Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) (32 page)

Chapter Thirty-Four

The Glass Knife

L
ong after he had dismissed his advisors, his captains, his servants, his bodyguards, and even his worried son, King Loslandril continued to sit at the gigantic table in his council chamber and stare at the reports. Most were hastily scribbled messages from the elected speakers who presided over their respective villages. All spoke of the Olgrym’s rampaging advance and begged for assistance. But Loslandril had no assistance to offer. By then, most of those people were probably dead.

The Olgrym had broken through General Seravin’s lines, but the Sylvan armies were rallying to destroy the Olgrym once and for all. The attacks within the heart of Sylvos were sorrowful exceptions.
How could it be otherwise?

Loslandril smiled wretchedly. That was what he was telling his people, anyway. He knew better. He stared into his empty wine cup.
My father was a tyrant. My grandfather was a fool. But I will be the king who lost his realm to the enemy.

He grabbed a pitcher, filled his cup with thick, sweet-smelling wine, and drained it. Then he filled it again.
No,
I need to keep my senses. I need to be strong for my people.

But what was there for him to do? That Shal’tiar
sergeant, Briel, had already mobilized the few hundred men in the reserves. His own city captains seemed only too happy to relinquish command to the young but seasoned veteran. Those reserves were massing at the base of the World Tree, at the mouth of the Path of Crowns, ready to defend the World Gate. Meanwhile, all the citizens of Shaffrilon who were not soldiers but were still proficient with a longbow were being armed and posted along the walkways, on the edges of the great daises overlooking the forest.

Briel had suggested that Loslandril make an appearance at the World Gate, as well, in order to bolster the men. But the rest of his advisors encouraged him to stay in the palace, citing the fact that Shel’ai had been seen fighting alongside the Olgrym. Surely, the sorcerers wanted Loslandril dead.

He drained his cup down to the last drop. As he refilled it, the hand gripping the pitcher shook. Loslandril wondered if the wine or merely his age were catching up with him. He wished suddenly that he had not dismissed Quivalen along with the others. But Quivalen’s presence could have been as aggravating as it was heartening. Though no longer a child, he often behaved like one. Upon hearing that Silwren had been brought into the city, he screamed so loudly that she must be killed immediately that Loslandril had wondered for a moment if he would have to order his guards to restrain the prince.

He’s always been sickly and hot tempered, ever since Chorlga touched him. Maybe he did something to him besides draining the dragonmist from his eyes.

Loslandril touched his hand to his chest, tracing the scars through his silk tunic. Still, they pained him. Of course, he had not been able to completely conceal their existence. Quivalen had asked repeatedly about the scars, but Loslandril had always refused to tell him the truth. Naturally, though, the prince had deduced that they were caused by magic, which seemed to make the prince detest Shel’ai every bit as much as his grandfather had.

Better he never learn the truth, especially if our kingdom is about to fall to his own kind.
Loslandril chided himself for the thought. Quivalen was not a Shel’ai anymore. He’d never exhibited the slightest trace of magic. Whatever powers he might have wielded, Chorlga had taken.
No, not taken. Devoured.

He remembered the legends of Dragonkin enhancing their own power by draining it from Shel’ai, long after their magical addictions had rendered dragons extinct. According to other stories, the Shel’ai woman held captive in his city was not a Shel’ai at all but some kind of self-made Dragonkin, like the infamous Nightmare. Surely that meant she could not be trusted, but perhaps Loslandril could use her to save the city.

Loslandril glanced across his table at the Sword of Fâyu Jinn. Loslandril could hardly believe his eyes. His father had showed him that sword, rusted and ruined, when he was a boy then entrusted it to one of his agents ordered to take it beyond Sylvos and give it away.

Now it’s come back. And it’s whole. A Knight of the Crane brought it to me. That has to mean something.

Despite Quivalen’s insistence that the sword was a forgery, something told Loslandril that it was not. Still, even if the Isle Knights fighting alongside the Olgrym were merely an illusion, even if Loslandril were willing to strike an alliance with them, the Lotus Isles were on the other side of Ruun. The enemy was on his doorstep.

Perhaps Silwren could save them, but Quivalen and nearly everyone in the capital wanted the woman dead. But without her help, the city would fall. Quivalen would be torn to pieces, his entrails smeared like war paint on the muscles of some unconscionable Olg.

