The Queen of Stone: Thorn of Breland (25 page)

She emerged slowly, keeping her eyes tightly closed until she was certain there was no one around her. Opening her eyes, she examined the room. The brass mirror on the wall came as a surprise. It was a common myth that a medusa could be petrified by its own reflected gaze … then again, it would be difficult for a species to survive if they turned one another to statues. It made far more sense for the medusa to be immune to its deadly power. The only other feature of the chamber was a pit filled with fine, dark sand.

Does she bathe in it? Thorn wondered. But she discovered a greater concern—the faintest ripple in the air above the floor around the latrine, a whine just on the edge of hearing. Sheshka had considered the danger posed
by the sewers; a mystical ward lay on the surrounding floor. Odds were good that the field rose from floor to ceiling, and even in her gaseous state, Thorn was likely to set it off.

I can’t work like this, she thought. Thorn imagined a great weight spreading over her, lead flowing across her body. It was a trigger, a way to break the enchantment of the potion. As she contemplated the idea, vapor returned to flesh and blood. Her feet were set on either side of the latrine, and she struggled to maintain her balance in the wake of the disorienting sensations. Within a moment, the vertigo passed.

Kneeling carefully on the edge of the privy, Thorn studied the floor, watching for the shiver in the air that indicated the presence of magic. Steel could analyze the ward, but she didn’t need the dagger for this; she’d learned to deal with mystical countermeasures long before she’d been told to work with Steel, and she enjoyed solving the puzzle. She reached into a pocket and produced a pinch of silvery powder. She tossed it into the air, mouthing three syllables as it fell. The silver immediately vaporized, and she studied the eddies of the vanishing mist.

An alarm, she thought. The mystic field wouldn’t harm the person who touched it; they wouldn’t even notice it. But it sent a magical warning to the person it was attuned to—likely Sheshka herself. If she were sleeping, it would certainly rouse her.

Let’s do something about that, she thought. Thorn ran her fingers along the hem of her cloak, pulling on a stud and producing a length of mithral wire. Next she found a tiny vial—nightwater, fluid charged with the energies of Mabar, which had a dampening effect on many forms of magic. She considered the whirling mists she’d seen a moment ago; there were tiny gaps in the ward, and she needed to pass the probe through one of those openings. In the corner of the room above her, a tiny gray spider spun a
web as Thorn extended her wire through the invisible wall of magic. Many breaths later, it touched the floor. Thorn’s eyes were locked on the probe, but there was no spark or shimmer in the air around it; she’d been successful. Breaking the seal of the vial with her teeth, she let the nightwater flow down the wire, pooling on the floor. She saw a ripple … and then the air was still.

Thorn released her captive breath, returning the probe to her cloak. Only one more thing to do.

I hope you’re right about this, Steel.

She took the masking bag out of its pouch and pulled the hood down over her face. Pulling on the strings, she tightened it around her throat; it wouldn’t do to have it pulled free.

She felt as though she knew what was around her … but until a moment ago, she’d been able to see it, and it was still clear in her memory. She stepped down from the privy and removed Steel from his sheath.

I know you cannot see details
, he whispered in her mind.
If you need information, rub your thumb along my hilt in a circular pattern
.

She tapped the hilt once and crept toward the doorway. The door was slightly ajar, and as Thorn leaned against the wall next to the opening, she found that she could feel what lay beyond. She could sense the width of the hallway, the height of the ceiling, and the presence of a familiar smell … Sheshka, a musky odor she now recognized from their earlier meeting.

She slid through the gap without touching the doorway. The short passage held two archways, both open. One led to a larger chamber; Thorn couldn’t clearly sense what lay beyond the doorway, but the feeling of space suggested that it was the main room of the suite. The room to her right was smaller, more likely a bedroom. But she shivered as she sensed a shape in the doorway, blocking the passage. This was no wolfhound. It was easily as large as a pony, and
it could barely fit through the arch. Another distinctive smell struck her nostrils, and Thorn knew what she was facing even as Steel confirmed it.

