Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  Igrid blinked. Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her knife. “Why? Do they think he needs their help? He must have reached the Wytchforest by now. They should have marched with him from the start if they meant to be of use!”

  “You mistake me, milady. They do not mean to help him. They mean to arrest him.” He paused, as though giving her time to reply, but Igrid was speechless. “I attended their meeting with the king. Two Knights of the Lotus lead the company, a man and a woman. The man thinks Locke is a traitor who stole Fâyu Jinn’s blade out of vainglory.”

  Igrid’s jaw tensed. “And the woman?”

  “She’s Locke’s friend, I think. Officially, she commands the Knights, though you could cut the tension with your knife. She says she means to find Sir Locke and… reassess the situation. Though truth be told, based on the number of Knights who seem to side with this man, Crovis, I doubt she’ll have her way on this.”

  Igrid followed Arnil’s gaze and realized that she was white-knuckling her knife. She relaxed. “And how does this concern you… or me, for that matter?”

  “The Knights have agreed to give me safe escort to Ivairia, since they’re riding west anyway. That is, the woman agreed, though I doubt one in five of her Knights supports her decision. She’s stalling. But it’s to my benefit. As for you…” He shrugged. “You said Locke was your friend. I thought you’d care to hear what may become of him.”

  Igrid felt her heart in her throat. “You’re wrong. I’m done with Locke. My business is in Lyos now.”

  “Then this should help.” Arnil tossed her a small pouch of coins. “A gift from the king—that is, a gift to me that I won’t be needing. Not as much as I already paid you, but you’re welcome to it.”

  Igrid upended the pouch. She counted twenty cranáfi, each coin stamped with the balancing crane of the Lotus Isles. She returned the coins to the pouch and tossed them onto her bed without comment.

  Arnil said, “Will it be a tavern or a brothel?”

  “Perhaps one of each.” Igrid turned her back and let her cloak fall to the floor. She dressed in full view of him—not as an act of seduction but out of the hope that it would make him forget whatever questions she sensed he had been about to ask.

  The Lancer did not acknowledge her nakedness, though she thought she heard a slight tremor in his voice. “A fine plan, I am sure. In that case, perhaps you’d like to speak with Commander Shingawa on Locke’s behalf. At the very least, I’m sure she could convey a personal message from you. After they’ve clapped him in irons, that is.”

  Igrid decided to dress Lyosi style. She wrapped a silk sarong around her breasts and fixed the clasp at her throat. She found her hands were shaking. She was glad her back was still turned. She slipped her feet into the fine stolen sandals lying beside her bed. Then she buckled her belt, with the knife on her hip. She took a deep breath to steady herself before she turned around. “Thank you, Lancer. I will consider your suggestion.”

  Arnil gave her a dour look. “Well, it’s no concern of mine. Do as you like. I thank you once again for your assistance, though I’m sure my gold was the only payment you desire.” He bowed again and started to go.

  Igrid said, “You misjudge me.”

  Arnil shrugged. “As you say, milady.” Stone faced, he turned to leave again.

  Igrid crossed the room and took his arm, stopping him. “My relationship with Locke is… was… not easy to explain.”

  His frown said that he did not believe her.

  She was not surprised. Who am I trying to fool here? My relationship with Locke couldn’t have been simpler. He saved me from the Dhargots, and I repaid him with treachery. I used him.

  Arnil gently removed her hand from his arm, though he did not reach for the door again. When he spoke, his voice was softer than before. “I need no explanation, milady. It is not my business. I see how this troubles you. And I think you are not quite so hardhearted as you pretend.”

  To her surprise, he pulled the glove from one hand and touched her face so gently that she barely felt it. She felt an odd ache when he pulled away. He bowed a third time. “Goodbye, milady. If you change your mind, you’ll find us assembling on King’s Bend within the hour.” And then he was gone.

  Igrid stood in her room as though carved from stone. She eyed some of the other goods she’d already bought stacked in the corner of the rented room: a good Lyosi shortsword, plain traveling clothes, and fine boots with dark, hardened leather on the outside and soft leather and velvet on the inside. She’d had them made special, and they were better suited for traveling in the wilderness than traversing the clean cobblestone walkways of Lyos. Odd. Why did I do that?

