The Iron Crown (Dragon Spirits Book 1)

by L. L. MacRae

  Something fell from the box into Apollo’s hands. A sliver of gold flashed in the firelight.

  A key.

  The fire in his chest thrashed around, as it had always done in the presence of anything Myrish, and Fenn gasped. The surety of it couldn’t be denied. It was the answer he had been searching for, and it seemed so obvious now he saw it. ‘The blade and bow…of a key! This is what Vermecio wants?’

  The vision blurred, and Fenn jumped back, releasing Apollo’s hand. His palm was clammy and sweat dripped down his nose, but no amount of time appeared to have passed. Fenn breathed heavily as he recovered from the sudden, intense vision.

  ‘Lad, you okay?’ Apollo asked. ‘You need to sit down?’

  Fenn couldn’t believe it. This man had touched the Myrish object. This key. Wherever it was.

  He gasped for breath. The visions in the deadlands had been from a battle against the Myr from years ago. Who knew how long ago this vision had been from? Breathless, Fenn asked, ‘Apollo? What was that key you had?’ The question was direct, but there was no need to dance around the issue anymore. This man would lead him to his answers.

  Apollo stiffened. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The key. I saw it. You were on a mountain. There was snow, a blizzard and—’

  ‘Sshh! You can’t talk about that so bloody openly!’ Apollo was more animated than before, his movements taking on a wild, chaotic nature.

  ‘Of course I can!’ Fenn replied, confused.

  ‘No. You can’t. This is Porsenthia. You can’t talk about the Myr!’ Apollo glanced around, as if expecting people to be eavesdropping on their conversation.

  ‘What are you talking about? The Myr attacked Eastbrook and Foxmouth. I expect everyone in this makeshift hospital was injured in that. Weren’t you? Now is the best time to talk about it!’

  Apollo buried his face in his hands. ‘It’s all wrong. It’s all gone bloody wrong!’

  ‘Tell me. What was that key? Where was it? What did you do with it? I have to know!’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘It’s extremely important.’ Fenn didn’t want to tell a veritable stranger the details of his situation, but he needed to gain Apollo’s trust. It was the only way he was going to make any progress. And the man appeared on the brink of a breakdown. ‘Apollo. I’m cursed by the Myr.’

  Apollo slowly turned to look at him. ‘You are?’

  ‘Yes. Lost souls, the Inquisitors are calling people like me. The Myr took my memories, took my knowledge and history. Stole it from me. And this key is the only way I can get it back.’

  ‘That key is a problem.’ Apollo exhaled slowly, his breath trembling. ‘I knew a man once who’d been Myr-touched. Same as you, I guess. Had something to do with this bloody key, too. It didn’t end well for him.’

  ‘It’s a risk I’ll take,’ Fenn said, pleased he was finally getting somewhere. ‘Without it, I’m lost. I don’t have anything, anyone.’

  ‘Maybe you should walk away. Trust me, anything to do with the Myr isn’t going to be good for you.’

  Hassen’s fire roared in agreement. Fenn ignored it. ‘What, you mean, just give up on finding answers?’

  Apollo shrugged. ‘Would that really be so bad? Starting over? You already have friends.’ He gestured to Selys, who was in the process of applying the freshly made paste to her shoulder. ‘People who care for you. Why not start a new life? Believe me, it’s easier than you’d think.’

  ‘And what about the friends and family I already have? The people who are probably convinced I’m dead? You’re saying I should just leave them to their fate, too?’ Fenn knew he was raising his voice in frustration, but he couldn’t do anything about it.

  Apollo shrugged again.

  ‘Tell me where it is, please. I have to get it.’ He thought quickly, trying to come up with ways to convince Apollo. ‘It’s more than just my chance of finding myself again and getting back home. It could stop the war with the Myr!’

  Apollo shook his head and massaged his temples. ‘Lad. I appreciate you think this thing can help. I do. But it’s not worth it. I’m a dead man. My wife and daughter are probably dead. Nothing matters anymore.’

  ‘You know where the key is?’ Fenn asked.

  ‘Of course I know where it is.’

  ‘Okay. This might sound strange, but…let me just hold your hand again. It’ll only take a second.’ Fenn wasn’t sure he was ready to deal with more visions, but if Apollo wasn’t going to tell him, then perhaps he could show him.

