Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (43 page)

Rowen blushed, half from embarrassment, half from anger. “At the risk of offending you, Sorceress, I’m afraid you’re not turning out to be my favorite ally.”

“Nor should I be. You’ve killed many of my friends. I suspect I’ve killed some of yours. I don’t imagine we’ll be sharing wine in this lifetime. But I’ll see this war through to its end. You must do likewise. All that matters is slaying Chorlga. To do that, we’ll need magic far stronger than mine. We’ll need Knightswrath.”

“You talk like a fairytale,” Jalist grumbled. “Chorlga is a man, not a god. Are you telling me that since the gods threw Zet down out of the sky, nobody’s ever killed a Dragonkin just by sticking a knife in his back or hitting him with a poisoned arrow?”

Zeia gave Jalist a stern look. “I remember you, Dwarr. You were at Cassica and Lyos. Have you already forgotten about the Nightmare? Chorlga is stronger still. He’s drunk so deeply from the Light that he’s barely even a Dragonkin anymore. He survived the purge after the Shattering War, when Jinn’s armies scoured the entire continent for any Dragonkin who escaped justice. He’s kept himself hidden for centuries, growing stronger. Now he can instantly heal any wound that isn’t severe enough to kill him in the blink of an eye. If he wishes, he can see, hear, and sense every living thing surrounding him for miles. And he has an entire army of Jolym around him. If you think your axe can kill such a thing, by all means, ride to Cadavash and try.”

Jalist glared at her but said nothing.

“You told me to prepare,” Rowen said. “How am I supposed to do that? If you want me to kill Chorlga, just take me to him. I don’t need to pray or meditate. Just get me Knightswrath, and the Dragonkin dies.”

Zeia faced him with open derision. “You don’t even remember, do you?” She shook her head. “How many times have you really unleashed the sword’s power?”

Rowen did not answer.

She answered for him. “Once, against Fadarah. Once, against Doomsayer. And once, in the sewers of Hesod. Each time nearly killed you. Instead of becoming stronger, you’ve gotten weaker. Already, being without the sword nearly drives you mad, doesn’t it? If you were pushed just a little, you could be as drunk off power as Chorlga, as mad as Iventine, as blind as Fadarah.” She paused. “Well, Knight? Tell me I’m wrong.”

Rowen saw his friends bristle out of the corner of his eye. His face flushed—first with anger, then with shame. “I can’t,” he said finally. “So what should I do while you’re gone… pray to the Light for help? Practice my sha’tala? Maybe learn to forget my own name?”

“I’m not the champion, Human. You are.” Zeia took a step backward. “I go to get the sword. Remember what I said. Prepare yourself while I am gone.”

Rowen shook his head. “This is madness. Maybe you can get into the city without being seen, but you won’t be able to touch the sword. When I was in Shaffrilon, a Sylv tried to touch it, and it nearly burned his hands off.”

Zeia smirked. She lifted her arms. Her sleeves fell, revealing puckered scars. “Then it’s a good thing I no longer have hands.”

She turned and hurried out of the tent.

Jalist whistled softly. “Strange friends you’re making these days, Locke. Which reminds me… Leander said they ran into a Sylv who claimed she knew you. A rather surly woman, covered in scars.”

“Kilisti,” Rowen said. “What happened to her?”

“They didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re asking. He thinks she rode back for the Wytchforest. Oh, and the Queshi got that grim little message you sent about Chorlga. So did the Lancers, the Noshans, and the king of Lyos… which probably makes you the only person without royal blood who’s known to damn near every kingdom on the continent!”

Rowen wondered how many of his warnings had not reached their destinations and how many lives had been lost because of it. “What has Chorlga been doing?” he asked wearily.

“We don’t know,” Aeko answered. “Royce says he’s been sending scouts toward Cadavash for days. None have returned.”

“He must have Jolym hidden on the way to ambush them,” Jalist mused.

“Or else Chorlga is killing the scouts himself,” Rowen said. “Otherwise, one or two would make it back.”

Jalist shrugged. “Either way, there must be something happening there that he doesn’t want us to see.”

Rowen rubbed his eyes as his headache blurred his vision. “That would explain why he hasn’t moved against us.”

