Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2)

by Michael Meyerhofer

Igrid tried in vain to remember the Knight’s name. “Do you really have to ask that?”

  The Knight was quiet for a moment. “That Dhargot wasn’t lying. What they’ll do to you—”

  “He’ll try.”

  “He’ll succeed, unless Iron Sisters are adept at fighting off armed men with their hands tied.” The Knight paused. “Ask for mercy—not from the Dhargots, but from the king. If you describe… what you saw at Hesod, he might listen.”

  Igrid offered him a crooked smile as she wiped her eyes. “The king won’t turn me loose any more than I can talk you into unlocking this cell.”

  “Maybe not. But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

  Igrid shuddered. “If you’re talking about a cup of poison, my sisters offered me that when we realized the city was about to fall. I decided to take my chances with the Dhargots. I’ll do that again.”

  The Knight shook his head. “I don’t know how you got out of the city, but whatever you did, it won’t work here. Listen to me, Haesha—”

  “Igrid,” she corrected. “As true a name for me as Haesha was. Besides, Igrid has a nicer ring to it. Igrid of the Iron Sisters.” She glanced down at her bloody clothing. “Now all I need is some armor and a sword. And a cup of wine. And someone I can bribe.” She glanced up, directing her words at the Knight and the prison guards alike. After all, the coin purses she’d stolen were still hidden away in the floorboards of her room at the inn. But their scowls dashed her hopes. “Then why are you even here, Knight?”

  “A certain cleric of Armahg found me. He heard what happened and asked me to speak to the king on your behalf.”

  Igrid answered with another smirk. “Matua? Gods, he must be savoring this! Well, if you’re here, I’m guessing your talk with the king didn’t go as well as it could have. And all because I knifed two bastards who probably killed and raped a dozen women and children each. But I wouldn’t expect you or the king to understand.”

  The Knight’s answer was quick and low, little more than a whisper. “You’re not the only orphan with a sword, Igrid.”

  The remark caught her off guard, but she forced herself to answer quickly. “Well, I seem to have misplaced my sword. Let me know if you find it.”

  “I will.” The Knight gave her a hard look, turned, and walked away. She swelled with a sudden need to call out to him, to ask him to come back so she could plead for his help. Instead, she screamed a vile string of curses that followed him into the street. Then she leaned back against the cold stone wall, closed her eyes, and pretended to sleep.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE SCROLLHOUSE

  Jalist shook his head. “No. If your brother were here, he’d tell you the same thing. So I’m saying it for both of us. No.” He scowled across the table at Rowen. Along with Silwren, they sat apart from the other patrons. Sunset spilled through the windows of the inn so that the floor and the table between them seemed foggy with blood.

  “All I’m saying—”

  “Is that we take on more trouble than we already have,” Jalist finished for him. “Do you really want to make for the Wytchforest with a hundred angry Noshans hurling spears at our asses?”

  “It won’t come to that. We can take her quietly—”

  “Like hells. What? You think the guards will just let you walk in and open her cell door? I’m surprised they let you see her at all.” Jalist glanced about, lowered his voice, and pretended to smile as though they were only sharing a joke. He drained his goblet then filled it again with the wine pitcher in front of them. “You’re not using your head, Locke. You know the king won’t turn her loose. He won’t grant her a quick death, either. Why anger the Dhargots just to save one wandering madwoman you don’t even know? And if you say for honor, by the gods, I’ll break this pitcher over your skull!”

  Rowen smiled. “I’m not going to quote the Codex Lotius. I’m just saying you didn’t hear what that Dhargot said to her. I did.”

  Jalist pushed the pitcher toward him. “Such is life. Drink and forget it.”

  Rowen pushed the pitcher away. “No. We can get her out of there.”

  “Even if we could, why should we?”

  “Because no one else will.”

  “Not good enough.” Jalist took another drink. “Maybe you just want to let her have another go at your cock… with or without the sharpened stick this time.”

  Rowen flushed, glancing sidelong at Silwren, who sat at the head of the table but still had not spoken. Instead, she looked down, tracing the wood grain with her fingertips. Rowen met Jalist’s gaze and said, “Don’t act like you were chipped off the Wintersea. You know damn well why we should do it. And you know we can.”

