The Iron Crown (Dragon Spirits Book 1)

by L. L. MacRae

  Apollo was certain Malora and Renys would be fine. They had good staff. Loyal patrons. Had been a pillar of the town for the past five years. But he wished Malora still had the power of a dragon spirit on her side. Something a little sharper to keep the more prying eyes away.

  He had no idea what he was walking into. He had his pardon, regardless of Nadja’s dismissal. And he no longer had Queen Surayo’s curse upon him. That had been lifted when he’d returned to the palace after his successful trip.

  It should be enough to prove he’d done what had been asked, and that he couldn’t be accused of causing whatever trouble was growing in Tassar.

  If the Myr were back, he could understand the queen’s fear. If he were in her shoes, he’d have pointed fingers, too. Not that Apollo had known what the Citrine Key truly was. What it was capable of. But that wasn’t his fault. The queen hadn’t bothered to tell him.

  Perhaps she should have told him more than just where he was going and what task he had to complete. Perhaps then he’d have shoved that key down Paragos’s throat.

  And yet, cold guilt squatted in his gut, growing inch by inch as the minutes ticked by, the discomfort so great that it made walking difficult.

  He was grateful Nadja had left Malora and Renys alone. He had no doubt that if Torsten had been the one to visit him, he’d have brought the entire family back to the capital in chains as an example to any would-be wrongdoers.

  His mind wandered back. Five years ago, Queen Surayo had sent him away to the distant country of Malnova with an artefact she’d stolen from the Myr in her latest conquest. Sent him to feed that thing to a dragon so massive it would give Toriaken a run for his money. Feeding the spirit the key without being eaten himself simply hadn’t been a possibility.

  So what if the queen had wanted him to throw his life away? He hadn’t.

  But if he’d known what the key truly was? What would he have done differently? He’d never have been able to marry Malora. Never have met Renys. He shook his head, the movement small so it wouldn’t attract attention.

  Nadja marched him through the streets, heading steadily south. Apollo looked up every so often to gather his bearings, and paused when they crossed a small square—the scent of melting sugar and butter thick in the air. ‘Inquisitor Nadja. Have you tried the fudge here? Honestly, it’s quite something else. Foxmouth might be known for fishing, but the locals know the real treats. If you—’

  ‘Have you forgotten the irons at your wrists and ankles?’ Nadja whirled around. ‘You could be hanged for what you’ve done!’

  ‘All the more reason to have something tasty, first. I’ll even pay! I have a few coins in my pocket. You’d need to get them and—’

  ‘Apollo. If you carry on like this, I’ll have to gag you.’

  He closed his mouth. Nadja wasn’t playing around. But it had been worth a try. And the fudge really was delicious.

  He’d have to figure something else out. Apollo had cheated death so many times throughout his life that he’d be damned if he was going to lose everything for some stupid misunderstanding. Especially not with Malora and Renys waiting. He’d worked far too hard to build the life he had.

  They reached the town gates, and Nadja nodded to the officers on duty. Apollo kept his head down—although he was sure even if they didn’t recognise him, the gossip would travel through Foxmouth quickly enough that everyone would soon know he’d been taken.

  Apollo stopped again, frowning at the empty road beyond. ‘No carriage?’

  ‘I travel light.’

  ‘Do you know how difficult it’ll be for me to walk the whole way to Eastbrook in these?’ He gestured to the fetters around his ankles, which while lenient, did not allow him to take a full stride.

  Nadja held up her hand for him to wait, then nodded to one of the officers on the outside of Foxmouth gates. The young man disappeared into a large stable for a minute, before returning with two horses in tow—one chestnut, the other piebald.

  Apollo shook his head. ‘Can’t ride one of them with—’

  ‘Will you stop complaining, Apollo? I’ve been more than merciful with you. I’ll remove the irons around your ankles so you can ride.’

  Apollo’s mind whirled. He knew northern Porsenthia, had grown up there and spent a considerable number of his adult years in the area. If he got away from her, there would be places he could lay low for a while. He’d get a message to Foxmouth and meet Malora and Renys later on.

