Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  “Are those magic?” Jalist whispered, surprised.

  Rowen thought he remembered them from El’rash’lin’s memories, but he was not certain. He turned to Silwren.

  She said, “Luminstones, from the days of the Dragonkin. They’re very rare. I’ve never seen one outside the forest.”

  Rowen wondered how the Noshans had come by them. Dwarrish darksoil was one thing, since the Dwarrs were renowned as traders and craftsmen, but as far as he knew, the Sylvs did not trade with outsiders. Then again, given how old Matua had claimed Atheion was, the luminstones could have been there since the Shattering War.

  The captain and the prefect hurried ahead and conferred with the old man seated at the rear of the chamber, surrounded by other men who looked nearly identical to the prefect. Aside from the richness of his blue-and-white robes, the king did not appear much different than his administrators. The king raised one eyebrow before he nodded. The prefect joined his fellows. The captain stepped back but remained at the king’s side, one hand pointedly resting on his sword hilt.

  King Hidas stood. He frowned as if he were having trouble seeing them and waved them closer. They obeyed, the guards keeping in step behind and on either side of them. The king studied them a moment. “Dwarrs have visited our fair city before, as have Isle Knights, on rare occasions. We even had a Shel’ai visit us, many years ago. But never all three at once.”

  Rowen wondered if the king was referring to El’rash’lin. He had always assumed that, as with Namundvar’s Well in Cadavash, the Shel’ai had accessed the Scrollhouse without their keepers’ knowledge. He decided that was a question for another day. “I’m sure our appearance is unexpected, Sire, but we intend no harm to you or your city. We met some clerics on the road and escorted them here out of kindness. Along the way, Lochurites—”

  “So I hear. I am sure our temple fathers will thank you for your service. But I do not think the famed Heroes of Lyos have come to our fair city just to safeguard clerics and pilgrims.”

  Rowen fought back a chill at the king’s icy tone. “In truth, Sire, we were also hoping to buy supplies before we continue our journey.”

  “And where will that journey end?”

  “In our graves,” Jalist whispered.

  “The Wytchforest,” Rowen said, speaking loudly to drown out his companion.

  An uneasy murmur passed through the chamber. The king’s eyes fixed on Silwren, narrowing dangerously. “Lower your hood, woman,” the king ordered brusquely.

  Silwren obeyed. The luminstone light shimmered off her platinum hair. Her violet eyes met the king’s stare.

  The king blanched and faced Rowen again. “Well, Knight, we’ve heard stories of what happened in Lyos. But we’ve also heard stories of sorcerers razing half the realms to the north, that every Shel’ai in the world is part dragon, stained by the sins of the Dragongod. Which are we to believe?”

  Rowen recognized the trap. The king expected him to plead their own good nature, which would make them sound desperate, perhaps even arrogant and insincere. Swallowing his nervousness, he said, “With respect, Sire, I don’t know how to convince you that we aren’t dragons, except to point out our lack of wings.”

  His response provoked both scowls and scattered laughter.

  Siding with the former, the king leaned forward in his chair. “This isn’t about wings, Knight. It’s about purple eyes. It’s about people who can summon fire out of thin air and burn a city to ashes. It’s about Knights famed for honor and goodness, who, strangely, never seem to leave their islands.” He sat back in his chair. “But more than that, it’s about three dangerous, uninvited strangers in my city.”

  Jalist groaned, and Rowen felt his own face go red. He considered asking forgiveness. “Sire, if you think we are in league with Fadarah and the Throng, you should kill us. If you think we are the ones who broke the Throng and saved Lyos… and perhaps even Atheion, once Fadarah turned this way… then I ask that you let us go about our business in peace and treat us as one would any ally.”

  King Hidas smiled faintly. “Allies. Allies, he says! What amusing visitors I’m getting these days!” He gestured toward one side of the chamber.

