The Iron Crown (Dragon Spirits Book 1)

by L. L. MacRae

  ‘It was very slight…’

  ‘Would you like me to bring in another mage to the palace? Perhaps a Bragalian—’

  ‘No.’

  Torsten frowned, but smoothed his face back into a neutral expression a moment later. He hoped the dragon hadn’t noticed. Deciding to ease her worries, he said, ‘Beggars and peasants turn up everywhere, especially in Bragalia. Cursed knaves. Wretched, the lot of them. Summer will be bountiful, it always brings out the scavengers. And the Fellwood Laird’s death will have brought more chaos, no doubt.’

  ‘I’m sure there will be answers soon enough.’

  Torsten dropped his gaze for a moment.

  ‘Something bothers you, Master Inquisitor?’ Toriaken let out a snarl. ‘What else have you seen?’

  He swallowed, thinking quickly. ‘The former General was in Ballowtown.’

  ‘Varlot?’

  ‘Yes. I sent Sarron to tail him.’

  ‘What does he think he’s doing?’ A wave of heat washed over him as the queen’s fury echoed through the dragon’s fire.

  ‘Precisely why I sent an Inquisitor after him.’ Torsten took a step back as if mildly inconvenienced by the surge in temperature. He shook his head. ‘Then…if there is nothing else, my queen?’

  ‘Very well. I will see you when you reach Eastbrook, Torsten. Ensure your return is timely. Report immediately if there are any changes. Toriaken will fly south and patrol the border in case anything tries to enter Porsenthia.’

  Torsten sank to one knee again, bowing his head low. He’d never been comfortable exposing his neck to Toriaken, even if he was an illusion. The whumpf of fire told him the spirit had dissipated and when Torsten stood up again, he allowed his frown to linger. ‘Suspicious woman.’

  He supposed she needed to have a healthy dose of caution. Anyone did if they wanted to retain a position of power. He wondered whether there was a real Myrish threat within their borders. None of their spirits had been seen anywhere on the Etrovian continent for five years. Perhaps it had just been one, desperate creature, forced into Bragalia by circumstance.

  Whatever the reason for it being here, he’d disposed of it.

  However, there was no way of knowing if there were any more. Were they truly on the cusp of a new invasion?

  Surayo’s magic was rarely wrong, whatever he thought of the queen herself, and it bothered him that he didn’t have all the answers. Until he knew more, had a handle on the situation, there was no need to inform her, or the other Inquisitors.

  He took a few steps forward then knelt down, collecting the iron dagger. It seemed to weigh more than before. Slipping it back into his belt, Torsten looked to the west, where the Salt Sea was a thin line of grey-green on the edge of the horizon.

  If there were Myrish spirits here, the armistice would be broken.

  And they’d be on the brink of another war.

  He needed to get to Miroth’s Shrine, first. Then he could return to the palace.

  The Forsaken

  calidra

  On the second morning in Meadowhill, Calidra couldn’t take waiting any longer. ‘Jisyel should have been here by now!’

  Varlot glanced up from the table, his attention pulled from the coins he was counting out. They had a reasonable amount, but they’d need to be frugal if it was to last. He said nothing and went back to counting, but Calidra could sense his growing impatience, and the frustration that spilled from it. Although he’d been nothing but cordial to her, she knew she was pushing her luck by forcing them to wait.

  They’d shared a ramshackle room above a butcher’s shop on the edge of town—again under Varlot’s coin—but it had been cheap, with a good view of the river and the main road into town. If Jisyel and Fenn were coming, they’d spot them first from their vantage point, and had taken turns to keep watch while the other rested.

  Calidra knew she was prone to bouts of anxiety—often unwarranted—and Jisyel was the one who kept her grounded, but this time it felt like the right emotion to have. Jisyel and Fenn could be long-drowned by now, their bloated corpses already washed out to sea. Or devoured by some predatory fish.

  The idea of it made her want to vomit again.

  Almost as bad was her dependence on Varlot. Without him, she had less coin, no comfort, and no way to cope. If he grew bored of her, or decided his own contract to her family was of greater importance, and left, there would be nothing she could do about it. It was a delicate balance—abide by his travelling wishes as much as possible while looking for Jisyel.