  He just had to escape from one Inquisitor—who had given him a strong pair of legs to flee on.

  ‘I see those eyes of yours calculating,’ Nadja said. She took the reins from the officer and handed one to Apollo. ‘The horses are tethered together and respond to this.’ She pulled out a small, silver whistle that had been tucked into her uniform. ‘One blow on this, and they return to me. So don’t get any ideas and make your situation worse. I’m not above binding you completely in iron and throwing you over the horse’s back. Or even dragging you along in the dirt behind it.’

  Her words didn’t dissuade him. Apollo raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘Inquisitor, I think you’ll find I’ve been nothing but obedient since you made it clear I wasn’t going to win an argument against you.’

  Nadja frowned, gently patting the neck of her piebald, then pulled herself up and into the saddle. She gave herself a moment to adjust the reins before straightening up and taking out her iron dagger. With a flick of the tip, the fetters on Apollo’s ankles slackened, then broke apart—leaving one bracelet of iron around each ankle, but they were no longer joined.

  Apollo considered darting away, but the sensation passed as quickly as it appeared, and he clambered up the side of the chestnut mare and into his own saddle. It was awkward, but the irons around his wrists gave him enough movement to steady himself and clutch onto the reins.

  The moment he was seated, Nadja flicked her dagger again, and the irons tightened, locking his wrists to the horse’s reins. The chestnut mare shook her head and stamped one foot as Nadja looped more iron along the tether between the two animals. Apollo watched in amazement as the grey matter moved like fat drops of water along the line. It solidified, the thin coat of iron now binding both horses—and their riders—together.

  Satisfied, Nadja turned her piebald away from Apollo and nudged her forward.

  Obedient, Apollo’s mare followed.

  He was trapped. Potentially walking to his death. Apollo remembered the sensation before—a freezing blizzard, the palace in the snow, and the Myrish creature within. It had been terrifying, had made his legs numb with fear. And the creature had been happy the key was returned. Happy when Yorik, the grumpy fisherman, had died. The man whom Apollo had named his inn after.

  He fought the nausea that rose in his gut at the memories.

  Even he and Malora had barely escaped that place with their lives. The Myr—or the palace, he’d not been sure which—had sucked their energy from them. Even their very breath. It had only been by a miracle that they’d made it out.

  If that was what was coming? More Myr? More of their creatures?

  He wouldn’t stand for it.

  Escaping that death trap had made him pledge that his time of thievery was over. He’d offered Malora the life she deserved. He’d been true to his word ever since, fulfilling his promise to her to the letter.

  And they had Renys, now. He couldn’t imagine life without her. Whatever happened…whatever calamity befell Tassar, he had his daughter. Wasn’t her life worth more than all the gold in the world?

  Apollo twisted in his saddle, as much as his restraints would allow, and stared back at Foxmouth as they walked away from it. Malora. Renys. He whispered, ‘I’ll come back soon. I promise.’

  Nadja led them west, along the rocky paths through the base of the Nethal Mountains. She kept her tight-lipped approach, refusing to rise to Apollo’s repeated attempts at conversation or distracting her.

  Even though Apollo considered himself a man of pati
ence, he eventually tired of trying to engage with her and slipped into contemplative quiet after an hour or two of travelling with nothing but the clop of the horses’ hooves to accompany them. They didn’t travel quickly. The horses barely went above a gentle walk, trotting only when they overtook a small caravan of traders heading the same way.

  He’d not expected to travel into the mountains, and wondered if the trickier terrain would make it easier to escape. He couldn’t outrun a horse on flat ground, but over a steep, rocky incline? Perhaps he had a chance.

  Apollo resigned himself to a quiet journey, keeping his eyes and ears open for any opportunity to get himself out of the situation. He had more chance of getting away from a single Inquisitor somewhere on the road than in an entire palace full of them—Torsten included—not to mention Queen Surayo herself.

  If they didn’t like what he said, he was unlikely to leave with his head. Just the thought of it made him shudder.

