The Iron Crown (Dragon Spirits Book 1)

by L. L. MacRae

  Varlot reddened. ‘Surely there is every need! The youth of today must know how to defend themselves. Why, even Calidra can—’ He cut himself off at the harsh look Calidra gave him. Was he really so desperate for coin that he’d react that way? What in all of Tassar had happened to this mighty general? A man who had evaded death for so long that his reputation suggested he was impossible to kill? Just how far had he fallen?

  Amsel stepped forward, distracting everyone from Varlot’s sudden outrage. ‘My lady, might we go inside? There are urgent matters to discuss regarding the safety of the canton. Of Bragalia.’

  Furyn nodded. ‘Of course. You must both be tired. Please, go inside and take some refreshment. You are of course welcome to stay and rest for as long as you need. Varlot, I will see what services I might require of you once this urgent business with my kinsman has been taken care of. And, the…griffin?’ She looked uncertain at the enormous creature.

  ‘I will hunt and rest,’ Hailathlyl answered.

  Amsel stroked the griffin’s silky feathers again. ‘Thank you again, Lath. We’ll patrol this evening.’

  Varlot had been about to object, staring hard at Furyn, who met his glare with one as equally savage, when he coughed awkwardly and looked away. ‘Very well. I’ll rest and then we'll talk.’

  Calidra swallowed, wondering when her mother would address her, desperate for some form of positive acknowledgement, but terrified at the same time of being in the centre of Furyn’s notice. The internal conflict made her sway on her feet. Every time Furyn spoke, Calidra tried not to tremble.

  Two servants, whom Calidra hadn’t noticed lingering just on the other side of the archway, appeared silently to lead Varlot and Amsel through the gardens and towards the house. Once Amsel was out of sight, Hailathlyl took to the air, blasting them with a gust of wind as she flew straight up.

  Both Calidra and Furyn stared up her, and once the griffin had disappeared from view, Calidra realised she was alone with her mother. Quillaja, evidently, had followed their guests inside.

  ‘Mother.’ Calidra uttered the word as calmly as she could, but her voice shook.

  ‘It’s good to see you have not completely lost your senses.’ All politeness had faded from Furyn’s tone. ‘Eight years. You never wrote. How was I to know you’d not been eaten alive on that disgusting island?’

  Heat rose along Calidra’s neck. So her mother was permitted to not bother writing, but she had to keep in touch? She knew mentioning that obvious fact would only cause an argument, so she swallowed the building rage and avoided the topic altogether. ‘Is Jisyel here?’

  A sliver of emotion coloured Furyn’s cheeks. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Jisyel. Has she arrived? With a young lad, Fenn?’

  ‘No-one has come here other than you and those men,’ Furyn gestured towards the house. ‘Why? Are you expecting more company? I hadn’t realised I would be hosting so many people for you. Shall I ensure the good wine is brought up?’

  Calidra ignored the barb as a stab of panic shot through her. Varlot had been sure, so very sure, that Jisyel and Fenn would be here. There was no need for her mother to lie about that. ‘They should have made it here by now. We’ll have to send out a search party. I’ll ask Amsel, too, once he and Hailathlyl are rested. We have the household guard and horses in employment? They can head out right away, while there’s still some light, then we—’

  Furyn cleared her throat. It wasn’t a loud noise, and Calidra saw the tightening of her mother’s lips rather than hearing it, and her voice died. Her mother raised her chin. ‘You haven’t been here for eight years, and the moment you return—on griffin-back, no less—begin making demands of my household?’

  ‘Jisyel is important to me.’

  ‘I have no doubt. But there are other matters of greater importance. Now you’re here, you can finally begin seeing to them. Come.’ Furyn turned away.

  ‘No.’

  Furyn stopped in her tracks, her long, golden earrings swaying at the sudden halt in movement.

  Calidra licked her lips. ‘The Myr are back. That’s what Amsel’s here to tell you. Probably organising some sort of defence. They’re in Bragalia now, mother. And Jisyel is out there. We were separated on the way to Fellwood. Fenn, too. I hurried home in the hopes that she would’ve made it here by now, but if you say she isn’t here, then she isn’t safe. She could be—’

  ‘You hurried home…so you could see Jisyel?’ Furyn’s voice had quietened.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What about your father? The funeral? Is that not why you came back? You’ve never visited before, I can’t imagine why you’d start now.’