Basilisk
, he said.

T
horn was pressed against the wall, and the beast gave no sign of detecting her. She quietly slipped Steel back into his sheath. The dagger wouldn’t solve this problem, and she needed both hands for what she had in mind. Her hood protected her from the gaze of the basilisk, but it was a massive beast with armored hide and powerful jaws; it could sever her arm with a snap. And if Sheshka were asleep, the sound would surely wake her.

But noise was an enemy Thorn could defeat.

Thorn’s cloak was an arsenal lined with weapons and tools. She had half a dozen blades to choose from, and she settled on a thin stiletto, balanced for throwing. It wouldn’t end the fight, but it was a good opening. She slipped her hand into a hidden pocket and her fingers closed around a small globe of glass.

The basilisk raised its head and grunted. Thorn froze, and the strangeness of the experience washed over her. She couldn’t actually see the creature. She didn’t know if its deadly eyes were exposed. But she could feel its motion, the shifting of displaced air as it moved its blunt, wedge-shaped head. When she tried to think about the scene, it collapsed. It was as Steel had said—her subconscious mind
understood her senses. She just had to accept it.

The beast shifted against the floor but didn’t rise to its feet. Thorn slowly removed the sphere from her cloak, and as she did so the basilisk lowered its head. She felt a slight pang as she raised the stiletto. She’d killed people before in the service of Breland—more than she cared to remember. This was a dumb brute, just a strange sort of animal. Yet it reminded her of Boros, the hound she’d had as a child. When her father was off to war, Nyrielle and her brother Nandon had spent most of their nights curled up with Boros. The basilisk wasn’t an enemy soldier or spy; it was a loyal beast protecting its mistress as she slept, as Boros had watched over her.

But this wouldn’t be the first innocent that she’d killed, man or beast—and it wouldn’t be the last. Thorn hurled the knife, hoping to hit one of the creature’s deadly eyes. Before the blade struck its target, she dashed the glass globe to the floor. The stiletto pierced the thick hide of the beast and it rose to its feet, thrashing its tail and bellowing with rage. It roared, but no sound echoed through the room.

The shattered sphere was a product of the master alchemists of Zilargo. The fluid was atomized, spreading its effect into the air when it was released. In this case, the mystical gas absorbed all sound in the area, lasting a few minutes before dispersing. It would have been useful when dealing with the harpies, but even if she’d had the sphere at hand, Thorn would have been hard-pressed to explain how Nyrielle Tam came to possess such a thing.

The basilisk was loping toward Thorn. She could feel the vibrations as its eight legs padded against the floor, and though she couldn’t see its expression, she could imagine saliva dripping from its jaws. As soon as she felt the hot breath of the beast, Thorn leaped into the air. She brushed against the rough scales of the basilisk, and even though she heard no sound, she felt its teeth click together, just
missing the hem of her cloak. By then she’d reached the apex of her jump and began to fall.

Thorn held out her hands, and Ghyrryn’s long axe shimmered into existence, the silver spear extending from the head. Locking her hands around the haft, she drove the spear through the spine of the basilisk, bringing her full weight and the velocity of the fall to the blow. The beast jerked and spun, but six of its legs weren’t moving; the battle was almost done. The convulsions threw Thorn to the side, but she kept her hands locked around the spear haft and pulled it with her. One blow with the crescent axe was all it took to end the struggles of the crippled basilisk. It shuddered for a moment, and then lay still.

Thorn could smell the creature’s blood as it spread across the floor. It would have chewed off her limbs if she’d given it the chance, but the image of Boros still lingered in her mind.

The mystical gas absorbed all sound as she crept forward, but this was a handicap. Thorn couldn’t hear anything stirring in the room ahead of her. She slid along the edge of the wall until she reached the open arch. Thorn still found it difficult to trust her newfound senses; it seemed like madness, as if she were simply guessing what lay ahead of her. But her instincts told her that a small room lay beyond the archway … and that Sheshka was stretched across a warm, round bed. She caught no scent of feathers or silk in the air, just stone, sand, and coals. And Sheshka wasn’t alone. The smaller basilisk Thorn had seen at the meeting was curled up at her feet.

