“You can speak in a moment,” Vron said. “Until then, let me focus on the critical facts. This forest is in the domain of a Count Jadan Thul, a Karrnathi warlord who served with distinction during the Last War. We know that Thul sent envoys to these strangers and received no response. These eladrin never ventured more than a few miles from the tower and took no overtly hostile action against Thul or his holdings. But they refused to explain their presence or indeed to make any sort of contact with Count Thul.”
Essyn Cadrel raised an eyebrow. “A colorful story but what does it have to do with the Mourning?”
“Indulge me a moment more,” Vron said. “As you might imagine, Count Thul was perturbed by the presence of these strangers in his domain. However, his forces had been seriously depleted in the Last War, and he needed time to rebuild. In Olarune of 998, Thul moved against the citadel of ice. He suffered a stunning defeat. Though few in number, these strangers possess warriors with skill to rival the Valenar and arcane power to match that of Aundair. And yet, since repelling Thul’s attack, they have taken no further action, and they have ignored envoys from Thul, from King Kaius of Karrnath, and our own ambassadors.”
“Get to the point,” Oargev snapped. The prince was on his second goblet of wine, and his hand was shaking slightly.
“I understand your frustration, Your Highness. But everything needs to be in context. You see, the Karrns are not the only people who have encountered these eladrin.” Vron tapped the wall again, and a map of Khorvaire appeared. “As of last week, we’d managed to locate and identify three different eladrin towers, each of which appeared sometime within the last four years. In addition to the ice fortress in Karrnath, there is a tower along the northwest edge of the Khraal jungle of Darguun, and another here, in Zilargo. But in all this time, we’ve never been able to get an agent inside one of these eladrin fortresses. We knew next to nothing about their origins, intentions, or capabilities. Until last week.”
Vron turned to the young man. “This is Marudrix Juran Cannith. Years ago-almost five years, in fact-he stumbled upon one of these mysterious towers. A fortress in Cyre, not far from the old village of Seaside.”
“They call it Shaelas Tiraleth,” the tinker said. “It means ‘the Court of the Silver Tree.’ Because it’s the largest of their cities and there’s this big tree and, well, it’s-”
“The Mourning, Lord Vron,” Oargev snarled. “I’m still waiting for your explanation.”
To Thorn’s surprise, Cadrel spoke calmly. “Patience, Your Highness. I would see where this leads. Lord Vron, you said that this discovery occurred almost five years ago. Was it a date of any special significance?”
Vron smiled. “Indeed it was. The twentieth of Olarune. On that day, young Drix was traveling in Cyre’s southern woods when he encountered a group of eladrin. Believing him to be responsible for the death of their own prince, they pierced his heart with a cursed blade. From what we can tell, this happened at the precise moment that the Mourning began.”
Oargev was on his feet. “I don’t understand. Are you suggesting that my nation was destroyed in an attack against a farmboy?”
“That would be ludicrous, Your Highness.” Vron looked over at Drix, who was fidgeting. “But it seems that they know more than we do about it. Drix?”
The young man took a step forward. He tugged at the buttons of his shirt. “Lord Oargev…”
“Your Highness,” Cadrel corrected quietly.
Drix flushed. “Your Highness,” he said quickly, “I can’t explain to you all the things I’ve seen. I’m a tinker and I’ve got no skill with words. These eladrin… their city… it’s a magical place. A place of wonders-”
Oargev rose to his feet, and his eyes were hard. “Get to the point, boy.”
“They say they can end the Mourning.”
Oargev stepped closer to Drix until he was barely inches away from the tinker. His voice was quiet and steady, colder than Thorn had ever heard it, and his hand was on the jeweled hilt of his dagger. “Is this a joke, Vron? Are you laughing at my people and our pain?”
Drix spoke before the changeling or the king could respond. If he was afraid of the prince, he didn’t show it, but his smile had faded slightly. “They aren’t your people,” he said, his quiet voice carrying across the still room. “And you don’t know their pain.”
That was all it took. Oargev’s dagger was in his hand, the blade gleaming in the light. “How dare you?” he hissed. “You know nothing!”
Thorn took a step forward, intending to interpose herself between the two, but she heard a voice in her mind, Vron’s voice. Hold, Lantern! She froze, but it seemed she was the only one who heard the telepathic order.
“Oargev!” Boranel roared, rising to his feet. Essyn Cadrel knocked his chair aside in his haste to rise. Quick as they were, they weren’t fast enough to interfere.
“I know pain,” Drix said. He grabbed the dagger by the blade, the edge sinking into his flesh as he wrapped his fingers around it. His grip was strong, and he pulled the weapon free from Oargev’s hand. The prince staggered back, his anger turning to surprise.
Thorn made her way quickly to Drix’s side. He was shaking slightly, and she could see blood flowing between his fingers. Whatever could have driven him to do such a thing? His hand was still clenched tightly around the blade; they’d need a healer and quickly. Behind her, Cadrel and Boranel had reached the shocked prince, each taking an arm.
Then Drix opened his hand. There was a strange moment of silence as the blade fell, clattering against the floor. There was blood on his hand but only a trickle, not the fountain Thorn expected to see. The knife had indeed cut to the bone, but the wounds seemed to melt away. There was still blood against the skin, but his maimed hand was whole again.
“Sovereigns and Six,” Boranel whispered. “What is this?”
“A demonstration.” Vron’s voice was cold and stern. “Prince Oargev, sit. In light of what you have been through recently, I have indulged your theatrics to this point, but you are a guest in this city and this nation, and you would do well to remember that. King Boranel, you have my deepest apologies for this display. Now if you will sit down, I will explain everything.”
Essyn Cadrel helped the prince back to his seat. The prince was still shaking, but Cadrel’s expression was simply thoughtful.
“I know the story I’ve presented sounds ludicrous,” Vron told them. “Mysterious elves appear in Cyre on the Day of Mourning, and now claim that they can reverse the cataclysm. And yet, as you yourself said, Prince Oargev, it’s been almost five years and we still know almost nothing about the Mourning. What we do know is that these eladrin have access to magic we cannot duplicate.” He looked at Drix. “Show them.”
The tinker pulled open his shirt. Thorn’s eyes widened.
There was a stone embedded in his flesh. A crystal set into his left breast, where his heart should be. They stared at the large, clear jewel that appeared to be filled with swirling gray mist.
“We don’t know exactly what it is,” Vron said. “Just that it holds a power unlike anything we’ve ever seen from Cannith or the Arcane Congress. It can’t be removed, and it heals any injury Drix suffers within moments.”
“They called it the Heart of the Spire,” Drix said. While his breathing was slightly ragged, his voice was steady and strong. “They said… that they took my heart, so they gave me theirs. That its strength would allow us both to survive until the wound could be healed.”
Oargev’s temper was building again. “What does this have to do with the Mourning?”
To Thorn’s surprise, Drix actually smiled. “I’m just a tinker. This sort of magic is beyond me. But they told me that if they could restore me, they could restore the broken land as well,” Drix said. “That when they’d struck at me, they’d been crippled as well. And that by healing my wound, they could heal all our wounds.”