Rowen grabbed the chair, placed it outside the closed door of Silwren’s cell, and sat down. “I have more questions.”
“I know. Your mind is open to me.”
Rowen winced at the thought that she’d been reading his mind all along. He tried to clear his thoughts. “No more talk of Lyos for now. Just tell me what you are. I’ve heard stories of your kind working feats of magic, but nothing like what you and your friend have done. You’re not just a Shel’ai, are you?”
Silwren eyed him curiously. A slow, sad smile formed on her lips. “El’rash’lin believes the Light guides our actions, that the Light even guided you to me. I do not. I wonder which of us is right.” She continued, “There were five of us. All born as Shel’ai, exiled from Sylvos and the World Tree, rescued from the wild by Fadarah. The name itself is a Sylvan word. It means father.” She looked away. “Fadarah knew that Shel’ai magic alone would not save us from our enemies. Our power has limits. Cast too much wytchfire, or speak too long with just our minds, and we risk death from exhaustion. Fadarah understood. We needed power that could not be exhausted, something greater than any of the Shel’ai wield. We needed the magic of—”
“The Dragonkin,” Rowen finished.
Silwren nodded. “There is a place, Human. An ancient place where one may gaze directly into the Light. But Fadarah learned... we could do much more than that.”
A great sadness filled him at the mention of the Well. He thought of the peace he’d felt for just that one moment—a peace and clarity unlike anything he’d ever experienced, all the more maddening now for its lack. “Tell me. Help me understand what I saw there...”
He saw that same sadness reflected in the mist-white pupils of Silwren’s eyes as she said, “More often than not, gifts are curses.”
He thought she would say more, but she did not. Finally, Rowen rose to his feet. Countless questions still raced through his mind, but he doubted he’d get more answers at the moment. “I have to go for now. But you have my word, you won’t be mistreated. I’ll return as soon as I can.” He added, “I’ll bring you some clothes.”
Silwren did not answer, seeming instead to return to her meditation. As Rowen turned to go, he saw her trembling. She’d let the shabby blanket slip, revealing the bare curve of her spine, all the way down to the dimples at the small of her back. He realized she was crying. He took a step toward her but stopped himself. Shaking his head, he hurried up the stairs.
Far to the west, Shade was kneeling, too, surrounded by a wispy, violet haze of magic. He and his reluctant bodyguard were still well ahead of the Throng, only three days from Lyos. He had no doubt now where Silwren was, but her refusal to mindspeak with him left him more and more troubled. Shade could not believe that she would betray them. So that morning, in the middle of the Simurgh Plains, he had called a halt, knelt on the grass, and willed himself into a deep, magical trance.
Unencumbered by his physical body, his essence sped on alone, faint as a wisp of vapor speeding toward the red, rising sun. In this state, he could sense much more strongly the wake left by Silwren’s flight, as if she had scorched the very air through which she traveled. He had hoped she was trying to work some sort of deception. Maybe she’d turned southward instead, to begin the second stage of their campaign on her own.
But that, he knew, was absurd. As his essence neared Lyos, he sensed her even more strongly than before, a growing spark of unmistakable light and power. It would not take him long to find her now, to see her. Then she reared before him—not a creature of flesh but of spirit, perceived by him as white hot and winged. Her gaze bore no expression as she regarded him for a moment.
Then she struck—a jolt of raw power that jarred him to the core. Shade’s essence reeled, thrown back faster than should have been possible. He thought he would fade like mist, but then he felt flesh and bones closing around his ethereal nerves, painfully reconnecting him to a living body.
By the time he opened his eyes, the violet glow had dimmed around him. He knelt, momentarily unable to move through a combination of pain and exhaustion. Gradually, he regained his senses. He stood, exhausted but fuming, and returned to his horse.
Lethe obediently handed him the reins. The assassin was still mounted, idly holding the reins to the rouncey laden with their supplies, and curled his lip with open derision. “Were you praying?” he asked mockingly.
“Not a very proper tone to use with one’s master, let alone one who saved your life.”
Lethe’s lips quivered with rage. “Forgive me. I tend to forget your boundless compassion, Master.”
