The Iron Crown (Dragon Spirits Book 1)

by L. L. MacRae

  Fenn’s body ached as he tried to keep up with Jisyel, who’d hardly slowed her pace all day until they’d hit the mud. He tried not to laugh at her evident frustration at the lack of solid ground and offered her his hand for the third time in as many minutes.

  With mud sucking at their every step, it was slow going. The shrine they were heading for dominated the horizon—sea-green stone spires curving on either side of the enormous, reflective building like a pair of giant wings. Two slender pillars flanked the shrine, and the building’s cone-shaped roof pierced the sky like an arrow.

  He’d been in awe when he’d first spotted it, but soon after, Jisyel had been bogged down by the sludgy path, and her complaints hadn’t let up since the first deep mud puddle.

  ‘We’re nearly there, Jisyel. Just a bit further!’ Fenn tried to comfort her, but she ignored him, too annoyed by the mud.

  ‘I can’t even feel it,’ she said, despairing, ‘every step is such an effort. It’s so bloody annoying!’ She hauled herself out of one spot, and took an enormous step forward, only to immediately sink into another puddle, right up to her knee.

  Fenn grinned and offered his hand to help her forward again. At least she didn’t have to worry about aching legs like he did. But that might be rubbing salt in the wound, so he kept that thought to himself.

  She took his hand and pulled herself out of the mud—leaving her boot stuck in place. ‘Doesn’t help that we’re going to Neros’s Shrine. Fanatical worshippers.’

  ‘Is that a problem?’ Fenn looked up at the shrine, suddenly more foreboding than wondrous.

  Jisyel swore again and yanked her boot free with a loud squelch, mud splattering up her tunic. ‘Well, beggars can’t be choosers, I suppose.’

  Fenn helped her across the rest of the sludgy mud to the stone path that marked the end of walking on grass and dirt. Thankfully, the road to the shrine had been paved, and it was a relief to finally have something solid underfoot.

  He wiped his muddy hands on his doublet. ‘Right! Now we’re out of that!’ he gestured vaguely at the way they’d come, ‘is there anything I should know? Do? Before we get to the shrine?’ The last thing he wanted was another incident like with Torsten.

  Jisyel thought, her frustration easing now she was out of the mud. ‘Hmm. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Sure? I don’t even know who Neros is.’

  ‘Ah.’ She stopped in her tracks and turned to him with a frown, as if suddenly remembering he knew nothing. ‘Neros is the Spirit of the Lasseen Ocean.’

  Fenn briefly recalled a conversation about that spirit on the boat to Bragalia. ‘Of the sea?’

  She nodded. ‘Like Hassen is the Spirit of Salt Ash, the forest on the Isle of Salt? That’s his domain. He is the forest. If it were to be cut down or burned, Hassen would disappear. Likewise, Neros is the Spirit of the Lasseen Ocean. She is the water, and the water is her. As it’s a bigger domain, she is much more powerful. Any forest that’s big enough will usually become a spirit. That’s why there are so many forest spirits, you know?’

  He didn’t know, but he gestured for her to continue, glad for the explanation. It was more than he’d received from Calidra—getting anything from that woman was more likely to earn him a scowl or a knife waved in his face than the requested answers.

  ‘Same with lakes. Mountains. Any area that has enough life energy. Which includes people living nearby.’

  Fenn struggled to imagine what a mountain spirit might look like, how big one might be, but he didn’t interrupt.

  ‘But, Neros is…different from other spirits. She doesn’t offer her followers boons, but neither does she harm people. Directly, anyway.’

  ‘I didn’t know spirits did that.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Jisyel continued down the path towards the shrine.

  Lines of soil had been dug up on either side, flowers planted and opening their vibrant petals to the sunshine. Most were blue or green, with a few white ones dotted in here and there to break up the colour. Fenn didn’t recognise any of them. He wanted to spend a minute or two to look at them, partly to see if any jogged his memory and partly just to enjoy their fragrant scent—a nice change after the silty waters of the bay and the muddy path they’d just fought their way along.

  Jisyel said, ‘It’s why most people worship a particular spirit. They hope to get their blessing, or something that’ll help their lives. But Neros doesn’t do any of that. She ignores her worshippers. And even though her shrine is one of the most glorious in all of Tassar, Neros doesn’t even acknowledge it.’