  ‘Of course I’m here for the funeral, too. But as I said, we were separated on the way and—’

  Furyn whirled around, silencing Calidra with a glare. ‘How dare you. I’ve lost both daughters and now my husband, and all you’re interested in is some wretch from a cursed rock in the middle of the sea! What about your home, Calidra? Your responsibilities here? What about me?’ She didn’t raise her voice, Furyn rarely had to, and her words cut Calidra’s resolve like a knife. ‘If the Myr are on the move, there are more important things right now than this…this…fling of yours.’ Furyn strolled back to Calidra and looked her in the eye. ‘I have done you the courtesy of keeping your rooms as they were. I will no doubt be busy in discussions with the griffin-rider for much of the day. I’ll have Quillaja run a bath for you, and get you out of those filthy peasant clothes.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Not another word, Calidra. The funeral is tomorrow. I’ll not have you disgrace me any further. Get inside and we’ll discuss matters once the service is over.’

  True to her word, Furyn spent the rest of the day in her study with Amsel, Varlot, and the head of the house guard. She’d also summoned the most high-ranking officers from within Fellwood itself, and they’d sealed themselves away while they pored over maps and discussed information and potential strategies against the Myr.

  Calidra had spent a while with her ear to the door, but it had been made of solid oak, and trying to catch any of the conversation on the other side was nigh impossible.

  Just being back in her childhood home was enough to awaken powerful emotions that she’d long since buried. It was disorienting to walk the same hallways again, see the same rooms, the same people. Her father had rarely been home—he’d spent more time outside Fellwood than in it—but knowing he was never coming back, that she would never again hear his voice within these walls, was upsetting.

  Quillaja had emerged from the study after a short while, and set to obeying her mother’s orders. The handmaiden had led Calidra to the south wing of the villa, which she’d shared with Malora as a child, and immediately arranged for the large, brass tub to be filled with steaming hot water. To the bath, she added a number of different emollients and herbs, even petals from the flowers of her mother’s personal bouquets. By the time it was ready, Calidra wasn’t sure if she would emerge clean or cooked in a soup.

  Following instructions in a daze, Calidra was dimly aware of her skin being scrubbed, her hair washed, and creams applied to her body. Personal grooming had never been something she’d prioritised, only doing enough to cover basic hygiene, never bothering with the oils and scents her mother adored, and jewellery was the furthest thing from her mind when she dressed.

  But back home, under her mother’s orders, she was washed and dried, dressed in fine clothing and pungent scents, and given gold and gems to adorn her hair and fingers—as was becoming of her position, Quillaja explained when Calidra had objected.

  She’d hardly touched the broth that had been served for dinner. Every sip had been full of the typical Olmese “tang,” a blend of six key spices her mother often requested. The pork was richly seasoned, flavoured with lime and pepper, one of Calidra’s favourite childhood dishes, but she didn’t have the motivation to finish it.

  It was dark by the time Quillaja had finished with her, and her companions ha
d yet to leave her mother’s study. Exhausted after all the travelling, the emotional turmoil, and her fraught nerves with seeing her mother again, Calidra had no strength to protest any of it.

  It was probably for the best. Her mother always demanded obedience, and Calidra meekly gave it.

  She sat beside the enormous mirror that dominated one side of her room, staring at the reflection of the open window, and wondered where Jisyel was. Whether she was okay, or whether she’d ever made it out of the bay that night in Ballowtown.

  Quillaja sat beside her, a selection of oils on her lap as she worked them through Calidra’s face and hair. She’d set up candles and incense, and the heady scents lulled Calidra to the edge of awareness. Sleep wouldn’t be far off, even though she didn’t feel she deserved rest.

  ‘What have I done…’ Calidra murmured, giving voice to her thoughts. ‘I left her. Left her.’

  ‘Hmm?’ Quillaja responded, stoppering one glass bottle and choosing another. ‘Left her? Not at all, Calidra. You’ve returned to her now.’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t mean my mother. I don’t care about that.’

  ‘Calidra, you really shouldn’t speak that way about Lady Vantonen.’