  “Not without killing. Is that bitch worth Noshan blood on your hands?” Jalist took a drink. “Her life versus some fool guard with a wife and brats waiting at home. Or maybe his blade will get lucky, and it’ll be you lying there, bleeding your guts out. Think about it.”

  “I thought Dwarrs had better hearing. I never said we’d get her out with fists and steel.”

  Jalist followed Rowen’s gaze to Silwren again. He rolled his eyes. “Perfect! Your solution is to risk burning down half the city, just to free one woman you detest. A woman who’s guilty, I might add.” He drained his cup, filled it again, and faced Silwren. “Well, speak up! Talk some sense to this bastard.”

  Silwren was quiet for a long time. Her own cup sat in front of her, untouched. Finally, she said, “I could get her out of Atheion. But I won’t.”

  Rowen said, “Why not?”

  Silwren answered with an icy look. “Have you already forgotten what happened on the road?”

  Jalist wondered what she meant, but she continued before he could ask. “You would risk everything for this woman when we both know we shouldn’t even be here.”

  Jalist chimed in, surprised that he and Silwren were in agreement for once. “She’s not worth it. You think she’d risk a drop of blood to save you? Gods, she tried to crack your skull on the road, just to show you she could!”

  “I sided with you in Lyos. When the people wanted you dead, I stepped in. I asked nothing in return. Now—”

  “You want to be the next Fâyu Jinn.” Silwren’s white pupils caught Rowen in an unblinking stare that made Jalist pity him. “You want to stop a war, but you also want to start one. You want to kill the Shel’ai who tormented your brother, while pretending to forgive me for helping them. You want to lash together some kind of alliance with the Wytchforest… between the people who killed my parents for refusing to butcher me when I was born, as the Sylvs have been butchering Shel’ai for centuries.”

  Her voice trembled dangerously. “Your thoughts are as loud as screams to me, Human. You want to be a hero. You crave it. I don’t. I just want to fix a little of what I’ve broken.” She stood and started to walk away.

  Rowen seized her wrist. She broke free with surprising strength. Wytchfire sprang from her fingertips. Violet tendrils spiraled around her hands.

  Jalist swore as a telltale hush fell over the common room. Silwren looked confused then glanced down. The wytchfire vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Without a word, she hurried away.

  Jalist said, “Want to tell me what happened on the road?”

  Rowen said, “Not really,” and took a drink from his cup. The two sat in silence for a moment. “You always said women would be the death of me.”

  Jalist snorted. Taking the pitcher, he refilled Rowen’s cup. “Well, here’s to hasty words and bad decisions.” He raised his cup. Rowen did the same. They drank together, scowling.

  Silwren had intended to stay in her room, but the tension roiling inside her persuaded her otherwise. Leaving through either the Borrowed Crown’s front or back door necessitated that she pass through the common room, so she opened the window and jumped.

  She felt the air on her skin and smiled despite herself. She stretched out her arms. She slowed, landing on the cobblestones like a wind-tossed feather. Only then did she real
ize what she had done. She had never done that before, though it had seemed as natural as breathing.

  No Shel’ai spell can do that!

  Luckily, her window overlooked an alley between the Borrowed Crown and a mercantile. No one had seen her. She drew her hood and became one with the shadows. She wandered the Atheion night, unseen by any save those who passed so close that she felt their breath on her face. Even those people saw nothing more than a shadow, a trick of light they considered only a moment before dismissing it.

  I should go… Rowen doesn’t need me. Not really. Fel-Nâya’s power is waking. Rowen’s honor will restore it—but slowly. Too slowly.

  She crossed a marble bridge over the darkened waters of Armahg’s Tears. The next bridge was less magnificent, wrought only of wood and rope. This led her to a quiet district of plain adobe homes and fishing huts. The place reminded her of the streets of Lyos, where she had walked unseen. She deliberately closed her mind to the people’s thoughts, fears, and passions—something she had not been able to do before—and walked down to stand alone by the sea.

