She shrugged. “Plenty of blades and blows rushing back to Shaffrilon. Not many guarding the rest of the realm. Towns out there need protecting, too, what with a few thousand Olgrym marauding around our kingdom. Figure I can do as much good back here without all that running around.”
She doesn’t talk like a forest dweller. More like a Wyldkin. But if she is, what’s she doing in the regular army?
“Then come with me,” he said. He raised his voice, rallying those around him. “Our beloved king is in the hands of the general. We have another task. I mean to make for Jen’hanai, raise whatever force I can, and strike out.”
The woman gave him a cold look. “You want to lead us against the Olgrym again? Seems you didn’t do so well the last time.”
Essidel saw his surviving Shal’tiar bristle at this insult of their commander, but some of the green-cloaked Sylvs nodded, seemingly preferring to blame him over General Seravin. “I don’t mean to fight the Olgrym any more than I have to. I mean to find Fadarah and kill him.”
Everyone stared, speechless.
Then the woman smirked. “That has a nice ring to it.” She sheathed her sword, stooped, and retrieved a spear. “I’ll take that sword back after he kills you. In the meantime, my name is Khi’as. And if you’re serious about this, Captain, I bet I know where we can find him.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
THE PRISONER
Long after Rowen had given up pounding on the locked door and calling for the guards, he continued to pace his new living quarters. Located in a squat structure the Sylvs called the House of Questions, built high up in the World Tree, the room had a single arched window offering a dizzying view of the forest far below. He could gaze out the window, even climb out if he wished, but there was nothing to cling to, and it was a sheer drop hundreds and hundreds of feet, all the way to the forest floor.
Still, despite being a prison, the room contained more finery than anything he had ever seen. The floor was glossy wytchwood, and the walls were covered in murals depicting what he guessed were key battles from the Shattering War. He saw no representation of Fâyu Jinn and his Knights, but again and again, he saw one figure, presumably King Shigella, leading a revolt against winged, fire-eyed Dragonkin with burning hands. He thought that they looked a bit too similar to Silwren for his comfort.
Then he noted with amusement that in a few murals, Shel’ai appeared to be fighting alongside the Sylvs. Apparently, someone had not taken kindly to those depictions. Unlike the others, which were as pristine as though they had been painted that day, those depicting the Shel’ai had been slashed with knives. Over one, he found potent Sylvan slurs that—thanks to El’rash’lin—he was able to decipher.
Rowen had been in the Wytchforest for four days, locked in that room for three. An old woman who refused to look at or respond to him brought him food: whey bread, sweet fruits he had never seen before, a strange but delicious stew of spiced vegetables, and sweet Sylvan wine. He had a bed more comfortable than the one he’d slept on in Atheion. For light, his room contained a single luminstone. He was even given water to bathe with. In place of a chamber pot was actual piping that surpassed anything in Lyos.
Shelves held books—histories of Sylvos predating the Shattering War, mythologies of the gods and dragons, and stories from the days of the Dragonkin. Rowen tried to keep himself from going mad with frustration and boredom by delving into tales of the creation of the Sylvs, who were fashioned by the Dragonkin as slaves, coupled with the Dragonkins’ slow descent into madness.
Gods, I need to get out of here! But the door to his room, locked and guarded, was as unlikely an escape route as his window. Besides, he did not know what he would do if he managed to escape. The Sylvan king had refused to see him. No prefect or general had bothered to visit him, either. Knightswrath had been taken and, like Silwren, could have been anywhere. Despite the initial awe he’d felt at the sight of the World Tree, his arrival at the Sylvan capital had been maddeningly anticlimactic.
He glanced out the window and wondered if they simply wanted him to kill himself. His jailors’ animosity was obvious in their expressions, as well as the muttered curses they probably did not know he understood, but otherwise, they had not assaulted him. Briel had accompanied them at first. The stern Shal’tiar made certain that Rowen was not mistreated but coldly ignored his questions, refusing to say where Silwren had been taken.
Since then, no one had spoken to him. The guards in the hallway entered his room only to make sure he did not attack the old woman who brought in his provisions and changed his linens, but he could learn nothing else of what was happening in Sylvos. Still, Rowen knew something was wrong.
