Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  Loslandril closed and barred the door. He held the crying infant close to his heart, those small limbs flailing angrily against his chest. He’s hungry, Loslandril realized. Hungry and scared. But I have no milk for you, little Quivalen. I have nothing for you but my love. And my pity.

  Quivalen’s eyes were still wide open—twin pools of white and purple fire.

  The midwife could be silenced… but what about the guards? Surely, half the palace had already been startled awake by the commotion. How long would it be before they insisted on inspecting Quivalen to ensure that the midwife had done the infant no harm? How long could Quivalen be hidden? How long before mobs ascended the winding streets of Shaffrilon to lay siege to the palace itself, for the first time since the Shattering War?

  I must save the kingdom… I must save my son…

  Loslandril glanced about his bedchamber, from the big, empty bed to his wife’s ornate dressers and mirrors. He went to the knife and picked it up. He inspected the tip of the knife’s glint, so sinister and unforgiving.

  No, I won’t kill you, my son—but I must protect you, as Jalthessa would. Forgive me. He moved the knifepoint closer to his son’s wide, violet eyes.

  His hands quaked. He needed to wait a moment and calm his nerves. Once he’d regained his composure, he would have the steadiness to do this ghastly thing. He would do what needed to be done, then claim Old Hanwen had done the deed before bringing the child to his arms. Quivalen would become the object of pity instead of revulsion.

  Loslandril looked from blade to infant then back to the blade. He asked himself if he could really carve out his own son’s eyes to save his life. He realized he could. A dreadful calmness filled him.

  Quivalen was still sobbing, but Loslandril hardly heard him. All he saw were his son’s eyes—and the knife in his hands. I can do this. For Quivalen, for Jalthessa, I must do this.

  He flexed his fingers around the knife’s brass handle, carved with an undulating pattern of wytchwood leaves. He took a deep breath, held it, and let the knife descend. With a certain detachment, he watched the knife’s tip moving closer to his son’s eyes, as though he were in a dream.

  A moment’s courage, and it’s done. I’m sorry, my son. I have no choice.

  A shadow passed over him. Loslandril jumped. He feared the guards had reentered his bedchamber somehow, despite the barred door. He turned. A cloaked and hooded figure stood before him. His hands were folded in his sleeves, making it impossible for Loslandril to tell if he was armed. He glanced past the dark man and saw that his door was still closed.

  Loslandril thought of the parchment. Perhaps this man was one of the Shel’ai who had written to him, and he had come to obtain Loslandril’s answer in person. He raised his knife. “Keep back, sorcerer. Another step, and I will call my guards.”

  But the hooded figure stepped forward. Shadows hid the man’s eyes. Loslandril fell back, holding his crying child close. He repeated his threat, but he heard the fear in his own voice.

  The hooded figure raised his open hands in a sign of surrender. “No need for threats, my king. I intend no malice toward you, your kingdom, or your child.”

  Loslandril frowned. Though the stranger spoke flawless Sylvan, there was an oddly saccharine accent to his voice. The stranger slowly brushed back his hood. Coldly handsome features came into view: a strong, thin jaw; tapered Sylvan ears; sloping eyebrows; and eyes so blue they looked as though they had been painted. His clean-shaven head made telling the man’s age even harder, though Loslandril doubted he could be much older than the guards who had just hauled away the midwife.

  Loslandril scrutinized the man’s eyes: blue—not purple. Whatever else this man was, he was no sorcerer. However, he’d breached the palace and gotten into Loslandril’s bedchamber. He would be a remarkable assassin indeed if he could kill an armed man with his bare hands while a whole host of fiercely loyal bodyguards stood within earshot.

  “Who are you?”

  The stranger bowed slightly. “Not a Shel’ai—as you can plainly see. My name is Chorlga. I have come to help you… and your son.”

  Loslandril winced, puzzled as much by the man’s strange name as his words. Though the stranger had barely whispered, his voice was overpowering as though he’d shouted loud enough to burst Loslandril’s eardrums. “I don’t believe you.”

  Chorlga smiled. Despite his handsome features, his teeth were black and rotten. “I did not expect you to. Not yet. But I am not here to earn your trust.” He pointed. “I am here for your son.”