  He was hardly aware of where they were going, just that the mountains rose up on all sides as Nadja led them down a path that cut right through the enormous rocks. The first iron ores had been built here several hundred years ago, and where Toriaken had been discovered, a shrine had been built to the glory of the dragon. Over the years, as Toriaken’s power and worshippers had grown, the shrine had been added to. Now, it was the largest of any shrine on the whole continent—a tourist attraction in its own right, with crowds of people flocking to northern Porsenthia for a glimpse of the dragon, or to beg his aid.

  It was silly, really.

  Shortly after Toriaken had been discovered, some Bragalian mage had managed to bind the dragon’s soul into an iron sword and claim his power. He had become the first king of Porsenthia, the first to wear the Iron Crown. Queen Surayo was simply the latest in a long line of descendants to use the dragon’s power in the same way.

  It meant that all the hopeful people begging for help might as well be talking to stone. Toriaken’s loyalty lay solely with the Porsenthian ruler, and nothing else.

  Apollo had always found it amusing that the rulers of the Porsenthian Empire—and the reason it had been able to grow so vast in the first place—was because someone, a Bragalian no less, had seen an opportunity and taken it.

  Really, they’d been no different to himself.

  Nadja took them deeper into the mountains, and they kept a constant pace for most of the day. Apollo soon realised she was taking them directly to Toriaken’s Shrine. Strange. Was the queen going to meet them there? Surely not, if she was preparing for war.

  It was possible they’d take a boat downriver, through Westbrook and into the larger Eastbrook—the Porsenthian capital. Perhaps travelling through the foothills and plains would give him more opportunities to escape. By taking him through a handful of settlements, he wouldn’t have a moment to get away, not with so many officers to keep an eye on him.

  Apollo huffed, aware he sounded like his daughter, but not particularly caring. While atop the horse, he could do nothing but go where Nadja directed it.

  ‘Behold! Toriaken’s greatness!’

  Apollo glanced up at the loud voice. A bearded priest stood atop a boulder by the side of the road, arms held high as he shouted to a group of gathered people. His long sleeves flapped in the wind, revealing a collection of iron jewellery on his wrists. His left arm bore a silver tattoo that reached his elbow, sinuous and twisting.

  ‘The bastion of the great spirit’s power!’

  Apollo rolled his eyes. Nadja ignored the priest.

  Several people within the group shuffled forwards, partly to get out of the way of the two horses, partly to get closer to the priest.

  ‘Please help! My son has gone missing!’ a woman cried, on the verge of tears. Her silk cowl looked to be of fine material, but her unkempt hair and haggard appearance reminded Apollo of thieves in the town of Horush.

  ‘Your son ran away from home!’ someone replied, elbowing the woman to one side. ‘I need Toriaken’s blessing! My wife is going to have our baby any day now! I need a safe delivery!’

  Apollo leaned forward in his saddle, curious.

  The woman shoved the man. ‘He may have run away, but his friends haven’t heard from him in weeks! He wouldn’t abandon them! Something’s happened to my boy, and I need help to find him!’

  ‘Please, calm yourselves!’ Again, the priest’s voice carried over the cacophony of noise. ‘Come with me to the shrine. Bring your tithes. If you are generous, Toriaken may bless you.’

  Apollo snorted. He knew shrines relied on donations. It was how they were built, how they gained worshippers, and how the spirits’ powers grew. But Toriaken was different—he was already bound to Queen Surayo. He wasn’t a wild spirit, free to bestow curses or blessings upon whomever he wanted. Not that these desperate people realised.

  Then again, they probably hoped having their name ascribed to a large donation to Toriaken’s Shrine would put them in the queen’s favour. If the crown even noticed. Apollo wondered whether he should have made a few donations over the years. He might be in less of a mess.

  Unwilling to listen to the priest, the man and woman continued to shove and push each other, until the woman was sent sprawling on the ground.

  ‘You aren’t going to stop that? Breach of the peace, isn’t it?’ Apollo asked Nadja. If she was busy dealing with the kerfuffle, he might be able to get away. He glanced at his surroundings—plenty of places he could hide.

  The Inquisitor glanced over to the scrap, but continued onwards. ‘My job is to bring you to Eastbrook. Nothing more.’