Even from his extravagant prison, he could hear commotion. Through the window, he saw crowds moving far below. They were too far to discern clearly, but he thought he saw what looked like refugees flowing into the city while what could only be soldiers marched out in column after column of forest-green cloaks.
The war must be going badly. He thought of Que’ahl and wondered if Captain Essidel was still holding the strongholds or if the Olgrym had finally broken through. If so, had they breeched the Wytchforest yet, or were the Sylvan legions still keeping them at bay?
Once, briefly, Silwren’s voice had broken abruptly into his thoughts, but she’d said only that she was unharmed and that he must be patient. She counseled him not to attempt escape. Then she was silent. But at least Rowen knew she was alive.
But why doesn’t she get me out of here? Frustrated, he stopped pacing long enough to deliver three powerful side kicks to the locked door. It caused an enormous racket and hurt his foot, but the door seemed unfazed. The guards outside offered no response. He wondered again why Silwren did not simply use her magic to liberate him from his prison and take him to see Loslandril, whether the king liked it or not. Surely, she could make them invisible, just as she had in Atheion.
But hours passed, and she neither appeared nor mindspoke with him again. He wished he could contact her himself, but from what little he understood of magic, it seemed that she could only read his thoughts when actively attempting to do so. So Rowen read, ate, paced, performed the sha’tala as best he could without a weapon, read more, drank wine, and tried his best to keep from going mad.
Finally, at sundown, he heard the great metallic fuss of his door being unlocked. He braced himself, and the door opened. Briel entered, gesturing for the scowling guards to stand down and wait outside. Briel closed the door behind him. The guards locked it again.
Briel wore his black fighting leathers, and a matching sword and dagger hung at his belt. A shortbow and quiver of arrows were strapped to his back. He was wearing fighting gloves. By the blue glow of the luminstone, Rowen saw something in the Sylv’s expression that frightened him. His anger slacked. “How close are the Olgrym?”
“A day,” Briel answered bluntly.
Rowen stared. “They made it—”
“Inside the forest. General Seravin’s whole force has been routed. Que’ahl was burned to the ground, along with every Wyldkin village and stronghold left on the plains. My captain is probably dead.” Briel blinked. “There are a few Shal’tiar reserves stationed in the city. Loslandril refuses to flee. So we’re taking command of the capital’s defenses.” He paused, his face like stone. “I am not supposed to tell you any of this, but you’d guess it readily enough when you looked out your window and saw a few hundred Olgrym hacking their way toward you.”
Rowen shuddered. Somehow, he suspected that defending Shaffrilon’s broad, spiraling walkways would take priority over him. “Give me back my sword. I’ll fight with you. Gods, at least give me a way to defend myself!”
He saw Briel consider it before shaking his head. “Some commands must be followed, Human. I just wanted you to know what was happening. You deserved that much.” He turned to go.
“Briel, wait. This has gone on long enough. You have to let me see the king!”
“Human, there are thousand
s of Sylvs out there right now, dying to defend this realm. Do you really think one Knight of the Crane would make that big of a difference?”
“Not me—Silwren. You need her, Briel. She’s a Dragonkin—or near enough. Her magic could mean more than a hundred Sylvan fighters. If I can convince the king—”
“Silwren stays where she is. She’s lucky she’s even still alive. Nearly everyone who knows she’s here wants her dead. I’ve already had to disband a mob and replace six different guards who wanted to harm her. But Loslandril can deal with her when the fighting’s done.” He tightened his gloves. “Farewell, Human. The next time we meet, one of us will probably be a corpse.”
Briel knocked twice on the door, and the guards unlocked it. Rowen tensed. For one mad instant, he considered charging them and trying to fight his way out, but he changed his mind. Briel left. The guards scowled at him and locked him in again.