  ‘She’s my mother. I can speak about her anyway I wish.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Quillaja said no more, uncorking another bottle and sending the zesty smell of jasmine lily floating into her room. One of her mother’s favourite flowers.

  Calidra pulled away. ‘Not that one.’

  ‘Do you have a preferred perfume? A Porsenthian fragrance, perhaps? One you’ve been using while you’ve been away?’

  ‘None of them.’

  ‘Now, now, there’s no need to be so moody. You’ll need rose, I think. And some lavender. It’ll help you sleep.’ Quillaja uncorked them and dabbed several drops onto her wrist. ‘Hold still, please.’

  Calidra had no energy to argue. Not after what she’d done. She’d left her new home. Had lost Jisyel and Fenn. Who knew where they were, or whether they were safe. Tears rolled down her cheeks, unbidden.

  ‘It is good to see you back. Lady Vantonen didn’t think you would return, but I had faith you would. You were always so very sensible, Calidra.’

  ‘Mmm.’ A non-committal answer. Calidra’s gaze never left the night sky as reflected in her mirror. She didn’t see the opulence of her rooms, the finery of the clothes she’d been dressed in. Didn’t feel so much as a flicker of comfort at the idea of sleeping in a bed stuffed with goose down. None of it mattered without Jisyel.

  ‘I have faith in Malora, too, you know. She always did leave things to the last minute, didn’t she? Hah, it would be just like her to arrive a minute before the priests begin the service.’

  Calidra blanched. ‘M—Malora?’

  ‘Yes. We last heard just under four years ago? Somewhere up in Porsenthia. Foxmouth, I think? I suppose she might not be able to get away. Very busy what with the baby and—’

  ‘Baby?’ Calidra stood up so quickly Quillaja was thrown backwards, her jars and bottles of oils and perfumes scattered along the heavy wooden floorboards. ‘What are you talking about, Quillaja?’

  The handmaiden was on her knees, frantic, grabbing open jars before too much of the contents spilled out.

  ‘Quillaja? Malora…Malora died?’

  Finally with all the bottles stoppered and disaster averted, the handmaiden straightened up, still on her knees. ‘Is that what you think? Oh no, Calidra. Your mother disapproves, of course. You know how much she hates being proven wrong. But yes, Malora is alive and well. If you’d come home or written sooner, you’d know all about it!’

  Calidra thought she was going to be sick again.

  The handmaiden smiled broadly. ‘In fact, you have a niece!’

  12

  The Warning

  fenn

  Fenn was beyond certain his feet were going to fall off. They’d gone past aching discomfort into cold numbness, and now they were spasming; bolts of electricity danced across his soles with every step.

  Whoever he’d been before he’d lost his memories, whatever he’d done, hiking had never been part of his life. It didn’t help that his boots were slightly too big for him—the wardrobe back on the Isle of Salt hadn’t offered much of a selection. By the time they were within an hour of the town of Vaelar, he had several blisters on both feet and it felt like the skin on the tips of his toes had been rubbed off.

  Why did Bragalia have to be so full of hills?

  It didn’t bother Jisyel or Selys, and he envied their stamina. Both of them waited for him a few paces ahead. ‘What is that tattoo?’ Fenn gestured to Selys’s bare arm. ‘Saw lots of priests at the shrine with them?’

  Selys glanced down at her arm, as if seeing the markings there for the first time. ‘Everyone who joins the order has a mark applied to them. It’s a lifetime commitment.’

  ‘It’s very pretty. We don’t see many priests on the Isle of Salt,’ Jisyel said.

  ‘Kind of a way to show your…dedication?’ Fenn asked.

  ‘Exactly.’ Selys held her arm up, where the coloured lines weaving across her skin glittered.

  Fenn took the brief pause to catch his breath, hands on his thighs. Although they weren’t particularly high up, the air felt thinner than usual, and breathing was difficult. A drop of sweat rolled down his nose and he wiped it away with a huff.

  Overhead, a cloud shifted, allowing the sun to beam down brightly. Fenn turned his head, squinting away from the light, and his breath caught. A shadow-like creature, wandering across the plains towards them—perhaps a league or two away, it was difficult to tell the exact distance. Whether it was the same one from Ballowtown or a different one, he couldn’t say. But it felt the same. Wrong. Evil. Terrifying. Light rippled around it, as if it distorted the air where it walked. His chest squeezed in terror.