  ‘Oh, really? I’ve lost count of the number of times Inquisitors on other business took time out of their day to question me.’

  ‘Perhaps you were in the middle of a theft?’

  ‘Nope. I’m always just wandering down the street, minding my own business. But you let that happen?’ Apollo jerked his chin towards the fight, even though Nadja wasn’t looking at him.

  ‘If you feel you have been served some injustice, you ought to report it.’

  ‘Yes. This right here is injustice!’

  Nadja sighed. Clearly she didn’t think Apollo deserved a reply.

  He wanted to get away from the Inquisitor. If he made it to the palace, he’d be in hotter water than he already was. Worse, he wasn’t as fit as he’d been five years ago. Nadja could certainly outrun him. He’d need to be clever, strategic. Choose his moment wisely.

  It would be the only way.

  Toriaken’s Shrine appeared to grow from the mountainside itself. Apollo had seen it only a handful of times, and always from a distance. Up close, it was astounding. Easily as grand as the palace itself, the shrine was a myriad of towers and high walls, fashioned from mountain stone and iron combined. Several entrances were carved into the shrine at ground level, all doors open, allowing a constant stream of people in and out. Aside from a handful of beggars, most people were dressed in their finery, as if they were meeting royalty, not visiting a place of worship.

  Several musicians sat along the walls, playing on stringed instruments and woodwind pipes, entertaining the gathered crowds and occasionally accepting a coin or two.

  Above the shrine, the Nethal Mountains’ snow-capped peaks were bright in the sunshine.

  He shivered in the bitter wind. ‘Why are we here?’ Apollo asked, head tilted back as he tried to spot the tops of the tallest towers.

  ‘The river passes close by and runs all the way to Eastbrook.’

  So he’d been right about their route.

  It would pass through Westbrook, a town where he’d spent several years of his youth and where he often bought wine for The Grumpy Fisherman. He was sure he could remember enough of it to hide away for as long as was necessary. He stared at the shrine as he and Nadja passed in front of it. The road was wide and well-maintained—at least some of the donations weren’t going directly into the queen’s pocket—and the people here weren’t interested in gawping at him.

  He’d always pla
nned on bringing Renys to the shrine, once she was a bit older. She’d probably spend the entire day finding nooks and crannies to hide in, and would certainly try and climb up the towers to reach the roof.

  His stomach sank. If he didn’t get away soon, he’d never see her again, let alone bring her on a day out. They’d have to get out of Porsenthia. Get away somewhere the Iron Crown couldn’t follow.

  Unless he could convince the queen of his innocence…

  ‘Please, can you spare some food?’

  There were so many beggars at the shrine, so many people asking for help, that Apollo ignored the young man at first.

  ‘You see him, Apollo? You’ve caused that.’

  Nadja’s voice caught his attention. Apollo looked where she pointed, where a young, disheveled man on his knees clutched at a priestess’s robes. ‘I don’t know where my family is. Don’t…don’t know where this is.’

  Apollo’s heart lurched at the sight. The young man couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen, with fair hair and skin. It didn’t look like he’d eaten in a while. ‘How am I responsible for some beggar?’

  ‘He’s one of the lost souls.’

  Apollo narrowed his eyes. They were past the front of the shrine now, heading west. Already he could hear the roar of the falls where they plunged into the river. Nadja didn’t change the horses’ pace, and Apollo swivelled in his seat to watch.

  The young man coughed, flecks of blood spattering along the priestess’s cream-grey robes.

  She stepped back from him and scowled. ‘You are tainted!’

  ‘Please!’ Again, the young man shuffled forward on his knees, and reached for the priestess’s robes—only to be pushed to the ground. ‘I’m…I’m so scared. I was told…in the town on the river…they said I could come here for help. That you would help me!’

  ‘We help those faithful to Toriaken and the Iron Crown.’ She smoothed her robes. ‘You are beyond help, lost one.’

  He wailed, a noise so raw that Apollo couldn’t bear to hear it. The man slumped to the floor, his body jerking.