“What you saw is called divination. What it sees, I see. But there are risks.” He wiped his nose, saw blood. “Even if all goes well, the spell is taxing. I can only cast it once a month, and it will leave my magic weakened for the rest of the day.” He snickered. “It will be up to you to protect me, Human.”
“Oh, you have nothing to fear from me. Your curse makes sure of that.”
Shade fought back a wave of exhaustion—both physical and mental—and laughed. “So it does.” He flicked the reins and started off, using what energy he had left to hold himself upright in the saddle. He thought of Silwren’s essence rearing up before him, how coldly and effortlessly she had batted him away from the city. My love, what are you doing?
To distract himself, he fixed his attention on his bodyguard. “How does it feel to answer to the Blood Thrall’s every command?”
Lethe winced. “You asked, so I have to tell you. Whatever orders you give, I have to follow. If I don’t, pain like nothing you could imagine fills me until you decide otherwise. If I try to kill a Shel’ai—and believe me, I’ve tried—the pain drops me before I even get my dagger drawn.” The assassin spat. “Even when we Unseen obey, the curse is still there, always there, like a wasp inside our ears. Waiting, ready to sting.”
“You make an unlikely victim, Human. You made a choice. You chose this. You should accept the consequences without these daily, theatrical lamentations.”
“You call that a choice?”
Shade shrugged. “Were you not so untrustworthy, Human, the Blood Thrall would not have been necessary. Nor would you even notice it. It’s your own pride you should be snarling at, not me.”
Lethe looked at his fingernails. “Your kind has a strange definition of compassion.”
“And yours has a strange definition of honor.” Shade yawned. “This is tedious. I have no intention of wasting breath on one whose sins, were they bones, would fill all the graveyards of the world.”
The two men rode on in silence. The day wore on, long and monotonous, with Shade permitting them to stop and rest only a handful of times. The Shel’ai himself was nearly blind with exhaustion now, his body sapped both physically and mentally by his divining trance that morning, but each step brought him closer to Silwren. He could make out Pallantine Hill in the distance now. Just a few more days, and they would reach Lyos. Shade would find Silwren there, reason with her, and bring her back to Fadarah before it was too late.
What can she be thinking? Shade wondered again. Bad enough that she lashed out and killed the other initiates!
“We’ve gone far enough for one day,” he said to Lethe. “Strike camp and start a fire.” As he spoke, the Shel’ai realized with alarm that the assassin slumped with exhaustion in his saddle, despite the Blood Thrall’s ability to enhance each Unseen warrior’s ferocity and endurance as well as ensuring their loyalty.
Lethe said, “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me where we’re headed?”
“Lyos, one of the Free Cities to the east. Silwren has gone there. That’s all you need to know for now.” He dismounted. He wondered why Lethe’s eyes widened with fear.
“I can’t... I can’t go there.”
Shade frowned. “Would you prefer to spend the rest of your days twitching in agony?” But the assassin seemed unfazed by the threat. Puzzled, Shade did something he almost never did. He used his magic to probe an Unseen’s thoughts.
He needed only a moment to understand. Breaking his mental connection, he stared at the assassin with newfound pity. For a moment, he considered sending Lethe back to the Throng, but that would displease Fadarah. Besides, Lethe might still be of use, and finding Silwren remained his first priority. But the pity remained.
“I’ll make you a promise, Human. See me safely to Lyos, and you’ll be released. The Blood Thrall can be lifted without killing you—but I will kill you, if that’s what you desire. This I swear upon the trees of my homeland, to the gods, to the Light.”
Lethe glanced at him but did not answer. Shade did not have to probe the assassin’s thoughts to tell that the man did not believe him. He started to give the assassin the reins to his destrier but stopped himself. He decided that for this one night, he could care for his horse himself.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
RELUCTANT ALLIES
Aeko Shingawa slowed to a halt as Pallantine Hill rose at last on the horizon, lording over the Simurgh Plains, which shone bright and wild in the afternoon sun. Lyos was faintly visible now as well. The city crowned the hill’s summit while its slums darkened its base.
