The Iron Crown (Dragon Spirits Book 1)

by L. L. MacRae

  Malora had always been the favoured child. More obedient than Calidra, she’d had a stronger relationship with Furyn. And because she’d created the family wealth, been responsible for every bastion of power they had, Furyn had allowed her to get away with far more.

  Including dating a thief.

  Worse—a Porsenthian.

  Calidra had been furious when her mother had permitted it. She’d fought Malora over her stupid choices, over everything. All the falseness. They’d ended up arguing even more than she’d argued with her mother. Calidra had screamed at Malora to leave, if she loved that thief so much. If she was so sure he was right for her.

  And Malora had left to “throw her life away,” as Furyn had claimed.

  Calidra never saw her again.

  Furyn had confirmed she’d received word of Malora’s death some time later.

  If Quillaja hadn’t said anything when Calidra had returned home, she’d still be none the wiser. And the fact that Malora hadn’t returned to Fellwood proved she was no longer under their mother’s thumb. That alone made Calidra even more excited to reunite with her sister and make amends. They were finally free. Both of them.

  She looked at Jisyel, wondering if she was going to return to Alnothen. Removing the curse was something Jisyel was desperate for. Calidra wondered if she’d been selfish by asking Jisyel not to take up the spirit’s offer. They’d spoken about it briefly in the deadlands, but everything had been so chaotic that they hadn’t had time to address it again. She knew they couldn’t tiptoe around the subject forever. ‘Have you considered going back home?’

  Jisyel glanced up. ‘Of course I’ve considered it. But I’m coming with you, you know. I wasn’t there when you saw your mother again. I will be there when you see your sister. Besides, I want to meet her!’

  Calidra hadn’t realised she’d been so tense until she let out a breath of relief. ‘I’ll…get a bird sent back to Bellandri then?’

  ‘Definitely! Can’t have gran worrying!’

  ‘I can’t wait to sit down.’ Fenn yawned, stretching both arms above his head and attracting her attention. He had dark circles under his eyes. His skin was paler, his face more gaunt. He’d been yawning a lot, and his movements were more sluggish than before.

  He was beginning to look ill.

  She didn’t know if that was due to his experience in the deadlands or simply how long it had been since the Myr had touched him. His trembling certainly hadn’t improved. And when he’d come back to them after his vision, lines of terror had been carved onto his face.

  The lad was dying, just like the little elthian had been.

  Calidra would be terrified if she was in his position. It was impressive how hopeful Fenn remained throughout his ordeal. He took a lot of strength from Selys, and even more from Varlot, and that friendship seemed to be enough for him.

  Perhaps that’s what happened when you no longer had memories. No guilty past weighing you down. He had flickers of frustration that showed through, and that was to be expected. But he was a good man. Jisyel always had an eye for good people, too, and she’d taken to Fenn from the first moment they’d spotted him. He’d stayed to help Jisyel, had done what he could for them. Pulled his weight.

  He could easily have cut them off and travelled alone. It had put him in a good light, and to see him so shaken was unnerving. ‘You look like you could do with a few days’ sleep, Fenn.’

  ‘No time for that, Calidra. There’s some way to go, yet. I’m just glad we’re in the right country, now,’ Selys said. The priestess hadn’t needed to use her glaive during their journey, which had been a relief. If anything, she’d been more likely to turn it upon Varlot than on any bandits or Myrish spirits. ‘Wait here while I check out the town.’ She had a habit of scouting ahead and making sure their route was safe. She’d said she was responsible for them, being the one who’d suggested heading north.

  Dust from the deadlands caked their clothing, and Calidra wanted to get rid of its stink. It was dirty. Tainted.

  Calidra herself had a choice on how to proceed. Tonmouth had a large port, with ships sailing up and down the Porsenthian coast. Larger vessels would sail around the northern coast, through the Polar Sea, before docking in Foxmouth. Although the distance was much greater, it would be faster than travelling on foot.

  But travelling on water did not appeal.

  Selys and Fenn would be taking that ship, getting off near Nethal, right on the doorstep of the old battle site. While the site wasn’t as large or formidable as the deadlands, there was a good deal of superstition about the place. After seeing Fenn overcome by visions in the deadlands, she wasn’t sure it would be a good idea for him to go there.