  Loslandril’s heart leapt into his throat. He considered summoning the guards, even knowing that they would have to break down the door to reach him. “You will not take my son. I swear this on the graves of my wife, my mother, and all the kings who came before me since the days of Shigella.”

  Chorlga’s sickening smile broadened. He regarded the king in such unnerving silence that Loslandril required all his willpower not to look away. Only then did Loslandril realize Chorlga had not blinked even once since appearing in Loslandril’s bedchamber. Finally, Chorlga said, “Apologies, great king. I have not come to steal your son. I have come to help him. And you.” Despite the deference in the man’s voice, his tone held not the slightest fleck of humility.

  Quivalen had stopped crying. The infant’s eyes were wide with terror, and his small mouth opened and closed without sound, as if he were a fish drawn out of the water. This frightened him more than anything.

  Loslandril fixed his gaze on Chorlga again, tightened his grip on the knife, and once again considered calling for the guards. He may not be a Shel’ai… but he’s no Sylv, either!

  “You can’t help me. I don’t know whether you’re an assassin or a fool, but I’ll give you one last chance to explain yourself before I call my guards and have you torn limb from limb.”

  Chorlga tucked his hands back into his sleeves, seemingly unafraid. “It could be that I know your people better than you do. I know, for instance, that they will not suffer a king whose seed bears Shel’ai fruit. They will depose you, or they will kill your son—or both.”

  Loslandril shook his head. “No one will harm my son. I swear it.”

  “I have been watching you for some time. You have a soft heart… much too soft for a king. I know that you received a message from the Shel’ai. A threat, couched in a plea… Sylv and Shel’ai fighting side by side, like in the days of old.” Chorlga’s voice exuded derision. “You will reject their offer. You will renounce the Shel’ai, just as your father did.”

  Loslandril shifted Quivalen, jostling him a bit, half wishing the infant would cry again. “And why should I do that?”

  “Because in return,” Chorlga said, “I will rinse the magic from your son’s blood and wash the purple from his eyes. I will make him every bit as frail as you are. I will save his life… and yours.” The cloaked man bowed, though Loslandril sensed no warmth in the gesture.

  “How could you do that? You said yourself, you are not a Shel’ai—”

  “I spoke the truth.” Chorlga took a step closer. “But there is more magic in this world than that of the Shel’ai. Much more. I wield a little of it. And I will use it to help you… if I have your word.”

  Loslandril fought to keep his composure. Each time Chorlga drew closer, the king felt icy dread snake through him. He glanced down at Quivalen, saw the infant’s violet eyes still wide with terror. Quivalen feels it, too…

  Loslandril imagined what Jalthessa would have said if she were there, and he found his courage. “I don’t know what your goal is here, but I know better than to trust an offer so tempting and timely. I didn’t trust you a moment ago, and I trust you even less now. Obviously, this is a trick. You must be allies with the Shel’ai.”

  Chorlga looked as if he were about to laugh but stopped himself. “Oh, I am many things, great king—things you cannot possibly fathom. But I am no friend to the Shel’ai.” Chorlga paused. “Do I have your word?”

  Loslandril wondered
what would happen if he said no. Even with his guards right outside, he had the terrible feeling that neither he nor Quivalen would survive if he refused. He nodded. “You have my word.”

  Chorlga answered with a wolfish grin. “Good. Then place the child in the bassinet and step back. Once I have begun, do not speak. Do not move. Do not even breathe until I have finished.”

  Loslandril meant to question him but found he could not speak. He looked down at Quivalen again. The feeling of dread intensified, but through supreme effort, he placed the infant in a bassinet, made sure he was securely wrapped in his blanket, and stepped back. He gripped the knife tighter than ever, prepared to fling it into Chorlga’s smirking face the moment he sensed the stranger was hurting his son.

  Chorlga approached the infant and leaned over him. Quivalen had begun crying again, his little arms and legs flailing madly. Chorlga flipped aside the blanket. He held his open palm over the naked, crying body then pressed his hand to the infant’s face.