Rowen sighed. The Olgrym will be here tomorrow… He wondered where Jalist was. Part of him regretted sending the Dwarr away. He could have used an ally right then. Still, he hoped Jalist had managed to get far enough east before the Olgrym launched their latest round of offensives. He hoped his friend would reach his homeland and be reunited with his true love, though he was beginning to wonder if those kind of things happened outside of fairy tales. Rowen shook his head. Then, not for the first time, he searched his room for something he could use as a weapon.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
THE GLASS KNIFE
Long after he had dismissed his advisors, his captains, his servants, his bodyguards, and even his worried son, King Loslandril continued to sit at the gigantic table in his council chamber and stare at the reports. Most were hastily scribbled messages from the elected speakers who presided over their respective villages. All spoke of the Olgrym’s rampaging advance and begged for assistance. But Loslandril had no assistance to offer. By then, most of those people were probably dead.
The Olgrym had broken through General Seravin’s lines, but the Sylvan armies were rallying to destroy the Olgrym once and for all. The attacks within the heart of Sylvos were sorrowful exceptions. How could it be otherwise?
Loslandril smiled wretchedly. That was what he was telling his people, anyway. He knew better. He stared into his empty wine cup. My father was a tyrant. My grandfather was a fool. But I will be the king who lost his realm to the enemy.
He grabbed a pitcher, filled his cup with thick, sweet-smelling wine, and drained it. Then he filled it again. No, I need to keep my senses. I need to be strong for my people.
But what was there for him to do? That Shal’tiar sergeant, Briel, had already mobilized the few hundred men in the reserves. His own city captains seemed only too happy to relinquish command to the young but seasoned veteran. Those reserves were massing at the base of the World Tree, at the mouth of the Path of Crowns, ready to defend the World Gate. Meanwhile, all the citizens of Shaffrilon who were not soldiers but were still proficient with a longbow were being armed and posted along the walkways, on the edges of the great daises overlooking the forest.
Briel had suggested that Loslandril make an appearance at the World Gate, as well, in order to bolster the men. But the rest of his advisors encouraged him to stay in the palace, citing the fact that Shel’ai had been seen fighting alongside the Olgrym. Surely, the sorcerers wanted Loslandril dead.
He drained his cup down to the last drop. As he refilled it, the hand gripping the pitcher shook. Loslandril wondered if the wine or merely his age were catching up with him. He wished suddenly that he had not dismissed Quivalen along with the others. But Quivalen’s presence could have been as aggravating as it was heartening. Though no longer a child, he often behaved like one. Upon hearing that Silwren had been brought into the city, he screamed so loudly that she must be killed immediately that Loslandril had wondered for a moment if he would have to order his guards to restrain the prince.
He’s always been sickly and hot tempered, ever since Chorlga touched him. Maybe he did something to him besides draining the dragonmist from his eyes.
Loslandril touched his hand to his chest, tracing the scars through his silk tunic. Still, they pained him. Of course, he had not been able to completely conceal their existence. Quivalen had asked repeatedly about the scars, but Loslandril had always refused to tell him the truth. Naturally, though, the prince had deduced that they were caused by magic, which seemed to make the prince detest Shel’ai every bit as much as his grandfather had.
Better he never learn the truth, especially if our kingdom is about to fall to his own kind. Loslandril chided himself for the thought. Quivalen was not a Shel’ai anymore. He’d never exhibited the slightest trace of magic. Whatever powers he might have wielded, Chorlga had taken. No, not taken. Devoured.
He remembered the legends of Dragonkin enhancing their own power by draining it from Shel’ai, long after their magical addictions had rendered dragons extinct. According to other stories, the Shel’ai woman held captive in his city was not a Shel’ai at all but some kind of self-made Dragonkin, like the infamous Nightmare. Surely that meant she could not be trusted, but perhaps Loslandril could use her to save the city.
Loslandril glanced across his table at the Sword of Fâyu Jinn. Loslandril could hardly believe his eyes. His father had showed him that sword, rusted and ruined, when he was a boy then entrusted it to one of his agents ordered to take it beyond Sylvos and give it away.
Now it’s come back. And it’s whole. A Knight of the Crane brought it to me. That has to mean something.
