Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) (16 page)

Rowen realized his armor and tabard were so splattered in blood that he might as well have bathed in it. He thought strangely of Namundvar’s Well, of gazing momentarily into the Light. But, far too tenuous to hold, the peaceful memory slipped away. Then the chaos rose, swirling around him, and he fell into darkness.

Chapter Thirteen

The Healing

S
hade found her on the plains, unconscious and trembling like a wounded animal. She lay in a gigantic patch of scorched earth. Though her flesh remained untouched, pale and beautiful in the starlight, the fire had burned away her clothes. He felt a familiar arousal at the sight of her nakedness, remembering how they used to make love at night on the open plains, with no one else around for miles. She was so beautiful. He still wanted her, still needed her. She
had
been his wife once.

He squelched the thought. That had been practically a lifetime ago. Besides, he had not sought her out for that. “Silwren, my love…”

She did not answer.

He knelt before her. “Silwren!”

She looked up, though she stared at him without comprehension. Her eyes brimmed with wytchfire.

He started to pull back, sensing the unbridled power. Then he stopped himself. He reached out, brushed one platinum curl from her eyes, and gently touched her cheek. “I’m here. It’s all right. I’m here.”

She cocked her head, clearly not understanding, though he saw a spark of trust in her face. Just a spark.
That’s more than I deserve.
He cleared his mind.

He took her face with both hands, holding her gaze. Slowly, he extended his consciousness into hers. He nearly recoiled when he felt the raging storm that was her mind. But he found his courage and moved forward, filled with resolve.

He closed his eyes and envisioned her madness as a thick jumble of knots, thousands and thousands of them. He moved among them, joining her consciousness with his own, slowly unknotting them one at a time. He felt the storm ebb, replaced at first by fear then sheer exhaustion.

Hours later, he finally opened his eyes. She was asleep. He lowered her to the grass, felt her breasts press against him, and was tempted again, but he unclasped his cloak and laid it over her like a blanket. He hesitated and kissed her forehead. “Sleep, my love. Goodbye.”

She turned her face toward him, though her eyes remained closed. She whispered, “Kith’el…”

His name dissolved into the night air like a wisp of smoke. Shade’s heart leapt. He lingered a moment, but she did not open her eyes. He rose and backed away from her. He did not think she would hurt him, but he could not say for sure.

Yet he hesitated. “Fadarah will know I sensed your pain,” he said at last, then his voice broke. “He will know I came to help you. He will be angry. We are supposed to kill you now, if we can. Since you will not help us. But I think… I think he will understand.”

Suddenly, he realized that the gigantic patch of scorched earth and burnt grass in which she lay was shaped like a dragon with many outstretched wings. He backed away again. He whispered, “Goodbye, my love. Sleep. And when you wake… run!”

Jalist helped the Noshans bury their cleric, along with three men and two women, in an apple grove near the village. Following the Noshan custom, they were buried without markers, in a silent ceremony held just before dawn.

Afterward, the villagers somberly collected the Lochurite weapons, for bronze could still be melted into coins, but left the lice-ridden clothing alone. They hauled the berserkers’ corpses to a wretched pit used for burning trash. Jalist was heartened when smoke removed those staring yellow eyes from the world.

The villagers burned the corpses of the Dhargots and the dead horses as well. They had debated whether to haul the bodies before King Hidas as proof that the Lochurites and the Dhargots had formed an alliance, thinking the information might earn them a reward, but Jalist cautioned against that. After all, one of the slain Dhargots was a royal. Though the villagers had not been involved in the killing, King Hidas might blame them for whatever diplomatic tensions might arise. Still, the new cleric of the town—a young man who had served as the old cleric’s neophyte for years—insisted on carrying word to Atheion. Two men went with him, armed with the dead Dhargots’ weapons and horses.

Livid, Igrid turned to Jalist. “You gave
them
the bloodmares?”

Jalist shrugged. “They’ll need their speed if they meet any more berserkers on the road.”

“I don’t care if they meet ten thousand berserkers between here and Atheion!” Igrid’s cry drew angry stares.

Leaning against the straw cart, sharpening his long axe, Jalist gave her a warning look, which she ignored.

“Those horses could have gotten us to the Wytchforest twice as fast.”

“Or fetched a purse full of silver at the market. Maybe that’s what you really had in mind.”

Igrid snorted. “Sure… once this is over. I meant what I said—if this fool’s errand will bring harm to the Dhargots, I’m for it.”

“You better be. Because that Dhargot you let get away will be glad to tell everybody about us.”

“I didn’t
let him get away,
Dwarr! I put an arrow in his back. Not my fault his armor kept him alive.”