I can’t let that happen.
I’ve already lost Jalthessa. I won’t lose Quivalen, too.
He started to refill his wine cup then noticed the shadow of someone standing over him. He smiled. “I ordered you to leave me, my son,” he said, not unkindly.

But the voice that answered was not Quivalen’s. “You will find that I do not excel at obeying orders, great king.”

Loslandril had not heard that voice in fifty years, yet the terror it produced made all those long years melt away in an instant. He dropped his cup, letting it spill and shatter on the floor, and rose shakily from his chair. He backed away. Then, on instinct, he stepped in front of Fel-Nâya, blocking it from view.

Chorlga smiled at him with dark, rotten teeth. His features, otherwise coldly handsome, had not aged a day. As before, he did not blink. He still appeared to be a blue-eyed Sylv, though Loslandril knew that was only an illusion. He wondered at once where Quivalen was, if he was safe.

Forcing a scowl, Loslandril said, “We had a deal. You said I would never see you again.”

Chorlga nodded lazily. “You did not keep your word, so I saw no reason to keep mine.”

Loslandril shook his head. “I rejected Fadarah’s truce. I kept the Shel’ai as my enemies. Because of that, my kingdom has been invaded. What more would you ask of me?”

“All the Shel’ai dead. That was what your father wanted, isn’t it? That was the legacy you promised to fulfill.”

Loslandril stared at him, uncomprehending. “I’ve stood by my whole life and let them be murdered—”

“Then punished the murders, whenever you could. Because of that, Shel’ai that otherwise would have been killed at birth were simply abandoned outside the forest. I found some.” Chorlga licked his lips. “And for that, I’m grateful. But enough escaped my attentions that you now find your kingdom in peril. In short, great king, this is your doing. Not mine.”

Loslandril remembered the look of ecstasy on Chorlga’s face when he had drained all semblance of magic from Quivalen’s infant body. He imagined Chorlga wandering the outskirts of Sylvos, doing likewise to every Shel’ai child he found abandoned there, then leaving them to die when he was finished. Despite his hatred for the Shel’ai ruining his kingdom, Loslandril blinked.

Chorlga continued, his smile gone. “This kingdom is not yours, Sylv. Before you die, it will be taken back. By me. That can be delayed, though. I have come to offer you another deal.”

Loslandril touched his chest, feeling the scars through his tunic.

Chorlga laughed. “Oh, nothing quite so dramatic. In fact, I assure you that neither you nor your beloved son will be harmed. In addition, I will see to it that the Olgrym do not invade Shaffrilon.” He took a step closer. “And if the Dhargots come to help the Shel’ai, as they’ve promised, I’ll drive them back as well. Shaffrilon and all of Sylvos will remain yours for…” He hesitated, as though contemplating. “Another ten years.”

Loslandril frowned. “This kingdom has been under the guidance of my forefathers for over ten centuries. Now you ask that I relinquish it in a mere ten years?”

Chorlga turned toward a marble pedestal that contained a single glowing luminstone. He touched the stone. It went dark, as though his touch had absorbed the light. Then he touched the pedestal. The marble cracked. Chorlga faced Loslandril again, smiling. “Would you rather relinquish your kingdom now or after I singe the flesh off your son’s bones and make you watch Olgrym rape his corpse?”

Loslandril considered snatching up Fel-Nâya and attacking, but something compelled him to keep the sword out of sight. Instead, he seized the wine pitcher and threw it. He had the satisfaction of seeing Chorlga’s eyes widen in surprise before the man waved his hand and the pitcher flew sideways. The pitcher shattered, and the pieces skittered across the floor in the blue light of the chamber’s remaining luminstones.

Chorlga smiled again. “Such tantrums are not kingly. But if it will make you feel better, you may throw as many pitchers at me as you like. We can make it part of our agreement.”

Loslandril expected the guards to rush into the chamber, alerted by the noise, but no one appeared. He reminded himself that the sound of the cracking marble pedestal had not brought them, either. Perhaps Chorlga had already killed them. “What would you have me do—beyond surrendering my kingdom?”

“A simple thing. Hardly anything, really.” He stepped forward, withdrew something from his cloak, and offered it to the king. When Loslandril did not accept it, Chorlga turned and laid it on the cracked pedestal.

The small black knife appeared to be made out of glass. Though it bore no markings or distinguishing characteristics, the sight of it oddly sickened him. He knew at once that there was something dreadfully special about this knife. “Who am I to kill?”

