The Fading Dream Read Free

smile. “I’m looking after Oargev of Cyre today.”
    Nandon opened his mouth then closed it again. “The Prince in Mourning?” he said slowly.
    “That’s right. Lord of New Cyre, where our king has graciously allowed tens of thousands of Cyran refugees to settle in the wake of the Mourning. I know you think I’m a soldier, Nan. But believe it or not, I want peace too.”
    He shook his head. “And what would you do then, if the Five Nations are reunited?”
    “The same thing our father wanted,” Thorn said. “Come home to my family. I’m relying on you to start one.”
    For a moment his gaze locked with hers. Then he smiled for the first time since she walked through the door. “I don’t know about that.”
    “Why not? Surely you haven’t split with Calassa?”
    The tension ran out of him. He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Nyri. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I just … I lost a boy today. Green fever.” He tapped the case she’d given him. “If I’d had this a day ago, he’d still be alive. But people down here can’t afford Jorasco goods. They can’t afford magic, and without it, it’s all too hard to work miracles.”
    Thorn stepped forward and held out a hand. He ignored it and embraced her, holding her close for a moment. Then he took a step back and looked at her.
    “So … something strange, you say?”
    Thorn hesitated for a moment, trying to find the words. “Have you noticed anything unusual about yourself these last few months?”
    “Certainly. My allergy to dustmoss has gotten worse. My memory’s not as sharp as it used to be. And I’m quick to lose my patience with evasive sisters. Do you have a point?”
    “How well can you see in the dark?”
    “My vision’s as good as it ever was, at least since the accident,” Nandon said. “Our mother’s blood still runs in my veins. Why? Is your eyesight failing you?”
    “No, no. I’m not talking about seeing clearly in starlight, Nan. I mean full dark—reading a book in a closet at night.”
    Nandon frowned. “Of course I can’t do that. Are you … are you saying that you can?”
    Thorn nodded slowly. “Yes. And that’s just the beginning.”
    Nandon looked away, the scowl back on his face. “I don’t know what this is about—” He fell silent as he looked back and saw what Thorn was doing. She had her hand in the oil lantern, holding her palm to the flame. There was no smell of burning flesh, no pain; the flame licked against her skin without touching it.
    “That’s trivial defensive magic,” he said.
    “Which I’m not using,” Thorn replied. “And I’ve faced far worse than a candle flame. I survived an Aundairian fireball. On my last mission, I fell into a river of lava below Sharn and walked away without a mark. I don’t know what’s going on, Nandon. I thought … I thought maybe you were going through the same thing.”
    He pulled her hand from the lamp, studying the skin and sniffing it. Then he held out a finger and gingerly extended it toward the lantern flame. He pulled it swiftly away the moment it made contact. “It seems not. You’re serious about this, Nyri? You swear this isn’t some sort of prank?”
    “On our father’s name, Nandon. I wouldn’t joke about this. I don’t know what to think. I thought I might be developing an aberrant dragonmark, but I’ve looked everywhere I could and found nothing. It’s … it’s frightening.I’d hoped that as a healer—and as my brother—you might be able to give me some answers.”
    Nandon nodded gravely. “I need you to tell me everything. From the very first symptom.”
    And so she did. She told him how her senses had grown so sharp that she could not only see in deepest darkness, but sense the presence of an invisible man from the sound of his feet and the shifting currents of air. She described the bursts of strength that had let her throw an ogre across a room, though she couldn’t maintain that power for more than a