The Iron Crown (Dragon Spirits Book 1)

by L. L. MacRae

  People had died because of it. Were dying. Pushing the unpleasant thought to the back of his mind, Fenn hobbled onwards. None of it would mean much if he died, too.

  He wondered whether Jisyel was as hurt as he was, then recalled her own curse. She didn’t feel pain. He winced, nearly losing his footing. He’d have to remember to tell Jisyel to check her feet. That’s what Calidra would do, surely.

  ‘I’ll go inside and see if I can find out who’s in charge. Get a warning out to the town watch before anything happens.’ Selys hurried along the path to the town’s gates, where she promptly disappeared into the crowd.

  ‘We’ll rest here for a minute.’ Jisyel’s voice was soothing. ‘I see you’re hurting.’

  ‘I’m…I’m okay.’ Fenn clutched his head with one hand, swaying on his feet. He didn’t want to be more of a bother than he already was. Although the Myrish spirit had been some distance away, and was moving slowly, dread grew at the idea of it being so close. If it came to Vaelar…

  ‘Fenn. Don’t try and be like Calidra—she toughs it out and always suffers for it. You’re limping. And I guess that headache hasn’t eased, either?’

  ‘It’s worse.’ He tried to shake his head, but that sent up another spike of agony. He took several deep breaths, riding out the pain. ‘The Myr…’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do right now,’ Jisyel said, sterner than she’d sounded earlier. He wondered if she was covering up her fear again, like when they’d washed up across the bay. ‘Selys will get word out to the people who need to know. And we definitely can’t do anything if you’re about to collapse.’

  He raised his head, ready to argue, then closed his mouth.

  She was right.

  He sat on a large rock beside the path, massaging his forehead with one hand. Although outside Vaelar, Fenn could see it was a smaller settlement than Ballowtown, and yet his struggles were already attracting attention. A group of children, hands and legs covered in dirt, stopped their games and watched him, a few circling like stray puppies, hungry for scraps. One pointed, whispering to their companions.

  Fenn winced and dropped his hand, not wanting to look as vulnerable as he felt.

  Jisyel followed his gaze. ‘Don’t mind them.’

  He held his breath as a particularly vicious wave of pain washed over him, then a cloud passed in front of the sun, and the severity lessened. He’d give anything for some relief.

  After a few minutes, Selys appeared at the gates and made her way back down the path towards them, her lips pressed into a thin line. ‘The watch laughed at me.’

  ‘Oh no! But you’re a priestess?’ Fenn said.

  ‘I know, but they told me to be quiet and to stop spreading lies before they arrested me.’ Selys shrugged. ‘I did what I could. Perhaps word will spread and people can make their own conclusions.’

  ‘But why didn’t they take you seriously?’

  ‘You’ll see once we get inside. There’s some trouble in town.’

  Fenn groaned.

  ‘The pain is worsening?’

  ‘Seems to be. Sun won’t help,’ Jisyel answered when Fenn was unable to.

  ‘The sooner we’re inside, the better. Vaelar’s walls might only be wood, but they’ll offer some shelter.’ Selys wirled her glaive and gazed along the edge of town, as if assessing it. ‘There are other lost souls here. They must’ve seen the same creature you did, Fenn. With the presence of the Inquisitors in Bragalia, the atmosphere is…frantic. People are afraid. Most of the lost souls have been locked up, but I hope people here are wondering if they’re speaking the truth. Whether the Myr really have returned? It’d mean they’d be less likely to be taken by surprise in an attack.’

  Fenn shook his head, despite the pain of the movement. ‘What’s so hard to believe? I know what I saw. And you’re a priestess! Why won’t anyone listen?’

  Jisyel threw up her hands. ‘Because Queen Surayo is in power! The Iron Crown has kept this entire continent safe for years. She and Toriaken created the peace treaty five years ago. The Myr can’t be here. They can’t be! And especially not death spirits!’

  ‘Best not to talk about it loudly, Jisyel, or you might be arrested, too.’ Selys glanced around, checking no-one had heard Jisyel’s outburst. ‘The guards were pretty twitchy. In my experience, that leads to people getting hurt.’

  ‘Jisyel might be arrested? For speaking the truth?’ Fenn was on his feet again, hands balled into fists at the injustice of it. Dizziness immediately gripped him.

