Son of Khyber_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [10]
The sorcerer coughed, blood spraying across the core, and Thorn thought he would fall. But he wrapped his fingers around a mithral tube and pulled himself to his full height. “I’ll survive,” he said then coughed again. He fumbled in his satchel and pulled a scroll from its steel case. “Long enough. Now move away.”
Lharen began the ritual as Thorn joined Mayne by the tunnel mouth. Blood dripped onto the parchment as he spoke, but Lharen’s voice never faltered. The words on the scroll burst into iridescent flame, a cold fire that flowed up Lharen’s arm. His voice grew stronger and deeper as the flames surrounded him. The scroll dissolved into ash and silver dust; the blaze flowed up along Lharen’s left arm and was gone.
Lharen dropped to his knees, but a handprint remained where he’d touched the core—a hand of fire, growing brighter with each moment that passed.
“Go,” he said, the pain making his voice tight. He coughed more blood. “My thoughts … hold the power in check. Get clear.”
Thorn nodded. Lharen’s blood was pooling on the floor. And none of them could survive another trip through the whirling wall. She still didn’t want to leave him. “I meant what I said, Lharen. This won’t be forgotten.”
“I know,” he said. “And I know—”
He jerked, choking. Then Thorn saw the crystal embedded in the side of his head, a shard that had pierced his skull. He fell forward into the deadly wall. Thorn spun and shoved Mayne with all her might, pushing him down the corridor.
And the core exploded.
A wave of force lifted Thorn and flung her down the corridor. This wave had teeth. Crystal shards filled the burning wind. Impact with the floor drove the breath from her lungs, and she could feel the dragonshards piercing her flesh, blood running down her back.
A strong hand pulled Thorn to her feet. Mayne. Blood ran from a few wounds, but Thorn had saved Mayne from the worst of it. “Can you stand?” he asked.
Wait, Thorn thought. This isn’t right. This isn’t how it happened. In reality, the force of the explosion had knocked her out. It had been days before she’d woken.
She felt dizzy. She reached out to stabilize herself, pressing her hand against Mayne’s chest.
He screamed. Her hand felt as though it was on fire, and she could feel energy flowing up from her arm. Mayne’s scream faded far too quickly, and he collapsed, dead weight against the ground. For her part, Thorn felt stronger than ever, as if Mayne’s strength had been added to her own. It was a familiar sensation. It had happened once before. In the Great Crag of Droaam, she’d been wounded by a werewolf who had once been her ally. She’d touched him, and he’d fallen, just like this—as if she’d stolen his lifeforce to survive.
“But that’s not what happened here,” she whispered.
“How do you know?” The voice rang out from behind her. A woman’s voice, familiar and full of cruel mirth.
Thorn spun, her dagger in her hand. A mirror stood before her. She was dressed in a gown of black and red silks, the colors of a moonless night and fresh blood. Long boots of red leather covered her legs, and matching gloves ran up her arms; the fingertips had been removed, revealing curving nails painted with black enamel and sharpened into claws.
It’s only a dream, Thorn told herself. She’d passed out when she’d struck the ground, and she’d never seen Mayne again. They’d told her that he succumbed to his own injuries after getting her to safety—that a tiny dragonshard had found its way to his heart. But all that she knew for certain was that she’d passed out at Far Passage, and she’d never seen Mayne again.
“Who are you?” she demanded, dagger at the ready. Dream or no dream, she was ready for a fight. “What do you want?”
Her dark reflection laughed, tossing back her hair. The light caught a stone at the base of her neck, and Thorn felt a piercing pain against her own spine—
And then she was awake. Lying in her bed in Dragon Towers, the Khyber shard throbbing in her neck. She ran her fingers across the mark surrounding her right eye. It was a