The City of Towers: The Dreaming Dark - Book I (19 page)

“I am here for Rasial Tarkanan,” Korlan said, glaring down at his enemy. “You will tell me where he is, and you will tell me what dealings you have had with him.”

“I’m afraid I have other plans.”

It was difficult to read the man’s expression. His face was a horrid mask of raw, wet muscle, and his eyes were sunk deep within his sockets. If he was afraid of Korlan and the flames, he did not show it.

“It wasn’t a request,” Korlan said.

He couldn’t unleash the full force of his burning hands without setting the tent alight, but he’d found that his fiery touch had a way of changing opinions, and he reached for the flayed man’s shoulder.

The man moved with astonishing speed, darting down and slamming into Korlan. He was unnaturally strong for his size, and Korlan was thrown back against the side of the tent. Snarling, he rose to his feet, intending to release the full fire he held within. Bal had wanted answers, but there would be other sources.

But as he raised his burning hands, there was a blur before him. His enemy’s tongue snapped out of his mouth, stretching across the space between them. Pain stabbed his throat, and as the tongue withdrew Korlan saw a vicious barb protruding from the tip. A cold chill spread across his body, numbing
his nerves and extinguishing the flames. His legs refused to respond to his brain, and he fell. Within seconds he was completely paralyzed, unable to do anything but watch as his foe came toward him.

“I am pleased to see that Rasial’s former friends are looking for him,” the skinless man said. Korlan could not even cringe as the man produced a long knife. With one smooth motion the stranger cut open Korlan’s jerkin, revealing his torso and the aberrant mark that covered his left breast. “Lovely.”

The man smiled, revealing a mouth filled with bloody teeth. He stepped out of Korlan’s field of vision. Korlan heard others enter the tent, but he couldn’t turn his head to look.

“Take him below,” the man said. He came back into view, leering at Korlan with his ruined face. “I’m afraid I have business elsewhere, but my associates will see that you are reunited with young Rasial. I thank you for your contribution to our cause.”

I
n the early days of Sharn, Togran Square had been a center for commerce. The tents of merchants from across Khorvaire and more exotic lands had filled the open plaza. The plaza was still filled with tents, but the richly decorated cloth had been replaced by patched oilskin. There were hundreds of Cyran refugees in the city, and many of them lived in this makeshift village. After the destruction of Cyre, Breland was the only nation that agreed to provide shelter to the refugees, and many Cyrans had made the long journey south in hopes of reconnecting with relatives that had been established in Sharn before the war. They’d arrived to find that Cyrans and other non-Brelish citizens had been relocated to the ghetto of High Walls and stripped of their livelihood. Like Daine, most of these refugees arrived in Sharn with only the clothes on their backs. In this tent town, nobles and peasants were all alike.

Dozens of people studied Daine as he made his way to the large black tent in the center of the square. Some nodded respectfully, but an equal number seemed sullen or even resentful.

“Not what I’d call a hero’s welcome,” Jode observed.

“Do you see any heroes?” Daine looked into the eyes of the angry refugees and wondered where they had been three years ago, what war had stolen from each of them. “We lost.”

Jode wore his one piece of festive attire—a jaunty burgundy flat cap, embroidered with a spiderweb pattern portrayed in a
rainbow of colors. In addition to adding a touch of flair to his drab military leather, the cap hid his dragonmark from view.

“It looks like all the good spaces have been taken,” he said, studying the tents. “I was hoping to get a good view of one of the rubbish fires when we set up a tent of our own.”

Jode was trying to make light of the situation, but he had a point. Unless they completed the job for Alina, they might be living in here in a week.

“If we must, we can pawn something else,” Daine said. His dagger, Lei’s pack … they had a few valuable items left, even if Daine hated the idea of putting these treasures at risk.

“You have to wonder, though,” said Jode, “if we were to buy a tent of our own, what’s to stop us from getting a black one? And if we did get a black tent, Councilor Teral couldn’t tell people to come to the black tent. Do you think he’d do something about it?”