  ‘It’s heresy. If anyone asks, you saw a wild cat.’ Selys’s voice had dropped, gaze lingering on the children. ‘Let’s get inside and get some rest. Jisyel, you can see if Calidra and Varlot are here, and we’ll be on our way soon—tomorrow morning at the latest. You need sleep, Fenn, don’t argue. I can keep an eye out in case that spirit comes close to town.’

  Selys put her glaive away, and Fenn wondered how good she was in combat. Varlot, Calidra, and Torsten had all fought off the spirit in Ballowtown. Did the priestess have a chance alone?

  Jisyel smiled at the mention of Calidra. ‘Good idea.’

  Fenn said, ‘If…if the town is busy, hopefully no-one will pay too much attention…to us.’ His breath came in ragged gasps as the pain swirled.

  ‘You’re right. There are many injured, too. We won’t stand out as long as we keep moving, and keep quiet.’ Selys looped her arm under his and gave Jisyel a pointed look. ‘Come on, Fenn. Let’s keep walking.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he muttered, unable to muster any more enthusiasm.

  Jisyel and Selys helped him limp along the path to the high, wooden gates surrounding Vaelar. They paused briefly beside the two gatekeepers, each showing their papers. A brief flicker of panic darted through Fenn as they chuckled at Selys, but they waved them all through. Even if they weren’t keen on what Selys had said, at least papers signed by the priestess were permissible to the guards.

  He let out his held breath as they walked through the gates—and immediately into the bustling crowd, enclosed under overlapping sheets of fabric, which provided shelter from the sun. Just as Selys had said, the streets were heaving. Dozens of people congregated in the wide street, on either side of which vendors sold a range of goods. Fenn saw everything from balls of soft cheese in brine to the wooden sandals that most people here favoured wearing. One woman sold beads of jade that were identical to the one on Selys’s glaive, save the dragon carved into it.

  Those who weren’t selling anything clutched what few possessions they could. One man even had a small herd of goats tied together, the rope loose around his waist. Children chased chickens, and anyone able enough carried sacks of food, clothes, and other supplies.

  A line of plucked geese had been strung up above the awning of a building, under which several cooking bots bubbled away, smells amplified in the enclosed space. Fenn wrinkled his nose at the amount of garlic. Several dogs, so thin their spines showed clearly through their matted fur, sniffed for scraps nearby.

  Fenn was drawn to a trio of people who were seated on a carpet against a backdrop of textiles. Tubs of spices lay open in front of them, their colours bright and rich despite the muted sunlight.

  One of the Bragalian vendors, a woman, caught Fenn’s eye and waved him over. She immediately began talking, but it was a language he didn’t understand.

  She must’ve noticed his confusion, because she paused, then swapped into another dialect. ‘Black cumin?’ She pointed to one tub full of dark seeds. ‘Sumac?’ Another tub that held fine, wine-coloured powder. ‘Mountain garlic?’ Enormous bulbs filled the pot, and the woman picked one up. With one twist, she opened it, revealing soft, deep-brown flesh inside.

  ‘Oh! Uh…that looks wonderful, but—’

  At the far end of the busy street, a group of eight people were chained at the waist, their hands bound in coarse rope, while a uniformed officer stood guard beside them. Everyone was clearly afraid, but many of them seemed confused, too, with wide eyes and gazes that
darted nervously around.

  Pity rolled through him at the ragged sight. He shook his head apologetically at the spice seller, and hurried to catch up with Jisyel and Selys. As much as he wanted to speak to the prisoners—the other lost souls—to see what their experiences were, and how they compared to his own, he couldn’t risk attracting the wrong attention. Teeth gritted together, he forced himself to continue down the street, away from the crowds.

  Beggars huddled together at the end of the vendors’ stalls or at the corner of arched buildings, most on their knees. Many raised their palms to him, pleading, and spoke in a tongue he didn’t understand.

  ‘Is…are the people poor here?’ Fenn asked.

  ‘Vaelar is at the junction of three cantons. There’s a lot of traffic that passes through,’ Selys explained. ‘Plenty of opportunity.’

  ‘Looks awful, not like opportunity,’ Fenn replied.