  She, too, was on a deadline. The funeral was in two days, and she’d wasted so much time sitting around, waiting, hoping, doing nothing. Like an idiot. If she didn’t make it in time, she’d never have a chance at rebuilding the relationship with her family. Would never be able to bring Jisyel into it, either. She could cope without her mother’s acceptance. But it didn’t stop her being desperate for it all the same.

  Going back home to Fellwood was something she’d put off for eight years. The message had been sent with the expectation of her attendance at the funeral—and she did want to go—she just didn’t want to deal with her mother while there. All her memories of her mother revolved around being punished whenever she did something wrong—which had been constantly throughout her childhood. Or she’d be punished if she did something in a way her mother disapproved of. And it went deeper than that, not that Calidra wanted to dwell on her mother’s penchant for guilt-tripping, manipulation, and anger issues. But it had moulded her into the person she was today.

  It was no wonder she’d spent so long running from it, running from her. Calidra had buried her head and pretended those problems didn’t exist for close to a decade, that she didn’t know how to face them again.

  Wasn’t sure she could.

  If she turned up too late, tail between her legs, she might as well have not bothered ever leaving the island. She could already imagine her mother’s sour expression, the bite in her voice, at her lateness. Her disrespect. Just another failure. Another disappointment.

  Calidra took a steadying breath, wondering if she should ever have left the island with Jisyel.

  ‘The funeral is overmorrow, isn’t it? We can’t really wait any longer if you want to make it in time.’ Varlot’s tone was gentle, but firm. And, of course, he was absolutely right. Even if Jisyel and Fenn were to stroll into Meadowhill in the next minute, they’d be hard-pushed to reach Fellwood in time.

  ‘What if Fenn and Jisyel passed through? They could be in Fellwood already, waiting for you? Or part-way, in Vaelar? Depends where the water spat them out.’

  Calidra whirled around at Varlot’s suggestion. She’d been so preoccupied with worst case scenarios and guilting herself for leaving Jisyel behind that she’d not even considered that possibility. ‘In Fellwood so soon?’

  Varlot shrugged, putting the coins in a drawstring bag. ‘You waited a day in Ballowtown. Another here. They could easily have been in and out of Meadowhill before we even arrived.’

  Her heart soared for a brief moment, then critical suspicion—ever-present—reared its head. Varlot wanted to get to Fellwood as quickly as he could. He had a contract for one, and would be paid for babysitting her, for another. It was possible he just wanted to keep them moving in as polite a way as possible for his own gains.

  The smile fell off her lips, replaced by a frown. And yet, he could be correct. ‘Jisyel…’

  ‘You have an entire canton to be thinking of, Calidra. With the Laird dead, shouldn’t you be getting to Fellwood sooner rather than later? Not worrying about one woman? She’s from the Isle of Salt, right? So she’s Porsenthian? Don’t you think it’s a bit silly for the daughter of a Bragalian Laird to bother herself with that?’

  Heat flushed up her neck. Coincidence or not, what Varlot said was dangerously close to her mother’s last words to her. It drove out logic and filled her head with the frustrating emotion that often blocked everything else out: anger.

  ‘I’m allowed to
worry about whoever I want!’ Her words were out before she could stop them, she hadn’t even been aware she’d thought them. ‘Bragalia doesn’t exactly need me, anyway. There are half a dozen Lairds and queen’s Inquisitors doing a good enough job of that. And mother has always ruled the canton while father defended the borders.’

  She scowled at Varlot, a former General in the Porsenthian army, a highly decorated military war-hero, who had survived numerous battles and claimed to be impossible to kill. He was so sure of himself, so confident. The complete opposite of her.

  It was no wonder he wasn’t bothered by any of her concerns.

  She hadn’t known what to do, only that she couldn’t leave Jisyel. Now they were at Meadowhill, she had three choices. Hurry on to Fellwood, probably cross-country because of the amount of time she’d wasted already; continue following the river to the next town, Vaelar, and hope to catch up with Jisyel and Fenn there; or give up on the funeral entirely and head south, down towards Ulbridge, and hope to find Jisyel somewhere along the bay.

  Was it worth invoking her mother’s fury to confirm Jisyel was alive?

  Absolutely.

  But Varlot had to continue. He was under no obligation to traipse around Bragalia with her while she looked for her lost love. It would mean she’d be alone without shelter for however long it took to find Jisyel and Fenn.