  But what else was he to do?

  Try to get himself comfortable while he waited for death?

  She’d grown fond of him during their journey, and she knew Jisyel considered him a friend. If Calidra was honest with herself, she didn’t want to see any harm befall him.

  After Fenn’s last collapse, Varlot had kept his distance, the former general trailing behind the group, more sullen than usual.

  ‘It has to be something to do with the fact that Varlot has been here before, fought the Myr here. There’s a connection between his experiences, the Myrish magic, and Fenn. It’s as if they’ve left a marker in the soil of what transpired, and only Fenn knows the language to read it,’ Selys had explained after suggesting Varlot stop grabbing Fenn by the arm or shoulder. ‘Physical touch must be what triggers it.’ It meant that she, Calidra, or Jisyel had to help Fenn whenever he stumbled—which he’d been more prone to after drifting in and out of consciousness so often.

  ‘Was it intentional?’ Varlot had asked, concerned. ‘What the Myr did to Fenn and the others? Some way of getting back to Porsenthia? Attacking us when we thought the threat was over?’

  ‘Who knows. I don’t claim to understand the Myr or their intentions,’ Selys had replied.

  ‘If the lost souls can see Myrish magic, read the Myrish language, as you say, ain’t that something we should be worried about?’

  No-one knew. But whether it was intentional or a side-effect of whatever the Myr had done, Calidra hadn’t been sure Fenn would even make it out of the deadlands. Credit to him, he persevered, mostly without complaint. He had a steely determination that hadn’t been present before—certainly not that she’d seen on the island or in Ballowtown.

  The moment they left the deadlands, the colour returned to his cheeks. But he looked far worse now than he had even when she’d discovered him at the bog on the Isle of Salt. She glanced over at Jisyel, who had made her way to the large yew trees that grew outside Tonmouth, standing in the shade of their needle-like leaves.

  Tonmouth was set high, with sheer cliffs dropping down into the Salt Sea below. Calidra turned her face to the breeze, savouring it. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine herself back on the island. A place where she only had Hassen’s tricks to deal with, rather than Myrish spirits combing the land. Where things had been simpler.

  Where her real family was.

  She joined Jisyel under the tree.

  ‘Glad we’re out of that awful place,’ Jisyel said as Calidra sat down next to her. ‘Poor Fenn. He looks as bad as I did when I was poisoned.’

  ‘He does. Except there’s no antidote for him. What if Selys is wrong?’

  Jisyel’s gaze dropped. ‘Don’t say that.’

  Calidra obliged, but it didn’t stop her thinking about it. Their shadows lengthened as minutes dragged past and the sun began to set.

  Fenn had been utterly reliant on them since they’d found him. Now, he was putting his faith in Selys. And even then, Selys was travelling on a guess. Assumptions usually ended up with things going wrong, but there wasn no-one else he could turn to.

  Calidra had tried to tell herself that she only cared about Jisyel and finding her sister. But if she was honest, she had to admit that she cared about Fenn’s plight, too.

  ‘Inquisi
tors in town.’ Selys made her way back to them.

  At the priestess’s words, Fenn joined them in the shade. Varlot, too, headed over to them.

  ‘Doesn’t your word count for anything here?’ Fenn asked.

  ‘It does. But I don’t want to take any chances. The lost souls have spread to Porsenthia. The town guard is rounding up anyone they deem suspicious for questioning.’

  ‘Just like in Vaelar?’ Fenn asked.

  Selys nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Torsten’s hometown. Likely the Inquisitors stationed here were hand-picked by him,’ Varlot added. Sweat rolled down his forehead and he sat on the grass with a heavy grunt. ‘You best watch yourself, lad.’

  ‘Can’t we skirt round them? Go to another town?’ Fenn asked.

  ‘We’ll take a ship the rest of the way.’ Selys turned her gaze to the Salt Sea beyond the edge of the cliff. ‘We shouldn’t bump into any Inquisitors there. And it is the quickest way to Nethal.’

  Fenn absorbed the information with a short nod, then he turned to Calidra and Jisyel. ‘Do we…do we say goodbye here, then?’

  ‘Goodbye? What for?’ Jisyel asked, eyebrows furrowing.

