The Queen of Stone_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [36]
“We did not steal our realm from Cyre. Our ancestors held that ground thousands of years before humans first set foot on Khorvaire. It was ours by right.”
“Oh, I see,” Thorn said. “Your ancestors—those great heroes whose blood you treasure—conquered the land long ago. And then what happened? They were chased back to Aerenal by goblins, weren’t they?”
“Dragons,” Vordalyn said, nearly snarling. “Dragons attacked our homeland, and we had to leave Khorvaire to the goblins. My ancestors ran toward battle, not away from it.”
“Thousands of years ago. And you’ve been meaning to come back ever since, but you waited until a civil war was going on and you could stab someone in the back. I understand. Your blood’s just not as strong as it was. You wouldn’t want a real challenge.”
Vordalyn hissed and his blade rose an inch. Thorn wasn’t worried. Vordalyn couldn’t attack her without causing an international incident. He’d spent the last few days trying to provoke someone else into starting a fight. But if Vordalyn struck the first blow, it would be disastrous, and he knew it.
“My ancestors gave their word,” he growled. “They would not return to this land until they were asked. The Queen of Cyre called us across the water. She freed us from that oath, and freed us to reclaim our heritage.”
“Yes … freed you to betray a weakened nation. Is that what those glorious ancestors of yours did? Would they be so proud of what you’ve done? Do you suppose your children will look back and say, ‘I treasure the memory of my father, who always turned on his trusting allies?’”
Vordalyn rose in a blur of motion, his blade a gleaming streak as he brought himself on guard. His eyes were locked on Thorn’s. She didn’t flinch or even move—she just smiled at him. On either side, the gnolls had drawn their weapons. Jharl had an arrow to his bowstring, and Ghyrryn raised his axe.
“Sit down,” Ghyrryn said. “We need only protect delegates. You can be fought.”
It was the wrong thing to say to a warrior in search of release; Thorn could see Vordalyn tensing in preparation. He wanted the gnolls to attack him, to have some excuse to release his anger.
“And what tales will your children tell of this day?” she said, her words low and fast. “Is this the day their father threatened a servant and killed those who sought to protect her? Shall we get someone to paint a portrait?”
Vordalyn’s scimitar was poised in the air above her. Jharl had drawn back his bow, and Ghyrryn was ready to strike. Drego Sarhain was watching, but Thorn didn’t expect him to reveal his magical powers to the Brelish and gnolls in order to defend her; whatever had passed between them at the Duurwood camp, they were agents of different nations, and he had a mission of his own.
Vordalyn sat down, sheathing his scimitar. Something shifted in the air. A silk cloth attached to Vordalyn’s helmet fluttered, and he pulled it across to hide his lower face, leaving only his eyes exposed. He immediately closed his eyes, retreating into private meditation. No apology, certainly. But under the circumstances, Thorn was content with the victory. On the other side of the wagon, Drego Sarhain winked at her, and Minister Luala actually smiled.
The travelers had been together for six days, and small talk had been exhausted. Had the Brelish been in a wagon of their own, Toli or Beren might have been more talkative, but Toli had no intention of revealing anything in the presence of the Thranes. In the beginning, Drego had told stories to pass the time. But Toli and Vordalyn had no interest in the heroes of the Silver Flame, and it was a poor setting to share war stories. Vordalyn’s aggressive comments had driven the conversation for the last few days, and since he had finally backed down, silence reigned in the wagon.
Thorn didn’t mind. She