“Oh, he’s moved against us,” Aeko corrected. “Stillhammer and the Lotus Isles are in ruins. Meanwhile, his Jolym have thrashed half the countryside.”

And I’ve done nothing…
“But we’re still here. He could wipe out this whole army himself, if he wanted to.”

“Maybe he doesn’t know we’re here yet,” Jalist offered.

“Gods help us if he finds out.” Rowen remembered Chorlga’s offer: if Rowen surrendered Knightswrath, Chorlga would stop the killing. Perhaps he’d been holding back in order to give Rowen time to decide. But Knightswrath was gone. Until Zeia retrieved it, Rowen couldn’t surrender even if he wanted to.

Rowen finished his wine then smelled the stew again. His stomach rumbled, but the thought of eating made him queasy.

Jalist said, “We should attack the Bloody Prince now. If we can take the city, we can at least hide behind thick walls and a few thousand archers. Might not be much, I know, but it beats fighting Jolym and a Dragonkin while we’re also fighting off frostbite.”

Rowen wiped sweat from his brow. Just then, frostbite did not sound altogether unappealing. Despite the roaring fire, neither Jalist nor Aeko appeared overheated. He rubbed his eyes again as his headache throbbed.

Jalist said, “You look pale as bone, Locke. Lie down. You’re safe here.”

Safe?
Rowen shook his head, partly in refusal and partly in sheer disbelief that such a thing as safety could exist. “Too much to do…”

“Not for you,” Aeko said. She squeezed his arm. “Rest, Squire. But keep your armor on.” She looked down at his new weapons. “I’m sorry I don’t have another adamune for you. Or more armor. I might be able to find a tashi—”

“These suit me fine.” Rowen unbuckled his swords, even though he’d just girded them. Their weight alarmed him. Had he just gotten used to kingsteel? He thought of the few pieces of armor he’d left back in Hesod. Then he froze. “The scroll…” He faced Jalist. “The scroll Silwren gave me! I left it in my saddlebags. I gave my horse to Kilisti so she could get away.”

Jalist and Aeko exchanged looks. “Just a scroll,” Jalist said. “If you like, we’ll go back to the Wytchforest and get it once all this is over. Might even steal a few of those glowing stones while we’re at it. I bet we could sell them for a fortune.”

Just a scroll…

“Luminstones,” Rowen muttered. He realized that Jalist and Aeko were guiding him back toward the bed. “Had one of those in my saddlebag, too.” He felt his pocket. “Wait. No. I have one here. This was Kilisti’s.” He drew out the small, seemingly nondescript stone and cupped it in his hands. A blue glow formed, spilling between his fingers. He gave it to Jalist. “For your prince.”

He managed to smile then lay down on the bed, closed his eyes, and collapsed into nightmares.

Saanji found Zeia in her tent.

The Shel’ai had conjured her hands of fire and was using them to gird a shortsword about her waist. The leather smoked where she touched it. The brass buckle had already blackened. She looked up and scowled. “Entering my tent unannounced is a good way to get yourself killed, Human.”

Though it was still midday, Zeia’s tent was dark. Only her flaming hands held back the shadows. The wytchfire shone off her face, matching her violet eyes. For a moment, Saanji could only stare.

Zeia scowled again. “Well?”

Saanji shook himself out of his stupor. “Royce seems to think you’re going into the city—”

“I am.” Zeia finished with her shortsword then picked up a dark cloak. She threw it over her shoulders. The seams smoldered.

“Is that… wise?”

“Necessary,” Zeia corrected. “That foolish Knight lost Fel-Nâya in the sewers. It’s probably still there. I have to go and get it.”

Saanji nodded. “The Iron Sisters say there’s an opening to the sewers just outside the city, but it’s probably heavily guarded. Wait a moment, and I’ll pick out my best men—”

“I’m going alone.”

Saanji chewed the inside of his lip. “At the risk of repeating myself—”

“I’d rather this not turn into a bloodbath, Prince. I can slip in unseen. Your men can’t.”

“I don’t know much about magic—”

“Good. I appreciate your honesty. Now, avoid looking foolish and keep your thoughts on magic to yourself.”

Saanji blushed. “I was just going to say—”

“That I can’t possibly get past scores of armed men without being seen, and what will I do if I’m spotted,” Zeia finished.