  Quivalen instantly went still. Loslandril tensed. Instinct begged him to attack, but he held his ground. The very air seemed to change, thickening and turning cold. Loslandril had the feeling that not just warmth but life itself was being drained from the world. He wept.

  But a moment later, Chorlga straightened. His unnaturally blue eyes flashed, turned a bright and blazing purple, then became blue again. He exhaled, an almost lustful smile tugging at his lips. He stepped back and gestured. As though on cue, Quivalen began sobbing again.

  “It is done. You can move, great king. Retrieve your son and look at his eyes.”

  Loslandril sheathed the knife in the belt of his robe and did as he was commanded. The moment he was picked up, Quivalen stopped crying. The infant stared up with wide, trusting eyes. Loslandril breathed in awe. The pupils of Quivalen’s eyes had turned black, and the irises were as blue as his own. It seemed too easy, too quick, to be real. “An illusion…”

  “No illusion, great king. All the magic your son might have wielded has been drained away. I have swallowed it like wine. In me, it will live forever.” Chorlga’s smirk disappeared, replaced by a frightful seriousness. “I will be watching you, Sylv. Henceforth and forever more, the Shel’ai are your enemies. Break your vow, and all the swords and arrows in Sylvos will not keep me from killing your son. And that death will not be quick. It will take days—months, if I wish it—and you will watch. Do you understand?”

  Loslandril knew at once that this man had spoken the truth. Then he remembered the knife. He returned his son to the bassinet. Pretending he only wanted to lean over him, he touched the knife, fingering the handle. He rehearsed the simple motion it would take to turn around, draw the knife from the belt of his robe, and throw it.

  He tensed and spun. The knife flew from his hand—but Chorlga was gone. The blade struck the far wall and sank deep, quivering slightly.

  Loslandril lowered his arm. He looked around, both for Chorlga and for another weapon. Then he heard Chorlga’s voice, so close that he felt the man’s breath on his ear. “Before I leave, great king, permit me one more simple demonstration.”

  Loslandril could neither move nor cry out. Chorlga stood in front of him. With frightful gentleness, he opened Loslandril’s robe and pressed his fingertips to the king’s chest.

  Wytchfire sprang from Chorlga’s fingers, lancing deep into his flesh. Loslandril’s mouth opened wide—the only motion he was allowed—but he could not scream. Raw pain flooded his senses, freezing them, scalding them.

  “I trust you will appreciate this reminder.” Chorlga slowly drew his fingertips like fiery claws down Loslandril’s chest, past his navel, to his groin.

  Loslandril wept. Chorlga laughed. Then his body shimmered, faded, and disappeared altogether.

  Released from whatever spell had immobilized him, Loslandril toppled to the floor. In time, he woke to the splintering sound of the guards breaking down the door. Loslandril sat up. Pain screamed through him. He heard his son crying in the distance, but for a moment, all he could do was stare in horror at what had been done to him.

  From collarbone to crotch, his flesh was blistered and seeping. Shaking with agony, he forced himself to rise. He grasped his robe and tied it shut, wincing as the soft fabric pressed into his wounds. Then he went to retrieve his son—just as the door shattered and his guards rushed in.

  With strength Loslandril did not know he had, he composed himself and stilled them with a ferocious look. He held his son before him, hoping Quivalen’s small body would conceal the blood and pus already seeping through his dark robe. He ordered the guards to leave and said he had only been sitting on the terrace and had nodded off after too much nightwine. As an afterthought, he turned Quivalen toward them, letting them see his blue, wet eyes.

  The guards exchanged looks then left him alone. Closing the broken door behind them, they promised he would not be disturbed until morning. Loslandril waited, fighting to keep his composure. When they were gone, he crumpled. Reeling with pain, he returned Quivalen to his bassinet and stumbled to his bed. He lay down in agony, biting the sheets to keep from screaming. He wished he’d had nightwine, after all, though he doubted all the wine in Sylvos could have eased his pain.

  In time, he slept. When he woke, he approached Quivalen and found his son staring up with clear, blue eyes. Loslandril touched his chest through his robe. The pain had slackened. Loslandril wept, though he could not say for certain why. He gathered his courage and opened his robe. The wounds had closed and healed, as though it had been months since Chorlga touched him. Still, ghastly scars raked his torso, leaving a reminder, accompanied by a dull ache, of whatever bargain he had struck and a warning of what would happen if he disobeyed.