“Doesn’t matter. They won’t just be looking for a sharp-tongued woman who insulted a Dhargothi royal by knifing some of his guards. They’ll be looking for the people who killed the Bloody Prince’s cousin. Gods help me, I’m starting to think the Wytchforest might actually be safer than here!”

Igrid glanced at the huts behind them. “The Dhargots might torch this place out of spite. I doubt the king will send a whole garrison to protect one village. These people should flee.”

Jalist shrugged. “Some will. We warned them.” He saw something—was it pity?—in her green eyes, but she shook it off.

“When do you leave?”

“Without Rowen? Never. Unless you want to take that pretty sword of his and try and do this yourself.” He saw a spark in her eyes and glowered at her. “But if you try, I’ll cut the head off your shoulders. You’ve been warned, woman.”

“How protective you are. I wonder, is this the loyalty of a sellsword talking?” Igrid paused meaningfully. “Or the pining of a lonely man lover?”

Jalist stared at her for a moment. Then he laughed. “If you want to wound me with words, you’ll have to come up with something fresher. I know what I am, woman. And crueler mouths than yours have failed to reduce me to tears.”

He turned his attention back to sharpening his axe. Eventually, Igrid turned and stalked away, cursing under her breath. Jalist smirked. Then he tensed as a new figure approached the village.

Her white cloak concealed her face, but the platinum hair countered his dread. He pocketed his sharpening stone, hefted his long axe, and went to meet her. “So there you are.”

Silwren eyed his long axe but did not flinch. “So here I am.”

Neither spoke for a moment. Jalist gave in first. “Some kind of explanation would be most welcome.”

“I’m sure it would. But I have none to give… aside from what you should have already guessed. I left to save Rowen’s life. And yours.”

She looked as pale as her cloak. “You left because you lost heart. Or control. Or both. And as usual, others had to pay for your weakness.” He nodded toward the fresh graves in the distance. “You promised to help Rowen get to the Wytchforest. You swore—”

“So I did. And I will.”

“Well, you’re a little late. Rowen is dead.”

Silwren shuddered. All the light left her eyes. “Dead…”

Jalist gathered his courage and took a threatening step toward her. He spoke through his teeth. “That’s what I said.”

“How?”

“Killed by some crazed berserker—
after
he took wounds fighting to protect these people, I might add. And where were you? Cowering somewhere?”

Silwren trembled, steadied herself, and faced him. Her unblinking eyes sent a chill down Jalist’s spine, but he refused to break her gaze.

After a moment, her expression changed to relief, tinged with anger. “Your mind is an open scroll to me, Dwarr. You lie. Rowen lives.”

“So he does. No thanks to you. But I trust I’ve made my point.”

Silwren eyed him. “So you have.”

“Good. Now get in there and heal him. I was telling the truth about his wounds. He’s hardly opened his eyes for days, and a couple slashes look infected. Unless you can do something, he might lose his arm—or his life.”

“He’ll lose neither.” Silwren moved toward the temple where Rowen and the other wounded were resting. Though she did not touch Jalist, he felt as though a torch had brushed past him, close enough to singe his skin.

Jalist grunted, shaking his head. Igrid stood outside the temple, staring at him. He expected to see mockery in her expression; instead, he saw surprise—or grudging admiration.

Not every day you see some damn fool pull a Shel’ai’s tail.
Jalist tried to go back to sharpening his long axe, but his hands were shaking. He pocketed the sharpening stone again and decided to take a walk.

Chapter Fourteen

Dreams and Soft Stones

T
he village was more than a day behind them when Rowen realized he had not even thought to ask what its name was. This troubled him. Despite the initial rebuke of the village’s ill-fated cleric, the other villagers had fed Rowen and his companions and allowed them to stay while Rowen recovered.

Some had reached for weapons at the sight of Silwren, but Rowen told them about what she had done at Lyos. A few had already heard the story. Whether they believed it or not, once she kindled her magic to heal the injured right before their eyes, most granted her their wary trust. Silwren had healed a sleeping woman’s broken arm, but the old woman went so far as to slash her own arm in the same place to show her contempt for magic. Rowen thought it best that they not linger.

They set out the next morning. Riding was difficult but not impossible. He did not know how many wounds he had taken from the Lochurites. Supposedly, he had been near death. After Silwren’s healing, he was just sore, and his skin bore no indication of the fight.

They continued northwest. Rowen had considered taking them south again, so they could circle the mountains and approach the Wytchforest with less risk of encountering Dhargots, but Silwren had vetoed him. She insisted that she could get them past the Dhargots. Though he was not sure he believed her, Rowen did not have the strength to argue.

As he rode, Rowen thought of his fight against the Lochurites. Memories of the battle blurred in his mind. He remembered the thick, bloody darkness, the weight of his sword, and the scrape of metal off rib bones. His stomach turned. He tried to fix his eyes on the road, a simple path worn by time and hooves, and enjoy the morning breeze on his cheek.