“Oh, I
know
what you’ll do if you’re spotted. That’s the problem.” Saanji blushed further. “You’ve gotten to be pretty good with a sword. And honestly, just the sight of your hands might scare half the Dhargots out of their wits. But from what I’ve seen, you can’t throw wytchfire anymore. All you’ll have to defend yourself with is that sword. And that’s not enough.”

Zeia answered with a derisive smirk. “If that were really all I had, you’d be right. But it isn’t.”

“Fine,” Saanji conceded, “you can read minds, maybe make one or two guards think they hear—” He broke off, interrupted by the distinct feeling that someone was stirring a razor-sharp knife through his brain. He tried to scream, but no sound came out. He sank to his knees, shaking uncontrollably.

Zeia’s smirk disappeared. She rushed forward. “Are you… I didn’t think—”

“What did you just do?” Saanji tried to say, but the words came out jumbled.

“El’rash’lin taught me. It’s called a mind-stab. It’s something all Shel’ai can do, with some training, but most don’t even know it. He says we’ve forgotten most of our old skills—”

Saanji did not hear the rest. He lurched forward and retched. Tears of pain and humiliation streamed from his eyes. A searing sensation lingered within his mind, sending random, white-hot jolts through all of his senses. Then, all at once, the searing ceased.

“Keep your eyes shut,” Zeia said. Tingling warmth emanated from her flaming hands as she held them to his temples, as though her touch were composed not of flesh but of countless small, hot needles.

Saanji nodded dumbly. He did not even remember closing his eyes in the first place. With the searing pain now absent, he felt a dizzying vertigo. Then that, too, subsided. The tingling withdrew. He felt Zeia wipe his mouth with a piece of cloth.

“I shouldn’t have done that. I only wanted to demonstrate. I thought that at its lowest strength, it wouldn’t… I’m sorry.”

Saanji tried to answer, but the words he formed in his mind stayed there as though frozen. He felt Zeia’s tingling caress on his forehead. Eyes closed, mute, he savored it.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

The Belly of the Rat

Z
eia made her way out of the camp. Arnil Royce had assigned a contingent of bodyguards to stay with her even after they left Cassica, and these armored men followed quietly a few yards behind her. Meanwhile, Lancers and Earless hurried to get out of her way. None of the sentries challenged her. Finally, at the edge of the camp, she dismissed her bodyguards. They looked only too happy to be relieved of duty. Alone, Zeia moved stealthily through the darkness.

She did not bother visiting the gorge, even though that was the most direct route back to Knightswrath. Even Humans were not foolish enough to leave so obvious an entrance into their city unprotected on the eve of a siege. She suspected that by now, a pile of rubble blocked off the old entrance into the sewers, and scores of Dhargots with crossbows had been given the sorry duty of patrolling the sewers.

She thought back to how she, Royce, and Saanji had ridden ahead with the vanguard and discovered a small host of Iron Sisters massed outside the city. Zeia had recognized the Isle Knight in their midst before any of them—though the absence of an adamune with a telltale hilt of dragonbone had filled her with dread. Almost immediately, she’d pressed one flaming hand to the Isle Knight’s forehead, sending her thoughts into his. She’d ascertained where the sword was, and she might have rushed straight into the sewers right then and there to retrieve it, but a company of Dhargots happened by.

Only a hundred strong, they posed no real threat, and they ran as soon as they spotted Royce’s banners and the flashing armor of his men. But Saanji, fool that he was, had ignored Royce’s advice and given chase. She suspected that the foolish Human was trying to impress her. And even more foolishly, she’d delayed her entrance into the sewers to see that the Earless prince—who now truly only had one ear—made it back in one piece.

By then, it was too late. Dhargots had massed along the city walls, and catapults added their fury to an endless arc of arrows, driving them back. Now her only chance to retrieve the sword of Fâyu Jinn lay in entering Hesod the same way that a host of Shel’ai and Unseen assassins had once entered Lyos: through its wells. Zeia winced at the thought of how much what she was about to do would hurt.

She trudged through the snow, alone in the no-man’s-land between the encampment and the city. The walls of Hesod loomed above her. In places, ice glazed the stone. Dhargots massed around the battlements. A few shouted insults and fired arrows at her, but she was too distant for the latter to reach her and unperturbed by the former.