  She touched the hilt of the shortsword. It had not been wrought of kingsteel—despite her new wealth, that was still far too expensive—but it was better than any other sword she had ever owned. Light, fast, and sharp, it had a waisted blade and an ergonomic wooden handle bound in leather.

  Not well suited to the city, where daggers are easier to hide. But perfect for travel, she thought dourly. Well, I’ve already entrusted my coins with the Lenders’ Guild. I could buy a horse and ride west with the Knights. I could vouch for Rowen, tell them how he saved me, what he did for those Noshan villagers. And when they catch up with him, I could beg his forgiveness.

  Igrid winced. She would not beg—not in this life and certainly not for forgiveness from any man. Besides, Silwren’s illusionary conjuring of Knightswrath still irked her. Rowen’s forgiveness would be fair compensation for her letting his wytch live.

  She felt a cold breeze. She turned and eyed the frost on the windowsill. Beyond, a few flurries flitted about. It won’t be long now. She went to the window and closed the shutters. Then she undressed, shivering, and went back to bed.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  THE TOMB

  Unseen, Silwren arrived in Shaffrilon as the morning light spread across the Path of Crowns. She reeled for a moment as the full power of a Dragonkin roiled inside her. It flooded her senses, threatening to overwhelm her. She knew that if it did, she might very well destroy all she’d come back to protect. She fought it by focusing her mind on the image of Rowen’s face.

  I will not give in. I cannot. Not now.

  The knowledge of what she had seen at Ish’kana gave her strength, even as it filled her with despair. She had returned too late to prevent the battle, but she had heard Zeia’s accusations, sensed the others’ growing agreement, then watched in horror as Fadarah healed a dying Sylv only to kill her as a demonstration of his newly hardened will.

  Concealing herself from view of a man she had once taken as her husband, Silwren had watched it all. Her plan to try one last time to speak to them withered and died. But faced with the other option of killing Fadarah and Shade—all of them, as she’d told Rowen she would—her courage faltered. But it had been replaced by courage of a different sort. If she could not bear to destroy Fadarah and Shade herself, one way to help Rowen still remained.

  Back in Shaffrilon, she faced the House of Questions. She started forward then stopped. If I tell Rowen, he will try to stop me. Better I do what must be done then leave the sword behind. For him.

  But even then, Rowen might not be safe. Without her, he would have no one to teach him how to use the sword’s true abilities. He would flounder. He would be hurt. Still, he would be safe from Fadarah and the others—safe from the sins of all the Shel’ai.

  Nodding, she hesitated a moment longer, smiling in the darkness and wishing she could at least say goodbye. She started toward the palace. Though the walkway behind her was crowded with frightened Sylvs, a line of guards kept them from ascending any higher. She blocked out the cries, blocked out everything, and ascended the walkway in grim silence.

  She had never seen the palace, but she’d seen paintings of it: a narrow, tall building topped in white spires, draped in green banners and wreathed in statues of the gods. The strain of remaining invisible became too great. She shimmered into view, startlin
g the two smartly armored guards outside, but a touch on each of their foreheads made them tumble into unconsciousness. Silwren touched the locked gate, and it swung open easily.

  She met three more guards and a handful of servants inside. All greeted her with wide blue eyes. Some reached for weapons, but at Silwren’s gesture, all slumped to the floor. Though the use of magic did not tax her quite so much, a great weariness still built inside her. As she moved past them, Silwren had the odd feeling that she was becoming ethereal again, floating over the stone floor.

  Not floating—flying. She fixed her gaze on a broad, ornate staircase in the distance. She moved quickly, knowing that to delay risked further erosion to not just her courage but her sanity as well. At the top of the staircase, she incapacitated another servant, wincing when the boy dropped a pitcher of wine that shattered on the marble floor.

  Still trusting whatever inexplicable magical sense guided her along, she made her way through the maze of palace hallways and staircases. At last, she came to what looked like a blank wall. Sensing some kind of strong, ancient magic emanating from the wall, she touched it. To her surprise, the stone shimmered as though turning to water, then it vanished altogether.

