"What do you-"
He was gone before she'd finished the sentence, leaping over her and rising into the sky. He circled above her, and for a moment his shadow passed across the orange face of Olarune. Then he was lost amid the darkness and the stars.
The manticore's words followed her as Thorn made her way to the plaza known as the Roar. Even as her balance returned and her stomach settled, the memories of the conversation haunted her. Are we strangers? What did he mean by that? What tale from her past could interest a creature from this savage land? Could he have fought in the war? In the final years of the war, House Tharashk had brokered the services of monstrous mercenaries… could this manticore have served under a Brelish banner?
She wondered if he knew her father.
No, she thought. More likely he was toying with her, taking pleasure in sowing doubt and confusion. Whatever the truth of it, he had served his purpose; Thorn had reached the Roar.
The plaza was lined with taverns, shops, and hostels, all built to cater to travelers and expatriates who longed for a last hint of home in this strange city. It took its name from the bronze statue at the center of the plaza-a mighty dragonne, with the body of a lion and the wings and scales of a dragon. It stood on its hind legs, wings outstretched, roaring at the sky. This was the sigil of the dragonmarked House Tharashk, the House of Finding, and the Tharashk fortress was the most imposing building on the square.
The Tharashk keep was one of the most important outposts of the house beyond its homeland in the Shadow Marches, serving as a central point for prospecting operations along the Graywall Mountains and a recruiting center for the mercenaries the house brought out of Droaam. As governor of Graywall, the mind flayer Xorchylic had granted Tharashk the power to administer justice in the Calabas, and since Thorn had arrived within its bounds, she felt safe from pursuit.
Thorn studied the dragonne. After watching the manticore tear out a centaur's heart, it was hard to be impressed by this chunk of lifeless metal.
Quiet as the plaza was, there were still signs of life in the early hours of the morning. A handful of orcs and half-orcs dressed in Tharashk livery wrestled and laughed. Two dwarves sang a Mror chant outside Dorn's Flagon, a tavern known more for the size of its tankards than the quality of the ale.
The black garb Thorn had worn for the meeting with Kalakhesh would have drawn bemused glances from the Tharashk laborers, so she'd changed on her way to the Roar. Shiftweave allowed Thorn to transform her clothing with a simple thought. Her options were limited to only a few different styles, but the ability to switch garments was invaluable in her line of work.
She changed her outfit to the dress of a courtier traveling on diplomatic business, the bear of Breland embroidered on her breast. A few jewels glittered on her traveling gown-not so many as to invite thieves, but enough to suggest her importance. Her dagger hung from her belt-in Droaam, only a fool would be completely unarmed.
The Tharashk keep was a true fortress, built to withstand riots. By contrast, the building that lay directly across the plaza could have served as a summer palace in the golden age of Galifar; it was built for beauty, not war. Whorled marble pillars supported a sloping roof. A hound carved from basalt stood just beyond the gates, frozen in mid leap. The head and forequarters of the dog were bronzed, sharply visible in the coldfire and the light of the moons. The hindquarters were glass and shadow, as if the dog were appearing from the darkness. Beyond the hound, the five heads of a golden hydra adorned the arch, staring down at approaching travelers. But the walls of the building truly caught the eye: polished black marble that glittered with points of light. Even in brightest daylight, this was a glorious citadel of shadows-a Twilight Palace. The staff were recruited exclusively from the Five Nations and trained to provide comfort to those wealthy travelers who wished to forget they were in Droaam.
The proprietors of the Twilight Palace also went out of their way to erase the scars of the Last War. The decor drew from Galifar at its height. Tall tapestries depicted heroes of the unified kingdom, carefully chosen from each of the Five Nations of Galifar. It was a symbolic effort; more than a picture of Bright Kethan would be needed to bring a Karrn and a Thrane together at one table. But Thorn was always fascinated to see the world of her great-grandfather, a world in which the people of the Five Nations stood as one.
A steward caught her eye with a questioning glance. Thorn wanted a drink. She wanted dreamlily… anything that would make the pain of the burning stones go away. But as she raised her hand, she saw the tapestry that hung behind the steward, the image of the knight with the flashing sword and the fierce red dragon. Harryn Stormblade.
She had no time to waste. Thorn pulled a bottle of dark liquid off the tray of a passing steward, silencing his complaints with two gold coins. She made her way to her room and slid the cover off the coldfire lantern. Passing her hand over the bed, she called the book forth from the space within her glove. She drew the dagger with the crimson furrow, staring at the red circle on the black pommel.
"Steel," she said. "We need to talk."
CHAPTER FOUR
The City of Graywall Droaam Eyre 11, 998 YK
When she was a girl, Nyrielle Tam wanted to be a soldier, to fight for Breland like her father. She'd been raised on tales of Brelish bravery and the noble values of her homeland and her king. Other nations were full of villains and madmen. The Thranes were blinded by zealotry. The Cyrans were arrogant cowards, and they would surrender the kingdom to elves and goblins. The Karrns desecrated the bodies of the dead to create zombie armies, and who could say what horrors would fill the world under a Karrnathi king. And the people of Aundair relied on dark magic to slaughter their enemies. By the time Nyrielle was a teenager, though, Aundair and Breland were allies, and people didn't tell those stories as often.
In childhood stories, Breland was a land of opportunity, a place where even the nobles respected the common man, where the lords were truly servants of the people. It was a land of industry and progress, the greatest hope for the future.
As she grew older, Nyrielle learned to recognize propaganda. She could even imagine what the children of Thrane or Karrnath might have been told about Breland. Its people placed gold above honor. Its industrial might spawned corruption and crime. The nobles had no control over their subjects, and the people had largely abandoned their faith in the gods. Slander and lies, but all with the same hint of truth as those childhood tales of other lands.
The people of Breland were more pragmatic than their cousins in other lands, less devoted to Sovereigns and Flame. And there were those who said that the noble families-even the great King Boranel, a hero who'd fought in the vanguard of many a battle-were no longer necessary. It was the royal succession to the throne of Galifar that had brought about a century of war; many believed that the proper response was to abandon the institution of the monarchy and start anew.
For all that, Nyrielle believed in Breland. Her homeland wasn't the paradise of her childhood. But she believed that the king was a good man, that he believed in justice and the rights of his people, and that when the war was over he would tend to the wounds of the nation.
Whenever her father returned home, those wonderful weeks or months before the battles began anew, she forced him to teach her the ways of sword and shield. When her father was away, Nyrielle would wrestle and race with her brother Nandon and the other Khoravar children, building her strength and speed and waiting for the day that she could serve alongside her father on the field of battle.