The Iron Crown (Dragon Spirits Book 1)

by L. L. MacRae

  It was early; the sun a sliver of yellow peeking above the horizon, and after the previous night’s dramatic events, Fenn hoped he wouldn’t see anyone save Calidra or Varlot. He wasn’t sure he had the energy to engage in conversation with a stranger if they tried to talk to him.

  As he walked along the dirt path, boots squelching in the muddy puddles where he couldn’t avoid them, he wondered whether he was originally from this place. Calidra had been unsure about his accent, but then again, she’d been unsure about everything about him.

  This was the second morning since he’d “awoken,” on the Isle of Salt and he’d yet to remember anything from before. Fenn wondered if it was the same for the others who’d lost their memories. Had it been some traumatic event they’d all been caught in? Losing their memories at the exact same moment? Or had they been picked, one at a time, all memory loss staggered across a group of unlucky people?

  Birdsong filled the air as small creatures awoke with the rising sun. If he closed his eyes, he could forget everything that had happened the previous night. That it was a calm, quiet morning like any other, with nothing wrong—no friends hurt or missing.

  He carefully peered past every tree and rock, checking everywhere he could see as methodically as possible—grateful none of the plants or foliage shouted at him like they’d done on the Isle of Salt.

  But there was no sign of Calidra or Varlot.

  It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. They could still be safe in Ballowtown.

  Things had been looking up for him, with Varlot appearing only briefly before everything had gone mad. He’d saved him from Torsten—whatever the Inquisitor had been about to do—and he’d lost Varlot immediately after.

  Calidra hadn’t seemed happy about Varlot stepping in to help, especially not against Torsten. Then again, she seemed grumpy about everything unless it was Jisyel. But Calidra’s unhappiness had gone out the window the moment the watchtower bells rang. She was the daughter of a Laird, responsible, in some way, for the people of her country. Although they weren’t in her home canton, and she had no reason to get involved, she’d wanted to see with her own eyes what the cause of the distress was.

  Varlot had been intrigued, too, and had followed Calidra’s lead into the rainy streets. Jisyel had tried to argue against it—she’d been uncomfortable since arriving at the tavern and seeing the officers seated—but Calidra clearly was the more stubborn of the two.

  And once again, Fenn had been swept up in events outside of his control.

  Would staying on the island with Hassen really have been so bad? At least the dragon hadn’t tried to kill him. His chest burned suddenly, as if flame thrashed inside, and he coughed up more water.

  Wiping his mouth, he stared out at the bay. He didn’t know whether Calidra and Varlot had been flung into it, but was certain he’d have come across them by now if they had. The water was swiftly flowing and choppy in the wind. It wasn’t too hard to imagine they’d been swept away, carried down by the fast-flowing current, like the creature seemingly had been.

  No. He couldn’t think like that. Wouldn’t.

  Jisyel was already on the brink of panic, and he didn’t want to make things worse. They’d be okay if they stuck together—he just needed to show Jisyel how he could help. Staying level-headed was the only way they were getting out of this mess.

  Fenn continued to patrol the bank until the sun had risen enough that he began to sweat. It wouldn’t be long before the people who lived on this side of the bay would be up and about, and not wishing to get into another confrontation for which he was ill-prepared, Fenn hurried back to the low outcropping of rock where they’d camped. He shook his head. ‘No sign of them.’

  Jisyel had dressed while he’d been away, and braided her hair to keep it out of her face. The gash on her cheek had stopped bleeding, but it didn’t look like it would stay that way for long.

  ‘How do we get back to Ballowtown?’ Fenn asked, trying to be practical. ‘Calidra and Varlot aren’t here, I’m sure of it. So we’ll have to go back to them.’

  ‘But the bridge across the bay was damaged.’

  ‘Isn’t there another way across?’

  ‘Not unless we walk all the way inland and around. It’d take days. And we’d be halfway to Fellwood by then, anyway.’

  Fenn frowned, trying to think. They needed to be practical. ‘If they didn’t fall in…If they’re okay…’

  ‘What would Calidra do…? She…she would go on, wouldn’t she? Come on, Jisyel, think, think…’ She chewed her thumbnail.

  ‘Maybe Calidra’s waiting in Ballowtown?’

