The Queen of Stone_ Thorn of Breland - Keith Baker [95]
Sheshka leaned close to the petrified knight. It was the image Thorn had seen on the last page of the golden book—the knight standing before the griffin, the hydra with its heads coiled above the medusa. Sheshka pressed her lips against Harryn’s neck, and stone became metal and flesh.
Thorn waited. The instant she saw the change, she grabbed the man’s arm, pulling him out of the petrifying trap. He followed, confused, staggering in his heavy armor.
“Sheshka!” Thorn shouted.
The petrification glyphs have been restored, Steel said.
Thorn spun around, barely remembering to close her eyes. Sheshka tumbled into her, and the two fell to the ground. Although she’d lost her balance, she was still flesh and blood. The medusa’s snakes hissed and snapped at the air. Steel scolded her for trusting their fate to Sheshka’s hands. Caught between them, eyes squeezed shut, Thorn found herself laughing … something she’d had little opportunity to do in Droaam. She continued to chuckle as Sheshka pulled free, struggling to regain her footing and her dignity. To her surprise, the medusa queen extended a hand and helped pull Thorn to her feet.
“Thank you,” she told the medusa. “You could have just left me—you promised only to restore Harryn.”
“You have spilled the blood of my enemies. You called to me when I stood on Dolurrh’s doorway. You were not born in my egg-clutch, and I offer nothing to your nation. But you are my sister, Thorn.” Her voice was weary, and the motions of her vipers were sluggish. It seemed that the act of restoration was an effort for her.
Thorn pulled back her hood and drew down the mask covering her lower face. “It’s Nyrielle,” she said. “Nyrielle of Breland.”
If Sheshka was surprised, she gave no sign of it. “I am honored by your trust, Nyrielle Tam. But it is as Thorn that you saved my life. And it is Thorn who must face the road ahead. You have your prize. Now you must decide what to do with him.”
It seemed strange that the knight had remained silent throughout her conversation with Sheshka. On the other hand, he didn’t know her, and he was undoubtedly confused. She turned to speak to him, but her voice died before it left her tongue.
Harryn Stormblade stood before her. At least, his body did. His face was as blank and expressionless as it had been when it was cast in stone. His eyes were unfocused, staring vaguely ahead.
Thorn took a step toward him, gently waving a hand before his face. No reaction. “Harryn?” she said. “Lord Stormblade, can you hear me?”
Nothing. He stood up straight, and he’d followed when Thorn had pulled his arm. But there was nothing to suggest that a single conscious thought floated in his head.
“You said a few centuries wouldn’t hurt him,” Thorn said as she drew Steel, holding him out toward the placid warrior.
“I said that mere centuries of imprisonment would leave no mark on the soul,” Sheshka said, and there was true sorrow in her lovely voice. “It has not. You see him as I saw him last, so many years ago.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Stormblade and I … we knew each other for a time. Centuries ago. I was young, and I sought adventure and excitement as all youths do. There was darkness in the land, and while it could not threaten Cazhaak Draal, I had followed it south. I met Harryn. In another time, we might have been enemies, but he had a different quest.” Sheshka’s eyes were closed and her serpents were very still; they were draped down around her shoulders, so still that they could have been mistaken for hair. “I let fear gain the upper hand and I parted our ways before he faced his final foe. The next time I saw him, he was in this condition.”
“And it didn’t occur to you to mention this earlier?