Zeia searched north of the city until she found what she was looking for. Just ahead, illuminated by moonlight, the snowy fields gave way to a frozen ribbon of water. Fishing huts lined the icy lake, along with a line of modest watchtowers, but all looked to have been abandoned. Nevertheless, Zeia approached them cautiously.

While Lyos drew its water from an aqueduct that ran all the way to the coast and fed a massive manmade reservoir within Pallantine Hill, Hesod’s water came from wells fed by a river that ran near the city. In winter, ice formed over that river. Even if one broke through the ice, swimming the river all the way to the wells would have been impossible, as no one could hold their breath for that long.

Not without magic.

Zeia hesitated. Fadarah had never attacked Hesod; thus, the Shel’ai had not performed any reconnaissance there. For all Zeia knew, the watery tendrils that ran underground and fed Hesod’s wells were far too narrow for a person to swim, anyway. She could lose her way. She might even become trapped, held in the darkness until her magic ran out, followed promptly by her air.

Besides those risks, and despite her earlier boasts to Saanji, she had never been among the strongest of Fadarah’s Shel’ai. The spell she was about to attempt had always been too difficult for her in the past.

But I have to try. I have no choice.

She thought of the Isle Knight—what a disappointment he’d turned out to be thus far. Instead of rallying nations and inspiring armies, as Fâyu Jinn had done, he’d floundered in the wild, alternately drawn to and fearful of the incredible magic at his disposal. Silwren had sacrificed herself for nothing. The Human stood no chance against Chorlga. Better that they’d all just forgotten about Fel-Nâya completely and explored some other means of slaying the Dragonkin. But it was too late for that.

Zeia reached the frozen waters, took a deep breath, and let it go. Looking down, she thought she saw fish passing by, a dark blur far beneath the ice. She knelt in the snow. Summoning her flaming hands, she pressed her palms to the ice. She shivered even as she urged heat to flow through her ghostly touch. Slowly, the ice began to melt.

She withdrew her hands long before the ice had completely gone, knowing she had to conserve her strength. Dismissing one flaming hand but retaining the other, she drew her sword. She fumbled as she gripped it, still not quite accustomed to the strangeness of holding something with a wispy hand formed entirely of magic—a hand she did not feel so much as sense. Gathering her strength, she drove the blade downward. The ice cracked.

Zeia withdrew her blade. Rather than stab with it, she swung and swung, as though she held an axe. Sweat formed on her brow, but she went on chopping until chunks of ice fell away, revealing the pale-blue water beneath. Then she sheathed her sword, dismissed her flaming hand, and sat to catch her breath.

She stared at the ugly, puckered scars capping her wrists. A wave of resentment filled her. El’rash’lin wielded the powers of a Dragonkin. He could have restored her hands and made her whole, but he had refused. At the time, she’d agreed with his decision. But perhaps she had been hasty.

No, El’rash’lin was right. He was right about everything, from the beginning. If Fadarah… if all of us… had just listened to him, none of this would have happened.

She lowered her arms, letting her sleeves slide down and conceal her scars. She rose to her feet. For a long time, she stared at the pale, cold waters. To her surprise, she thought of Saanji and felt another pang of guilt over the pain she’d caused him during her demonstration of the mind-stab technique.

Pushing the prince from her mind, she summoned her flaming hands once more, ungirded her sword, and let it fall. Then she took another deep breath, stepped off the bank, and let the icy water close over her head.

Igrid woke to find a sweaty, rat-faced man with yellow teeth leaning over her. She feared for one wild moment that she had died and Fohl, the Undergod, had come to torment her by endlessly hauling out her insides. Then she recognized the robes of a healer. His nimble fingers fussed with her bandages, though his eyes and chilling smirk betrayed his greater interest in her breasts, which were as bare as the rest of her.

Then the healer noticed that her eyes were open. He leapt back. Igrid reached for his throat, but something stopped her short. She realized she’d been tied down. She turned her head, looking left then right. She was lying on a bed. The room smelled of wine and putrid incense. Lanterns blazed on tables all around her.

Gods, where am I?

She struggled, but the bonds tied to her wrists had been wrapped underneath the bed. Identical ones held her ankles and thighs. She studied the healer then looked past him and saw still more figures in dark robes lurking by the lanterns. Panic surged within her, but she forced herself to smirk.