  ‘So why do people worship her? If they don’t get anything out of it?’

  ‘That’s why they’re considered fanatics.’ Jisyel shrugged. ‘Joining one of the orders is too much work as far as I’m concerned. I just want one spirit to get rid of Hassen’s curse, I don’t care which.’

  Fenn mulled it over. The neat lines of flowerbeds expanded out into dozens of rows, with a number of trees providing shady corners here and there. To one side, a large field grew potatoes; another grew beans; a third, carrots. Nestled between them were other vegetables and plants that he didn’t recognise. Water fountains appeared among the foliage, too, each one bigger than the one before, and the larger ones were adorned with statues carved from marble—depicting flowing water, fish, and even the dragon spirit herself. The closer they got to the shrine, the more elaborate the decorations. His stomach rumbled at the sight of the vegetables, and he considered sneaking into the field to pick a few, when he spotted several people crouched over the plants wearing wide-brimmed straw hats, tending to the gardens.

  A few glanced up as they passed, but most were too interested in their work to pay them any mind. He stopped where he was and looked back across the fields and plants. It was nice to not be stared at for once, as if he was a sudden and unwanted growth that had sprouted on someone’s arm. ‘No-one’s interested in us?’

  ‘Come on, quickly. You must be starving.’

  Fenn’s stomach growled as if in response, and he quickened his pace. If he’d even considered stealing vegetables, he really needed a meal. ‘You don’t get hungry?’

  ‘Oh I do. I just don’t feel it. Better to eat little and often, in case no-one’s around to remind me I’ll collapse because I last ate breakfast three days before.’

  Fenn chuckled at that.

  More wildflowers dotted the lush grass surrounding the shrine, which seemed to rise from the ground like an ocean wave. At first, Fenn had thought it was made of glass, but up close, he could see it was some sort of stone, polished to glint in the sun. Water cascaded down the side of the shrine, plunging into a narrow moat that encircled the building. Dark green and red sea grasses floated on the water, swaying gently in the current caused by the waterfall.

  At the centre of the building, an enormous stone door lay wide open, a dragon carved onto it in gold, wings extended in all their splendour, mouth open to spew flames. The door had to be fifteen feet tall, and wide enough for two carriages to drive through.

  A large crowd congregated in the courtyard. Some people saw to the myriad of plants and water features dotted around the shrine’s entranceway, while others stirred enormous cookpots, serving steaming stew in small, wooden bowls to a queue of waiting people. Aside from the hungry people, everyone else wore long, flowing robes in shades of silver, cream, or blue.

  Poorer folk wore plain robes of roughspun cotton, though a few had been dyed brown or grey. Many were thin and underfed, and several sported injuries that the priests—Fenn assumed the robed people were priests—were helping with.

  He wondered if any of them had fled here from the hamlets and villages surrounding Ballowtown, scared off by recent attacks.

  ‘Can we have something to eat, too?’ Jisyel had already crossed the wide courtyard and was speaking with the nearest robed man as he served food from a cookpot.

  He was tall with ginger hair, his skin pale in comparison to most of the Bragalians gathered. He had an intricate tattoo
in blue-green ink on the back of his left hand. Lines swirled around one another, similar to waves of water. ‘Talk to one of the priests inside, first. These people have been waiting here all night.’ He gestured to the line with a long, metal ladle, brown gravy and chunks of carrot dripping from it.

  Fenn tried to keep himself from drooling at the sight.

  Jisyel waved him over enthusiastically. ‘Inside, Fenn! Come on.’

  Taking another moment to look around and gather his courage, he hurried past the people queueing for food and caught up to Jisyel who waited for him at the open doorway. She stamped her feet by the door, and chunks of dried mud fell off her boots on the grey stone.

  Fenn copied the motion, following her inside, eyes round in awe. The grey stone floor quickly gave way to a mosaic of blue and green tiles, all in irregular shapes and varnished so smooth he slipped over. Jisyel caught him before he cracked a limb on the floor, the two of them balancing each other.

