The Fading Dream_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [50]
The ice lord hissed and started to rise, but Tira raised her hand, and he returned to his seat. She looked at Thorn, her eyes gleaming beneath her veil. “We are lords and ladies of the Faerie Court. Each among us holds dominion over a realm within perfect Thelanis, or consorts with the ruler of such a realm.”
“So what brings you here?” Cadrel said.
Tira’s eyes flashed. “Human, you are only in this place out of respect for those you travel with. Speak out of turn, and I will sew your mouth shut with a glance.”
Cadrel raised his hands in a placating gesture. “My apologies, Lady. As a storyteller myself, I have heard many tales of your land and your people; my curiosity got the best of my manners. Please, continue.”
“Thelanis and your world have always been closely bound. Surely you know that there are times and places where it is possible to pierce the veil that lies between the two. So it is with our spires. Long, long ago our cities fell from Thelanis into this world. The first of our rulers met with the dragons, who at that time were the rulers of Eberron. We exchanged gifts, formed bonds between our people. And the Silver Tree became the bond between our worlds, a living link that would hold the two together.”
“So why haven’t we heard of you before now?” Thorn said.
“We made our pact with the dragons before humans had learned to speak, before the race of elves even existed. And we spent but a little time in this world, as you measure things. As the moons wax and wane, so it is with the planes. When all things were in proper alignment, our spires would fall from Thelanis to your world, and when the influence changed, we would return to the realm of our birth.”
“So you come and go,” Thorn said. “That still doesn’t explain how the Cyrans missed the enormous tree city shifting in and out of alignment.”
Tira nodded. “Trusting as we were, we had no fear of this world. And this cost us dearly. Seven cities came to this world. One was destroyed long ago, sacked and leveled by the giants who rose to power when the dragons fell back to their lairs in Argonnessen. A second fell in battle. You see the representatives of the five surviving spires before you.”
“Only one fell in battle?” Cadrel said. “How did that happen? Surely you all fought to—”
He never finished the sentence. The Lady of the Silver Tree gazed at him, her eyes blazing, and his voice died in his throat. “I warned you once. I did not call you here, human.”
“But you called me here,” Thorn said, “and he is with me.”
“And for that reason I shall restore his voice when we are done here and not before.”
Thorn considered protesting, but a glance around the room changed her mind. It was clear that Cadrel had touched a nerve; all of the fey were watching him, eyes burning with anger. “Very well, then,” she said. “Two of the spires fell. And so …”
“Most of us realized that your world held nothing for us but danger and ill fortune,” Tira said. “And so we wove a great glamour, a cloak that spread out from the roots of the Silver Tree to conceal every branch. Your kingdoms rose around us, but the power of the glamour kept them from ever building too close to us or from seeing our spires when they fell back to your world. A few individuals found us, yes, and through these few, we formed bonds to your world. But we were content to watch from afar, seeing your kingdoms rise and fall.”
If this is true, the power is remarkable, Steel whispered. A spell channeled through a single focus, cloaking a half dozen cities for thousands of years. It seems improbable but we know the giants of Xen’drik possessed magic we have yet to replicate, and the power of Argonnessen is legendary. But what does this have to do with the Mourning?
“So what went wrong?” Thorn asked.
“He did.” Tira looked at Drix. “Just years ago as you measure time—a mere moment to us—my son was hunting with us. He drew ahead of us, but I had no fear; my sight is strong, and I’d seen no danger.” She looked at the ground. “My sight is strong, but the future is never certain.