The Fading Dream_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [90]
“What was that?” she said.
“When we were on our way here, I tried to fill the shards with energy from this stone in my heart,” he said. “Honestly, I wasn’t sure what it would do. But I always knew this little one would save me some day.”
“And I’m certainly glad it did,” Thorn said, calling Steel back to her hand.
“She,” Drix said. “She’s a crossbow, you know.”
“Of course she is,” Thorn said. She was still shaken by the fight. It was troubling enough that the woman had surprised her … How had Thorn missed that first blow? She traced a cross on Steel’s hilt.
There’s nothing I can tell you, Steel said. There’s too much ambient magical energy. I’m afraid you’re on your own.
Drix suddenly paused, looking up from his crossbow. “Did you hear that?” he whispered.
Thorn froze. “What?”
“Are there insects in here?”
Thorn saw it before he did. “No,” she said. “Words.”
Letters were crawling between the pages of the unfinished books, ideas searching for homes.
“That’s wonderful,” Drix said. He knelt down by the Elven symbols for love. “Perhaps we should take some of them with us.”
“I don’t think so,” Thorn murmured, pulling him back to his feet. “In my line of work, you learn pretty fast that the wrong word can be deadly. And the last thing we need right now is for you to find some explosive runes creeping around. Which way to the stones?”
Drix pointed.
“Follow behind me and keep quiet,” she whispered.
The hallway leading out of the scriptorium was dry and dusty, with cobwebs stretched across loose cobblestones. There was light around the corner and a wealth of sound after the silent vault: crackling fires, all manner of bubbling liquids, a clatter of metal against metal. She smelled rich spices, seared meats … a kitchen. But no sounds of chattering cooks, no feet against the floor or ladles stirring. Indicating that Drix should wait, Thorn slipped into the room.
It was the largest kitchen she’d ever been in, certainly equipped to serve a king or an army. Meats sizzled in fire pits and on long grills. There were rows of cauldrons filled with bubbling liquids. Vegetables were heaped alongside an impressive array of carving knives. There were no signs of either cooks or guards. Yet something about the kitchen troubled her more than the bloody stairs. It was the same sensation she’d felt in the Mournland, of doubt creeping in around her. She found herself wondering what was actually in those giant copper cauldrons. That was certainly a bone that just bumped against the edge, but what sort of bone was it? What about the herbs she could smell in the air? Was it possible they might be—
Her train of thought was interrupted by Drix coming into the room. “Candied sardaroots!” he cried happily, grabbing a handful from a brass bowl. He managed to get one into his mouth before she slapped them out of his hand.
“What are you doing?” she hissed. That damned stone, she thought. He’s got no sense of caution anymore.
“Eating,” he said, surprised. “I don’t do it often, but I it’s been so long since I’ve seen a sardaroot, and the smell was so wonderful, and—”
His eyes widened. She looked down, following his gaze, and took an involuntary step back. The sardaroots she’d knocked to the floor were squirming, writhing around on the floor, like plump, candied lampreys. One shifted, and Thorn saw a tiny, toothy maw working at one end.
Drix cried out and dropped to his knees, hands clutching his stomach. His eyes widened and he looked up at Thorn.
It may save his life, but it doesn’t stop the pain, she thought.
She pushed him down to the ground, ripping open his doublet. The crystal heart was pulsing with light, and Drix was moaning in agony. He reached out, clawing at his stomach, and Thorn only hesitated for a moment before driving Steel into his flesh. He screamed but Thorn could hear Steel’s mental voice over the tinker’s cries.
To the left. And deeper.
With Steel’s guidance, it was quickly done. She tore the grub-root out of his gut and crushed it. Drix lay on the ground moaning as his flesh knit itself