Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) (3 page)

With strength Loslandril did not know he had, he composed himself and stilled them with a ferocious look. He held his son before him, hoping Quivalen’s small body would conceal the blood and pus already seeping through his dark robe. He ordered the guards to leave and said he had only been sitting on the terrace and had nodded off after too much nightwine. As an afterthought, he turned Quivalen toward them, letting them see his blue, wet eyes.

The guards exchanged looks then left him alone. Closing the broken door behind them, they promised he would not be disturbed until morning. Loslandril waited, fighting to keep his composure. When they were gone, he crumpled. Reeling with pain, he returned Quivalen to his bassinet and stumbled to his bed. He lay down in agony, biting the sheets to keep from screaming. He wished he’d had nightwine, after all, though he doubted all the wine in Sylvos could have eased his pain.

In time, he slept. When he woke, he approached Quivalen and found his son staring up with clear, blue eyes. Loslandril touched his chest through his robe. The pain had slackened. Loslandril wept, though he could not say for certain why. He gathered his courage and opened his robe. The wounds had closed and healed, as though it had been months since Chorlga touched him. Still, ghastly scars raked his torso, leaving a reminder, accompanied by a dull ache, of whatever bargain he had struck and a warning of what would happen if he disobeyed.

Fifty years later, he still felt it.

Chapter One

Thunderheads

R
owen reined in his horse, scowling at the approaching thunderheads. Though it was only midday, the grassy horizon to the west had taken on a blue-black stain reminiscent of twilight. Rowen glanced back at the two figures riding with him. “So much for luck.”

Jalist laughed, though his faintly gray, Dwarrish skin made it look as though the storm had already hidden the sun. “Locke, when in all the hells have we experienced anything akin to luck?”

A distant rumble unsettled Rowen’s horse, a piebald palfrey he had taken from the stables of Lyos. He patted the horse’s neck. “Easy, Snowdark. It’s just thunder.”

Jalist urged his own horse up alongside Rowen’s. “You know, that’s a silly name for a horse. Besides, aren’t Knights of the Crane supposed to ride big solid-colored destriers?”

Rowen shrugged, resisting the impulse to smooth the azure tabard hanging over his new kingsteel cuirass. Though his armor was light and well fitting, it still chafed him. “I’ve been an Isle Knight for barely a week, and already, that’s probably the least of my transgressions.”

The Dwarr glanced down at the sword Rowen was carrying. “True enough.”

A week,
Rowen thought, surprised that it had been that long. Lyos had fallen far behind them. Unbelievably, it seemed they had not been followed. Then again, if the Shel’ai wanted him dead, he doubted he would see them coming. The Shel’ai were not even his most pressing concern at the moment. He glanced down at his azure tabard, eyeing the emblem of a balancing crane. Then he touched the exquisite dragonbone hilt of his sword. It seemed faintly warm to the touch, as though alive.

By now, most of the Knighthood surely knew that he’d fled Lyos with Knightswrath, the long-lost sword of Fâyu Jinn. They would hunt him. They would catch him. They would rescind his Knighthood. They would call him a traitor, possibly even behead him. After all, he’d not only set out on his own without permission, but he’d also taken a sacred relic with him—one that he would surely have had to relinquish to his superiors had he remained in Lyos.

But I’m not a traitor… am I?
Rowen realized he could not definitively answer his own question. He told himself that he’d come by the sword honestly, as a gift from Hráthbam for his service as a bodyguard, and that he’d left to keep Knightswrath from falling into the wrong hands. He told himself that what mattered was taking the blade to the distant Wytchforest. He had to invoke the Oath of Kin and enlist the help of the Sylvs before the Dhargots rampaging across the continent ground all the kingdoms and all the Free Cities under their heels.

Maybe I just didn’t want to give it up
.
The sword… the notion that I was chosen by the Light to bear it… the wild idea that some low-born, grave-digging sellsword could follow in the footsteps of Fâyu Jinn!

Before he could stop himself, Rowen laughed. Luckily, a clap of thunder muffled the sound. “No caves nearby. No trees, either. We could backtrack, maybe reach Cadavash before the storm hits, but—”

“And trust the hospitality of fanatics who mutilate themselves and pray to the bones of dead dragons? No, thank you. I’ll take a storm over a dragon worshipper any day.”