  Apollo wrapped his arms around his torso, tucking his hands under his armpits. ‘Fenn, I don’t want any more to do with the damned Myr and their bloody magic!’

  ‘Fenn? What’s going on?’ Selys approached, a wad of glinoc paste on her shoulder, covered with a fresh bandage. ‘You’re causing a scene.’

  Guiltily, Fenn turned around to find several curious faces peering over at himself and Apollo. He cleared his throat. ‘Selys, this man, Apollo, he knows where the key is!’

  ‘Key?’

  ‘The thing Vermecio wants! A sliver of gold? Blade and bow that aren’t weapons? It’s describing parts of a key!’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘When I shook his hand, I had another vision. I saw him with the key. It’s a Myrish item. I’m Myr-touched. There must’ve been the same magic for the connection. Like with Varlot in the deadlands.’

  Apollo raised his hands. ‘Look, look, I don’t know what you two are talking about—’

  ‘You have to help!’ Fenn cut him off.

  Selys looked Apollo up and down. ‘I’m Selys, priestess of Neros. This is Fenn, who has Hassen’s blessing. The knowledge you hold is imperative to my spirit. I can see you’re injured. Maybe a few days’ rest here will be everything you need and then you can take us—’

  ‘Stop it! Both of you! I’ve just learned my home was destroyed! My wife and daughter might well be dead, buried under rubble. Can the pair of you shut up and give me some room to breathe? If you’re priests, maybe you should show some damned sympathy!’

  Fenn jumped at Apollo’s shout, suddenly feeling awful about being so pushy. ‘Apollo, I’m sorry. I just…that key means everything.’ He knew he was being rude and selfish, but he was so tantalisingly close to getting his life back that he didn’t care.

  Apollo raised his head from his hands, a deep frown on his face. He looked at them both for a second, then his mouth dropped open. ‘Wait…Selys? Selys Ioran?’

  Selys pulled up sharply and scrutinised him. ‘Neros, I don’t believe it. Apollo Tamlin? I didn’t recognise you under all that blood and those bandages.’

  Fenn frowned. ‘You know each other?’

  Apollo shook his head in disbelief. ‘I knew her from years back. The Ioran warband down in Segandis. I heard you’d left for Neros’s Shine.’ He gestured at the tattoo up her arm. ‘Guess you made it as a priestess. Spirits take me, you look different. You cut all your hair.’

  Selys shifted her weight. ‘That was a long time ago, Apollo. I was another person.’

  ‘Still got your brother’s glaive? That helped us out of a pickle or two, didn’t it?’

  ‘I’d rather not remember.’ Selys folded her arms, not relishing their reunion. ‘Apollo, you’ve clearly been through a lot. Fenn and I were insensitive, and we apologise for that. We’ll be in town if you change your mind. Fenn, let’s see if we can find Amsel. See if there’s an update on the Myr in Bragalia. We need to do what we can to ready ourselves for more fighting. Our spirits will need us.’

  Fenn nodded, though he kept his gaze on Apollo, and allowed Selys to steer them out of the makeshift hospital and back out onto the green. He knew the man was suffering, that he’d experienced unimaginable loss, and asking him to do anything other than grieve was selfish. Everyone in that town had probably lost someone.

  Overhead, smoke from distant fires continued to darken the sky.

  Fenn wondered whether he’d ever be
able to access the answers that Myrish key would unlock.

  And even if he was able to, whether he would be too late.

  33

  The Key

  Apollo

  As Fenn and Selys left the room, Apollo sank back into the thin, scratchy pillow of his hospital bed, the springs creaking noisily under him. His body ached in a way it never had before. Muscles he didn’t know he had screamed in pain, and every joint was fiery agony.

  Worst of all were the pieces of his heart. He’d never cared about anyone before. Not until Malora. Not until Renys. He knew there was a chance they were okay. There were people in Eastbrook who’d survived the Myr attack, after all. Why shouldn’t there also be those from Foxmouth who’d been lucky?

  But he couldn’t dare hope.

  If he did, if he convinced himself they were safe, then returned home to find everything a smouldering ruin, he would lose his mind.