A thought sent the axe back into Thorn’s glove. She drew Steel, letting her thumb trace a circle on the hilt.

The effect of the silence barely extends into the room
, Steel said.
No wards or watching eyes. A significant aura is hidden below her hand … a weapon buried in the sand, capable of causing fearsome wounds. The pendant around her neck
is a powerful source of magical energy, but I cannot identify its purpose
.

Thorn returned Steel to her sheath, then untied the masking bag and pulled it from her head. The only light in the room came from the dying embers laid around Sheshka’s sand pit. After her time in the bag, the light was dizzying. She took a moment to orient herself.

The medusa queen was stretched out on the black sand, naked except for the silver pectoral pendant that hung between her breasts. Most of her body was covered with gleaming coppery scales, but her breasts and belly were paler, slightly iridescent, like the underbelly of a true serpent. The snakes of her mane were spread out around Sheshka’s head, coiled on or around small stones scattered across the pit; their tiny black eyes gleamed in the remnants of the firelight. The basilisk, Szaj, lay next to his queen, curled up like a dog, one of its eight legs kicking slightly against the sand.

Thorn pulled up her mask to hide her lower face, and raised the hood of her cloak. Though she intended to blind Sheshka, she saw no sense in taking unnecessary risks. She hadn’t studied medusa anatomy, but most humanoid creatures had the same basic vulnerabilities. With Sheshka spread-eagled as she was, a number of nerve clusters were available to choose from. One blow should take her down for at least a minute, she reasoned. Bag her, deal with faithful Szaj, then bind her and locate Harryn.

It was a good plan. Even beyond the magical field, Thorn’s footsteps were as silent as moonlight. Szaj didn’t stir as she approached with the hood in her hands. Sheshka was resting peacefully.

But her hair wasn’t.

Thorn was halfway to the bed when she realized that one of the serpents had shifted position. The viper stared right at her. All of the snakes had their eyes open. She hesitated, and that moment of doubt saved her life. When Sheshka’s
eyes snapped open, Thorn saw only the faintest glimmer of golden light before she closed her own eyes. She leaped back and Steel was in her hand, ready to throw.

“Who dares?” Sheshka said, her voice low and deadly. She was standing, and Thorn could hear the blade in her hand as it cut through the air, and the hissing of her angry vipers. The basilisk snarled. Thorn’s intuition painted a picture in her mind. The medusa queen was standing in the middle of her sand pit, Szaj at her side, a storm of serpents writhing around her face. She held a short, curved sword—the same weapon she’d threatened Toli with.

“Be calm, great queen.” Thorn lowered her voice. It wouldn’t do to have the medusa recognize her as the Brelish attaché. “I am here to negotiate.”

Sheshka hissed, and Thorn didn’t know if it was anger or a medusa’s laughter. “Lay down your weapon, envoy, and open your eyes. Then I’ll hear your plea, if you have voice left to speak.”

As angry as she was, Sheshka had not attacked, and the basilisk remained at her side. Curiosity or concern, this was promising.

“I will not surrender without a fight, Queen Sheshka. And believe me, you do not want that battle.”

“And why is that, assassin? You think you can best me with your eyes shut? Once I have crippled you, I will cut away your eyelids.” Sheshka’s serpents hissed in strange patterns, one after the other; it was a strange and distracting sound.

“I’m sure that I can’t defeat you, mighty Sheshka. But I assure you of one thing.” As she spoke, she threw Steel toward the ceiling, then plucked the spinning dagger from the air. Now Sheshka knew Thorn could fight without her eyes. She was surrendering a tactical advantage, but she didn’t want to fight. “Should we cross blades, I
will
kill Szaj.”