Good enough. Thorn drew Steel and rapped against the table with his pommel. “Enough!” she shouted. The others paused and looked at her with varying degrees of surprise and anger on their faces. “Say we believe you. What is this next step? What have you learned?”
Tira glanced at the other fey, her eyes still burning behind the veil. “I sacrificed one of Ourelon’s shards to save the boy. The shards are bound together, just as our cities are bound together, just as the boy is bound to the soil. At this time, under these moons, if all the shards are brought together, like will call to like.”
“What are these shards?”
“Fragments of the gift the dragon Ourelon gave to the first lord of the Silver Tree, or so say the memories bound in the stone,” Tira replied. “Each tied to one of the spires, each holding great power. The strength of the spire is tied to the stone. So Syraen is correct; in surrendering my stone to Drix, I weakened the Silver Tree. Yet the alternative was far worse.”
Syraen spoke again. “You require all the shards for your mad plan, sister. But you know as well as I how many have been lost. The Preserving Shard. The Stone of Dreams. The Quiet Stone. Have you found them all?”
Tira looked at Thorn. “Show them, girl. Show them my prophecy made manifest.”
And this is where it all falls apart, Thorn thought. Might as well see it through. She turned around and shifted her uniform to simple peasant clothes. Pulling her blouse at neck and waist, she revealed the shrapnel in her spine.
A hush fell over the room. Then the voice of the Rose Queen broke the silence. “Impossible.”
There was a gust of cold air, and Lord Syraen was by her side. “Hold, woman,” he hissed.
Thorn wanted to punch the arrogant eladrin in the throat, but she resisted the urge and let him run cold fingers along her spine. In truth, she was as surprised as they were.
“Tira speaks the truth,” he said at last. “The Quiet Stone and the Preserving Shard, held in mortal flesh.” He drew a sword with a pale blade that steamed in the warm air of the council room. “At least these can be cut free.”
Thorn was moving even as he drew the sword. The words had barely left his mouth when she kicked him in the chest, calling on every ounce of her unnatural strength. The fey warlord staggered backward, gasping for air. The others got on their feet. Thorn rolled away just in time to evade the net of emerald lights that flashed through the air. The Rose Queen raised her hands, and bramble vines unfolded from her hair. Only one of the fey remained distant and uninvolved-a gnome dressed in robes that shimmered with the shifting colors of a rainbow.
Drix was at her side, his tiny crossbow in his hand. Cadrel was there as well, his rapier gleaming. It seemed impossible that they could stand against the eladrin and their retinues, but she was glad for the help.
The battle ended as quickly as it had begun. “Enough!” Tira roared and her voice had the force of a gale, slamming the combatants back. Once again she towered above them, her eyes blazing and her golden crown gleaming. “Her blood may be mixed with the soil, but this woman is a guest beneath my boughs, and you will not harm her here!”
Syraen’s warriors were standing at his side, blades of ice glistening in the silvery light. “Then perhaps we shall take our leave and await her beyond your gate. How can you allow this to occur? Two of the greatest treasures of our people, in the hands of a mortal? This is our chance to reclaim what we have lost!”
“You’re all mad,” Thorn said. “These are no treasures in my back. This is shrapnel from an explosion. I’m lucky I lived through it. I was struck by dozens of shards; these are just the ones they couldn’t remove.”
“Both of you know nothing,” Tira said. “Thorn, these are no common crystals in your spine. Syraen is correct. They are two of Ourelon’s shards. The Quiet Stone in the base of your spine was the heartstone of our spire in Xen’drik, the city that fell to the giants. The Preserving Shard holds the spirits of our greatest leaders; it was placed in the care of Marusan’s line and lost when the vile wyrm laid waste to the woods.”
“Then how-?” Thorn began. She shut her mouth when Tira looked at her, before the fey queen turned to her magic to do the job.
“Syraen, I have devoted myself to the study of the shards. Once they are bound to mortal flesh, they cannot be removed by force. Aside from killing the bearer, the blood and anger would taint the shard forevermore. This curse began with an act of violence; you cannot end it with another. You shame our people with your behavior, and if I did not need you to bring this curse to an end, I would order you to return to the Winter Citadel immediately. Sheathe your weapons now. I remind you that though the walls may crumble around me, this is my seat of power, and you will show me due respect!”
Thorn was barely listening. Her thoughts were racing. What did she mean? Vile wyrm… holds the spirits of our greatest leaders.
The winter lord slowly sheathed his sword. “I will aid you, Tira, because you speak the truth. The fates of our spires are linked. My people wish to return to the land of the long night, and if it is your curse that binds us here, we will help you break it. But know this: I will not forget how you have treated me this day. Nor will I forgive you for bringing this plague upon us to begin with. I stand beneath your boughs, and I will bow to your will today. I suggest you never seek my hospitality again.”
“So be it.”
“I see one problem with your plans, Lady Tira.” It was the gnome. His voice was soft and pleasant, and the colors of his robe swirled as he spoke. “You said that all eight shards would be required. You have found two of the lost shards. But what of the third? Where is the Stone of Dreams?”
Tira’s eyes dimmed behind her veil. “I do not know. In my visions I saw all eight of the stones in our circle. I never saw how they arrived, and it seems my vision was clouded. I can only hope that we can restore the wound with seven of the shards, but I fear it will not be possible.”
“Then rejoice, Lady Tira.” The voice was deep and confident and seemed to fill the room. The speaker stood in the doorway, a tall man dressed in black and silver. He wore a hooded cloak, and a silver mask sculpted to resemble a handsome eladrin. There was something familiar about him… Then Thorn saw the brooch tied to his cloak. A crescent moon with an opalescent stone held between the horns. He reached up to remove the mask, and for a moment Thorn felt an inexplicable sense of dread. But the face below was as handsome as the mask itself and even more familiar. He looked directly at Thorn and smiled.
It was the man from her dream.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Shaelas Tiraleth, the Mournland B arrakas 24, 999 YK
If Thorn was surprised by the stranger, the fey were shocked. Tira’s expression was hidden beneath her veil, but she seemed to be at a loss for words.
“I hope you’ll forgive me for letting myself in,” the man said. He was an eladrin-though his eyes were darker than his cousins’, and he was somewhat more muscular, but the fey features were unmistakable. He dropped to one knee. “Now that I am here, I present myself as a guest and formally ask for your hospitality, Lady Tira.”
“Who are you?” Tira said, her voice tight.
“You know who I am,” he said. “Shan Doresh, lord of the Dreaming Citadel.”
“The Dreaming Citadel was destroyed long ago.”
“What would you know of it?” The man rose to his feet. His voice was steady, but his dark eyes gleamed. “When the Cul’sir enslaved our kin, I came to this council and I called on your predecessors to gird themselves for war, to destroy those who would commit such atrocities. Instead they hid behind shadows and illusions, leaving my people to face the titans alone.”