  Fifty years later, he still felt it.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THUNDERHEADS

  Rowen reined in his horse, scowling at the approaching thunderheads. Though it was only midday, the grassy horizon to the west had taken on a blue-black stain reminiscent of twilight. Rowen glanced back at the two figures riding with him. “So much for luck.”

  Jalist laughed, though his faintly gray, Dwarrish skin made it look as though the storm had already hidden the sun. “Locke, when in all the hells have we experienced anything akin to luck?”

  A distant rumble unsettled Rowen’s horse, a piebald palfrey he had taken from the stables of Lyos. He patted the horse’s neck. “Easy, Snowdark. It’s just thunder.”

  Jalist urged his own horse up alongside Rowen’s. “You know, that’s a silly name for a horse. Besides, aren’t Knights of the Crane supposed to ride big solid-colored destriers?”

  Rowen shrugged, resisting the impulse to smooth the azure tabard hanging over his new kingsteel cuirass. Though his armor was light and well fitting, it still chafed him. “I’ve been an Isle Knight for barely a week, and already, that’s probably the least of my transgressions.”

  The Dwarr glanced down at the sword Rowen was carrying. “True enough.”

  A week, Rowen thought, surprised that it had been that long. Lyos had fallen far behind them. Unbelievably, it seemed they had not been followed. Then again, if the Shel’ai wanted him dead, he doubted he would see them coming. The Shel’ai were not even his most pressing concern at the moment. He glanced down at his azure tabard, eyeing the emblem of a balancing crane. Then he touched the exquisite dragonbone hilt of his sword. It seemed faintly warm to the touch, as though alive.

  By now, most of the Knighthood surely knew that he’d fled Lyos with Knightswrath, the long-lost sword of Fâyu Jinn. They would hunt him. They would catch him. They would rescind his Knighthood. They would call him a traitor, possibly even behead him. After all, he’d not only set out on his own without permission, but he’d also taken a sacred relic with him—one that he would surely have had to relinquish to his superiors had he remained in Lyos.

  But I’m not a traitor… am I? Rowen realized he could not definitively answer his own question. He told himself that he’d come by the sword honestly, as
a gift from Hráthbam for his service as a bodyguard, and that he’d left to keep Knightswrath from falling into the wrong hands. He told himself that what mattered was taking the blade to the distant Wytchforest. He had to invoke the Oath of Kin and enlist the help of the Sylvs before the Dhargots rampaging across the continent ground all the kingdoms and all the Free Cities under their heels.

  Maybe I just didn’t want to give it up. The sword… the notion that I was chosen by the Light to bear it… the wild idea that some low-born, grave-digging sellsword could follow in the footsteps of Fâyu Jinn!

  Before he could stop himself, Rowen laughed. Luckily, a clap of thunder muffled the sound. “No caves nearby. No trees, either. We could backtrack, maybe reach Cadavash before the storm hits, but—”

  “And trust the hospitality of fanatics who mutilate themselves and pray to the bones of dead dragons? No, thank you. I’ll take a storm over a dragon worshipper any day.”

  Rowen scowled. “Then we’re about out of options. We can either ride through it or hide under our cloaks and spend all of tomorrow trying to dry off.”

  “Perhaps I can be of service.” Silwren, the final member of their motley trio, spoke up. She had come on them so quietly, like a shadow, that they had not heard her. In her blue-black robe, she was almost invisible, save for her face.

  Rowen’s breath caught in his throat. Even after several months, Silwren’s appearance still startled him. She was more than pretty—fine features, a lithe frame, and platinum curls—but her eyes were those of a Shel’ai. As often as he’d seen her eyes, the pupils especially still both unnerved and fascinated him. Rowen was beginning to find them beautiful, but their beauty was haunting, given what they represented.

  Realizing he was staring, Rowen forced a smile. “I’ve seen Shel’ai cast fire and heal wounds. Can they wave away storms, too?”