The Queen of Stone_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [47]
Luala nodded, but her eyes were clouded. The encounter with Warlord Zaeurl was weighing heavily upon her. Drego grinned. “I trust our paths will cross sooner rather than later, my lady.”
Thorn made her way through the crowd, pushing past ogre and goblin alike. An armored warrior turned toward her as she approached. His head was a bleached skull, and points of gleaming fire burned in the sockets.
“Karrns,” she muttered, moving around the undead soldier. All things considered, it was a good choice for a bodyguard. Animated by magic, it didn’t need to sleep and couldn’t be enchanted by the magic of a harpy’s voice. The idea made her shiver—she’d never been comfortable with the walking dead.
She found Beren and Toli still talking with the medusa. The reptilian woman stood half a head taller than Thorn, and her mane made her seem even taller. The serpents that made up her hair were stretched up in the air, peering around to study Beren. The medusa wore a silver collar with a long pectoral ornament; a Khyber dragonshard was embedded in the pendant, and the large purple gem pulsed with a faint inner light. From her jewelry, her posture, and Beren’s interest in the conversation, Thorn guessed that this was Sheshka, the medusa who’d petrified Harryn Stormblade and whose kiss she’d need to free him—if she managed to locate the statue.
Sheshka’s death is an acceptable loss, provided Breland can’t be blamed for it. Those were Steel’s words back in Graywall. Thorn fought the urge to draw Steel; she was dying to know what wards were shielding Sheshka. But guards stood everywhere in the banquet hall, and drawing a dagger near one of the leading lights of the nation didn’t seem like the right move at a diplomatic gathering. She held her position behind Sheshka, listening to the conversation.
“… that we can settle this between ourselves during this gathering,” the medusa said. “If not, you would be welcome in Cazhaak Draal.”
“A generous offer.” Beren raised an eyebrow. “But what would your Sovereigns say about it?”
“The Daughters of Sora Kell have done much for the people of Droaam.” The medusa had a musical voice with a pronounced sibilance; her syllables flowed together in a hypnotic song. “They have shown savages the value of civilization, and taught petty tyrants that there is more to life than dominating a wretched pack of goblin slaves. But my people have never been savages or slavers. I am a queen in my own right, Lord Beren, and I held the granite throne centuries before the Daughters came to us. Droaam is stronger today than it was at the start of your Last War. But I am the Queen of Stone, and I will choose the path of my people.”
Interesting, Thorn thought. She’d missed the start of the conversation, but nonetheless … back at the Duurwood, Zaeurl’s children told the gnolls that there were warlords whose interests clashed with those of the Daughters. Sheshka’s name had been mentioned. Could the medusa have been connected to the attack on the bridge? Suddenly, the idea of her death being an acceptable loss seemed more appealing.
“I’ll bear that in mind, Queen Sheshka. Let us speak on it tomorrow—”
Beren noticed Thorn as he was talking. His expression barely shifted; she detected the slightest acknowledgement, the merest shift in his eyes. But Sheshka noticed. Her serpents hissed softly as she turned to face the newcomer. She wore no hood or veil—nothing to cover her deadly gaze—and although Thorn knew that Beren was still healthy, she instinctively glanced away. Never look at a medusa. Everyone knew that.
“Noble Sheshka,” Beren said, “This is my aide, Nyrielle Tam.”
“Charming,” Sheshka said. If a serpent could sing, it would hope for such a voice. “Young. Look at me, child. Let me see your eyes.”
I don’t think Beren is worried that I’ll be petrified, Thorn thought. She raised her head to face the medusa queen.
Sheshka’s eyes were closed. The serpents were coiled around