  ‘There has to be a healer somewhere here, right?’ Jisyel squinted at the signs where streets crossed. ‘Might be worth one having a look at you, Fenn? While Selys and I see if Calidra and Varlot are in town?’

  He recoiled at the suggestion. ‘No, no! I’m sure it’ll pass.’

  ‘Really? You can hardly stand up by yourself, that headache is so bad.’ Jisyel poked his shoulder, making him sway.

  ‘If my headache is due to the Myr, I don’t want anyone taking a closer look at me. Not when everyone here is already so on edge. I’ll rest, have some water. No need to make anyone else suspicious of me.’

  Jisyel folded her arms. ‘But you’re hurting.’

  ‘You ought to rest, too, Jisyel. I can already feel blisters on my feet. Yours can’t be much better, even if you can’t feel it.’

  ‘He’s right,’ Selys approached them, ‘other lost souls have already been chained up. We don’t want to lose Fenn, too, and get him passed on to an Inquisitor.’

  Fenn barely suppressed a shudder at the thought. Although it was better that they were somewhere they wouldn’t stand out too much—not now they were inside the gates of Vaelar, anyway—the sudden increase in people made him uncomfortable. More eyes to look at him, more voices to report his presence.

  ‘Come on. Let’s see if we can find a quiet inn.’ Jisyel darted off, expertly weaving through the gathered people.

  Fenn gave himself another moment to steady his legs before continuing after her. What he wouldn’t give for another hot bath—he wasn’t sure his feet had much left in them. With Selys at his side—the glaive at her back helping part people—the pair of them hurried after Jisyel as quickly as they could.

  Each street was busy, with thick smoke choking the air down one particular area. One street had no vendors at all, but was home to entertainers of various disciplines. Some people were carving stone, others painting directly onto the walls of buildings.

  A robed man made dice appear and disappear, whether from his hands, a box, or the hands of willing audience participants. ‘If you can correctly guess where the dice will show, I will split half of all donations received today with you!’

  Several people yelled out suggestions, confident they knew the magician’s tricks.

  ‘Ah, close, but not correct! Come on, can anyone tell me? Show me? Or is Old Mithal’s magic too powerful for you mere mortals to understand?’

  Distracted, from following Jisyel, Fenn tried to think about how it worked, wondering if the man had a second set of dice already hidden. Selys joined him and tutted. ‘This sort of thing is common near the shrine. Always trying to show off.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘If he was a real mage, I’d be impressed. But I’ve seen so many of these charlatans before that it just bores me.’

  ‘Oh.’ Fenn tried not to let his disappointment show. ‘What’s the difference between him and a real mage?’

  ‘Tenacity. And some luck.’

  Another duo shouted down the street, attracting a large crowd of eager onlookers. Fenn paused to watch them, despite himself. One of the pair juggled a range of objects, cheered on by the crowd who suggested more and more elaborate options. Apples. Balls. Someone’s sandal. He threw everything higher, until they grazed the fabric canopy above. A grey cat lounged on the floor beside them, watching with a faint air of boredom.

  ‘Thank you for coming to yet another performance of the sleepless travellers!’ said the second man, who held a tangerine as he addressed their rapt audience. ‘Donations to Uncus the Juggler and yours truly will help our cause.’ He held out a straw basket as people threw in coins, silver and gold glinting.

  The juggler finished his routine, catching the items and bowing low. ‘My colleague Sodah will be setting up the next performance in a few minutes—fire-breathing! You don’t want to miss the show, believe me!’

  Fenn gasped and began to make his way towards the duo, excited to see.

  ‘Fenn. Come on. As much as I’d love to show you every Bragalian delight, we aren’t here for sight-seeing.’ Selys pulled on his arm, leading him out of the street. They caught up with Jisyel at a smaller promenade where the crowds finally thinned.

  Fenn was disappointed, but his feet throbbed again, and he knew the priestess was right.

  A large inn dominated one side of the road, while opposite, a grocers displayed boxes and crates of fruits and vegetables. Each building had a fabric awning that kept produce and doorways in shade. Dust rolled around the ground, and Fenn coughed with his next breath. Despite the heat, he was glad he could actually see the ground under his feet, and he leaned against the wall of the inn, grateful for the respite.

