The Queen of Stone_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [35]
Thorn couldn’t muster the energy to laugh at the old man’s joke, but she managed a smile. “I think I have some Talentan spices in my bag. I do need to take care of my ambassador, after all. Give me a moment to gather my thoughts and I’ll see what I can find.”
“Bless you, child.” Beren beamed. He stood and helped Thorn to her feet. “Olladra smiled when she brought our paths together.”
“Yes, I’m sure she did,” Thorn replied. Even as she bowed her head to acknowledge the Sovereigns’ favor, the words of the dream echoed in her mind. I am greater than any of your gods. Now we will see what path your people take when this pillar is broken.
When she opened her eyes, she saw Drego Sarhain staring at her from across the camp.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Jul Kartaal Droaam
Eyre 18, 998 YK
It is always a question of blood,” the elf said, running a whetstone along the edge of his gleaming scimitar. “Our blood is a thing to be treasured, our bond to the powers of the past. To abandon such a gift to go worship a bonfire … I can see why you won’t speak. There are no words to defend such an action.”
The speaker was Saer Vordalyn, a warrior from the kingdom of Valenar. After the attack at Korlaak Pass, the gnolls had reassigned passengers to the remaining carriages. And so Breland and Thane had been blessed with Vordalyn’s company for the last five days, a gift that had made the journey an exceptionally trying time.
The elves of Valenar thrived on conflict in all forms and believed that by fighting, they honored their fallen ancestors. They’d come to Khorvaire as mercenaries during the Last War, only to turn on their Cyran paymasters and lay claim to that kingdom. In the years that followed, they’d sold their services to all sides. While few generals trusted them, the Valenar were, without question, deadly soldiers.
Vordalyn was certainly interested in fighting, whether with steel or words. He’d spent the last five days probing his traveling companions, searching for any sign of weakness or any subject that proved uncomfortable. Minister Luala was his target of choice; she was an elf living among humans, and she had set aside the traditions of her ancestors to follow the Silver Flame. Vordalyn seemed determined to provoke her into breaking her vow of silence, but so far his barbs had shattered against her serenity. The minister simply smiled at his jibes, which in turn pushed the warrior to try harder. This blunt opening was surely just the beginning of a more elaborate and insulting scheme.
Vordalyn watched Luala as he sharpened his blade. The weapon was already honed to a razor edge; it was said that the swords of the Valenar could draw blood from the wind. Thorn suspected that this was just another tactic in Vordalyn’s little game. The presence of the naked blade set the bodyguards on edge, while the sound of stone on steel was grating to all. Thorn found it particularly annoying. It might have been her imagination, but the grinding triggered the pain in her skull, the crystal shard grating against bone.
“I don’t know, Vordalyn,” Thorn said. “I don’t think so much of your blood.”
The elf turned to face her, a slight smile on his lips. “That’s hardly surprising. Clearly your ancestors had little self-regard, to carelessly mingle the blood of two races. Do you even know who it was who brought elven blood into your line, or are you a mongrel with no history to speak of?”
“My mother was an elf,” Thorn said. “She came to my father after the Valenar turned on Cyre. She told him that it was impossible to wipe that betrayal away, and that she’d rather destroy her bloodline than pass such treachery on to another generation.”
This was a lie. Thorn’s mother was an elf of Southern Aerenal, with no ties to the warriors of the north. Thorn had only the faintest memories of her mother, and