  If she found her.

  Varlot secured the bag and put it in his inside pocket, then stood up. Despite Calidra’s height, he loomed a foot over her. ‘Look, Calidra. I know a thing or two about not facing your problems, believe me. But you got responsibilities in Fellwood, and so do I. Fenn and Jisyel will be there. Pack up your stuff, let’s get going No more moping around.’

  She glowered at him. Being told what to do had never gone down well, but she held back her anger. It bubbled near the surface. She needed him. Outside her own family’s canton, no-one was likely to offer help. In fact, most Lairds were a hairs’ breadth from open war with each other. It wasn’t as if she could just ask a stranger for coin.

  But, like at the bay, she didn’t trust herself to do what she wanted alone. The last time she’d done that, she’d washed up on the Isle of Salt after a year of wandering aimlessly through Bragalia, unsure if she was running away from or towards danger. It had only been thanks to Bellandri’s kindness that she’d survived at all. And Jisyel, of course, had helped her stay.

  Calidra looked out the window, her gaze drawn by movement. Two people had walked through the town’s gate, but they were a pair of Bragalian men. Beyond the gate were wheat fields, where farmers were already harvesting crops. Buzzards circled overhead, occasionally swooping down to grab field mice or rodents.

  She massaged her temple. She didn’t like any of it.

  She really was alone again.

  Already her heart thundered in her chest and anxiety twisted cold in her gut. She wiped her suddenly sweating hands on her tunic. Whatever decision she made, she wouldn’t like. ‘Fine. We’ll cut straight north and catch up on lost time.’ And she hoped Varlot was right—that Jisyel and Fenn would already be there, waiting for her.

  If not. If Jisyel wasn’t in Fellwood…She’d force her mother to put together a search party. Armed, armoured scouts on horseback to cover the ground quickly. Fanning out and searching every road methodically.

  Her mother wanted to rebuild their relationship, fine. She’d do something to help Jisyel.

  Damn it, she wished she’d thought of that sooner. She was the daughter of a Laird. She had some power. She might as well embrace it to help Jisyel and Fenn. If she hadn’t spent so much time wallowing and being weak…

  They packed up quickly and Calidra ensured her trusty dagger was in its sheath at her belt. A memento from her sister, from her home. Her family’s crest was etched into the handle—three white feathers tipped in gold on an ogee-patterned background—she was never without it. Calidra triple-checked it was securely attached before following Varlot out of the cramped room and down the rickety wooden stairs to the wide alley below.

  Meadowhill was smaller than Ballowtown or Fellwood—more of a large village than anything else—but it was already bustling with people despite the early hour. Built on the side of a river and straddling two cantons, it was a wonder the place hadn’t grown bigger over time. It was a stark reminder that she’d be in her home canton once they left via Meadowhill’s eastern gate.

  She scanned the crowd, ever-cautious, before leaving the alleyway. Most villagers were Bragalian, and probably lived there. She spotted one sandy-haired Porsenthian in uniform, and realised he was an Inquisitor. Although she’d done nothing wrong, and had every right to be where she was, the sight of him was an uncomfortable reminder of what had happened in Ballowtown.

  ‘Best keep away from them.’ Varlot grabbed her arm and pulled her into the market crowd, away from the Inquisitor, who hadn’t noticed them.

  ‘Worried?’ Calidra asked, drawing up her hood.

  ‘Keeping us safe. Move,’ Varlot replied. They picked their way through the crowd quickly and turned down another main street, leaving the bustle—and the Inquisitor—behind.

  Now they were heading towards Meadowhill’s eastern gate, the mountains beyond loomed even bigger, almost threatening. It wouldn’t be long before she’d be able to see the shining gold of Chyram’s Shrine glinting in the sun. The thought of it made her want to retch, and she forced her attention back to the street she walked down. Varlot, already several paces ahead of her, marched confidently through the thinner crowds, every step filled with purpose. People parted for him as if he were a riverboat, and she followed hurriedly in his wake, trying to convince herself she was doing the right thing.

  A child wailed somewhere ahead, the shrill cry high and piercing, and Calidra peeked around the edge of her hood, curious.

