"And your soldiers?" Drego said. Thorn could see that he was still on alert, ready to act… and it seemed like a wise decision. Zaeurl's eyes narrowed when he spoke, and her muscles stiffened; clearly, she disliked the Thranes.
"Hunters and scouts, mostly. We know the ways of the woods better than anyone else in Droaam, man or beast."
"And what brought you to this place?" Thorn said. "I see ogres, goblins, orcs-I haven't seen many elves in the service of the Daughters."
"Why, the Silver Flame led me to Droaam," Zaeurl said.
Luala frowned. "I beg your pardon?"
"That's twice you've asked," Zaeurl said, and there was steel in her voice. "You could ask a thousand times, and you'd never receive it. Where were you two centuries ago, minister?"
"I beg-" Luala caught herself, and began again. "I served in the library of Flamekeep, tending the scrolls and teaching the young acolytes."
"And were you involved in the war in the west?"
Thorn frowned. Until the Last War, Galifar had been a remarkably peaceful kingdom. There were a handful of uprisings and ambitious lords, but little to earn the title of war. Two centuries ago…
The Purge.
Drego reached the same conclusion. "Are you referring to the Silver Crusade?"
Zaeurl nodded. "Call it what you will, boy. You weren't alive to see it."
Eberron was a world of magic, and magic took many forms. It might be a blessing or a curse. Sometimes it was both, as in the case of lycanthropy-the force responsible for werewolves, wererats, and other shapeshifters of legend. Thorn had never met a lycanthrope. Since the Purge, they were few and far between.
"And what is your quarrel with the crusade?" Luala studied the warlord carefully.
"Many innocents were killed in your war," Zaeurl said. "I lost my first family at the hands of the Pure Flame."
"Innocents were lost," Luala agreed. "Fear, and the thirst for revenge, drove people to madness. But were you there for the beginning, Zaeurl? Again, your pardon, but you do not appear as old as I. The soldiers of the Flame did not travel to the west on a mere whim. They came in response to the cries of those dying at the hands of the werewolves and their kin."
"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.