  Rowen turned, and his blood went cold. Six men stood along the far wall, in the dimmest part of the chamber. All had shaved heads and long braided goatees banded with brass rings. Their scale armor was decorated here and there with tassels of black silk, plus black silk sashes displaying the ominous sigil of a dragon impaled on a bloody spear. The rims around their eyes had been painted black as well, so that in the shadows, only the whites of their eyes were visible. And those eyes overflowed with contempt and derision. One of the men, the leader by his posture, was practically a giant.

  Rowen eyed the gruesome necklaces the men were wearing—necklaces made from the dried, threaded ears of slain opponents. He remembered the old saying that one could tell a Dhargot’s skill in battle by the number of ears he wore around his neck. He decided the men were not people he wanted to know.

  King Hidas cleared his throat, drawing Rowen’s attention. He made no move to introduce the Dhargots. “I think you are hiding something, Knight. But I also enjoy my trade agreements with the Lotus Isles, so I’ll not risk them by wringing the truth out of you. Besides, something tells me you are the least of my problems.”

  He waved toward the captain who had escorted them. “Captain Reygo will take you to the Borrowed Crown. It’s an inn reserved for our city’s more… unusual guests. I’ll grant you two days in Atheion, provided you cause no trouble. If you do—or if that wytch works any mischief—it’ll be your neck on the chopping block, Sir Knight. Bow if you understand.”

  Rowen bowed. “Yes… yes, Sire.”

  The king turned his attention to other matters. Captain Reygo rejoined them and wordlessly led them from the palace. The Noshan captain set a brisk pace through the swaying streets and over the bridges. When they reached the inn, his men returned their weapons. “Two days,” the captain said before he left.

  “Well,” Jalist muttered sourly, “that’s actually a warmer welcome than I expected.”

  “He didn’t ask why we were going to the Wytchforest. And why didn’t he introduce the Dhargots?” Rowen buckled Knightswrath around his waist.

  Jalist licked his thumb and tested the edge of his long axe, as though to check if the guards had blunted it. “Your point?”

  “Maybe nothing. But if he knows about Fadarah, he might have also heard rumors that Fadarah and the Dhargots are allies. Despite how he sounded, maybe he was trying to keep me from getting myself into trouble.”

  “Or maybe he doesn’t like you any more than he likes them.”

  Rowen shrugged. He glanced at Silwren, who stood quietly, and sized up their lodgings.

  While most inns had only one or two stories, theirs had four. The building was freshly painted and surrounded by dogblossom trees. Such trees were native to the Lotus Isles. Rowen wondered if that, too, was a coincidence. The sign above the door, depicting a crown tipped on its side, looked carved out of white oak, recently painted. There was real glass in the windows.

  Jalist said, “Looks expensive. Sounds crowded.”

  “And who’s to say if the king is paying for our rooms?” Rowen felt his purse. Before they’d left Lyos, King Typherius had given them more than enough coin, but they might need all of it for fresh supplies. He glanced over one shoulder. Two of Captain Reygo’s guards stood nearby, stern faced and staring, making absolutely no effort to conceal themselves.

  Jalist said, “May as well go inside. It’s here or the wilderness, and I, for one, could use a good rest and a cup of mead before I head back out there again.”

  As he went inside, Rowen glanced back and saw the guards change position, stationing themselves right outside the inn’s front door. Unusual guests, indeed, he thought, then resolved to get good and drunk.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE IRON SISTER

  Haesha felt her purse. She’d left H
esod with a bag of coins taken off a slain Dhargothi officer, but after buying wine, she had only a few coins left—not enough for a room at an inn. Still, an inn was where she was going, as soon as possible. After several days in the company of the priests and pilgrims, she doubted she would be welcome at the temples of Tier’Gothma and Armahg, where they—and their loose tongues—had already taken refuge. She glanced down at the emblem of a goblet and a crescent moon pinned to her cloak. She had no intention of seeking out the temple dedicated to Dyoni, claiming to actually be an adherent, and begging for assistance. Besides, temples of Dyoni were practically brothels anyway, and she’d had quite enough of that life when she was younger.

  Then someone caught her eye. A pudgy man in expensive silk was heading in her direction. His haughty demeanor confirmed his life of privilege every bit as much as his clothing and glinting rings did.