The other Knights around her stirred restlessly in the saddles of their palfreys, some of them towing the reins of rounceys and destriers, the latter of which were much too prized and valuable to be used except in battle. The Isle Knights were followed by wagons driven by Islemen, squires charged with the duty of hauling the Knights’ provisions and extra armor. All had pressed hard to reach the city. Now, after four days of riding, they couldn’t wait to put the trip behind them.
But their captain took his time, staring at distant Lyos with a look of disgust. “It would be too much to hope that old Pelleas has finally done something about the filth in his city.” He waved a fly from his face. “Such is the nature of mainlanders, I suppose.”
Aeko tugged at her tabard. “Are you referring to the Dark Quarter, my lord?”
The Knight-Captain scowled at her. “Tell me, Commander Shingawa, is this where you lecture me on the dangers of imposing value judgments on others I do not know?”
Aeko Shingawa knew better than to respond. She’d grown accustomed to the captain’s rebukes and knew full well the reason behind them. The captain was in his early forties, well built, with handsome, aristocratic features including dark eyes that could be either charming or malicious, depending on his mood. He was used to young, female Knights competing for his favor. But Aeko had no intention of playing that game.
A few of the other Knights chuckled behind her, but most laughed only because it was expected of them. Especially among the younger Isle Knights—most of whom were Knights of the Crane, the lowest of the three orders—genuine respect for Captain Ammerhel was in short supply.
Aeko glanced at her captain’s attire. While Crovis Ammerhel wore an azure tabard similar to her own and those of the other knights, emblazoned with the emblem of a balancing crane, he also wore an additional insignia: a lotus flower.
How, by the Light, do bastards like Crovis get to be Knights of the Lotus? Of course, she knew better than to ask this question aloud, no matter how many times she posed it to herself in private. Ammerhel might be as un-Shaolike a surname as any she’d heard, but Crovis could still trace his lineage back to one of the first mainland warriors who’d founded the Knighthood with Fâyu Jinn, so many centuries ago. What’s more, Crovis would almost certainly be Grand Marshal once old Bokuden died.
Perhaps sooner. She shuddered and glanced down reflexively at her tabard. She wore the emblem of a noble stag—still quite an accomplishment for a woman, let alone one in her late twenties, but she would never be promoted higher.
“Begging your pardon, Captain,” she said. “I meant no offense.”
Crovis laughed. “None taken, Commander. The young are often too idealistic for their own good. It seems pious to view slumdwellers as equal to nobles, but experience teaches otherwise.”
What Crovis had just said directly contradicted the Codex Lotius and the principles of the entire Knighthood, meaning she was honor-bound to bring him up on charges or even challenge him to single combat. But Aeko would not do that. If I challenged every Knight who deserved it, my sword arm would never rest! “Shall we be on our way, Captain?”
Crovis seemed to ignore her, his eyes following the motion of a fly. His right hand shot out and caught the insect midair. He crushed it in his gauntleted fist. “Ah, yes. I suppose the sooner we relieve this wretched city of its wytch, the sooner we can go home.”
He signaled, and the column of Knights started forward again.
“Thank you,” King Pelleas told the messenger who had just informed him of the Knights’ arrival. He glanced at the gigantic map unrolled to cover half the table, and forced a smile to hide an abrupt feeling of dread. He told the servants to usher them in. Then, sensing the gaze of his captains, he lifted his wine goblet and drank away his grimace.
In all the years of his reign, despite a fortune paid to the Isle Knights in tribute and taxes, King Pelleas had only called upon their aid a handful of times. He hated paying them, seeing as how the Knights actually did very little to ensure the safety of Lyos. Also, it left him counting coppers and borrowing from other plainsmen nobles just to keep all of Lyos from deteriorating into the Dark Quarter.
But more than that, King Pelleas detested calling upon the aid of the Lotus Isles because it gave them exactly what they wanted: a chance to show off their prowess, to excuse their unfair taxes and tributes and maybe even raise them. But these were desperate times. Captain Ferocles already had his hands full trying to quell the city’s near-riotous population and keep order. What chance did the tirelessly loyal captain have against an army of mercenaries five times the size of the Red Watch, not to mention a cadre of demon-conjuring sorcerers? They needed the Knights, whether they liked it or not.