As it turned out, Teral’s tent was difficult to miss. Color aside, it towered over the surrounding tents, and the flag of Cyre was flying from the central post. A squat, balding dwarf stood by the entrance. He bowed as they approached and opened the flap.

“Teral is expecting you,” he said.

Cloth walls divided the interior into rooms. The entry chamber seemed to double as a dining hall and servants’ quarters, and tattered bedrolls were stacked against the walls. A low, round table dominated the center of the room, and six people were already seated on the floor around it—Teral, an old half-elven woman with a child, two young men who appeared to be identical twins, and a woman in her thirties who wore a patch over one eye.

Councilor Teral rose to his feet and slowly made his way around the table, leaning on a gnarled cane.

“Ah, Captain Daine! You are welcome in my house.”

Age and injury had both taken their toll on the former councilor. He favored his right foot, and the tip of a large, puckered scar could be seen at the left side of his throat. Despite these infirmities, he moved with calm confidence, and his voice was warm and soothing.

Jode stepped forward and bowed. “Truly, the honor is ours.” He smiled as he rose. “But I have to ask. Should you really call it a house? ‘Home’ is certainly a broad term. I’ve seen homes that really were just holes in a wall, but somehow I’ve always thought that it wasn’t a house if you could cut through the walls.”

Daine reached down and grabbed Jode’s collar, yanking him back. “I trust you remember Jode, my healer. As he said, it is we who are honored by the invitation, Lord ir’Soras.”

“Please, Daine. Just Teral. I have no estates any more, and we are all equals in this community.”

“Except your servants?” Jode said, as a young woman emerged from one of the flaps with bread for the table.

Daine gave him a rap on the head. “My apologies.”

“No, it’s a simple misunderstanding. There are no servants here. I am an old man, but there are those who respect what I have done for Cyre in the past and my attempts to unify the survivors today. I don’t know what I would do without Olalia, Karris, and the others.” He smiled at the young woman, who inclined her head and disappeared into the back of the tent. Despite Teral’s reassurances, she did not speak, and she avoided eye contact with the visitors.

Teral shuffled back to the table and sat down. “Now please, join us and introduce yourselves. I try to dine with different people each night. Our people are all that remains of our proud nation, and we must come together if we are going to survive.”

Daine sat next to Teral, and the other soldiers spread around the table. Pierce stood behind Daine. “I have no need of sustenance,” he said. “I prefer to stand.”

The other guests glanced at one another. “That’s fine,” Daine said. Bowing his head slightly, he continued, “This is my comrade Pierce, who served our nation as a scout and skirmisher. I am Daine, and until the tragedy I held the rank of captain in the southern command.”

The one-eyed woman sitting to Teral’s left smiled at that. She appeared to be slightly older than Daine. Her golden brown hair was tied back in a long ponytail that fell down to her hips. A maze of fine scars ran back to her torn right ear. She
was dressed in a brown blouse and breeches, patched with green cloth. “And do you have a family name, Captain Daine?”

“I prefer Daine.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

Teral nodded toward the woman. “Greykell was also an officer of the southern command. Perhaps you know one another?”

Daine studied the woman. She grinned, and then it came to him. “The laughing wolf?”

“I prefer Greykell,” she said, her smile widening. Born to one of the lesser noble families of Cyre, she was one of the few female captains in the southern command and was known for her brilliantly unorthodox strategies, dogged tenacity, and ability to inspire her troops. Some said she showed too much mercy to the enemy, but mercy had always been a Cyran virtue, and the Queen had praised her behavior. She rubbed her chin thoughtfully, studying Daine in turn. “Let’s see. Daine. You fought on the Valenar front, didn’t you? And what was it I’d heard? Before you joined the guard, you—?”

“Could I get something to drink?” Daine said. “I’m parched.”

