"I'm certain your aide can take care of herself," Toli said, with a meaningful glance at Thorn.
"So Lord Beren won't sit where he chooses?" Thorn asked innocently. She saw the corner of the Thrane's mouth twitch slightly.
Toli wasn't amused. "Lady Tam, I hope that you understand the dangers we face in this place. We will do our best to defend you, but our first priority is to protect Lord Beren. Please let us do that."
Beren raised a hand. "Look here, boy-"
"He's right, Lord Beren." Thorn nodded to Toli. "I'm sorry for being rude. But you must listen to your guards."
The gnoll was tired of the discussion. "Sit now," he growled. "Others wait outside. Caravans leave before sun rises."
The Brelish took their seats on the hard bench. The Thrane diplomat sat across from Thorn, flashing a brilliant smile at her. The gnoll moved deeper into the wagon, making room for the remaining members of the Thrane delegation. First came a soldier dressed in a lightweight shirt of polished chain mail. Her sword was drawn, and the engraved blade gleamed in the fading moonlight. Thorn guessed that the steel was mixed with silver. The Thrane warrior studied Beren and his guards with obvious distaste, but sheathed her weapon and took a seat alongside her countryman.
A second soldier helped an elderly elf woman up the ladder into the wagon. The elf wore the habit of a priestess of the Silver Flame, and judging from the pale parchment of her skin and her sunken eyes, she had to be at least four hundred years old-almost as old as the church itself. Apparently, the Thranes weren't concerned about having a delegate who could defend herself if a brawl broke out-or they trusted that the Silver Flame would protect her. For a moment the priestess met Thorn's gaze, and looking into the pale eyes of the elf made Thorn think of her mother. Where was she now? What had led her to Khorvaire thirty years ago, and why had she been so quick to leave?
This was no time to ponder the past. A few more gnolls climbed into the wagon, and they spoke in their own tongue-a strange mix of hoots, whines, and fluting sounds that she never would have expected from creatures with such canine appearance. At long last the black gnoll that had called himself Ghyrryn closed the back flaps of the wagon and sat down next to Thorn. He gave a long cry, and a moment later, the wagon lurched forward. The journey to the Great Crag had begun.
CHAPTER SIX
The Korlaak Pass Droaam Eyre 12, 998 YK
The benches were uncomfortable, and the wagon bumpy and unsteady on the rough road. The passengers had to clutch the edges of their seats to keep from sliding or falling. Toli and Grenn had passed the first hour of the trip glaring at their Thrane counterparts. For their part, the Thranes sought to project cool disinterest, but the tension was there.
Toward the end of the war, Thrane had been one of Breland's greatest rivals. Beset on all sides and hamstrung by the betrayal of its mercenary forces, Cyre had been pushed into a desperate position, struggling to defend its remaining territory against the constant pressure of Breland, Karrnath, and Darguun. Breland had formed alliances with Aundair and Zilargo, and Karrnath was too far away to pose a true threat. Which left Thrane as the most significant danger to Brelish security.
Early in the war, the people of Thrane had turned away from the rule of royalty and fully embraced the Church of the Silver Flame, and the faith served them well in the struggle. When the conflict began, the standing army of Thrane was far smaller than that of Breland or Karrnath, and it lacked foundries to produce the weapons of war. But whereas its army was small, its civilian militias were vast. The followers of the Silver Flame were charged to fight against darkness, and villagers trained with spear and bow. Two centuries earlier, they had exterminated the werewolves and shapechangers of the western woods; that same zeal gave them the courage to defend their nation against human foes.
Beyond the courage of the commoner, the priests of Thrane were true miracle workers. The people of Breland were pragmatists by nature, never fond of things they couldn't measure or prove. The work of a wizard was based on formulas and arcane science, and the Brelish could grasp it. But the magic of a cleric was a thing of pure, trusting faith, and when it came to faith, few people could match the Thranes.
"How did you come to be in civil service, Lady… Tam, was it?" They were the first words the envoy had spoken since the trip began. "I thought I knew the sixty families of Sharn as well as the royal lines of Galifar, but I don't recall ever hearing the name Tam."
Thorn studied the man sitting across from her. Perfect skin, not a hair out of place, fine clothes-unusual for a nation driven by such an ascetic faith. The priestess had an aura of serenity, and her habit was far simpler than her comrade's garb, with his glittering embroidered flames. No sign of a weapon, no wand that she could see… was he truly just a diplomat?
"My father was a soldier," Thorn said. "In Breland, you don't need gold or noble blood to serve the nation. And what of your lineage? I'd hate to sully your ears with my common speech."
The man laughed. "No fear of that. I am Drego Sarhain, milady. And surely, I am as common as they come."
Thorn glanced at his gleaming cuffs. "Rather fine work for a common man."
He waved his hand dismissively. "Your father was a soldier; my mother, a seamstress. We each have our heirlooms." He gestured at the dagger Thorn wore on her belt. "Your father's blade?"
Perfect!
"Yes, it's been in my family for generations." She drew the blade from its sheath. The eyes of the gnolls and the Thrane soldiers locked on her, but she simply laid the dagger across her legs. "I've always wondered what stories it could tell, if only it could talk."
Very funny, Steel whispered in her mind. Give me a few moments and I'll see what I can find.
"An interesting design," Drego said, studying the dagger from across the wagon. "Balanced for throwing, yes? May I take a closer look?" He extended his hand.
"I'm afraid not," Thorn replied. "My father was a very superstitious man, and he left strict instructions concerning treatment of the blade. I'm sure your mother wouldn't want to see me wearing your clothes, would she?"
"Probably not," the Thrane said with a smile. "But I wouldn't mind."
Thorn raised an eyebrow, glancing slightly toward the priestess. "Why, Lord Sarhain, should you be saying such things in the presence of Minister Luala-a holy woman?"
"You labor under a common misconception, Lady Tam. We have our political differences, but my faith is based on defending the innocent from supernatural threats. So unless you're some sort of disguised demon temptress, I need not shield myself from your presence. And if you must be formal, it's Flamebearer Sarhain. But if we're going to spend the next few days sharing a wagon, I'd prefer Drego."
"Then it's only fair for you to call me Nyrielle," she replied. "So… tell me all about Drego Sarhain."
The diplomat launched into his story-born to parents of low status, studying the courtly ways of his mother's customers, reading romance stories in addition to the holy texts of the church, becoming an apprentice to a minstrel until his magical talents were discovered, and, much to his surprise, drawn into government service. It was a good story; some of it might have even been true. But Thorn hadn't been listening to Drego.
Be careful, Steel said. The priestess is wearing protective charms. She's safe from poisons, and her thoughts are protected from all divinations. Standard diplomatic warding-Lord Beren has much the same. Our guard Toli has a few tricks hidden away. And the two Thrane soldiers have spells strengthening their armor and potions of healing in those beltpouches. But your friend Drego-nothing at all.