  Silwren faced a narrow corridor. Though the corridor was unlit, a pale white glow preceded her. She realized with a start that the light was emanating from her own body. With a mix of fright and elation, she hurried on.

  The corridor narrowed further, bending this way and that. The floor inclined, and the stone walls gave way to wood. She had passed into the World Tree itself. All her senses tingled. She wondered how long it had been since someone had been there.

  The corridor widened then came to a sudden dead end. She faced a breathtaking mural. Centuries old, it depicted a host of winged, ethereal figures leading an expressionless host of iron Jolym against a smaller, defiant host of Sylvs, Isle Knights… and violet-eyed Shel’ai.

  Though she knew she was running out of time, Silwren felt her eyes drawn to a part of the mural depicting a dark-haired woman with tapered ears. Though flames and ghostly wings emanated from her body, she stood not among the Dragonkin but with those she’d been raised to despise.

  Nâya… give me strength. Silwren wept. Unsure how to proceed, she touched the wall. It shimmered and disappeared. When it was gone, she stepped forward—alone—into the tomb of Fâyu Jinn.

  Luminstones had been placed in the small tomb, and their blue radiance mingled with the white glow of Silwren’s body. The first thing Silwren saw was a white-haired man in kingly garb, by the far wall, kneeling before an ornate stone sarcophagus. Next to a man she guessed was the Sylvan king stood Briel, his sword drawn. A figure knelt before the Sylvan warrior, bound and gagged, his face washed in blood. After a moment, Silwren recognized him. Rage and worry made her fingers flare with wytchfire. She pointed her fingertips at the king’s back but restrained the fire. “Release him or your king dies.”

  Briel pressed his sword to Rowen’s neck. “Lower your hands, wytch. Please.”

  Silwren could see by Rowen’s wide, pleading eyes that he wanted to tell her something, but she extended her mind into the mind of the Sylvan warrior instead. She sensed Briel’s reluctance. Still, he would kill Rowen if she threatened the king.

  Silwren lowered her hands, though wytchfire continued to snake between her closed fingers, testing her control. Only then did the king rise, slowly, and turn to face her, his eyes drooping and bloodshot.

  “Father always said only magic could open the doorway. But when he took the sword… when he sent it away… I realized he was lying.” Loslandril smiled faintly, touching a scar beneath his left eye. “I came here after he died. I thought it would give me strength. But all I found was armor. Even Jinn’s bones are gone.”

  Silwren looked from Loslandril to Briel. “Release the Knight, and Sylvos retains its king. Harm him, and I’ll burn the palace around your ears. I will not tell you again.”

  Briel bit his lip, uncertain, but Loslandril said, “You came for this?” He tapped the dragonbone hilt of the sword clumsily girded about his waist. “You know I can’t let you have it.”

  “I’m not asking.” Silwren felt a surge of derision and considered making good on her threat. Then she remembered how Fadarah had killed that Sylvan woman. Derision became pity. “We don’t have to be enemies. We are not the monsters your father feared.”

  Loslandril frowned. “My father was the monster, wytch. I’ve known that since I was a child. It’s not you I fear. It’s not the Shel’ai, either. It never was.”

  Silwren wondered what the Sylvan king meant. Despite the risk of using her magic, she extended her mind into his, far more deeply than she’d done with Briel. The tomb of Fâyu Jinn shimmered and vanished, replaced by the king’s bedchamber. Through the king’s eyes, she saw Prince Quivalen as an infant, staring up at her. She felt the king’s panic as though it were her own then the cold metal of a knife as she briefly considered protecting the prince’s life by cutting out those damning, violet eyes.

  Then she saw him. The man radiated power and malice—far worse than any Shel’ai she had ever known. She realized at once what he was and recoiled from Loslandril’s mind, tumbling back into her own body. For a moment, she could not speak. But as she fought to reclaim her own senses, a dreadful comprehension filled her. At last, she understood why the Shel’ai had never known peace.