  ‘Maybe…But she has a funeral to get back to. She’s on a timer for that. She might…she might have to keep going.’

  ‘She wouldn’t wait for you to get back to Ballowtown?’ Fenn found Jisyel’s words a bit of a shock. He’d assumed the only thing Calidra cared about was waving her knife at strangers and making sure Jisyel was okay.

  Jisyel shook her head. ‘It’s…a long story. This is her last chance to have a relationship with her family there. Her mother, really. She’s put off going home for years. This funeral has finally given her the push to get back.’ Jisyel sounded confident, if worried.

  ‘Oh.’ Fenn wasn’t sure what to say. It was strange, Calidra looking to rekindle her own family. He was doing something similar. Except, Calidra knew where hers was. ‘You’re sure she’d keep going?’

  ‘I’m sure. When I…when we don’t turn up in Ballowtown this morning, she’ll have no need to keep waiting.’

  Fenn thought it harsh, but from what he’d seen of Calidra, she was ever logical and practical. His stomach growled. ‘Well, if there’s no way across, we have to keep going to Fellwood, too?’ It was the only thing they could do. ‘And we can’t wait here when Calidra has all our supplies. Maybe we’ll catch up with her on the way, if we’re quick?’ Despite the morning light chasing away the chill of the night, Fenn knew they would need food and water soon. He reached into his pocket, pulling out the papers Bellandri had given him. Although wet, the paper was thick and undamaged, and the writing remained legible.

  Jisyel shook her head. ‘That doesn’t mean anything. South of the bay, we’re in a different canton.’

  Fenn raised his shoulders. He was starting to get used to not understanding what people said, but it didn’t get any less frustrating.

  ‘You aren’t allowed to be here, Fenn. It’s ruled by a different Laird now we’re this side of the bay. And anyway, Torsten doubted its authenticity. Another Inquisitor could, too. Seems there’s loads of them here right now.’

  ‘Because of the other lost souls.’ He’d been thinking about it for a while.

  ‘I don’t know why they’re here.’ She rubbed her eyes, then sighed, as if suddenly overwhelmed.

  Fenn dared to hope she wouldn’t hand him over. After meeting Torsten and the other Inquisitors, he’d rather take his chances alone in the wild. There’d been something dark in the man’s eyes, a spark of cruelty that made his blood run cold.

  To be locked up by him was something Fenn never wanted to happen.

  He decided to take a risk. Thinking quickly, he said, ‘Jisyel. Let me help you get back to Calidra. Just…don’t hand me over to the Inquisitors.’ It was clear that Jisyel needed encouragement, if not outright help, and with her in turmoil after everything that happened, he had to try. ‘I can help point out if you’re in danger of losing a finger or something, seeing as you seem to struggle to feel those things.’

  Jisyel’s face dropped, her usually easy smile disappearing.

  ‘You didn’t feel the cold of the water. Didn’t even know about that cut on your face ‘til I pointed it out.’ Fenn gestured to her cheek. ‘Even your fingers were turning blue and you had no idea. And you said Calidra had to remind you of things. Something wrong with your memory, too?’

  Jisyel’s gaze lowered, as if she was suddenly self-conscious. ‘Hassen.’

  It took Fenn a second to recall the name.
‘The…Spirit of Salt Ash?’

  She nodded, glancing away, almost shy. ‘Three years ago…I was young and stupid. More reckless back then, if you can believe it. I managed to get on his bad side and he cursed me. Now, I can’t…feel anything.’ She raised a hand to her cheek, rested it on the cut and stared at the dried blood on her palm with faint surprise. ‘Pain. Pleasure. Cold. Heat. Even food.’

  A pang of sympathy rippled through Fenn’s chest. ‘You know what it’s like to lose something, then. Some part of you that you’re sure should be there?’

  ‘Yes.’ That one word from Jisyel endeared her to Fenn more than any action could.

  ‘I want to find my memory, if it’s possible. I don’t know why this has happened to me, to all those other people, and I don’t know how to fix it. But I’m going to try. I have to! If you hand me over to the Inquisitors, what’s to stop Torsten driving that sword through me for looking at him the wrong way? He seemed keen enough.’

  Jisyel shook her head. ‘Torsten is a whole other class. Most Inquisitors are a shade more reasonable.’