  ‘J—Jisyel!’ Fenn called, unable to tear his gaze from the creature in the distance.

  ‘What is it?’ Jisyel hurried over to him, a half-eaten apple in one hand. ‘Are you hurt?’

  He pointed, not trusting his voice.

  She followed the gesture and peered out across the Bragalian grasslands. Then frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘You…can’t see that?’ Fenn asked, quizzical. He’d not pulled his gaze from it—he’d already made that mistake once with Calidra—and the creature was definitely there. It lumbered along on an ungainly pair of legs, although not quickly, moving at a steady pace.

  Jisyel’s frown deepened. ‘See what? What are you pointing at?’

  Frustrated, Fenn said, ‘I know you can’t feel things, but surely you can see them? It’s the monster that attacked us in Ballowtown! The shadow creature? Or, another one just like it!’

  Jisyel took a few steps forward, as if it would somehow give her a better view. ‘Fenn, that’s just the air rippling because it’s hot. You see it all the time in Bragalia and Olmir. Sometimes it looks like water from a distance.’ She put her hand on her hips and stared straight up, heedless of the sun’s heat bearing down on them. After taking another bite of her apple, she shrugged. ‘It’s the middle of the day, those illusions happen—’

  ‘It’s not an illusion! It’s the creature from before!’

  ‘What’s all the shouting about?’ Selys hurried back to them, her glaive already drawn, the feathers tied to the shaft fluttering in the wind. ‘Fenn?’

  ‘Can’t you see it?’ He whirled around to stare at the priestess, desperate for her to see, to understand. ‘There, right in the middle of the plains!’

  Selys turned her head, curious, where he gestured. She wore the same frown as Jisyel, the tip of her glaive lowering. ‘It’s hot out. Sometimes the heat tricks the eye, makes the ground look like water or shadow.’

  ‘Selys, please. I can see it. It’s a creature of some sort. Of shadow. It has two legs, two arms that are long, kind of…kind of dragging on the ground behind it.’

  The priestess narrowed her eyes, the scar over her ri
ght eye tightening in the movement. ‘Wait a minute.’ She looked, really looked, staring until her eyes began to water, and held her breath.

  It reminded Fenn of when she’d inspected him outside her shrine. He saw her body stiffen. ‘You see it, now. Don’t you?’

  ‘It’s the Myr.’ Selys’s voice was a whisper. ‘Or…one of their spirits. Neros save me, I think it’s one of their death spirits.’

  ‘That’s not possible!’ Jisyel gasped. ‘If it’s right there, why can’t I see it? Don’t joke about these things, Fenn! Selys! It isn’t funny!’

  Selys shook her head and took several steps back. ‘It’s no joke, Jisyel. Fenn has been touched by the Myr. Perhaps that’s why he can so readily sense their magic? And I…I just need to focus. Know what I’m looking for, to be able to see it. Thanks to my order. We’re closer to spirits than most. Fenn’s right—it’s there. We need to get to Vaelar. We need to warn people!’

  Fenn gulped, panic growing in his gut. Adrenaline flooded his body and drove away the aches.

  Selys took the lead and hurtled off.

  The trio ran.

  Fenn could smell the town before they reached it; an unpleasant mix of rotten food, unwashed bodies, and stale urine.

  Limping behind Selys’s furious pace, helped occasionally by Jisyel, he was beyond relieved when they were finally able to take a break within sight of Vaelar’s gates. He could hardly believe the priestess had such strength and stamina, and was in awe of her confidence. Even through her obvious fear and shock at seeing the Myrish creature—she remained focussed and determined. He wondered what she’d be like if she needed to fight one of those things.

  His feet throbbed with pain and every muscle in his legs screamed, but his headache was an even bigger distraction. It had steadily worsened the further north they’d travelled, and now it pounded with such determination that he could hardly keep his eyes open. Whether it was to do with another day on the road under the harsh Bragalian sun, due to his physical location, or because of seeing the Myrish creature, he couldn’t say.