  She saw a few night fishermen, an old man drinking tea, and a young woman nursing her sleepless infant while she dangled her feet in the water. But no one saw her. Silwren stood, cloaked in cloth and magic, and watched the night-blue waves of Armahg’s Tears. A fisherman with a flute invoked a simple, melancholic melody over the waters. She wondered if the song was some sort of superstition that the Noshans thought would charm the fish to the surface and grant them an easier catch. She preferred to think the faceless fisherman merely liked the tune.

  I could help Rowen. I could restore Fel-Nâya. But he’s not ready… and neither am I.

  She considered the irony that the general dishonor of the Isle Knights, which had driven Fel-Nâya’s full power into dormancy, might also have been the reason Rowen was still alive. He did not yet understand the sword’s true nature and potential, and she had not yet found the courage to tell him.

  Maybe he won’t need the sword. If he succeeds in reforming the alliance between the Knights and the Sylvs, he might be able to beat Fadarah without the weapon.

  Silwren almost laughed. In truth, the Oath of Kin was as good as dead. She was escorting Rowen to the Wytchforest only because she did not know what else to do. She was not ready to reignite Fel-Nâya any more than Rowen was ready to wield it, and the only other option—dealing with Fadarah herself—felt impossible.

  She thought again of her jump from the inn window. She had the odd feeling that, had anyone been watching, they would have seen ghostly dragon wings materialize from her body, guide her gently to the earth, then vanish. She tried to calm herself by listening to the music and the waves, but a knot of panic was already growing within her.

  The moment she had delved into Namundvar’s Well, drawing on the raw power of the Light to magnify her own, she had ceased to be a Shel’ai. She had become a Dragonkin of sorts. But that was hardly the only change she had undergone during the past year. She had betrayed Fadarah, a man who was like a father to her. She had betrayed Kith’el, her own husband. Blinded by wrath and unfamiliar magic, she had killed fellow Shel’ai—more than she could count or recall.

  And that was only the beginning. In the prisons of Lyos, El’rash’lin had used magic to share some of his memories with Rowen, in hopes that they would make him more understanding of and even more sympathetic to the troubled past of all Shel’ai. For a time, it had. But she felt Rowen growing more and more distant of late. And her actions on the plains had not helped.

  How long will it be until he’s as much a stranger to me as Kith’el? That was inevitable. Sometimes, she felt as though she were gaining control over the awful power within her, but she admitted to herself what was probably more likely: she was losing herself, gradually merging with the Dragonkin within her. She looked around at towers and people, knowing that if she let go, she could utterly destroy them and leave not even ashes behind.

  The feeling both thrilled and terrified her. She gazed down at her hands, conjuring wytchfire. It danced and played on her open palms as though alive. Only then did she realize she was no longer invisible.

  The woman nursing her infant had recoiled, paralyzed with fright, clutching the bundle so tightly that the child began to wail. “Please,” the woman cried. “Please, don’t…”

  “I won’t hurt you,” Silwren said. She held up her hands, intending it to be a gesture of peace, but the wytchfire roiled around her.

  The young woman found her strength, stood, and fled. Silwren called out to her, begging forgiveness. But in her panic, she spoke in the Sylvan tongue. She watched the young woman flee and wondered what her voice must have sounded like to the woman. Did she think she was being cursed? Silwren thought of Lyos and how its citizens had gone from reviling her to greeting her as their savior.

  That will not happen here. Never again. Not anywhere… unless I make my decision. She straightened.

  The great sprawling structure in the distance was the Scrollhouse. She knew it would be heavily guarded, but steel and Human eyes had not stopped Shel’ai from entering before. Years ago, El’rash’lin and she had slipped unseen into the great library, seeking information on Namundvar’s Well, and none of the clerics had been the wiser. And Fadarah had gone in there undetected so often, some joked that he must have memorized half the scrolls in Atheion.

  She thought of one scroll in particular. A new purpose filled her. She faced the Borrowed Crown. Unseen, on wings of mist, she glided across the skiffs, bridges, and lamp-lit walkways. She had to act fast. If she delayed even an hour, she would lose her nerve.