  Outside a small, dilapidated cottage, a woman sat on a large, wooden chair, nursing an infant. Her thick, dark hair was draped over one shoulder, and although she couldn’t have been older than thirty-five, she had the worry lines of a seventy-year-old creased around her eyes and mouth. A young girl who looked around seven years old cried incessantly, tears streaming down her dusty cheeks as she clutched the woman’s skirts. Her face was smeared with dirt, and her clothes weren’t much more than tattered rags. She had the same nut brown skin as Calidra, who wondered if the girl was from Fellwood.

  It was that similarity that slowed Calidra’s step. She paused beside the low fence marking the cottage’s boundary. Flowers grew by the fence posts, adding a splash of colour to the ramshackle building. ‘What’s wrong?’

  The woman glanced up sharply, then softened when she saw Calidra’s concerned look. ‘She’s dying, sigya.’ Her accent was thick, in a regional dialect Calidra only had a passing familiarity with. She’d also used the formal honorific to address Calidra. Literally translated, it meant blessed one—something that her sister had often been called, but never her.

  Calidra nodded in acknowledgement, a lump forming in her throat. ‘Dying? How? She doesn’t look hurt.’

  At the sudden attention on her, the girl blinked furiously and turned away from Calidra’s curious stare, burying her face in the faded yellow cotton of the woman’s skirt, her cries continuing.

  ‘You okay?’ Varlot returned to her side, one hand resting on the hilt of his axe. ‘Thought we were getting out of here?’

  ‘Porsenthians. Everywhere these days. Didn’t you take enough from us already? Now you darken our mornings!’ the woman snapped, her calm composure gone in a heartbeat.

  Varlot faced her, unflinching. ‘I do as my queen commands. As should you. Or have you forgotten the reach of The Iron Crown?’

  Calidra rested a hand on his forearm before he could draw his axe. ‘Sorry, mahdol,’ she apologised, using the old term for mother in Low Bragalian. She hoped it would placate her. ‘We were just passing through.’ Against her better instincts, she added, ‘Is there anything we can do for the elthian?’ Another Low Bragalian te
rm. It felt strange on her tongue, after so many years without speaking a word in the language.

  Still scowling at Varlot, the woman cupped the girl’s back and pressed her close, the thick cotton muffling her tears. ‘No, sigya. She is beyond all help. I travelled to Vaelar, tried to beg the aid of one of Chyram’s priests. If I had more gold, I could take her to a better doctor. One in Fellwood, or Cliffton. But they refused. They refused me, sigya! An old mahdol like me! Who has nothing!’ Letting go of the child, she gestured to her cottage—the roof tiles were in poor condition and several were missing, and even the stone walls of the building crumbled in places.

  Calidra dropped her gaze, memories of people begging at her childhood home flashing before her, desperate for her sister’s aid. She blinked the memory away. That had been a long time ago.

  The mahdol continued, oblivious, ‘It’s nearly a month since she turned up in Meadowhill. Washed down the river like a caught fish. She and a younger boy, who was already drowned when we found them. Each day she worsens. Pain in her head. No idea where she came from.’

  Calidra and Varlot shared a worried glance.

  ‘And everyday she screams. It won’t be long now, I think. It is like a heatless fever has taken her. The Inquisitors passed through a few days back. I hid her. Muffled her screams with a washcloth until they’d gone. But she’s soon for the spirit world, I think. Better she passes here, among her own people, than bound by that Iron Crown.’ She spat the words out, and the child whimpered beside her. She wiped away the girl’s tears with one thumb, her other hand adjusting the infant swaddled in the clothes across her breast. ‘A sigya like you must have more important matters than a lost elthian or a poor mahdol. And your Porsenthian companion is keen to get away.’ She eyed Varlot with obvious distaste.

  Despite being soothed, the young girl sobbed again, her voice cracking from weeks of crying, and Calidra’s heart broke. She stared at the back of the child’s head, wondering how much hurt and fear she must’ve experienced. If the mahdol was correct, it would be over soon. Not that it made it any easier. If she could have wished away the girl’s suffering, she would have. ‘Keep her hidden. There’s an Inquisitor in town today.’ Calidra turned away, unable to endure the child’s crying. Her own eyes burned with the threat of tears, and she strode towards the edge of town, Varlot following behind her.