Nevertheless, Pelleas swore under his breath when the doors to his council chamber opened and the king’s least favorite Knight walked in. “Wonderful,” he mumbled. “I send for Bokuden and he sends me Ammerhel instead!”
Judging by their frowns, Ferocles and his sons visibly shared his disappointment. They, too, watched the smartly armored figures walk toward them, each Knight wearing a superb, long-handled sword wrought of kingsteel.
Ferocles leaned toward him. “Looks like someone wants to make Grand Marshal, Sire. And this is just the neat little war he needs.”
King Pelleas whispered back, “Indeed,” and rose from his chair, signaling a shift to necessary formality. His advisors rose as well, faces stoic. In a loud voice, the king greeted Sir Ammerhel and the Knight’s somber retinue. “Welcome, Sir Ammerhel! It has been too long, my old friend.”
The haughty Knight of the Lotus fell to one knee before the king’s great, semicircular council table. The other Knights did the same. Almost as soon as the Knight’s knee touched the stone floor, it rose again, less a sign of respect than a stumble. “It has, Sire. Allow me to introduce my subordinates: Aeko Shingawa, Knight of the Stag; and Paltrick Vossmore, Knight of the Crane.”
Pelleas nodded quickly at Vossmore then faced Aeko and gave her a genuine smile. “Lady Shingawa’s name is known to us.” He caught himself. “Should we call you Sir or Lady? We do not see many female fighters on the plains.”
Some of the other Knights stifled laughter, but Aeko answered graciously. “Either will suffice, Sire.”
Pelleas nodded again. “Lady Shingawa, then. The peasant who became a Knight. Welcome.”
Sir Ammerhel’s eyes flashed with rage at this. The same qualities for which Commander Shingawa was famous had made her an object of scorn in Ammerhel’s eyes—which was all Pelleas needed to admire her. It didn’t hurt that she was beautiful.
But then, he admitted to himself, he’d always had a weakness for Islewomen. Like other natives of the Lotus Isles, Aeko had exotic, burnished skin and hauntingly dark, almond-shaped eyes. Her long hair—luxurious and black—reminded him of a night sky wash
ed clean of stars. Probably for the sake of convenience, she wore it in an intricate braid that spilled off her shoulder as she bowed.
“Thank you, Sire,” Aeko answered politely. If she caught the spark of interest in the king’s eyes, her own expression did not acknowledge it. But as she turned her gaze to acknowledge his advisors, a look of surprise passed over her face.
He followed her gaze to the same soldier with unkempt red hair whom Ferocles had charged with interrogating the Sylvan wytch. Ferocles had suggested permitting him to attend the council, just in case he had some additional perspective on their Shel’ai prisoner.
What was the man’s name again? Ah, yes. Locke. The name was Ivairian, but this man was clearly no northman Lancer. Captain Ferocles said the man had actually grown up as a Lyosi orphan—probably in the Dark Quarter, for that matter…
Pelleas needed only a moment longer to figure out the rest. Lyos had no shortage of washouts with dreams of becoming Knights. Aeko Shingawa must have been one of the soldier’s former teachers. His suspicion was confirmed when the same surprise registered on the young man’s face, a moment before he blushed and looked away. This intrigued him, despite everything else on his mind. Pelleas understood failure. Hadn’t he himself failed, like all his forefathers, to free Lyos from the Isle Knights?
The soldier’s red hair made Pelleas think of Typherius, his hotheaded youngest son, still struggling to get the city of Phaegos back onto its feet. Typherius had refused to attend this council. Pelleas could not blame him.
The king did not want to waste time introducing all of the officers, advisors, and temple priests present, not to mention the representatives of the various city guilds, so he introduced only his three other sons and Captain Ferocles, then bade the Knights sit down and join them. At least the priests and priestesses of Dyoni had elected not to attend. The Isle Knights would not have taken kindly to sharing a war council with a sect of half-naked men and women who were drunk more often than not.
Wytchfire (Book 1) Page 23
