Vordalyn watched Luala as he sharpened his blade. The weapon was already honed to a razor edge; it was said that the swords of the Valenar could draw blood from the wind. Thorn suspected that this was just another tactic in Vordalyn's little game. The presence of the naked blade set the bodyguards on edge, while the sound of stone on steel was grating to all. Thorn found it particularly annoying. It might have been her imagination, but the grinding triggered the pain in her skull, the crystal shard grating against bone.
"I don't know, Vordalyn," Thorn said. "I don't think so much of your blood."
The elf turned to face her, a slight smile on his lips. "That's hardly surprising. Clearly your ancestors had little self-regard, to carelessly mingle the blood of two races. Do you even know who it was who brought elven blood into your line, or are you a mongrel with no history to speak of?"
"My mother was an elf," Thorn said. "She came to my father after the Valenar turned on Cyre. She told him that it was impossible to wipe that betrayal away, and that she'd rather destroy her bloodline than pass such treachery on to another generation."
This was a lie. Thorn's mother was an elf of Southern Aerenal, with no ties to the warriors of the north. Thorn had only the faintest memories of her mother, and her father had been loath to speak of her. Whatever had happened between them, it had been a painful parting, and Thorn hated to see her father cry. Nonetheless, she saw Vordalyn's hand tighten around the hilt of his scimitar, and she knew she'd landed a solid blow.
"We did not steal our realm from Cyre. Our ancestors held that ground thousands of years before humans first set foot on Khorvaire. It was ours by right."
"Oh, I see," Thorn said. "Your ancestors-those great heroes whose blood you treasure-conquered the land long ago. And then what happened? They were chased back to Aerenal by goblins, weren't they?"
"Dragons," Vordalyn said, nearly snarling. "Dragons attacked our homeland, and we had to leave Khorvaire to the goblins. My ancestors ran toward battle, not away from it."
"Thousands of years ago. And you've been meaning to come back ever since, but you waited until a civil war was going on and you could stab someone in the back. I understand. Your blood's just not as strong as it was. You wouldn't want a real challenge."
Vordalyn hissed and his blade rose an inch. Thorn wasn't worried. Vordalyn couldn't attack her without causing an international incident. He'd spent the last few days trying to provoke someone else into starting a fight. But if Vordalyn struck the first blow, it would be disastrous, and he knew it.
"My ancestors gave their word," he growled. "They would not return to this land until they were asked. The Queen of Cyre called us across the water. She freed us from that oath, and freed us to reclaim our heritage."
"Yes… freed you to betray a weakened nation. Is that what those glorious ancestors of yours did? Would they be so proud of what you've done? Do you suppose your children will look back and say, 'I treasure the memory of my father, who always turned on his trusting allies?'"
Vordalyn rose in a blur of motion, his blade a gleaming streak as he brought himself on guard. His eyes were locked on Thorn's. She didn't flinch or even move-she just smiled at him. On either side, the gnolls had drawn their weapons. Jharl had an arrow to his bowstring, and Ghyrryn raised his axe.
"Sit down," Ghyrryn said. "We need only protect delegates. You can be fought."
It was the wrong thing to say to a warrior in search of release; Thorn could see Vordalyn tensing in preparation. He wanted the gnolls to attack him, to have some excuse to release his anger.
"And what tales will your children tell of this day?" she said, her words low and fast. "Is this the day their father threatened a servant and killed those who sought to protect her? Shall we get someone to paint a portrait?"
Vordalyn's scimitar was poised in the air above her. Jharl had drawn back his bow, and Ghyrryn was ready to strike. Drego Sarhain was watching, but Thorn didn't expect him to reveal his magical powers to the Brelish and gnolls in order to defend her; whatever had passed between them at the Duurwood camp, they were agents of different nations, and he had a mission of his own.
Vordalyn sat down, sheathing his scimitar. Something shifted in the air. A silk cloth attached to Vordalyn's helmet fluttered, and he pulled it across to hide his lower face, leaving only his eyes exposed. He immediately closed his eyes, retreating into private meditation. No apology, certainly. But under the circumstances, Thorn was content with the victory. On the other side of the wagon, Drego Sarhain winked at her, and Minister Luala actually smiled.
The travelers had been together for six days, and small talk had been exhausted. Had the Brelish been in a wagon of their own, Toli or Beren might have been more talkative, but Toli had no intention of revealing anything in the presence of the Thranes. In the beginning, Drego had told stories to pass the time. But Toli and Vordalyn had no interest in the heroes of the Silver Flame, and it was a poor setting to share war stories. Vordalyn's aggressive comments had driven the conversation for the last few days, and since he had finally backed down, silence reigned in the wagon.
Thorn didn't mind. She had much to think about. The ache in her skull had faded. She rubbed a finger against the stone. They cannot be removed, the Jorasco healer had told her. Cutting them out would cause great damage to the spine. They have become a part of you.
But what were they, really? Why did the pain come and go? Was it purely physical-the shard rubbing against bone-or was magic involved, or some sort of energy that caused the agony?
The last few nights had been calm. The hunters and their wolves had lived up to their promises; five days had passed with no new attacks. Thorn had done more scouting, studying the other delegates, but with no compelling threat, she'd spent most of her time with her countrymen. The last thing she wanted was to arouse any suspicions. They would arrive at the Great Crag before sundown, and then her mission would truly begin.
She'd slept more soundly since that first night, but the dream still troubled her. She'd tried to discuss it with Steel, but he refused to take interest. Considering that I do not dream, I'm ill-equipped to offer any insight. Perhaps you should try talking to your bedroll. She often had dreams in which her actions didn't make sense, but never so vivid. The sensation of watching her body move on its own, of hearing such cruelty in her own voice… it still sent a shiver down her spine.
And then there was Drego. Surely his presence proved there was nothing to the dream. The two of them were soldiers on the opposite sides of a conflict. They'd had little private contact since that night. The experience had shown that they could work together, but if it came to it, she would kill him to protect Breland, and she'd expect no better treatment from him. Perhaps that's all the dream was-a dramatization of a possible future. But she still felt a chill when she met Drego's gaze, still felt the sword in her hand as it pierced his skull.
As the hours passed, Thorn sensed that they were drawing closer to the Great Crag. In the confines of the coach, the passengers could see nothing. But Thorn heard the sounds of traffic on the road, of other wagons and columns of troops. There were cries in the air, the calls of wyverns, and a few voices that had to be harpies, though none were raised in song. Minister Luala seemed ill at ease, and Toli kept his hand on his sword. Vordalyn kept his gaze fixed on Thorn. She knew that he was trying to unnerve her, and she had no intention of responding, so she ignored him. Occasionally she brushed a finger against Steel to ask if he could identify a strange sound.