  The Sylvan king faced her. The white glow of the tomb filled the wrinkles in his face like snow in a cracked, ruined wall. Loslandril nodded slowly, as though he’d sensed her probing his mind. He undid the laces of his tunic and opened his shirt, showing her the ghastly wound that Chorlga had given him so many years ago. “Understand, wytch, I have no choice. He is stronger than you, stronger than anyone. I am sorry.”

  Silwren braced for his attack, but neither the king nor Briel made a move. Rowen screamed incomprehensibly through his gag, warning her before Briel could knock him down. Silwren turned, finally recognizing the trap.

  A thin, wild-eyed Sylv lunged at her. He whispered, “I am nothing like you,” and struck her breast. He started to step back, but Silwren caught him by the wrist. Wytchfire raced up his arm. The thin Sylv tried to break free, but the fire washed past his shoulder, spreading over his face like a mask. He screamed.

  The king screamed, too. Something in his anguished cry caught her attention. She turned back to face him. The king had drawn Knightswrath and charged her, but a wave of her hand sent him tumbling backward, even as the magical expenditure sent a jolt of pain through her own chest.

  Rowen surged to his feet. Though his wrists and ankles remained tied, the Knight grappled with Briel, punching him with his bound hands. Despite Rowen’s fury, Briel had already cut him twice—once on the arm, once on the thigh. The Sylv stepped back to deliver the death blow.

  Silwren gestured again, more harshly, and Briel’s arm snapped. His shortsword clattered to the stone floor. The Sylv fell, hissing through clenched teeth. Rowen followed, groping for Briel’s fallen sword. His eyes met hers. Though they were safe, Rowen’s eyes widened with horror.

  An icy chill swept through her. She looked down and saw the hilt of a glass knife protruding from her chest. For a moment, she could not believe it. She felt no pain—only cold. The chill deepened. She pressed one hand to her wound. She tried to summon more wytchfire to stave off the chill, but the knife drew in the fire as soon as she released it. The room tilted and shimmered around her.

  “Rowen,” she gasped.

  Everything turned white and cold. She thought for a moment that she’d been transported to the Wintersea. That she was alone—and naked.

  Nâya… oh, gods… please, just—

  Before she could finish her prayer, the ice cracked. Silwren fell through, into miles and miles of cold, dark water.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  THE BRASS MASK

  Jalist woke, wet and shivering, hours before dawn. He knew there was no point trying to sleep more than the little bit he
already had. He felt more exhausted and despairing than ever. But at least the rain had stopped. He cursed and drained the last of the wineskin. Then he crawled out of the ditch, checked the stars to make sure he was facing south, and started walking. Several times, numbed to the sight of Dwarrish corpses, he stopped at farms and searched for provisions. He claimed a warmer cloak, a pair of matching stilettos with black gemstones in the hilts, and the top half of a broken spear. He cursed himself for not taking one of the dead Housecarls’ long axes the night before.

  Jalist returned to the road and continued south. Around midday, he encountered what appeared to be a desperate, failed attempt at fortifications. A squad of Housecarls had dug a ditch and erected a wooden palisade to block the road. Scorched grass and stone, along with the lingering smell of oil, told him that the fighters had also tried killing their enemy with fire. Jalist passed easily through the shattered palisade and picked his way through the dead. He searched for a usable long axe, but all were rusted and unreliable.

  The crows had either fled in fear or finally succeeded in sating their depthless hunger. Jalist considered saying a prayer to Maelmohr, pleading for the care of dead souls, but he changed his mind. Where were you when your followers were being slaughtered, you divine bastard?

  After walking for an hour, he stopped in his tracks and wondered if he might be drunker than he thought. There, on the road before him, about a hundred yards in the distance, stood a man.

  No, not a man. A giant! The figure stood at least seven feet tall. His back was turned. More remarkably, though, he was covered head to toe in gleaming brass armor. It was almost blinding. Still, he was the first living person Jalist had seen in days. He debated whether he should hide or call out to the man. Then the man turned and faced him.

  Jalist decided not to run—it was only one man, after all—and raised a hand in greeting. The brass-armored figure offered no reply. But Jalist realized for the first time that he held a hatchet in each hand. The brass-armored figure started toward him, his movements quick and jerking.