  So he accepted the worst. Assumed they were gone, like the town was. Like he might as well be.

  He was angry at that pair of blessed bastards trying to dig up the past. Where in all of Tassar had they come from? Selys, he could hardly believe was there. She’d swapped fighting in Segandis and sailing on her family’s ship for spouting Neros’s word and a set of priestess robes.

  And how could Fenn possibly have known about the key? The lad had said something about visions, and that worried him. Was he like Nestol in some way? He said he’d been Myr-touched. There could be a connection.

  Could Fenn somehow pluck information and memories from his body, too?

  If that damned key had been so important, why hadn’t the queen told him? He wasn’t a moron. Perhaps if she’d been more forthcoming, the whole damned world wouldn’t be on the brink of war again.

  In one, aggressive motion, he upended the box of food Fenn had brought for him, sending vegetables rolling on the stone floor. Apollo raged, glaring holes into the ceiling of the hospital. He wished it would fall and crush him. It would make everything so much easier.

  He was angry at the queen for not telling him. Angry at Torsten for gloating. Angry at Nadja for making him realise what he’d done, and all the guilt that went with it.

  And he was angry at himself—what he’d done would affect Renys.

  He knew he needed to go to Foxmouth and see for himself. Determine once and for all whether he still had a life worth living.

  But after everything Torsten had done to him, and his subsequent griffin crash, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to walk any time soon, let alone travel. Why had everything fallen apart so quickly?

  A hush suddenly fell upon the hospital room, tension rising, silencing conversations.

  Apollo twisted in bed to peer over the other people, trying to get a better view of the doorway. Dario the winemaker was speaking with a woman in polished armour, her back to him. After a moment of talk, he escorted her inside.

  It was Inquisitor Nadja.

  Fuck.

  She wasn’t in uniform, but he’d recognise her anywhere.

  Judging by Dario’s reactions, and those of everyone in the room, they all knew exactly who she was, too.

  His heart thudded. There was nowhere for him to escape. Nadja had come through the only door to the room, and none of the windows were big enough—or accessible enough—for him to get out.

  He shuffled over on his bed, pulling the sheet up over his shoulder to obscure his face.

  What in Neros’s name was he going to do?

  ‘I bring official reports from the Iron Crown.’ Nadja’s voice projected across the room, and everyone stilled to listen to the Inquisitor. ‘I apologise this information was not as prompt as is our usual way, however Eastbrook has suffered after a direct attack…by the Myr. We are scrambling to bolster our defences and send aid where it is most urgently required first. Toriaken’s Shrine will, of course, provide shelter to those without homes.’

  Chatter immediately sprang up between those in sick beds and those tending to them.

  ‘Foxmouth, also, has fallen to our ancient enemy. Though the great spirit Toriaken drove off their attack, I am sure the Myr will try again. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps a month from now. Whenever they come, I assure you, we will be ready.’

  ‘How is this possible?’ one man called.

  ‘Queen Surayo promised us a lifetime of peace!’ a woman added. ‘Five years is hardly a lifetime!’

  Nadja said, ‘We believe there was a traitor among us. A Porsenthian who may be responsible for allowing the Myr’s resurgence.’

  Apollo stopped breathing.

  Nadja continued, ‘This man is to be dealt with by the Iron Crown, and the Iron Crown alone. Queen Surayo, in her wisdom, will know how best to proceed. Her priority remains the safety of the Porsenthian Empire, and I am sure you will all contribute to that.’

  The chatter quietened.

  Nadja strolled down the room in between the beds. Even though he didn’t dare look up, Apollo heard every booted step grow closer.

  ‘This man, this traitor, may be among you now. A casualty of the battle in Eastbrook, yes. But he has played his role in what has happened.’

  More gasps.

  ‘Apollo Tamlin. Show yourself and I swear on my honour as Inquisitor, you will be treated fairly until justice can be delivered.’

  Apollo was certain his pounding heart would give him away. He couldn’t remember which people he’d spoken to, whom he’d told his name. Someone was going to give him up.

  Nadja had all but named him the cause of the destruction they’d endured. The losses they’d suffered.

  Muttered voices to his right made him sweat. They were going to tell her.

