough that Thorn felt she could jump it without fear. The walls of the chasm glistened and shifted, and Thorn realized that they were covered with beetles. A few were scurrying around the walls and the floor of the room, but there were thousands crawling around the edge of the gap.
The beetles were the first thing to catch her attention, but Thorn quickly realized that they weren’t alone. She turned to find two strangers standing in the corner. Dreck showed no fear, so Thorn resisted the urge to draw her weapon.
The first one she noticed was the elf-though she was like no elf Thorn had ever seen. Her long ears and fine features were unmistakably elven, but her skin was jet black, and traced with patterns of pale white scars. Her silver-white hair was pulled back in a single braid, and it almost matched the unusual armor she wore-vambraces, shin guards, and a small breastplate formed of pale, glistening white material. Strangest of all was the weapon in her hand-a triangular object that seemed to be formed from three long, curved talons, joined by bone. A throwing wheel, but unlike anything Thorn had encountered.
Drow, she realized. She’d heard of the dark elves of Xen’drik, but it was rare to see one in Khorvaire.
As intriguing as the drow was, it was the man who drew her attention. The moment she saw him, Thorn thought of King Boranel, the one time she’d met the great king. There was no physical resemblance, but the stranger had the same sense of confidence, of authority. Some men became leaders, but others were born to lead-and this man was one of the latter. He was tall, strong, and clean shaven-likely a handsome man at one point in his life.
But then there was his mark.
Until that moment, the largest aberrant dragonmark Thorn had ever seen had been the one on Fileon’s arm. Most aberrant marks were fairly small, like the false mark around her eye. What she saw before her was something else entirely. He wore no glove on his left hand, and the sleeve of his black shirt was pulled back. As far as Thorn could see, the mark covered every inch of skin on his arm and hand, a twisting pattern of red lines that alternated between the color of wet blood and a burning, luminescent crimson. Yet this was only the beginning. The mark rose up from his collar, covering the left side of his neck and head, spreading out across his left cheek and up to his forehead. It covered his left eye, and unlike any dragonmark she’d ever seen, it had actually marked the eye itself. The white and the iris were black and glistening red, pulsing with ruby light as he looked at her.
Dreck dropped to one knee. “I have done as you asked, my lord. I have boy and brooch, and I have brought the woman with me. Sister Thorn, you stand before the greatest of us all, the man who will lead us to victory. You stand before the Son of Khyber.”
The stranger smiled at her, even as his discolored eye gleamed. He held out his gloved right hand. “Call me Daine,” he said.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Khyber’s Gate Lharvion 20, 999 YK
Thorn,” she said, taking the man’s hand. His grip was strong, and he kept hold of her hand. It would be so easy to end this now. The chill dagger was held in her left glove, and she could call it to her hand and bury it in his heart before anyone could react. But she wanted to know more. She wanted to understand what he was trying to accomplish. And after all that she’d been through-the fight with the Sentinel Marshal, the strange powers she couldn’t control, her anger at the arrogance of the Twelve-she found herself wanting to hear what he had to say.
“Thorn. A good name. But not the one you were born with, is it?” As he spoke, Daine reached out with his left hand, gently tipping her chin to study her face more closely.
“Does that matter?” Thorn forced herself not to flinch at his touch. His fingers seemed feverishly warm, and the stone in her neck pounded in time with her heartbeat. And what does his mark do? she wondered.
“No. You’re not alone in that, among our company. We care nothing for the circumstances of your birth. When you come to us, you become part of a new family.” The Son of Khyber turned her head slowly from side to side. The lines running across his left eye pulsed faintly.
“Is there something you’re looking for?” Thorn said. “Not that I’ve got immediate plans for my chin, but perhaps I could save you some time.”
He released her hand and her head at the same time. The throbbing in Thorn’s neck faded, though not entirely. “My apologies,” he said. “I just wanted to examine your mark more closely.”
It was a reasonable explanation, all the more so because Thorn’s mark was a fraud. But she didn’t believe him. He was looking for something else-something he was expecting to find. Then she remembered Fileon’s reaction, back when he’d first examined her. The stones. He had wanted to see the shard in my neck. Why?
“Fileon told me that you wanted me here,” she said. “That you needed my skills. I’d like to hear more about that.”
“And you will, sister. We have many things to discuss. But this is neither the time nor the place. We met here for a reason, and we must resolve this matter quickly.” He turned his mark-stained gaze away from Thorn, and it seemed that a weight had been lifted from her-a pressure she only noticed in its absence. He glanced at Dreck. “Show me what you have brought.”
Thorn placed the sack on the ground. Dreck reached inside, and a moment later, both bodies were forcibly ejected from the bag. The Cannith boy was beginning to stir, shifting against his bonds. Fileon lay next to him, his shriveled arm pulled tight against his chest. The Son of Khyber shook his head as he examined the dead halfling.
“A shame,” he said. “I’d hoped he could change.”
“He was Shaper of the Young,” Dreck said. “He could not be allowed to follow a different path. Had he not opposed you directly, he would still have poured poison in the ears of his students.”