  Fenn shuddered. ‘Even so, I don’t want to be locked up. I want to know who I am. The answers are going to be out there, not in an Inquisitor’s cell.’

  Jisyel held her shoulder and looked away. ‘It was unkind of Calidra to suggest dumping you on the Inquisitors—’

  ‘It’s fine.’ He took a breath, steadying his frustration at his situation. Calidra had wanted him gone, but Jisyel had been more reluctant. With Calidra out of the picture for now, he had to take his chance with Jisyel. Convince her to not get rid of him, that helping each other was the best option for them both. ‘But I’ll help you, Jisyel, and you can help me? Perhaps, together, we’ll be able to figure out a cure for whatever our curses are?’

  Jisyel sighed. ‘No offence, Fenn. You seem like a good lad, but we don’t know you and—’

  ‘I don’t know you either!’ Fenn interrupted, his frustration growing. ‘But we’ve been thrown into this situation, so why not make the most of it?’

  ‘Calidra would laugh at you and leave you here.’

  Fenn shrugged. ‘Maybe she would…But she’s suspicious of everything and everyone, isn’t she? And she’s not here. Maybe by the time we catch up with them, things’ll be clearer for me? I’ll remember who I am, where I live, and be able to make my own way?’

  ‘And if you don’t?’

  He didn’t want to think about that. ‘You never found a cure for your curse on the island. Maybe you will, here. What’s to say I won’t, too? Clearly there’s a lot of us looking for answers at the moment.’

  Jisyel dragged her hands down her face, then returned her attention to the water. Her smile faltered for a moment, then it returned, bigger than before. ‘You’re right. I can’t do anything by sitting here and staring. Calidra will keep moving. We’ll do the same.’ Making her way back to their makeshift camp, she pulled down the last few bits of clothing from the branch they were drying on—her jacket, boots, and a sodden bag. She rifled through it then pouted, suddenly looking childish. ‘Pastries are ruined.’

  Fenn shook his head, realising what her curse meant. ‘But…but you can’t even taste them?’

  ‘I remember what they taste like! Sometimes there’s a hint of sugar on my tongue!’

  Fenn grinned.

  After throwing out whatever was of no use, Jisyel shouldered her bag and nodded to him. ‘We’ll follow the bay inland, further east. Without Ashothka, we’re pretty poor, so there’s no chance of getting supplies in Ulbridge. The sooner we get moving, the better off we’ll be. Like you said, maybe we’ll catch up with Calidra!’ She’d cast away all sadness and was eager to get going.

  Fenn buttoned up his doublet and nodded, following Jisyel as she led them away. Even with the immediate risk of being thrown to the Inquisitors removed, he knew they’d found themselves in a difficult situation. With no food, water, or coin, they were exposed and vulnerable.

  Chimney smoke rose somewhere to the north and Fenn pointed. ‘Might be some people over there who can help us?’ He remembered Torsten’s cold stare and shivered. ‘Just hope there aren’t any Inquisitors.’

  Jisyel didn’t object, and the pair of them headed away from the water and deeper into unknown territory. It took them only a handful of minutes to reach the source of the chimney smoke. A collection of steep-roofed buildings were gathered around a small farm. Each building was made of stone, rather than brick in Ballowton, but none had the strange purple lanterns or heavily paved streets.

  There was only one road through the hamlet, with half a dozen buildings on either side, and fields sprawling out beyond. Of the few people who were up and around, most wore sleeveless tunics and heavy boots. All of them were carrying farming tools or animal feed.

  One young boy of seven or eight carried a basket of eggs under one arm, and he was the first to notice Fenn and Jisyel. After taking one look at them, he raced off into the largest building, eggs forgotten on the side of the path.

  Less than a minute later, a burly man exited what must have been his home, the boy following at his heels like an obedient dog. With short-cropped hair, neatly trimmed beard, and a confident stride, he appeared to be a leader of sorts. He adjusted his hat as he strode towards them.

  ‘Can you help us please?’ Jisyel hurried over to him, before he’d even had a chance to speak. ‘There was an attack in Ballowtown last night. We were caught in it and need food, help, whatever you can—’

  ‘Ursah! It’s not the Myr. Stop trying to get out of your chores!’ The man smacked the boy over the head with his hat none-too-gently.