“My apologies,” said Teral. “Olalia!” He clapped his hands and the server returned, carrying a clay pitcher. “I’m afraid we only have water, Captain. My table is a humble one.”

“Company matters more than the mead,” said Daine.

The serving girl carefully filled his cup with water. She seemed to be trembling slightly.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

Teral touched the girl’s arm and she flinched, almost dropping the pitcher. She made no sound.

“Olalia has suffered grievously these last few years. She lived in the village of Callol. Have you heard of it? It was captured by the Darguuls a little over two years ago, and she and her family were taken. After the disaster struck, she escaped into the ruins of Cyre, and I found her there when I was searching for survivors. It’s been hard to tell what was done by the goblins and what happened to her in the Mournland. But I know she had to watch her brothers die, and …” He took her hand, but she kept her eyes down on the floor. “Show them, Olalia,” he said gently.

Slowly, Olalia looked up. She pulled back her lips, and Jode gasped. Olalia’s teeth and gums were sculpted from black marble. The two fair-haired twins sitting across the table laughed, but Greykell glared at them and they fell silent.

“What …?” said Daine.

“Her mouth has been turned to stone,” Teral explained. “Teeth, gums, tongue, and much of the muscle. She can open her mouth just enough to drink. Terrible, I know, but fascinating, don’t you think?”

“How did this happen?” Daine said.

Olalia looked away and kept her silence. Her skin was even paler than Lei’s, and she had short black hair and dark eyes. Strangely, Daine found himself thinking that her teeth matched her eyes.

“I don’t know for certain,” Teral said. “She can’t speak, and as far as I know, she’s illiterate. My thought was some sort of torture—cockatrice blood, activated through sorcery and dripped in the mouth. But it could have just been some effect of the Mournland itself.”

Daine nodded. They had seen strange and terrible things during the time they spent in Cyre—far worse things than a stone tongue. She’d been lucky. “I’m sorry,” he said to her. “But I’m glad that you’re alive.”

Olalia refused to meet his gaze.

“You may go,” Teral said, and she returned to the kitchen without looking back.

There was a moment of silence following Olalia’s departure, then Teral broke one of the loaves of bread and passed it around. “You’ll see far worse sights here, I’m afraid,” he said quietly. “Many of those caught in the wake of the Mourning suffered in some way—either in mind or body.” His eyes dipped toward his injured leg and his scar. “I was one of the lucky ones.”

“I think the Mourning is the best thing that could have happened to us,” said one of the twins.

The two men across the table appeared to be identical. Both were humans, in their late twenties, dressed in identical drab green clothes. Lanky blond hair fell to their shoulders. But what caught Daine’s attention were the speaker’s eyes. They
were the palest shade of blue he’d ever seen, and the man never blinked.

“And
I
think you’re an idiot, Monan,” Greykell said, striking the man above the nose with a well-placed chunk of bread.

“It’s Hugal.”

“No, it’s not. You’re just saying that because you think I can’t tell the difference between you.”

“Can you?” The man’s smirk wavered.

“You’ll never know, will you?”

Lei interrupted. “How could you possibly say that the destruction of our homeland has helped us?” She had grown increasingly moody as they’d pushed through the mobs of refugees to reach Teral’s tent, and her voice was low and hard.

Monan smiled and made a mock bow while seated. “I was beginning to wonder if you could speak or if you were stone-mouthed too. I am Monan Desal, and this is my brother Hugal.”

“I am Lei d—” Lei broke off, catching herself. She had removed her Cannith ring, and her dragonmark was hidden from view.

“Leida? A lovely name.”

“Back off,” Daine growled.

Lei flushed and glared at Daine before turning back to Monan. “You didn’t answer my question. How could you possibly believe that the Mourning was a good thing?”

Monan was distracted by the arrival of the meal—tribex stew seasoned with selas leaves. Teral may have considered the meal humble fare, but after six months of tasteless gruel, it was a true delight. The twins pounced on the stew like starving men, and it was Teral who finally answered Lei’s question.