As though in answer, the breeze picked up, stirring his tabard. He glanced down. The villagers had resewn his tabard as best they could, but the thread, too thick and oddly colored, clashed with the rich azure silk of the tabard. He smiled to himself. He liked it. His tabard looked scarred.

His armor bore echoes of the fighting, too. Though kingsteel could not rust, Jaanti’s blade had left several dents and scratches. He touched them as he rode, as though inspecting his wounds. Had Rowen not been wearing armor, Jaanti would have killed him in seconds. Rowen’s eventual victory seemed less like a testament to his skill than a blend of lunacy and sheer luck.

I have to be quicker, stronger, smarter, or I’m no use to anyone.

He rested his hand on the dragonbone pommel of Knightswrath. The faint swirls of color in the bone caught the sunlight. Studying them more closely, he thought they appeared more purple than crimson. On impulse, he drew the sword and examined the blade again. The sword’s name, written in ancient Shao script, glinted next to the silver inlay of a dragon in flight. He appreciated the snowy swirls left in the metal as the blade was forged.

Is Nâya’s shade in there somewhere?
He imagined Jinn’s wife trapped in the folds of the metal, for centuries, screaming. A fresh surge of nausea pushed the thought from his mind. Like the armor of the Isle Knights, adamunes
were immune to rust and rarely needed sharpening, but every sword had limits. Knightswrath had met Jaanti’s broadsword edge on edge. He’d sliced at Jaanti’s armor, too. The blade should have been chipped. Rowen peered closely but could not find a single blemish on the blade.

Is that part of the magic, too?
If so, he hardly deserved it. He hadn’t even beaten Jaanti with the sword. He considered what Nâya had given up, what Jinn had lost. Surely, despite all the corruption on the Lotus Isles, other Knights—like his old teacher, Aeko Shingawa, or Grand Marshal Bokuden—were more deserving of such a weapon.

He shook off the thought and shifted his attention to his companions. Silwren and Igrid were keeping their distance from each other. Silwren had saved Igrid’s life. Rowen did not understand the source of the strange tension between them.

He thought of El’rash’lin and how the late Shel’ai had shared his memories with Rowen. He had seen evidence that the peaceful use of magic joined people somehow. Perhaps in spiriting Igrid out of the jailhouse, Silwren had come to know the former Iron Sister better than she intended—and vice versa. Perhaps neither woman especially liked what she saw in the other.

At the moment, though, Silwren gave no indication of ill will. She traveled in the plain clothes the villagers had given her, though she still wore the bone-white cloak she’d arrived in. When Rowen asked her about it, she refused to answer. As disconcerting as it was to see her in the cloak of Fadarah’s Shel’ai, he reminded himself that the Dhargots were Fadarah’s allies. If Rowen’s group was spotted, Silwren’s cloak might come in handy.

Rowen turned and focused his gaze on the towering, blue-green blur spanning the western horizon. For better or worse, they would reach the Wytchforest in two days. His pulse quickened. He could not discern the outline of the World Tree yet, but Silwren promised him that he would be able to soon. He felt tired and scared at the same time. Whatever was going to happen—better to get it over with.

He nudged Snowdark along, ahead of Silwren, quickening their pace.

They made camp at dusk near a pond shaded by a crescent of poplars. The air surrendered its warmth as evening fell, a sure sign that autumn was upon them. While Igrid and Rowen cared for the horses, Silwren conjured a fire in a circle of wet stones that Jalist had carried from the pond. They had only dried rations, which were adequate but tasteless. The bland meal was sweetened by a wineskin that Rowen had thought to purchase while in Atheion. The heady red wine, flavored with a spice he had never tasted, relaxed him a little. He stared into the fire as darkness deepened around them.

They passed the wineskin around the fire, saying little. Rowen had stripped off his armor, but like Jalist and Igrid, he kept his weapons nearby. They had left Nosh and were skirting the Simurgh Plains. Rowen did not think they would encounter any Lochurites so far north, but he still feared running into Dhargots since Hesod was nearby.

Encountering highwaymen was always a possibility, too. Shortly after Rowen’s return to the mainland from the Lotus Isles, a cruel man named Dagath had nearly killed him on the road. Dagath was still alive, as far as Rowen knew. He wondered for a moment if he might one day meet his would-be killer again. Dagath would surely be surprised to learn that the unkempt, common traveler who had momentarily been under his knife had become an Isle Knight.

Rowen’s gaze strayed to Igrid, who was sitting opposite him. The glow of the campfire played off her red curls and green eyes, not to mention an immodest amount of cleavage bared by her current outfit. He wondered if that was a deliberate ploy to arouse him into carelessness so she could rob him in his sleep. His hand strayed for Knightswrath. History aside, kingsteel was worth a fortune. So was dragonbone.