  Deciding there was nowhere to run, no way out of his situation, and unwilling to be called out by anyone in the room, Apollo lifted the cover off himself and sat upright. ‘I’m here, Nadja.’

  A cacophony of noise broke out as the other people hurled accusations at him. Shouts crossed each other, and Apollo flinched at the din.

  Nadja approached the foot of his bed. Even without her Inquisitor’s uniform, she was imposing. ‘We must talk. Alone.’

  Apollo groaned. If things weren’t bad enough with Fenn and Selys, now he had an Inquisitor to deal with. And it had to be Nadja of all people.

  He coughed weakly. ‘Inquisitor. I’m afraid you might be too late…I’m so worn out…Not sure I’m up for talking…’

  ‘Good. This will be over faster if you are quiet and listen.’

  Apollo scowled, then broke into coughing laughter. ‘Fine. Fine! There’s a supply area at the back. Has extra linen and bed sheets. We can talk there.’

  ‘I will talk to you there. You can listen.’ Nadja gestured for him to rise, and she followed him across the room, ignoring the angry stares from the other people.

  He hobbled most of the way, his legs screaming in protest at being used again. He expected more jeers, more displays of aggression, but he had to remember these people were ill and injured. As far as they could see, Nadja was about to handle his justice.

  Once inside the cramped room, Apollo sat down heavily on a large crate and looked up expectantly at the Inquisitor. If she wanted him to hold his tongue, he could provide a reasonable effort.

  ‘Before you ask. Yes. I did send a pigeon to Foxmouth. However, as you have escaped, I see it wasn’t necessary.’

  Apollo bit hard on his lower lip. It was the only way to stop tears building. He hadn’t expected Nadja to send a letter. Hadn’t expected her to open their conversation with that. If Malora had received that message in time, she might’ve decided to bring Renys to the palace. It would be just like her to try and put things to rights. She would have left Foxmouth. Would be safe.

  But if the letter hadn’t made it in time…? If she was still in The Grumpy Fisherman when everything happened…‘Foxmouth’s gone.’

  ‘I know.’ Her voice belied no emotion other than cold comprehension of fact.

  Apollo held his sobs back, staring hard at a sp
ot on the wall until he was sure he had his rage, sadness, and fear under control. ‘You finally found me, then. Better than what Torsten could do.’

  At the mention of the Master Inquisitor, it was Nadja’s turn to look uncomfortable. She shifted her weight and readjusted the longsword at her hip.

  ‘Oh. You noticed him slipping up too, did you?’ Apollo pressed, taking pleasure in degrading the Master Inquisitor while he had the chance. Anything was better than thinking of Foxmouth. ‘Or are you here to march me back and have me beheaded? That was quite a speech you just gave.’

  ‘I reserve judgement on you, Apollo. What I do know is Torsten is…afflicted by something. He is not himself, as I’m sure you saw.’

  Apollo kept his mouth shut, unsure whether agreeing or arguing with her would be the best course of action. Second-guessing Inquisitors was never fun.

  Nadja didn’t seem bothered by his silence. ‘I don’t know what he did to you, and it isn’t my place to ask or question my queen. But I want answers. I want the truth. And I don’t think I will get that in Eastbrook.’

  Apollo frowned, trying to understand what she was doing. She hadn’t executed him on the spot. She wasn’t in uniform. She’d come alone. And he wasn’t in irons. ‘Wait. You’re defecting?’

  ‘I’m taking an extended leave.’

  Apollo laughed. ‘Bet that went down well, what with the Myr back?’

  ‘That is not your concern.’

  He couldn’t believe it. ‘If you aren’t an Inquisitor anymore, what are you doing here? What do you want with me?’

  ‘I am still an Inquisitor. Do not confuse the issue. I am simply acting alone for a brief period of time. A time I hope to use to find answers that will help my queen and the Porsenthian Empire. Perhaps all of Tassar.’

  Apollo swallowed. His head throbbed and his body ached just from the brief walk across the room. ‘So what exactly do you want?’

  Nadja straightened up, considering her words. ‘It isn’t easy to circumvent Queen Surayo’s magic. And you have used her pardon graciously—by giving up your life of crime and owning a reputable establishment, even starting a family. As far as I could see in the records of that tavern, everything is above board and imported legally. You even pay your taxes on time.’