  Fenn blinked. ‘Calidra—you hate water, right? You aren’t going on the ship, too?’

  Calidra frowned. He was quicker off the mark than she gave him credit for, despite how unwell he was. She couldn’t be angry with him for pointing out her weakness, though. Her fear of water was what started so much of this mess—she wouldn’t have needed as much convincing to return to Bragalia if she’d not been so afraid of that damned crossing. ‘Well, we haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Selys interrupted. She stared back at the town wall—a block of stone that roughly encircled Tonmouth. ‘Varlot. You said Torsten was born here?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Interesting…’

  ‘What is?’ Calidra asked, wondering what in all of Tassar could be interesting about the Master Inquisitor and where he had been born.

  ‘I never realised his loyalties could be torn. It explains some of his more brash behaviour,’ Selys muttered, pacing, one finger thoughtfully scratching her chin.

  ‘What are you talking about, woman?’ Varlot snapped.

  ‘He has a sword, doesn’t he?’

  ‘All officers of the Porsenthian army have weapons.’ Varlot brandished his own axe. ‘This is mine.’

  ‘No, no. I mean…a personal sword?’

  Varlot tilted his head back as he thought.

  ‘He has a rusty sword, doesn’t he?’ Fenn added, voice raised in excitement. ‘I mean, I remember seeing a patch of rust on it.’

  ‘It threw fire out the tip, back in Ballowtown,’ Jisyel said.

  Varlot shrugged. ‘All Inquisitors work for Queen Surayo. She’s bonded to Toriaken. They use iron artefacts to use Toriaken’s power, too.’

  Selys shook her head. ‘Ah, but was that the iron dagger that Torsten used to throw fire? Or was it his personal sword?’

  ‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at.’

  The priestess grinned. ‘There’s a spirit here, quite a young one, of a lake just north of this town. Miroth, is his name.’

  Calidra connected the dots. ‘You mean…Torsten might be blessed by that spirit?’

  ‘Surely someone would have noticed that by now?’ Jisyel said.

  ‘Yes. Or they mistook every act of spiritual power as Toriaken instead. After all, Inquisitors are known for that fire trick,’ Selys said. She’d stopped pacing. ‘If Torsten is bonded not to Toriaken, but to Miroth…His motives could be different to Queen Surayo and the other Inquisitors.’

  ‘You mean, he’s doing his own thing? And not for the crown?’ Jisyel asked.

  Selys nodded. ‘Miroth, and many other young, weak spirits, are often overlooked. It’s rare to notice their power unless you follow an order, like I follow Neros. Or perhaps are blessed yourself, and even then, you need to be looking for it.’

  Jisyel picked away some of the tree’s needles from her cloak. ‘Does it really matter who Torsten follows? We don’t want to bump into him anywhere.’

  ‘If he is actually a priest of Miroth, he should be watched more carefully than before. He might not act as the Iron Crown does. Or as it commands,’ Selys said.

  Calidra shrugged. Better to be far away from Torsten than watching him closely. ‘Torsten isn’t in town, is he?’

  ‘I don’t know. I only gave the gates a cursory glance and saw Inquisitor uniforms.’

  ‘He’ll be back at the palace by now, I expect.’ Varlot leaned back on his elbows, a strand of grass between his lips. ‘I wouldn’t worry, Fenn. You got this far okay.’

  Selys sighed. ‘This area is quiet enough. Why don’t you set up camp here, have something to eat and save the coin we have left. I will go and visit Miroth’s Shrine.’

  Calidra saw Jisyel stare at Selys. Did she want to ask Miroth about her curse, too? ‘Jisyel?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘I want to check the ship schedules.’ Calidra got to her feet. ‘Then we don’t need to worry about running into Inquisitors in town or Torsten being tipped off to Fenn being here.’

  ‘Wait!’ Jisyel leapt to her feet and wrapped her arms around Calidra’s shoulders. ‘Be quick, okay? I’m starving!’ She kissed Calidra on the cheek before letting go.

  ‘You can cook, you know. It’s not that hard to boil water and fry some vegetables.’

  ‘I know, but when you make it, it tastes so much better!’