  Haesha placed herself in the merchant’s path, opened her cloak, and batted her eyelashes. “Which way to the temple, love?”

  The merchant did not even try to meet her gaze. “Plenty of temples around here. Even one for Maelmohr down the street, if you feel like smelling sulfur and getting a lecture on hard work.”

  She pouted and adjusted her clothing, affording him an even better view. “Not quite what I had in mind.” She sidled closer and touched his chin. It was cold with sweat, but she winked anyway.

  “How much?”

  She feigned insult. “I am no whore!” She gestured to the emblem on her cloak. “I merely seek to bring greater happiness to those around me.”

  The merchant grinned. His breath smelled of mead and fish. “Indeed.” He put his hand on her waist.

  Resisting the impulse to drive the heel of her palm into his nose, she moved closer and kissed his cheek. As she was doing so, her nimble fingers drew the coin purse from his belt. She slithered away when the merchant’s hands began to explore her body even more freely.

  She whispered, “Temple of Armahg in half an hour. Meet me by the steps. I’ll be the one who looks like this.” She winked playfully and walked away, wiggling her backside so the merchant would be sure not to notice the coin purse in her hand.

  She took two more coin purses from the crowd, then bumped into a Noshan guard and stole his dagger while distracting him with a well-rehearsed apology. By sundown, she had stolen enough to afford to stay at Atheion’s finest inn for a month. But first, she bought new clothes. It was only a matter of time before embarrassed merchants fed her description to the guards. Though the new clothes were too conservative for her tastes, her plan was to take on the identity of a wayward merchant’s daughter, overly sheltered and lost in the world. The story would make securing a benefactor much easier.

  She stopped at a temple dedicated to Maelmohr, wherein an old cleric was angrily pontificating on the dangers of lust and material excess. Haesha pretended to listen, sidled close to a white-haired worshipper who’d fallen asleep. She spotted Maelmohr’s burning fist pinned to his tunic. She took the pin. As an afterthought, she left the emblem of Dyoni—a smirking hermaphrodite—in its place.

  Back on the street again, she wondered what to do about her hair. She could do nothing for the striking color unless she bought a wig or those foul-smelling dyes used by Ivairian noblewomen. Then again, she might be able to turn her hair to her advantage. Rich men liked unusual things, and red hair did not appear to be common in the midlands. She just had to make sure none of the people she’d robbed recognized her. Her new clothes and the sigil of Maelmohr would help. Besides, she had perfected the art of seeming to be someone else just by changing her demeanor and replacing her coy swagger with hunched shoulders and downcast eyes. So long as she styled her hair differently—in a plain braid, perhaps—its color would seem like a mere coincidence.

  She bought a bowl of spiced stew and two cups of strong wine from a street vendor. The stew was good and the wine even better. She might have bought a third cup, but willpower told her to wait. As much as she wanted to stay as drunk as she’d been on the road, she did not dare in her current disguise—at least, not until she’d hidden her coin.

  Three days. She could risk staying in the city no longer. Atheion was a big place, and she could move to a different district each day. Eventually, though, she would swindle enough noblemen and pick enough pockets that she would have to move on. But to where?

  Hesod was out of the question. That city was in the hands of the Dhargots, making it no place for a woman—or any man who wasn’t a Dhargot or a sellsword, for that matter. Besides, everyone that she had known there—Queen Sharra, Captain Ailynn, and even Haesha, whose name she’d borrowed—was probably dead.

  She buried her rage and considered her options. Lyos wasn’t far, and the city was still free, as far as she’d heard. But with the Dhargots surging east, that might not last long. She watched a few Noshan children run through the streets, waving at their father as he set out on a fishing boat. She wondered if the Dhargots would try to claim Atheion, too. It was certainly a fine target, nestled in a fertile valley in a time when many of the northern realms were reeling from food shortages. But even the Dhargots might not be so ambitious as to attempt extending their empire all the way to the midlands.

