you, and we can use that
.
“Not tonight, Flamebearer Sarhain,” she said, pulling her hand free. She smiled at him. “You’ll have to convert me first.”
He slid down to the ground, placing his hand over his heart and giving a heavy sigh. Thorn turned her back on him and walked toward the Brelish pavilion.
C HAPTER E LEVEN
The Duurwood Camp Droaam
Eyre 13, 998 YK
T he brilliant light of the moons made it difficult to sleep. Thorn remembered seeing four full moons in the sky when she was a child, marveling at the multihued light they cast across the land. The moons waxed and waned at different rates, and now Dravago and Nymm were growing wider and brighter. Within a few nights, six of the twelve moons would be full.
While Thorn had little interest in history and the academic significance of such events, the topic had come up on the long wagon ride. Drego explained that over two centuries had passed since the last such spectacle. It was a natural wonder, but for Thorn it was simply annoying. She was a restless sleeper at the best of times, and the shimmering light was too much. She pulled her blanket up over her head. It was scratchy and hot, but anything was better than the glare.
The darkness was a blessing, but Thorn’s thoughts were troubled. The campfire spat and crackled, and the sounds mingled with images of the battle with the harpies—the crushed corpses at the bottom of the gorge and the smell of blood. Thorn tried to push the thoughts away, but the charnel stench grew stronger with each moment. She heardmoans, sobs, and distant cries of pain. She was certain it was all in her imagination; it was too distant, too faint, and she’d heard no sounds of battle.
Then she heard the sound of a steel blade shifting in a mailed fist, the rasping noise of armor plates brushing against one another. A soldier in full plate mail, and only a few steps away from her. Thorn threw aside the blanket and rose to her feet, reaching for Steel.
But Steel wasn’t at her side. And she wasn’t in the camp anymore. Wagons, tents, even the others who had been sleeping around her—were nowhere to be seen. She couldn’t even say if it was still night, because the sky was filled with thick clouds of smoke, reflecting the light from fires burning across the land before her.
She saw that she was dressed in a gown of red and black glamerweave, better suited to the ballroom than the battlefield. Illusions had been woven into the cloth, giving the red pigments the liquid intensity of fresh blood. Red leather covered her arms and legs: thigh-high boots stretched up beneath her skirts, and gloves rose past her elbows. The fingertips of the gloves were open, revealing long, curved nails painted with black enamel. The only familiar aspect of the scene was the pain at the base of her skull; the upper gem was throbbing against her flesh.
Everything was different, yet somehow it was familiar. Had she been here before?
She’d been right about the sound. The man was wearing full armor, and he clutched a longsword in his outstretched right hand. But he was sprawled on the ground, his beautiful armor covered with mud and ash. The sound of the sword was the man’s effort to maintain his grip on the hilt, not a preparation for attack. He coughed, and Thorn could smell the blood in his mouth. He was broken inside, and he wouldn’t last much longer. “Why?” he croaked.
Thorn wanted to help him, to ask him what had happened … but she couldn’t move. Her body betrayedher, acting with a mind of its own. Instead of assisting the injured man, she found herself laughing at him, her lips twisted in a cruel smirk.
“Because it amuses me.” Thorn could feel her mouth shaping the words, but she didn’t stop them; she was an observer in her own body—if this
was
her body. She walked toward the fallen soldier, and Thorn could see details beneath the mud and grime. The seal of old Galifar was engraved on the soldier’s breastplate, along
.
“Not tonight, Flamebearer Sarhain,” she said, pulling her hand free. She smiled at him. “You’ll have to convert me first.”
He slid down to the ground, placing his hand over his heart and giving a heavy sigh. Thorn turned her back on him and walked toward the Brelish pavilion.
C HAPTER E LEVEN
The Duurwood Camp Droaam
Eyre 13, 998 YK
T he brilliant light of the moons made it difficult to sleep. Thorn remembered seeing four full moons in the sky when she was a child, marveling at the multihued light they cast across the land. The moons waxed and waned at different rates, and now Dravago and Nymm were growing wider and brighter. Within a few nights, six of the twelve moons would be full.
While Thorn had little interest in history and the academic significance of such events, the topic had come up on the long wagon ride. Drego explained that over two centuries had passed since the last such spectacle. It was a natural wonder, but for Thorn it was simply annoying. She was a restless sleeper at the best of times, and the shimmering light was too much. She pulled her blanket up over her head. It was scratchy and hot, but anything was better than the glare.
The darkness was a blessing, but Thorn’s thoughts were troubled. The campfire spat and crackled, and the sounds mingled with images of the battle with the harpies—the crushed corpses at the bottom of the gorge and the smell of blood. Thorn tried to push the thoughts away, but the charnel stench grew stronger with each moment. She heardmoans, sobs, and distant cries of pain. She was certain it was all in her imagination; it was too distant, too faint, and she’d heard no sounds of battle.
Then she heard the sound of a steel blade shifting in a mailed fist, the rasping noise of armor plates brushing against one another. A soldier in full plate mail, and only a few steps away from her. Thorn threw aside the blanket and rose to her feet, reaching for Steel.
But Steel wasn’t at her side. And she wasn’t in the camp anymore. Wagons, tents, even the others who had been sleeping around her—were nowhere to be seen. She couldn’t even say if it was still night, because the sky was filled with thick clouds of smoke, reflecting the light from fires burning across the land before her.
She saw that she was dressed in a gown of red and black glamerweave, better suited to the ballroom than the battlefield. Illusions had been woven into the cloth, giving the red pigments the liquid intensity of fresh blood. Red leather covered her arms and legs: thigh-high boots stretched up beneath her skirts, and gloves rose past her elbows. The fingertips of the gloves were open, revealing long, curved nails painted with black enamel. The only familiar aspect of the scene was the pain at the base of her skull; the upper gem was throbbing against her flesh.
Everything was different, yet somehow it was familiar. Had she been here before?
She’d been right about the sound. The man was wearing full armor, and he clutched a longsword in his outstretched right hand. But he was sprawled on the ground, his beautiful armor covered with mud and ash. The sound of the sword was the man’s effort to maintain his grip on the hilt, not a preparation for attack. He coughed, and Thorn could smell the blood in his mouth. He was broken inside, and he wouldn’t last much longer. “Why?” he croaked.
Thorn wanted to help him, to ask him what had happened … but she couldn’t move. Her body betrayedher, acting with a mind of its own. Instead of assisting the injured man, she found herself laughing at him, her lips twisted in a cruel smirk.
“Because it amuses me.” Thorn could feel her mouth shaping the words, but she didn’t stop them; she was an observer in her own body—if this
was
her body. She walked toward the fallen soldier, and Thorn could see details beneath the mud and grime. The seal of old Galifar was engraved on the soldier’s breastplate, along
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