  After a second of looking around, Fenn realised why this area was quieter than the entrance to town—the stocks were here. Three of them in the centre of a small square, upon a raised plinth, and one was occupied—a young man had his head and hands locked in the gallows. His hair was dirty, his forehead damp with sweat, and his clothes had the same level of grime as most of the beggars Fenn had seen earlier.

  Several rotten tomatoes lay at his feet, their ripe juices steaming in the day’s heat.

  ‘He’s not one of the lost souls,’ Selys commented. ‘I can’t see anything wrong with him.’

  ‘Maybe we can get some information?’ Jisyel suggested.

  ‘No, Jisyel! Don’t attract—’

  Before Fenn could finish, Jisyel approached the man and blurted out, ‘What happened? Why are you locked up here and not with the others?’

  Shocked someone was speaking to him, the man twisted as much as his restraints would allow to get a look at her, then spoke haltingly, ‘Por—sen—thian?’

  Jisyel nodded.

  ‘Water?’

  Jisyel immediately pulled a flask from her bag and lifted it to the man’s lips. Most spilled down his chin, but he was able to swallow down several mouthfuls. ‘Not lost soul.’ His accent was thick and difficult to understand. ‘Threw potato. At. Inquisitor.’

  Fenn was so exhausted he almost burst out laughing. If he’d been bold enough, he’d probably throw a potato at Torsten if he ever had the chance to.

  ‘Where did the lost souls come from?’ Jisyel pushed.

  The man shrugged. ‘Boat. From Segandis.’

  ‘Are there Inquisitors here? In Vaelar?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are they coming here? To pick up the lost souls?’

  The man grunted as he tried to think of the right words. ‘Maybe? Soon.’ He coughed again. ‘Water? More water?’

  Jisyel obliged, but after taking another drink, he didn’t respond any further. She returned, head low. ‘I thought he might have some useful information.’

  Selys played with the feathers on her glaive as she thought, untangling them where the wind had bound them together. ‘I think the people here are more worried about rumours of the Myr than anything else. Let’s use that to our advantage. I’ll get us a room inside and make some enquiries about Calidra and Varlot. From your descriptions, those two would definitely be remembered if they’re here or passed through.’
/>   Jisyel nodded. ‘Fenn, you okay to stand?’

  He winced as he pushed himself to his feet. ‘I’m okay.’ But his gaze was drawn back towards the town’s entrance. To those lost souls who were chained up, awaiting an unknown fate for an unknown crime. Briefly, he considered going back there, asking them questions as boldly as Jisyel had asked the man in the stocks.

  But he dismissed it straight away. That would surely be the quickest way to get himself arrested.

  They followed Selys inside, and after showing the innkeeper their papers and coin, were led to a modest room nestled in the roof of the building. Thankfully, it was several degrees cooler, and Fenn found it far easier to breathe once inside.

  From the window, the patchwork of fabric that had been the market’s roof now became a floor of colour, dazzling under the sun. Four narrow beds had been pushed into each corner, and Fenn gingerly sat down on one. It creaked loudly as it bore his weight, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

  ‘Was the…Myrish spirit heading towards Vaelar?’ Jisyel asked both Fenn and Selys.

  ‘Hard to say.’ Fenn began unlacing his boots. ‘It…was heading in this general direction. What else is nearby? Where else could it be going?’

  ‘The Shrine of Chyram lies to the north. Segandis to the south. Clifton to the north-east. All large settlements,’ Selys answered, resting her glaive against the wall.

  ‘Fellwood is beyond Vaelar. Half a day’s travel north-west,’ Jisyel added.

  ‘Sounds like a lot of distractions before it reaches Fellwood. If it’s even going there.’ One boot unlaced, Fenn started on the other, sighing in audible relief as his feet were finally free.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t know where it was going? You couldn’t hear it or anything?’

  ‘How could I hear it from so far away?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s Myrish magic. Maybe it could talk directly into your mind?’

  ‘Jisyel, stop it. I have no idea. Yes, I guess I can see them, but I don’t know any more than you, and that’s the truth!’ Easing his boots off, he unwrapped his socks—one of which had stuck to a bloodied blister on the bottom of his right foot—and hissed in pain.