  She made her way down Atheion’s streets then over a bridge that swayed like a ferry. She wished she hadn’t been so hostile toward that pompous Knight of the Crane. She needed a fresh start, and his fancy Isle sword, with its exquisite dragonbone hilt, might have fetched enough coin to start a tavern or a brothel of her own. But seeing him had only reminded her of the stories she’d heard about the courage and honor of Isle Knights and how none of them had arrived to prevent Hesod from being put to the sword.

  Not their fault, I suppose. They’re on the other end of the damn continent! Besides, coin is coin.

  She considered looking for the Knight, but she was not a cleric of Dyoni anymore. Meeting him again would require too much explanation and raise too much suspicion. Besides, she doubted even her talents could soothe his injured pride. But if she knew where the Knight was staying, she might slip in and steal the sword while he slept. Surely, Atheion did not have frequent visitors from the Lotus Isles. Finding him would be a simple matter of asking around.

  Then again, even if she got into the Knight’s room undetected and evaded the suspicious Dwarr, she would have to contend with the wytch.

  That platinum-haired Shel’ai watched over her bumbling Knight with a fierceness that seemed somewhere between a jealous but aloof lover and a mother wolf safeguarding her cubs. Haesha did not fear men or swords, but magic was another matter. She pushed the thought from her mind—at least for the moment.

  She stopped to ask a passing merchant what inn he would recommend, mostly to practice the halting, nervous voice of her new identity. The man answered, and she thanked him without even robbing him.

  When she reached the inn, Noshan guards stood outside. She tensed but reminded herself that they could not have been there for her. Not yet. Nevertheless, she decided to move on. She found a less fancy but adequate inn just down the street. She paid for her room and went up to hide the bulk of her coins. Stashing them under the straw mattress would have been too obvious, so she used her stolen dagger to pry up a loose floorboard. She checked the area for rats then hid two of the three coin purses within. She doubted any thief in all the realms could rob from her, but she saw no point in taking chances. She kept only enough copper on her to pay for her drinks. After taking the Maelmohr pin off her tunic, she went down and ordered an entire pitcher of wine.

  Unwilling to spend the evening fending off men’s drunken advances, she chose the company of a muscular, kind-faced merchant she suspected of being a man lover. She introduced herself as Igrid—a name she’d used in Hesod—and filled his cup. Soon, they were speaking like old friends. She used the opportunity to test her story, adding fabricated details to her fictional past: a rich father gone missing, an ailing mother, a merchant husband who would be meeting her in two or three days
. She concealed her pleasure when the man not only believed every word, but also offered to help search for her father. She grew tired, though, so she excused herself and started for the stairs that led up to her room.

  At that moment, crude laughter echoed through the barroom, and she turned to see Dhargots swaggering in. She counted three of them, strong and leering, their painted eyes clearly scouting the common room for a fight. She scrutinized their faces, wondering if she’d met any of them in battle before she’d fled Hesod, but one Dhargot looked like another. Resisting the urge to hurry to her room, she sat back down. The merchant spoke to her, his voice filled with concern, but she ignored him. Her hand touched the hilt of the dagger at her side, hidden beneath her cloak.

  No, not here. Not yet.

  It made no difference if those particular Dhargots had been at Hesod. All Dhargots were the same. Still, she forced herself to relax. She could not avenge her sworn sisters if, in the process, she wound up jailed and executed—or worse, hauled out and brutalized by the very Dhargots she intended to kill. Besides, she could tell already that she was too drunk for a pitched battle. She determined to pace herself, keep calm, and wait for an opportunity.

  Igrid took a deep breath and released it. She filled her cup, then the cup of the man next to her. Then she waited.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MATUA’S PLEA

  Rowen woke early, shook off his hangover by forcing himself through the martial poses of the sha’tala, then went to buy supplies. Though he had rented one room for Jalist and himself and another for Silwren, he saw no sign of the Dwarr. Rowen figured his friend was still in the company of the inn’s cook, a young man whose acquaintance Jalist had made the previous night. Silwren had joined her comrades in the common room only long enough to eat and raise a single cup of wine before she retired.