Saanji’s fear turned to rage. He fingered the small opal ring on the little finger of his left hand. He wanted to curse his brother for daring to speak his lover’s name, but he could not speak. Karhaati held his face a moment longer, squeezing harder and harder until Saanji thought his jaw would shatter. Then Karhaati smiled and let go. He embraced Saanji again, as though nothing had happened.
“Good luck, my brother. If the Dead God wills it, we’ll embrace again.”
“Thank you,” Saanji managed. He felt the dragon head on Karhaati’s sword hilt pressing into his gut. He started to reach for it. He imagined drawing that sword and pushing it into his brother’s neck, turning it until Karhaati’s eyes went dark. But then he changed his mind.
Karhaati stepped back. His painted eyes fixed on Saanji, giving Saanji the awful feeling that his brother knew exactly what he’d nearly done. Something flickered in Karhaati’s eyes. Saanji thought it looked like disappointment. Then the Bloody Prince shook his head and walked away.
Chorlga shuddered. The cold stone chamber lay before him, dark and empty. He could sense that he was alone. Still, this place frightened him as it never had before. A wave of his hand summoned a sphere of light that floated up to the ceiling and hung there, but its ghostly light only made things worse. Fanatics from the surface of Cadavash had clearly been to the chamber. Though they’d hauled away the dead dragonpriests and burned incense in their wake, they’d left stains on the stone floor.
Chorlga stepped carefully around them and made his way to Namundvar’s Well. He was glad that he’d ordered the Nightmare to remain above. Chorlga had a feeling that he would need all his energy and focus for what he was about to do.
He knelt slowly, afraid to look inside, even though he knew that it would only be so much dark, dry stone until he used his magic to activate it. El’rash’lin’s words rang in his mind: You should have sensed it, with all your power. All the control you think you have…
With his right fist, Chorlga struck the ancient stone structure, ignoring the jolt of pain when the rough stone bloodied his knuckles. How many times since the Shattering War had he ignited the Well’s magic? How many times had he drawn power from the Light to increase his own? Through the Well, he’d peered into Fadarah’s mind. He’d learned of Brahasti’s secret plan to breed Shel’ai. He’d even subjected himself to the tortured thoughts of the Nightmare. After all that, after enduring so much, how could he have committed such blunders?
“Maybe El’rash’lin was lying,” he muttered. The Dragonkin had often speculated that if one believed their own lie with enough fervor, it might appear true to anyone reading his mind. With fresh hope, he closed his eyes and held one hand over the well’s dark mouth.
He imagined that bottomless void filling slowly with mist, water, then finally, light. All his senses began to tingle. His pulse quickened. He felt a familiar knotting in his chest: a curious amalgamation of terror, calm, joy, and dread. Raw knowledge washed over him, filling him and erasing everything he knew. A swirling, contradictory rush of emotions surged up within him. He wept—in pleasure or sorrow, he could not tell—but he kept his eyes shut. He held fast to a single piece of information—his own name—and repeated it like a mantra.
He felt the Light’s displeasure, but he clung to this strategy as he always had, repeating his own name until the void withdrew and his memories and identity returned. Keeping his eyes shut, he floated on the Light like a raft on the ocean. He dipped his hands in the water and drank.
Namundvar’s Well wasn’t made to satisfy your thirst for power. It wasn’t made to look without. It was made to look within.
Chorlga laughed. He leaned over the raft and faced his own reflection. “I am no quivering priest, no weeping beggar clutching his bowl. Do you hear me? I am a Dragonkin, the right hand of Nekiel. I am a god.”
His reflection rippled and disappeared. The waters dimmed. The ocean went dark. Chorlga felt another surge of panic, but he fought through it.
“Show me,” he called out to the dark waters. “Show me all that you have kept hidden. Show me Knightswrath. Show me who carries it.”
The Light resisted. Never had he made such direct demands of it. He sensed the danger: if he lost focus, the Light would rend him to pieces.
“But I will not lose focus,” Chorlga whispered. “I beat you. You cannot refuse me. Not here, not now.”