Rowen scowled. “Then we’re about out of options. We can either ride through it or hide under our cloaks and spend all of tomorrow trying to dry off.”

“Perhaps I can be of service.” Silwren, the final member of their motley trio, spoke up. She had come on them so quietly, like a shadow, that they had not heard her. In her blue-black robe, she was almost invisible, save for her face.

Rowen’s breath caught in his throat. Even after several months, Silwren’s appearance still startled him. She was more than pretty—fine features, a lithe frame, and platinum curls—but her eyes were those of a Shel’ai. As often as he’d seen her eyes, the pupils especially still both unnerved and fascinated him. Rowen was beginning to find them beautiful, but their beauty was haunting, given what they represented.

Realizing he was staring, Rowen forced a smile. “I’ve seen Shel’ai cast fire and heal wounds. Can they wave away storms, too?”

Silwren answered with the faintest of smiles. “Not exactly.” Slender hands came up, emerging from her blue-black cloak. Tendrils of violet wytchfire ignited from thin air, coursing through her wrists, fluttering without smoke or sound.

Rowen had seen wytchfire before, but the sight still made him jump. He heard Jalist swear. Rowen was glad he had a firm grip on the reins, or else Snowdark might have bolted.

Silwren raised her hands over her head, fingers moving. Her hood spilled back to reveal more platinum curls. Her mount seemed unperturbed. More and more wytchfire, bright and hot, exuded from Silwren’s palms, though it left her skin untouched. Jalist swore again. The growing mass of wytchfire broadened and became more concave until it swirled over their heads like one of those ridiculous umbrellas used by the rich noblewomen of Ivairia.

Silwren lowered her wrists. The wytchfire continued to float over them. “It will keep us dry, at least,” she said easily.

Rowen had to clear his throat before he could speak. “Thank you.” He wondered if his own expression bore the same unease that he saw on Jalist’s face. The Dwarr had not known Silwren as long as Rowen had, but everyone knew that Silwren should not make frequent use of her magic. By her own admission, she was no longer a mere Shel’ai. The machinations of her old allies had effectively turned her into a Dragonkin, enhancing her magic so that its mere presence crackling through her bloodstream threatened to drive her mad. Yet there she was, casually employing abilities she’d spent months avoiding.

Maybe she’s just getting better at controlling them.
Rowen eyed the wytchfire hovering over them and hoped that was the case.

“Don’t be afraid, Human,” she said. “This small expenditure is not enough to turn me into another Nightmare.”

Small expenditure?
Rowen remembered the Nightmare—another Shel’ai impossibly twisted and ruined, left raving mad by the magic forced into his body. He wondered if Silwren had read his thoughts. She must have. He shook himself, forcing his mind to clear. He felt both Jalist’s and Silwren’s eyes on him, but he focused only on the distant thunderheads. “We ride on.”

True to Silwren’s word, her hovering umbrella of wytchfire kept them relatively protected from the storm, causing all raindrops that struck it to hiss ominously. Yet the thunder rumbled terribly all around them, making controlling the horses increasingly difficult. Rowen eventually ordered them to stop and wait out the storm. Silwren’s horse seemed to be faring far better than the others.

Can’t be a coincidence
.
She’s using magic to calm the beast—that means she’s using magic continuously.
He’d never seen her do that before. He checked her expression, but she seemed calm. The hovering dome of wytchfire stopped when they did.

“My magic can soothe your horses, too, if you wish to press on,” she offered.

Rowen forced a smile. “No need. We could use the rest.” He might have said more, but the thunderclaps drowned him out.

The group made camp, working in the surreal glow of wytchfire. Rowen worried that the glare might attract other travelers or even bandits, though he suspected they would run for their lives when they got close enough to see what was causing it. When Jalist complained of cold, lamenting their lack of firewood, Silwren gestured, and a campfire wrought of sorcery appeared in their midst, burning without any visible source of fuel.

Jalist jumped. “Gods, woman, you should warn us before you do that!”