“You already know, great king. You need not do it yourself, but I want the wytch dead by morning.”

“How do you even know she’s here?”

“When one like her is close by, I feel it. Luckily, that is a skill she has not yet mastered. Nor will she.”

Loslandril glanced at the knife. He could not move to take it without stepping away from the table. He decided to continue stalling. “She could kill me or whomever I send with a touch. How will one little knife do what whole armies could not?”

“My dear king, surely even a Sylv can sense the obvious. That is no mere knife. In ancient times, such blades were called
freyd.
They absorb magic like water into a washcloth. This is the last. With it, she will be helpless before you.”

“Then why not use it yourself?”

“Face to face, she may sense what I am—and sense, in turn, what the
freyd
is. In the hands of a Sylv, she will not. And by the time she does, the blade will already be in her.”

Loslandril considered using the knife on Chorlga but doubted he could move that quickly. “Or perhaps you’re afraid that she’s too powerful for you.”

Chorlga’s dark grin returned. “I have watched this one for quite some time, without her even knowing it. I even considered trying to make her my ally. But I do not think she would agree to such a thing, and though she is far weaker than I am, I see no need to risk facing her now.”

Loslandril eyed the man carefully. He knew he should simply nod in agreement, but he had wanted to ask a single question for fifty years, though he doubted the answer would surprise him. “How is it that you are here?”

Chorlga touched the pedestal again. It cracked no further. “Another man would have asked what I was first.”

“I know what you are. I think I knew the moment I saw you. But I thought all the Dragonkin were banished beyond the Dragonward.”

“Perhaps I was just good at hiding. A better question would be to ask why I have shown you such generosity instead of simply reducing your bloodline to ash.”

“I don’t have to ask that. I already know. You’re afraid the realms will form another alliance against you. If they do, you’ll lose. For all your power, you’re just one man. So, like the Shel’ai, you’re hoping we’ll all kill each other and save you the trouble.” Loslandril feared he had gone too far. He expected Chorlga to curse him, taunt him, or even kill him.

Instead, Chorlga laughed. “Great king, you are an insect. The alliance you speak of could not happen, but even if it did, I would burn through it like a fire through straw. Your armies pose no more danger to me than a child’s playthings. If you doubt me, send your fastest rider east, all the way to the Stillhammer Mountains, and see what I have done there. That is just the beginning.” He paused. “But while you await his return, watch me burn the marrow from your son’s bones.”

Loslandril turned from the Dragonkin’s unblinking gaze and stared at the glass knife. “Rid us of our enemies, and I will rid you of Silwren. And in ten years… Sylvos is yours.”

He expected a response, but when he looked up, Chorlga was gone. Loslandril dared to hope it had all been a dream, but when he picked up the glass knife, it was so cold that he had to pry his fingers loose. The glass knife fell to the floor but did not shatter. He felt sickened, torn between weeping and vomiting.

He grabbed a letter off his table—a letter from a village pleading for help against the Olgrym—and used it to pick up the knife. He threw it on the table. By chance, it landed next to the sword. Their blades touched. The knife recoiled like a living thing, sliding across the table, nearly falling to the floor again.

Loslandril stared. Then he went to retrieve the knife again. But before he could pick it up, he saw Quivalen staring at him. His body went cold even though he had not touched the
freyd
again. “My son, how long have you—”

“Long enough.” Quivalen choked. “Father, I heard…”

Loslandril shook his head, even as he realized that Chorlga must have known the prince was there. “Lies. Just lies, my son. He wants to trick us.” He moved to embrace him.

Quivalen recoiled. “I heard the pact you made—”

“Another lie. I simply said what I had to say. I won’t surrender the city. If I have to kill one wytch to save my people, so be it. After that, we can—”

Quivalen pointed at the knife. “You should use that on me. I am a Shel’ai…” He spoke the word like a curse.

“Not anymore. Do you understand?” Loslandril glanced past his son and saw an open door. Beyond the door, two guards lay motionless on the ground. One lay facing them, his face impossibly pale. His eyes had been burned away.

By the time Loslandril wrenched his gaze from the dead man’s blackened eye sockets, Quivalen had picked up the knife. Unlike Loslandril, he seemed able to hold it without freezing pain. The prince held the knife for a moment, studying it, then raised it to his own throat.