Whether they struggled for a thousand years or only for a moment, Chorlga could not tell. But the ocean brightened again, as though some unquenchable fire raged far beneath the water. Gradually, something took shape. He gazed down upon a great forest that stretched in all directions, as though propagated somehow by a gigantic, even greater tree blossoming at its heart. But then the forest gave way to broad, sweeping grasslands. To the north, he saw a land of barren, blasted rock.
“Godsfall? He’s gone to Godsfall?” Chorlga found that hard to believe. He’d expected to find Knightswrath housed in Shaffrilon or perhaps to see an Isle Knight carrying it east, back toward the Lotus Isles. But he reminded himself that the Olgrym had just been laying siege to the Sylvan capital. Perhaps the Isle Knight, having thwarted them and driven them from the forest, was pursuing them to their own homeland, hoping to vanquish them.
Chorlga willed the image to sharpen. He had the sudden feeling that he was falling from a great height, plummeting toward the rocky realm. But he controlled his fear and kept his focus. A moment before it seemed he would be dashed to pieces, his descent slowed. A new image formed beneath him. Chorlga stared. Then he laughed.
His control began to slip. He’d been in the well too long—far longer than he ever had before. He was weakening. But it made no difference. Chorlga imagined floating on the ocean again. He lay on the raft and closed his eyes. He repeated his own name, over and over. Slowly, he opened his eyes—his real eyes—and found himself kneeling beside Namundvar’s Well again.
Chorlga stared into the dimming light then took a breath. His lungs ached. Raw pain wracked his chest as though he’d never breathed before. But Chorlga was used to the feeling. He calmed his senses and waited until the feeling passed. He took another breath. Finally, when he could, he laughed again.
He pictured the Isle Knight as he’d seen him a moment before. He’d expected some proud, armored hero riding at the front of a great, gleaming legion, burning sword in hand. He’d expected someone like Fâyu Jinn, the fearsome mortal who’d forged a vengeful army out of warring slave-tribes, who had made even Nekiel quake with fear. Instead, the Light had shown him a ragged, dirty sellsword hiding in the rubble, hunted by friends and enemies alike. The man was roiling with doubts and self-loathing, both terrified of and intoxicated by his newfound power, as likely to destroy himself as an enemy.
Chorlga stood. Straightening to full height, he cast a derisive look into the well’s dark mouth. “I’ve led armies of a hundred thousand men, all chanting my name. I’ve watched nations burn. I’ve spat in the face of the gods. And that is the champion you send against me?”
He spat into the well then strode away, leaving the sphere of light he’d summoned earlier to burn itself out, slowly returning the chamber to grave-like darkness.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Shadows in the Ruins
Blinking up at the stars, Rowen fumbled in the darkness for his sword. His hand closed on Knightswrath’s hilt. The dragonbone felt so cold that he jumped.
“Easy, Knight. Don’t worry. We didn’t steal your precious bit of devilry.”
Rowen realized that he was lying in a ruined temple, surrounded by broken statues. Stars shown through a shattered ceiling. He was still wearing his armor. He sat up, groaning with soreness. He turned and saw Kilisti sitting on a toppled statue across from him. A drawn shortsword lay across her knees.
“Where are the others?”
“Outside, keeping watch.” Kilisti sto
od. Rowen tensed, but she sheathed her sword. “Nice armor you’ve got there. I thought that Olg’s spear would sail right through you.”
Rowen examined his breastplate. The kingsteel was dented, his tabard torn, but he did not think his ribs were broken anymore. He glanced down at Knightswrath. Its blade gleamed in the soft blue light of a single luminstone at Kilisti’s feet. Rowen sheathed his own sword and stood.
Kilisti’s scarred face gave him a long, unfathomable look. Then she tossed him a wineskin. “You scared the wild piss out of the boys, you know. Faeli wanted to kill you while you were passed out. Even Rhos’ari looked like he was giving it some serious thought.”
Rowen took a long drink. “And you?”