  Incense burned somewhere deep within the shrine, and the scent of salt, honey, and something pungent like moss hit his nose. His eyes watered at the strength of it, and he struggled not to cough in case it would be disrespectful. Inside was vast, the ceiling so tall it was bathed in shadow far above him. Deep alcoves had been carved into the walls at regular intervals, the sound of running water somehow louder, and Fenn wondered if there were more waterfalls inside, even though he couldn’t see them. It certainly felt like a shrine to the sea.

  The few people who were inside drifted about in soft slippers and long robes like ghosts. They spoke in hushed voices which were swallowed by the expanse.

  Jisyel approached the nearest priest, whose cream robes were edged in gold. His tattoo was more elaborate than the man who’d been serving food—it disappeared up his sleeve. She clutched his arm, stopping him mid-step. ‘Please, we need—’

  The priest peered down his nose at her for a long moment before pulling his sleeve away with a dismissive snort. ‘Leave this sacred place, cursed one. Neros does not welcome you.’

  Unperturbed, Jisyel scurried across the delicate floor, her steps echoing loudly, to grab the attention of the next—a priestess, her dark hair threaded with silver. Wearing silver robes that shimmered in the low light, she gave Jisyel a few seconds longer than the other priest, before gesturing to the door and speaking in a dialect Fenn couldn’t understand.

  Jisyel tried with three others, the pair of them walking deeper into the shrine, where the incense grew stronger. His heart sank with every rejection, yet Jisyel grew more animated, ever more determined to get them something to eat. ‘Doesn’t anyone here care if we starve? If we’re cursed, surely we’re more deserving of help?’

  Her shouts caught the notice of more priests and priestesses, who shuffled towards them, arms wide as they herded the duo back to the door. ‘There is no food for those without peace. You are both tainted and cannot enjoy Neros’s bounty. Cleanse yourselves, then you may return to this sacred place.’

  The dismissal hurt, but Fenn mirrored Jisyel’s determination and tried his luck, too. ‘A small bowl each, then we’ll be on our way? Please?’

  But they ignored him, ushering the pair towards the door.

  If they weren’t willing to share food, why would they be willing to vouch for him and sign new papers to let him travel? Fenn’s stomach knotted at the thought of ending up with the Inquisitors despite everything, and fury burned hot in his chest. He’d fight his way out, if he had to. If they tried to chain him up or throw him in prison.

  Back in the sunlit courtyard, Fenn took a deep breath. The heavy smells within the shrine had worsened his headache, and he turned to Jisyel. ‘Is there another shrine somewhere near? We aren’t getting anywhere with this one. I thought you said they helped people in need?’

  Jisyel ran a hand through her hair and shook her head. ‘I can’t believe it! I knew they were a bit weird here. Didn’t realise they were so nasty, too.’ She stuck out her tongue at the shrine and snorted at the priests and priestesses gathered in the courtyard. ‘Stupid shrine. Stupid spirits. Stupid, stupid, stupid!’

  ‘I’m glad I wasn’t the only one who didn’t know they wouldn’t help.’ Fenn doubted it would comfort Jisyel, but it was nice that he wasn’t on the back foot alone. ‘Although after that experience, I wish I’d stayed without a memory of this place.’

  ‘Without a memory?’

  They whirled round at the sound of a woman’s voice and came face to face with another priestess. Her robes had been cream, once, but they had patches of grey and white where sections had been bleached in the sun, and there were several holes dotted her long sleeves as if a moth had had its way with it. Through the holes, her intricate, green-silver tattoo was visible as it ran up her arm. Her short, curled blonde hair and pale blue eyes were in contrast to her light brown skin, and she seemed to glow in the sunlight, picturesque. Despite a thin, white scar across her right eye, she was the picture of serenity. ‘Another amnesiac, are you? There’ve been so many lately. You did well to avoid the Inquisitors. I heard Torsten himself has travelled to Bragalia.’

  ‘Your friends said I was tainted.’ Fenn folded his arms. Suddenly Calidra’s mindset of treating everyone with suspicion didn’t seem like such a bad idea. ‘And I met Torsten in Ballowtown, as a matter of fact.’

  The priestess raised an eyebrow. ‘A stroke of luck that you weren’t taken.’