  She found Rowen and Jalist asleep in their room. She approached Rowen’s bed and woke him with a touch to his forehead. She pressed one finger to her lips. He sat up, strong and bare-chested, his red hair unkempt. His green eyes widened. She realized that to him, she did not look like herself. Instead of pale skin, violet eyes, and delicately tapered ears, he must have seen mist, violet fire, and dragon-like wings of faint light that unfurled behind her, swaying like silk in a nonexistent breeze.

  He sees what I am becoming… She forced herself to be a Shel’ai again. She felt her heart beating in her throat. She panicked, wondering if her old body could contain her. Then she shook herself.

  “Meet me outside. Don’t wake Jalist. Leave your armor, but bring the sword.”

  Rowen rose hastily, unsure at first if he was dreaming. He heard Jalist snoring across the room. He considered waking him then eyed his heap of kingsteel armor and decided to trust Silwren.

  He emptied his bladder in the chamber pot, moved to the water basin, and rinsed his face with cold water. As he dressed in plain clothes and girded Knightswrath, he wondered if Silwren had woken him because of Igrid. And why did Silwren appear not as a Shel’ai but a Dragonkin?

  Pulling on his boots, he thought back to legends he’d heard on the Lotus Isles, about Dragonkin who leeched so much power off dragons that they went mad. He wondered if they resembled how Silwren had looked on the plains and when she’d woken him just before: blazing white but ghostly, as though she were more magic than flesh, with clouds of mist that might have been wings unfurling behind her.

  He toyed again with the idea of waking Jalist then left, one hand on his sword hilt. The common room was nearly empty. A few drunken patrons glanced up at him, but without his armor and tabard, he didn’t earn a second glance.

  The night air was colder than he’d anticipated, and a chill swept through him. He wondered if the coming winter or his own fears had caused it. Then he spotted Captain Reygo’s guards. They were slumped against the outside of the inn, fast asleep. Rowen frowned. He doubted they had gone to sleep of their own volition.

  He glanced around, looking for Silwren. He half hoped not to find her. Then he saw her waiting across the street in a slant of moonlight, very much flesh and blood. Her long platinum tresses hung past her waist, and her simple gown seemed as thin as a whisper.

  He felt his pulse quicken.
He approached her quickly, whispering, “What in Jinn’s name are you—”

  “Time for answers, Knight. Walk close behind me. Say nothing, and we will pass their guards unseen.” She turned and began walking, nearly gliding over the cobblestones.

  Rowen followed, feeling as if he were trailing a ghost, her lithe body outlined by moonlight. Anticipating questions from a squad of guardsmen, he tried to ready some kind of excuse, but a fisherman passed them without even looking up. A moment later, a stableboy stepped out and pissed in the street, only a few yards away, then scratched himself and went back inside without so much as a nod.

  Silwren led him over a walkway, carefully weaving around a young couple kissing on the bridge. Despite the late hour, clerics and guards were milling about the Scrollhouse, sitting on the steps or leaning and chatting against the ornate pillars.

  Even invisible, I bet they’ll notice if I run into them. He turned sideways just in time to avoid colliding with a passing scribe. As he hurried after Silwren, he considered the fact that she must have cast some kind of spell on the guards left at the inn. When the guards woke, they might very well suspect what had happened. That meant he would have to leave Atheion that night—once Silwren had completed whatever task she had in mind.

  And what about the Iron Sister? Do I still mean to save her? He squelched that thought for the time being.

  Luckily, the doors of the Scrollhouse were open. Still, Rowen and Silwren had to slip past four Noshan guards who were speaking in whispers. Rowen cursed himself as he bumped into one of them, but the man only mistook him for one of his comrades. He slowed, hoping to eavesdrop on their conversation after he caught the word Dhargot and saw the guards grimacing and shaking their heads, but Silwren hurried him on.

  Inside, they passed through an antechamber that smelled of tea and lamp oil. Long oaken tables were crowded with clerics of Armahg. Even so late, dozens were busy studying. Despite the number of people around, the chamber was so eerily quiet that Rowen found himself holding his breath as they passed through.