No, if she wanted to rob us, she could have done it after the battle in the village, while I was out cold.
Still, he had no intention of trusting her with his life. Not yet.

Before Rowen could turn away, Igrid looked up and followed his gaze. Smirking, she looked about to make a biting remark, then apparently thought better of it.

Rowen blushed. He lowered his eyes, prodding the fire with his boot. “We should stand watch. I’ll go first.”

Silwren said, “No need. I’ve already charmed this area to wake me if someone approaches.”

Rowen and Jalist exchanged glances. Rowen wondered if that was a Shel’ai or a Dragonkin ability.

Jalist said, “Just how great an area are we talking about? If we don’t know a cutthroat is here until they’re standing over us, the warning won’t do much good.”

Silwren faced Jalist, her mist-white pupils shining in the purple firelight. “I charmed the ground and water from the tree line to the far bank of the pond.” She paused. “We’ll reach Sylvos soon. We need rest. The spell will keep a more reliable watch than any of your eyes.”

Igrid said, “Her magic lifted me clean out of a jail cell and dropped me outside, gentle as a baby. If she says she’ll hear chimes or trumpets or whatever if somebody approaches, I believe her.”

In place of gratitude, Silwren gazed at Igrid so sternly that the Iron Sister looked away. For one long moment, the only sounds were the chirping of insects and the distant screech of an owl going after a mouse.

“Fine. Agreed. We sleep. No watch.” Rowen pulled off his boots and lay down, using a cloak for a blanket. He kept his sword and dagger nearby, resting one hand on Knightswrath’s hilt. He told himself he did so in case he needed to arm himself quickly, should cutthroats approach the camp.

I hope you aren’t a heavy sleeper, Silwren!

He closed his eyes and pretended to sleep until the myth finally became a reality.

Kayden Locke turned to face him, confident and smirking, his spear and armor splattered with blood. A band of Olgrym, sellswords who had left Godsfall to seek their own fortune, had spotted them crossing the Wintersea and sprinted toward them, howling. They’d already killed half the merchant’s guards. The merchant himself had abandoned his crossbow and was hiding in the wagon. Only Kayden, Rowen, and Jalist remained.

“Better draw that sword, little brother. I’m not being paid to save your ass!”

Kayden had already speared an Olg about to split Rowen’s skull. Rowen nodded dumbly and drew his Ivairian-style shortsword. He turned.

The setting sun spread like blood across the white face of the Wintersea. The snap of the remaining caravan guards’ crossbows mingled with the crazed howls of Olgrym and the Dwarr oaths uttered by Jalist as he swung his long axe with both hands. But the bloody sunset caught his attention.

Then he heard an Olg charging him from behind. He whirled, slashing. He saw Kayden stiffen, wide eyed, as his throat opened.

“No… Kayden, I thought you were a…” Rowen caught his brother and lowered him to the ice.

Blood bubbled from Kayden’s mouth. He could not speak, though his eyes blazed with rage and accusation. Kayden had dropped his spear, but he fumbled for another weapon and drew a long knife that gleamed wickedly in the setting sun.

“Kayden, wait—”

Kayden stabbed at him. Rowen recoiled. He felt a shudder race up his arm and looked down—he had thrust his shortsword through a chink in Kayden’s armor. He had stabbed his own brother. Kayden’s gaze met his, then it went dark.

Jalist approached him, bloody and disheveled. He pummeled Rowen with an accusing stare. “Well, he meant to kill you. I guess you had no choice.” He paused. “Should be
you
lying on the ice like that, though.”

“No, it was an accident…”

“Like hell. You wanted him dead. You’ve
always
wanted him dead. You—”

Rowen felt that awful shudder snake up his arm again. Jalist’s eyes widened. The Dwarr slid off Rowen’s shortsword and collapsed, bleeding on the white face of the frozen sea.

Rowen stared. “No, this isn’t how it happened. This isn’t right. Just a dream.”

The Olgrym, the wagon, and all the other guards disappeared. For miles, only blank whiteness surrounded him. All he saw were the two corpses. Blood ran down the blade of his shortsword. He cast it away. Its weight made the Wintersea crack. The crack became a maw. Cold water rushed up and snatched him.

He flailed, trying to pull himself out of the water, but the ice crumbled every time he touched it. The entire Wintersea was melting, deliberately pulling away from him, insisting he drown.
This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t—

Rowen coughed as water entered his lungs. He spotted Silwren standing on the far bank, beautiful, naked, and ablaze with wytchfire. Hope surged through him. Silwren would save him. With supreme effort, he dragged one hand out of the water and reached for her. The water had turned red, but he hardly noticed. He fixed his gaze on Silwren. The raw power of her violet eyes drove back the coming night.