  ‘Our luck’s run out.’ Jisyel stepped forward. ‘The city was attacked and we were thrown into the bay. We were separated from our friend—Calidra Vantonen, daughter of the Laird of Fellwood. We don’t have any food, coin, or supplies. Please, can you spare a bowl of stew? We’ll be out of here straight after, promise! Surely you can’t turn us away if we need help?’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind vouching for me, that would help us get out of here sooner,’ Fenn added, latching onto Jisyel’s words.

  The priestess chuckled, the sound somehow too low, as if it didn’t suit her petite frame. ‘How can I vouch for you if I don’t know you?’

  ‘S—sorry! My name is Fenn.’ He straightened up and brushed away dirt and mud from his doublet, aware he looked rather dishevelled. Cautious or not, he had to impress her. They’d run out of people who’d even look at him without turning up their noses. Although calm and serene, the priestess seemed different from the others at the shrine—even ignoring her scar. She’d certainly not been brought up in the order to have acquired something like that. Fenn tried not to stare at it.

  ‘I’m Jisyel Herbst. My grandmother, Bellandri, owns a tavern in Hogsbrook.’

  ‘Ah, so you’re from the island.’ It was a statement, not a question.

  Jisyel nodded, one eye twitching.

  ‘Well. That explains your curse, Jisyel. It must be tricky with Hassen. Such a young spirit. So mischievous, and with the arrogance of youth, too.’ She narrowed her eyes at Fenn. ‘But it does not explain you, amnesiac.’

  ‘He’s been cursed, too. Hassen sometimes goes on sprees. He turned a perfectly good pond into a muddy bog just the other day!’ Jisyel cut in, almost shoving Fenn to one side to keep the priestess’s attention on her. ‘Might we know your name, Priestess of Neros? To formally ask your aid?’

  Fenn would have protested at being pushed out the way again—he was beyond sick and tired of that—but he held his tongue. He didn’t want to blow it again, like he’d done with Torsten.

  The priestess stared at him for several long moments. He found his gaze drawn to the scar on her face again, and he quickly looked away, cheeks reddening.

  ‘Selys Ioran, of Segandis,’ she said after a moment. ‘My heart bleeds for the lost souls of Bragalia. There are so many. I’ve seen them from a distance, taken away by Inquisitors. But I’ve not seen one up close until you, Fenn.’

  ‘Segandis? Lots of pirates down there.’ Jisyel took a step backwards. ‘How’d you end up here?’

  ‘So, you’ll help me?’ Where Selys came from meant nothing, and Fenn hoped she could help him
. He offered the priestess the biggest grin he could, as if that alone would persuade her.

  ‘Having seen you now, I think there is a cure for your curse, though you may not like it.’

  The world seemed to spin, and Fenn staggered under the sudden surge of pain through his head and hope in his chest. All of a sudden he found it difficult to breathe.

  Selys didn’t notice. ‘Jisyel, you’ve clearly been affected by Hassen. But you, Fenn? On you, I sense the touch of the Myr.’

  The Message

  Torsten

  Drab scrubland rolled past the open window. Clumps of dust were thrown up by the horses’ hooves and the large, rattling carriage wheels. Above the soft yellows and browns, the cloudless blue sky was harsh. It mirrored Torsten’s frustration at being in this place.

  They’d left Ballowtown early, before dawn, at his behest. Nadja and Sarron had done a decent job of the cleanup, and he’d been sure to pass on official word that it had been a rabid animal which had attacked. He expected the Bragalians to accept that, especially as it came from the Master Inquisitor. Regardless of how they felt about him, his words carried weight.

  But the particulars weren’t important.

  As long as the people remained oblivious to the Myrish spirit—he couldn’t think what else it could be—nothing else mattered. With the Iron Crown in power, they were safe from the Myr. Porsenthia and Bragalia had put their faith in that fact, and nothing was permitted to shake it.

  Even the other Inquisitors knew nothing about his task of looking into Queen Surayo’s concerns, and his hardest job right now was keeping it that way. Nadja, in particular, appeared to consider questioning his orders more than ever, especially after she’d come across the scene of the battle. She wasn’t an idiot, and knew it wasn’t a wild bear. He’d need to nip that in the bud.