Kilisti shrugged. “Briel said take you north. Shal’tiar follow orders.”
“I guess I’ll have to settle for that.” Rowen tossed the wineskin back. “What happened to the Olgrym?”
“You mean the two dead ones, or the three we killed carrying you to Que’ahl?”
Rowen tensed. “Three?”
Kilisti nodded. “Luckily, we had more warning this time. Brought them down with arrows. Young Cathas took a scrape but nothing serious.”
Rowen nodded, relieved. He looked around again. “We’re in Que’ahl?”
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
“Just surprised you didn’t leave me in the forest to die. Anybody else hurt?”
Kilisti shook her head. She took a drink from the wineskin. “Want to tell me what happened?”
Rowen had no idea how to answer her question. “I will if you will.”
Kilisti moved one hand as though about to cover her face then stopped herself. “Not much to tell. I was scouting. Got careless. An Olg caught me, started cutting me up, got so wrapped up in his fun, he didn’t see Captain Essidel coming up behind him.” She returned the wineskin to her pack. “Now you.”
Rowen shuddered at the coldness in her voice.
“Don’t know. I willed the sword to life, it started on fire, and I swung the damn thing. What more do you want to know?”
“What it did to you, for starters.” Kilisti tapped her sword hilt. “I’ve seen men laugh like that, when the bloodlust takes hold. Only you don’t seem the type. So if that thing you’re carrying can change you like that, that makes you dangerous to this mission… and to me.”
Rowen ignored the not-so-subtle threat. “This thing is also what let me kill Fadarah, drive off the Shel’ai and the Olgrym, and save your entire city.”
“So I hear.” Kilisti drummed her fingers on her sword hilt as though deciding what to do next. “I don’t know a damn thing about magic, besides that it can’t be trusted. That means you can’t be trusted. Only I saw that compound where we’re going, swarming with armed men. More than just the six of us can handle, no matter how quiet we creep in.”
Rowen looked down at Kilisti’s luminstone. He had seen such enchanted stones in abundance at Shaffrilon. He had seen a few at Atheion, too, probably obtained by trade or theft many ages before. But he had not seen any of them at Que’ahl. He remembered hearing something about how they were forbidden beyond the forest and wondered if Kilisti had stolen it. Then his thoughts turned to more important matters.
We’ve only just set out, and I’ve already lost a man. “The one who died—”
“Seth’el.”
Rowen repeated the name to himself. “Did you bury him?”
“Didn’t have time. Besides, your horse got skittish. All the noise she made, we didn’t dare stay in one place too long.”
Rowen hesitated. He wondered if he should apologize. Glancing at Kilisti, he had the feeling she’d take it as an insult. He massaged a crick in his neck.
“There’s more,” Kilisti said. “We’re being followed.”
Gods, of course we are. “How many?”
“Can’t tell. They’re keeping their distance—strange, for Olgrym. We tried to lose them. Rhos’ari and Aerios even tried leading them off our trail, but the bastards are persistent. A dozen at least, though. Couldn’t tell which clan. But whoever’s leading them, he’s smarter than the usual skull busters we deal with.”
“A smart Olg. Just what we need.”
Kilisti’s sour look said that for once, they were of the same mind. “Looks like they won’t come near Que’ahl, like you said. That might be all it is. But you can believe they’ll be after us again, once we start out.” She added, “Faeli thinks we should send someone back to the capital for reinforcements.”
“That would take too long. Besides, I doubt Briel has any to give us. We’ll have to try and outrun them. But we only have five horses left, if memory serves.”
“Might be enough, so long as we don’t stop for tea and sweet rolls.”
With great effort, Rowen kept himself from smiling. “If we hug the Dead Shores, we’ll have to pass right through Godsfall. That’s suicide. But if we avoid Godsfall, we’ll have to go around Quorim, which belongs to the Dhargots now.” Rowen pictured a map in his mind. “So we go east around Godsfall, then west along the Dead Shores, then east after we pass Quorim—”
“Or straight north,” Kilisti interrupted. “It’ll take us right between Hesod and Quorim, but we have a better chance of avoiding the Olgrym.”
