The Fading Dream_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [38]
But it didn’t.
She could see the damage. A drop of water then another fell onto his face, and as they slid down his cheeks, they dug ugly furrows, flesh and blood seeming to evaporate at the touch, tearing holes though his cheeks until she could see tooth and gum. Yet as quickly as the flesh dissolved, it reformed. The ugly gashes knit themselves together without leaving even a scar. It was clear that the experience was terribly painful; Drix was moaning quietly, trembling as he worked with the cloth. But he was alive.
It’s the stone, Thorn realized. Just as it had healed the cut from Oargev’s dagger, it was protecting him from the painful rain. It was amazing but it was clear that he was in agony. At last he finished wrapping the tube and collapsed to the floor. The flow of water had almost completely stopped.
Thorn knelt down beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You did it,” she whispered.
He moaned slightly and laid his head against her shoulder. He was still trembling. Cadrel’s globe of cold fire faded, and Thorn could see that the stone in Drix’s chest was glowing slightly, an orb of light beneath his shirt.
“Amazing,” Cadrel whispered.
Drix moaned again. Outside, the thunder roared and the rain kept pouring down.
CHAPTER NINE
The Mournland
Barrakas 24, 999 YK
Hours passed. The rain slowed but never enough to let them leave. Drix silently fiddled with the pieces of his little crossbow. His wounds were completely healed, but he was still shivering and didn’t want to talk.
“Would you like to hear a story?” Cadrel said.
“Hmm?” Thorn said, turning her drifting attention back to the bard.
“A story,” he said. “It’s what I used to do, you know. I’ve just remembered one that you might find interesting. And I’d be quite interested to hear your thoughts on it, Marudrix.”
The tinker looked up. “I’d love a story. Can you put a crossbow in it?”
“This isn’t one of my own,” Cadrel said. “No, this is an old tale, older than Galifar itself. A story of the elves. And I wonder if it might have something to do with the people we’re going to see.”
“Let’s hear it,” said Thorn.
Cadrel took a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice was low and resonant, filling the hole. “Have you ever wondered why elves don’t sleep?
“When the world was young and Eberron still spoke to her children, the land belonged to the giants, and the worst of all the giants was the Titan King Cul’sir. His heart was filled with greed. There was no treasure he did not covet, and his power was great. The smaller creatures hid in fear of mighty Cul’sir. The goblins cowered in the deepest caverns. The dwarves climbed the highest mountains. The gnomes hid in the darkest woods. There was only one race that had no fear of the giants: the elder elves, oldest of the old.”
“I’m guessing elves wrote this story?” Thorn said.
Cadrel gave her a reproachful look and continued.
“The elder elves had no fear, for they had been granted gifts by the Sovereigns and dominion over many things. Summer. Winter. Joy. Dreams. No one giant—not even the Titan King—could match this power. This arrogance was their undoing, for their treasures merely drew the eyes of the greedy Cul’sir. Alone, he could never have challenged an elven citadel. But he assembled the first army of giants, and he brought it to the City of Song and Silence. Had they been silent and hidden, he might have passed by unknowing. Instead, their voices were raised in joyous sound, and so the giants found them, butchered them, and enslaved those few that they spared, stripping them of their magic and mixing their blood with mud. Six elven cities remained, and the lords of the six cities gathered around a silver tree—”
“They probably gathered in the tree,” Drix said. He’d set down the crossbow and was listening intently.
“I told you, Drix. It’s not my story.”
“Oh, I know. But I’ve been there.