“Good news, hmm?” Cadrel said. “I trust there’s bad to follow it?”
Thorn sighed. “I’m afraid so.” She reached into the pouch again and drew out a thin rod. Six inches of it were covered with a rubbery, greenish substance. “Troll sticks. Not actual troll, I think, but you wouldn’t know it from the taste. The stick grows the meat; it takes about three hours for it to grow back. It’s about as unpleasant as anything you’ll find in the Mournland, but at least it’s not poisonous. So that takes care of basic survival.”
“There’s nothing basic about survival in what lies ahead of us,” Drix said. “Food’s good but let’s not forget about the ghosts. And the hungry wind. And the voices in the mist.” He smiled slightly, as if he were remembering a childhood vacation.
“Good questions,” Thorn said, privately wondering how many of those things were real and how many existed in only the tinker’s head. “I need to know what you can do in a fight.”
“I was stabbed through the heart,” Drix said. “Does that count as a fight?”
“You walked away from it, so I guess that counts. That stone of yours… just how effective is it? Will it really protect you from any sort of injury?”
“I don’t know,” Drix said with a shrug. “It healed me from the stabbing. And the boulders. And the bear. And the crab that glued me to its back…”
I know he sounds slightly mad, Steel said as Drix continued to list his misfortunes.
“Slightly?” Thorn smiled at Drix, drumming her fingers against Steel’s hilt. She wondered how many of his supposed injuries actually occurred.
Nonetheless, the power I’m sensing in that stone is remarkable. And something that will stand out to anyone else who might look for it.
Lovely, she thought. “Do you know how to use that crossbow?”
“Hmm?” Drix said, ceasing his reverie of pains. “Well, not that one specifically. I’m still working on her. She’s not finished. But she means well. When I’m done, she’ll aim herself.”
Thorn sighed. “And you, Cadrel? I see you’re wearing a blade today. Do you know how to use it?”
“Indeed.” Cadrel stepped away from the table, and suddenly his short sword was in his hand. “I know I did little to impress you in our last altercation; I thought it best that I stay by the prince. I’m no match for you, my dear, but I’ve fought a few duels in my day.”
“And magic? I know you can weave a disguise. What other surprises do you have?”
“It’s a poor entertainer who reveals every trick,” Cadrel began.
“And a foolish one who goes to the Mournland,” Thorn said. “This is no stage, Cadrel. I need to know exactly what you’re capable of.”
“You wound me, my dear. Still, this is an adventure unlike any I’ve ever been on; I suppose I must bend my own rules. I do know a few tricks of illusion, yes. I can disguise my own face and form. I can cast a false image for a minute or two, though one without sound or substance. Once upon a time, I could hone this to craft a burst of bright light, dazzling an opponent for a few moments, though I’m afraid it’s been some time since I’ve tried such a thing.”
Thorn nodded. It was still more than she’d expected; perhaps the old man wouldn’t be the liability she’d thought. Still, an elderly duelist and a tinker with an unfinished crossbow? Not the most impressive team she’d worked with.
“Cadrel, would you give me a moment alone with Drix?”
Essyn smiled, giving a slight bow. “Certainly. I’ll go check with our lovely captain; we must be close to our destination by now.”
Thorn turned back to Drix as Cadrel left the room. The tinker was looking wistfully at his crossbow. She studied him, noticing the curve of his eyes, the slight points to his ears. “It seems we have something in common,” she said.
He looked up at her, puzzled.
She tapped an ear. “Elf blood. How far back in your line does it go?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “My father was Khoravar, and his mother.” The word literally meant child of Khorvaire, but the more common term was half-elf-the blended race formed from the mingling of human and elf blood. Thorn was Khoravar herself, but first generation; her mother was an elf from the island nation of Aerenal.
“I didn’t realize there were Khoravar in House Cannith,” she said. “I thought only humans could carry the Mark of Making.”
“That’s what they say,” Drix said sadly. “My mother took me back to Making once, to meet my grandparents. To go to school there, I think. They didn’t want me. The Jurans are tinkers, and that’s all we’ll ever be. That’s what they say. Dirt in our blood.”
“Did you talk to your family about this?” She pointed at his heart.
“My family is dead,” he said, looking away. “Killed in the Mourning. The barons in Breland didn’t want me before. I’m not going to them now.”
Thorn nodded thoughtfully. He seemed sincere enough. There were times when he seemed a little unhinged, but at the moment it seemed it was just pain, emotional or otherwise. “Why are you doing this?” she said. “With that stone, you’re all but immortal. Why would you want to give that up?”
He looked at her, and she could see the sorrow in his eyes. “It’s not mine. Not me. It’s the Mourning. I can feel it. The sorrow, the anger… I can feel it.”
He seemed serious. She squeezed Steel’s hilt. “Really?”
“It weaves my flesh and blood together, but the pain… the pain never truly goes away. It doesn’t belong in me. I know that.”
It’s possible the stone holds psychic impressions of the dead, Steel said. Considering he’s just said that he’s in constant physical pain, delusions seem more likely.
Even as she listened, Thorn felt a pulse of pain from the shard embedded in her neck. Her stones were just shrapnel, not magical gems, but she’d lived with them for almost a year, dealing with the pain and sheer sense of wrongness that came with them. In the darkest times, she’d turned to drink and dreamlily to chase that pain away. She was slowly growing used to them. The pain was still there, but it wasn’t as crippling as it had once been. Still, there was a time when she’d have done almost anything to escape from it. If Drix felt anything like she had, she could understand why he’d want it out.
“I know you think the pain is driving me mad,” Drix said. “It’s not. It’s not. It’s the voices. The faces. I need to make it stop, to let their spirits rest.”
“I understand,” Thorn said. She felt a flicker of sorrow and a touch of guilt for having let her distrust of Cannith get the better of her before. Magic stone or not, his life was tough enough as it was.
Drix sighed, looking out the porthole. “Why are we traveling underwater, anyway?”
Thorn shrugged. “It’s just a safety precaution. These vessels were built during the Last War, used to sneak behind enemy lines. The Mournland may be neutral territory, but the last thing we need is a chance encounter with Darguul slavers. This way we get to Seaside quickly and safely.”
“So we’re safe here?”
“We should be,” Thorn said. “Between the speed of the vessel and our reinforced hull, no natural creature can pose a threat to us. And we’re too far down for a ship to even notice us.”
The impact surprised them both.
There was a groan of strained wood. Thorn braced herself against the table as the floor shook. Drix’s unfinished crossbow slid across the floor, and Drix stumbled and fell to his hands and knees.
“Of course, I’ve been wrong before,” Thorn said.
CHAPTER FIVE
The Thunder Sea B arrakas 22, 999 YK
Thorn drew Steel as she headed for the helm. “Report,” she said.
There was a momentary fluctuation in the bonds connecting the elemental to the ship.