Despite Quivalen’s insistence that the sword was a forgery, something told Loslandril that it was not. Still, even if the Isle Knights fighting alongside the Olgrym were merely an illusion, even if Loslandril were willing to strike an alliance with them, the Lotus Isles were on the other side of Ruun. The enemy was on his doorstep.
Perhaps Silwren could save them, but Quivalen and nearly everyone in the capital wanted the woman dead. But without her help, the city would fall. Quivalen would be torn to pieces, his entrails smeared like war paint on the muscles of some unconscionable Olg.
I can’t let that happen. I’ve already lost Jalthessa. I won’t lose Quivalen, too. He started to refill his wine cup then noticed the shadow of someone standing over him. He smiled. “I ordered you to leave me, my son,” he said, not unkindly.
But the voice that answered was not Quivalen’s. “You will find that I do not excel at obeying orders, great king.”
Loslandril had not heard that voice in fifty years, yet the terror it produced made all those long years melt away in an instant. He dropped his cup, letting it spill and shatter on the floor, and rose shakily from his chair. He backed away. Then, on instinct, he stepped in front of Fel-Nâya, blocking it from view.
Chorlga smiled at him with dark, rotten teeth. His features, otherwise coldly handsome, had not aged a day. As before, he did not blink. He still appeared to be a blue-eyed Sylv, though Loslandril knew that was only an illusion. He wondered at once where Quivalen was, if he was safe.
Forcing a scowl, Loslandril said, “We had a deal. You said I would never see you again.”
Chorlga nodded lazily. “You did not keep your word, so I saw no reason to keep mine.”
Loslandril shook his head. “I rejected Fadarah’s truce. I kept the Shel’ai as my enemies. Because of that, my kingdom has been invaded. What more would you ask of me?”
“All the Shel’ai dead. That was what your father wanted, isn’t it? That was the legacy you promised to fulfill.”
Loslandril stared at him, uncomprehending. “I’ve stood by my whole life and let them be murdered—”
“Then punished the murders, whenever you could. Because of that, Shel’ai that otherwise would have been killed at birth were simply abandoned outside the forest. I found some.” Chorlga licked his lips. “And for that, I’m grateful. But enough escaped my attentions that you now find your kingdom in peril. In short, great king, this is your doing. Not mine.”
Loslandril remembered the look of ecstasy on Chorlga’s face when he had drained all semblance of magic from Quivalen’s infant body. He imagined Chorlga wandering the outskirts of Sylvos, doing likewise to every Shel’ai child he found abandoned there, then leaving them to die when he was finished. Despite his hatred for the Shel’ai ruining his kingdom, Loslandril blinked.
Chorlga continued, his smile gone. “This kingdom is not yours, Sylv. Before you die, it will be taken back. By me. That can be delayed, though. I have come to offer you another deal.”
Loslandril touched his chest, feeling the scars through his tunic.
Chorlga laughed. “Oh, nothing quite so dramatic. In fact, I assure you that neither you nor your beloved son will be harmed. In addition, I will see to it that the Olgrym do not invade Shaffrilon.” He took a step closer. “And if the Dhargots come to help the Shel’ai, as they’ve promised, I’ll drive them back as well. Shaffrilon and all of Sylvos will remain yours for…” He hesitated, as though contemplating. “Another ten years.”
Loslandril frowned. “This kingdom has been under the guidance of my forefathers for over ten centuries. Now you ask that I relinquish it in a mere ten years?”
Chorlga turned toward a marble pedestal that contained a single glowing luminstone. He touched the stone. It went dark, as though his touch had absorbed the light. Then he touched the pedestal. The marble cracked. Chorlga faced Loslandril again, smiling. “Would you rather relinquish your kingdom now or after I singe the flesh off your son’s bones and make you watch Olgrym rape his corpse?”
Loslandril considered snatching up Fel-Nâya and attacking, but something compelled him to keep the sword out of sight. Instead, he seized the wine pitcher and threw it. He had the satisfaction of seeing Chorlga’s eyes widen in surprise before the man waved his hand and the pitcher flew sideways. The pitcher shattered, and the pieces skittered across the floor in the blue light of the chamber’s remaining luminstones.
Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) Page 32