She tried to threaten the men by telling them how pretty their ears would look on her necklace, inviting them to come closer so she could bite them off, but she found that she could not speak. For a moment, she thought it was just the consequence of her dry, parched throat. Then she remembered the alley—and the knife.

Gods, I tried to cut my own throat…

She gnashed her teeth and hissed.

The lead healer paled. He held up his hands. “Don’t move, child. We’re just changing your dressings. The good news is that your bones have almost healed. But lie still, or your wounds will reopen.”

The note of pleading in his voice puzzled her. The men weren’t city clerics. They looked like Dhargots. But Dhargothi healers were known for observing the same stern philosophy as the warriors: only the strong deserved attention. The weak were better left to perish. Why would they care if she lived or died?

Igrid looked down at her body. Bandages wrapped half her torso, but where the healer had not yet finished, tight stitches were wreathed in purple skin. A thin trickle of blood ran from one of them. Igrid winced as a wave of nausea swept over her.

“Don’t retch,” the healer warned. “If we have to keep stitching up your guts, you’ll have more holes than flesh.”

One of the other healers laughed and said something crude. Igrid gritted her teeth and stubbornly willed herself not to vomit. Slowly, the nausea subsided, relaxed by numbing pain. Despite her best efforts, her eyes watered.

“I’ll give you wine for the pain, but you have to promise to lie still.”

Igrid nodded weakly.

One of the other healers handed the leader a goblet. A third, younger healer came forward and helped lift Igrid’s head. He held it while the leader brought the goblet to her lips. Igrid drank. The wine was strong but bitter, obviously mixed with herbs to dull her pain. The leader lowered the goblet so that she could swallow.

The other healer made another crude comment. Igrid shifted her eyes, batted her lashes, and smiled at him. The next time they offered her the goblet, she filled her mouth, waited until they lowered the goblet, and spat at him.

The healer let go of her head, which fell back down on the pillow, sending waves of pain radiating out from her throat. The younger healer cursed, wiped his face, and lifted his other hand to strike her. The leader stopped him with a sharp command. He spoke a name, and the younger healer paled and backed away.

Karhaati. He said Karhaati’s name…

A chill raced through her body. Had the Bloody Prince himself ordered that she be saved? If so, what sick torments would a man like that have in mind for her once she’d healed? She considered forcing her wounds to reopen so that she could die then and there.

The lead healer looked down at her again. After ogling her, he looked into her eyes when he spoke. “Please don’t struggle. I promise, child, we’re trying to help you.”

Igrid forced herself to nod. If she meant to reopen her own wounds and bleed out, she would have to wait until the healers left, anyway. With supreme effort, she managed to lie still as the lead healer finished bandaging her while two more healers assisted him. Igrid noted that although they freely leered at her naked body, which made her skin crawl, none touched her beyond what was called for.

When they were finished, the lead healer sent the others away. Igrid accepted another drink of wine then endured the humiliation of the rat-faced old man spoon-feeding her a bowl of vile-tasting broth. By then, she felt tired. She wondered if the wine had also been drugged.

“That’s enough,” a voice said.

The old man turned and bowed. “Of course, my prince.” He flashed Igrid a look—was it pity or pleading?—and hurried to go. A big man in red robes stepped into the lantern light. He grabbed the old man’s arm, turned him back around, and pointed at Igrid.

“Why is she uncovered?”

The old man paled. “Prince, as you commanded, we were changing her dressings, checking stitches—”

“Are you
still
changing her dressings and checking her stitches?”

The old man hesitated. “No, my prince. Forgive me—”

“You’re finished, yet you left her there, naked. Did I not tell you that she was to be treated with dignity?”

“We
have
treated her well,” the healer insisted. “I swear on the Dead God, no man has touched her except to—”

The big man punched the healer in the stomach, held his fist there as the healer jerked, then pulled back. Igrid saw a wide, bloody knife in the big man’s hands. He knelt, wiped the blade on the dying healer’s robes, then straightened. He snapped his fingers. A big man with a patch over one eye stepped out of the shadows. He gave Igrid a leering glance then grabbed the old man’s arms and dragged him out of the room. His whimpering confirmed that he was still alive. A moment later, Igrid heard a wet, rasping choke from the hallway.