  Calidra rolled her eyes at Jisyel’s giggle, then headed up the path behind Selys, one hand already in her pocket for her own papers to show the guards at the gate. She’d given Jisyel the opportunity to speak about Miroth or talking to the spirit, but she hadn’t mentioned it at all. It was a relief.

  She glanced back once, seeing Fenn and Varlot in conversation in the shade of the tree. She’d been wrong about both of them. Fenn hadn’t been a threat. And whatever killing Varlot had done in the past, he’d protected them ever since joining. It was clear he was still badly affected by what he’d done.

  She chewed her lip as Selys reached the gate a few steps before she did.

  ‘Priestess? I’ve never seen a priestess dressed like that.’ Only one gatekeeper was on duty—a stocky woman with a frown so severe Calidra wasn’t sure she was capable of any other expression.

  Selys wasn’t bothered by her brusque manner. ‘Easier to travel like this.’

  ‘Travelling late, aren’t you?’ The gatekeeper scrutinised Calidra’s paper with the same intensity as she scrutinised Selys’s. Her armour was much too big for her. ‘Wait. Vantonen? You’re that Laird’s daughter! What are you doing in Tonmouth?’

  ‘I’m allowed to travel wherever I wish.’ Calidra put as much arrogance into her voice as she could muster.

  Selys folded her arms. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Lots of rumours going on about trouble in Bragalia.’ The guard hadn’t taken her gaze away from the papers. ‘Bad rumours.’

  Calidra decided to humour her. She shifted her weight to one hip. ‘Such as?’

  ‘All sorts. Lost souls. Murders. Rogue spirits…the Myr.’ The last word came out as a whisper.

  ‘You dare claim the Myr are back on the continent?’

  The guard seemed to realise her error and shoved Selys and Calidra’s papers back to them. ‘Of course not! They—they’re just rumours! Like I said!’

  Selys frowned at her. ‘Because it sounded very much like you were suggesting they’d returned. You mean to say you doubt Queen Surayo words? I’m travelling to Miroth’s Shrine this evening. Shall I tell your town’s patron of your thoughts?’

  ‘My faith in the Iron Crown is absolute!’

  ‘Then perhaps you should consider your words before you voice them.’ Selys gave her a curt bow as she took her papers back from the gatekeeper.

  Calidra followed suit, adding, ‘We’ll both be back through here tonight. We’re staying on the edg
e of town. I do expect a smoother passage on our return.’

  The woman’s lip twitched, but she didn’t object. ‘Be swift. We lock the gates at full dark.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Selys said.

  Calidra had no intention of thanking the woman after that appalling treatment, but Selys was welcome to her polite manners. ‘I’ll see you soon, Selys. Please be careful.’

  ‘Oh, spirits don’t bother me. It’s people I only ever have issues with!’ Selys cackled, one hand resting on her glaive. The priestess had never been anything other than unfailingly polite, determined, and in control. Utterly resolute in her decisions and confident in everything she did.

  Calidra wasn’t sure she wanted to ever bump into her when she was in a foul mood.

  Though the streets were beginning to darken as dusk fell upon the town and the broken moon rose to the north, there were plenty of people around. Inquisitors, as Selys had warned, appeared to be out in force—she’d counted half a dozen before she’d even made it within sight of the docks.

  When she passed through the large market square, most of the shops had closed for the evening—linen cloths and blankets covering up their stalls—though there were plenty of people milling around. Numerous fountains provided a constant, musical ring of water that she was sure comforted many people of the town.

  It just set Calidra’s teeth on edge.

  ‘…trade’s gonna dry up with the Myr coming back.’ A woman let out a snort of frustration.

  ‘Don’t worry. The queen will get rid of them, just like before,’ replied a man with a nasally voice.

  Calidra slowed her pace as conversation from a trio of vendors drifted over to her. She didn’t want to be rude and listen in—she’d chastised Fenn enough for that—but the mention of the Myr gave her pause.

  ‘The queen has exaggerated things, you know. The Myr aren’t that bad. I used to have a farm out near Hillsbrin. We saw the Myr more than we saw Inquisitors,’ a second man replied. He was tall, with broad shoulders and a broader gut. ‘It was fine. They only came every few months. Bit of a shock to see some of our best lemon trees dead in the morning and a few years were tough, but it wasn’t that bad. None of these massacres like the Inquisitors keep saying.’