“But not the Dhargots.” Rowen cursed. “Either way, sooner or later, we’re bound to run into someone.”
“Well, it’s that, or you go chop at them with your burning sword while the rest of us go on without you.”
Rowen gave her a hard look, unable to tell if she was joking. “We should go. We’ve been here long enough. Tell the men—”
Kilisti left the shattered temple before he could finish.
Rowen watched her go. “I think that one will try and kill me, before this is over,” he muttered. His voice echoed in the temple, sending a shiver down his spine. The last time he’d been in Que’ahl, he’d been fighting Olgrym, but at least he’d had Jalist and Silwren with him.
He wondered where the Dwarr was. It was a long, dangerous road, but he hoped that Jalist had made it back to Stillhammer, into the arms of his lover. He deserved that.
Rowen picked up Kilisti’s luminstone and studied its blue glow. When he covered it with both hands, it darkened. The stone looked like nothing more than a plain stone, noteworthy only for its perfect roundness and silk-smooth texture. He considered giving it back to Kilisti then decided that if she wanted it, she could ask for it. Sliding the stone into his pocket, he thought of Igrid. He wasn’t sure what she deserved, but wherever she was, he hoped she was safe.
The Sylvs turned collectively as Rowen left the temple. Their azure eyes scrutinized him in the ghostly darkness of the burned-out fortress. Rhos’ari gave him a slight nod, but no one spoke. Aside from the jingle of the horses’ harnesses, there was no sound.
I should say something, thank them for carrying me here or at least express my condolences for Seth’el…
Rowen went to Snowdark. Faeli handed him the reins without comment. Rowen hoisted himself into the saddle, and the others mounted. Cathas, his left thigh wrapped in a red-stained bandaged, shared a horse with Kilisti. All the Sylvs stared at him, their expressions cold in the moonlight.
Finally, Sergeant Rhos’ari cleared his throat. “Ride on, Knight. We’ll follow you.”
Rowen nodded, hesitant. Then he pointed Snowdark north and guided her through the darkened ruins.
Jalist drained his wine glass, wiped his beard, then refilled his cup. He took a drink as he scrutinized the figure lying on the bed before him. “You know, if it was so important, you’d think somebody would have written down how to kill those bastards.”
When his companion did not answer, Jalist said, “Or maybe they did. Books don’t last forever. Or maybe they just figured with the Dragonkin gone, there w
asn’t any point. But that gets me wondering where the Jolym came from. No Dragonkin left to make them.”
“What about Rowen’s wytch?”
“I suppose you could call her a Dragonkin, based on what she could do. But she didn’t do this. And the others… El’rash’lin, the Nightmare… they’re all dead.”
“Maybe it was the gods.” Igrid’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
“Maybe,” Jalist grunted. “Gods, it wasn’t enough that I had to survive all that foolishness with the Locke brothers, tromping all over Ruun from Quesh to the Wintersea. Now I’ve got to go and keep living through battles that should have ended with my skull split open.” He took another drink. “We Dwarr have a saying.” He frowned. “Must not be very important since I can’t remember exactly how it goes, but here’s the gist of it: whatever Lady Luck gives you, you’ll have to pay it back before the end.” He took another drink. “Which goddess is paired with luck, anyway? Dyoni, right?”
Igrid groaned, though Jalist could not tell if her distress had to do with the tightness of the bandages wrapped around her head or with his late-night attempt at conversation. “Dyoni’s a man, you fop.”
“Is he?” Jalist took another drink. “Doesn’t matter. Only one my people pray to is Maelmohr… though I have to say, the Firegod hasn’t been too great about answering prayers lately.” He stared into his cup.
Igrid leaned on one elbow. Though the sheet slid off her bosom, she made no move to cover herself. “Go somewhere else, Dwarr. I’m not going to die—at least, not tonight—and I don’t need a damn bodyguard.”
Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) Page 14