  The boy—Ursah—let out a squeak and ran back to his forgotten eggs, then raced down the street and through an open gate into the nearest field.

  Fenn scratched his nose. ‘The Myr?’

  ‘There are Myr here?’ Jisyel flinched as if she’d been struck.

  Replacing his hat on his head, the man shrugged. ‘Sometimes. Well. Before that queen made everything worse.’

  Jisyel looked around warily. ‘You really had the Myr here? But…but it’s so normal.’

  The man folded his arms. ‘The Myr are normal. Just a natural part of life. We learned to live with them out here.’ He appraised her and narrowed his eyes. ‘Not that I expect a Porsenthian to understand that.’

  ‘How?’ Jisyel was incredulous. ‘They…they kill people! Destroy food!’

  He curled his lip. ‘You sound like those damned Inquisitors. Sure. They came every so often and we lost some of our weaker folk. But that’s the nature of them. Death. We all gotta face it sometime. Now we have to give more money to that Iron Queen and get hounded by her Inquisitors if we don’t pay up enough! Like we should be grateful!’

  Fenn nudged Jisyel’s shoulder. ‘We came here for help, not to irritate him!’

  ‘Fenn! He’s talking about the Myr like they aren’t a threat!’

  He didn’t understand what that meant, but the man was getting more irate.

  ‘I don’t have anything spare to help beggars. Go to the shrine. Beg for food there.’

  Fenn could understand he and Jisyel probably looked in quite a sorry state—bedraggled as they were—but the man’s assumption stung.

  Exasperated, Jisyel threw up her hands. ‘But—’

  The man grabbed a scythe that had been resting against the wall and brandished it. ‘Go beg somewhere else, or I’ll assume you’re here to steal.’

  Unnerved by his hostility, Fenn pulled on Jisyel’s sleeve, forcing her away.

  ‘Please!’ Jisyel tried again, before Fenn yanked her away and they hurried off.

  Though the man hadn’t been as cruel as Torsten, Fenn could see the same anger simmering under the surface. This time, there was no Varlot to help.

  They didn’t stop running until they reached the waters of the bay again, though they were further up than where they’d crawled out the previous night. Fenn sat on the damp grass and tilted his head back as he caught his breath, wond
ering what the Myr were and why Jisyel was so afraid of them.

  Equally, he worried about Inquisitors and the locals here who were unhappy to see what they believed to be a pair of beggars. He needed to get away. ‘What about my papers? How soon can we get out of this canton if I shouldn’t be here?’

  ‘Well, that guy might have been rude, but he wasn’t wrong. There’s a shrine not too far from here, a pretty big one. Might be we can get one of the priests there to vouch for you and give us something to eat, too.’

  ‘A priest?’

  ‘Of course. Each shrine worships a particular spirit—they call themselves Tassar’s Guardians—so a word from one of their priests covers more than just a single canton. It should keep you safe from the Inquisitors. And they should have food and supplies, too. They’re always helping those in need, ever since the wars. I’m an idiot for not thinking of the shrine first.’

  Fenn vaguely recalled Hassen saying something about being one of Tassar’s Guardians, but he didn’t ask more questions about that or the Myr—he’d risk confusing himself and getting overwhelmed again. The fog of his mind had yet to lift, but his headache, though much eased, was a constant companion. It wouldn’t be long before the Bragalian sun bore down on them and worsened it. He wondered if it would finally disappear when his memories returned, as if his brain was constantly trying to remember and the effort caused him pain.

  They kept to the edge of the water, keeping within sight of it at all times lest they stumbled upon more unfriendly locals. Jisyel said she’d been on this side of the bay only twice before, and there were a number of smaller villages and settlements that they were probably better off avoiding.

  With a sigh, he fell into step behind Jisyel, hoping that when his memories finally returned, it would bring understanding.

  ‘This is such hogshit!’ Jisyel huffed in frustration.

  They’d been walking all morning and most of the afternoon, and the path they’d been following had disappeared several times under large puddles of mud and wet grass—leftovers from the previous night’s rainstorm. While they’d been careful to go around as much as possible, both were caked up to their waists in filth. It brought back rather unpleasant memories of the Isle of Salt.