Silwren made no answer, and Rowen could not tell in the flickering light if she was smiling or frowning. Rowen stretched his hands toward the wytchfire, which was warm enough. Its violet tendrils matched the color of the dome hovering over them. Still, he fought the impulse to shrink away from the ghostly campfire. He reminded himself that, like other Shel’ai, Silwren seemed able to control whether or not her wytchfire harmed those it touched. Rowen was not about to thrust his hand into the fire, though.

“You seem more willing to use your magic lately,” he began carefully. He made a show of warming his hands. “In Lyos, you barely used it at all.” He risked a glance at her.

Silwren seemed neither perturbed nor surprised by his comment. “I am gaining more control over it. You need not be concerned.”

He caught a hint of rebuke in her melodic Sylvan accent. He knew he should let the matter drop. “Sorry, can’t help it. El’rash’lin said that use of the magic could drive you mad—or cripple you, like it did him. And the Nightmare. I’d… like to avoid that, if we could.”

She flinched at the mention of her dead friends. “I know what he said. But each of the Shel’ai exposed to the power of Namundvar’s Well responded differently. My mere appearance proves that.” She paused. “I am getting stronger.”

Rowen could not argue. El’rash’lin had been badly disfigured by the magic leached from the Light and was covered head to toe in ghastly sores and scars. By comparison, Silwren had remained beautiful. Just a few wrinkles around her eyes made her seem to have aged years overnight. But her personality seemed mostly the same.

But how would I know that? I barely even know her!
Still, he knew that wasn’t exactly true. In the jails of Lyos, in an effort to help him understand their plight, El’rash’lin had used magic to share minds with Rowen. Many of El’rash’lin’s memories still echoed in Rowen’s brain as though they were his own. If he concentrated, he could remember Silwren as a child—wide eyed, staring at clouds—as though he had known her then himself.

Not for the first time that afternoon, Rowen shook off his thoughts. The last thing he needed was
another
life when he could barely manage his own. “Maybe I’m the one being driven mad,” he muttered. Jalist’s scowl told him he’d been thinking out loud. He blushed and turned to Silwren. “Forgive—”

She waved him off. “Ten thousand apologies are already called for in this war. Be assured, yours are far down on the list.” Nevertheless, she stood and walked away. Her dome of wytchfire did not follow, though the campfire she’d conjured began to dwindle. The downpour soaked her cloak, making it cling to her. Before he lost sight of her, Rowen thought she looked small, almost childlike, and afraid.

Jalist grunted with disapproval. “Locke, I’d appreciate you not antagonizing a woman who could turn our cocks into candlewicks with a wave of her hand.”

Rowen faced the Dwarr, biting back rage. “She won’t hurt us. You know that. She’s saved my life. I trust her.”

Jalist raised one eyebrow. “Is that why you almost pulled steel on her a moment ago?”

Rowen blinked, realized he was holding his sword hilt. “I wasn’t angry. She just… startles me sometimes. Her eyes—”

“That, I understand. But why is she even with us?”

“She’s keeping me alive, helping me get to the Wytchforest in one piece. And no offense, Jalist Hewn, but she’s a prettier traveling companion than you are.”

“Fair enough. But has it occurred to you that your chief bodyguard is a wytch the other Sylvs will likely fetter with arrows the moment they see her? She’s
using
you, Locke! No way a Shel’ai banished from the Wytchforest would go back unless it was in her own interest to do so.”

Rowen was quiet for a moment. “I forget how much you hate them.”

“The Sylvs?” Jalist shrugged. “Never met any from the Wytchforest. Met a few of those Wyldkin, though. No sense of humor, but they seemed like a decent lot.”

“I don’t mean the Sylvs, and you know it. I meant the Shel’ai.”

“Same thing.”

“Not really.” Rowen changed tactics, eager to reduce conflict as much as he was to soothe his old friend. “You fought with them. You fought
for
the Shel’ai and the Throng… or have you forgotten? And as I recall, you tried to get me to do the same.”

“I was
paid
to fight for the Throng. When was the last time you really cared two coppers for the man renting your sword arm?”

Rowen thought of Hráthbam, the dark-skinned Soroccan merchant who had not only befriended him but also given him Knightswrath in the first place. “Don’t worry about Silwren. She’s nothing like Fadarah. We can trust her.”