Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) (10 page)

Chapter Eight

Matua’s Plea

R
owen woke early, shook off his hangover by forcing himself through the martial poses of the sha’tala, then went to buy supplies. Though he had rented one room for Jalist and himself and another for Silwren, he saw no sign of the Dwarr. Rowen figured his friend was still in the company of the inn’s cook, a young man whose acquaintance Jalist had made the previous night. Silwren had joined her comrades in the common room only long enough to eat and raise a single cup of wine before she retired.

Rowen could not blame her. Word had already spread through the city that a Shel’ai was in Atheion, and though no one dared voice animosity, the stares conveyed everything from curiosity to contempt. But unlike the people of Lyos, who had welcomed her only after first trying to kill her, the people of Atheion kept their distance. He wondered if they had other threats on their minds, and thought once more about the Dhargots. He guessed they were dignitaries, sent to persuade Atheion to join the empire. After all, without the Throng to help, Atheion might be too distant for the Dhargots to take by force, for the time being. Once they solidified their hold on the Free Cities of the Simurgh Plains, what they would attempt next was anyone’s guess.

Thinking of the now-decimated Throng, Rowen wondered again why Fadarah had not simply used that army to fortify one of the other conquered cities and live there in peace. Silwren had said that Fadarah’s ultimate goal was the Wytchforest. Beyond that, all past attempts to settle down had only seen the Shel’ai attacked by one superstitious people after another, from the Ivairians to the Dwarrs.

Maybe the Shel’ai don’t want peace. Maybe they just want revenge. If so, this war won’t end until Fadarah presides over an empire of ash.

Rowen took a deep breath and let it go. All he had to do was reach the Wytchforest, show Knightswrath to the Sylvan ruler, and invoke the Oath of Kin. The Sylvs would be honor bound to help the Isle Knights battle the Sorcerer-General’s allies, the Dhargots. Once the Dhargots were defeated, Fadarah’s mad plan would inevitably unravel.

Rowen touched Knightswrath’s hilt. As far as the Sorcerer-General went, the only truce Rowen had a mind to offer was a twist of a blade in the man’s gut. Kayden deserved that much, at least. But just then, Rowen had other concerns.

He considered wearing plain clothes. Jalist had been correct the night before—a resplendent Knight in enameled kingsteel armor was apt to get a far worse price for supplies than a bedraggled sellsword would. But Rowen had sacrificed too much for that armor to leave it at the inn. So he donned his armor, cleaned his muddied boots, and slipped on his tabard. His room had a mirror, a rare extravagance, and he blushed with pride at his own reflection, appreciating the sigil of a crane balancing on one leg as he girded his sword.

Outside the inn, the cries of seagulls and the creaking of boats mingled with the sounds of a bustling city. It was a cool day, and the smell of sea air reminded Rowen of the Lotus Isles. Though he smiled as he made his way, he was still careful to keep one hand on his coin purse.

He went to the stables first to check on their horses. Snowdark nuzzled him, clearly anxious to be gone from the place, but the other horses seemed content with their blankets and oat feed flavored with apples. Reminiscent of their stables in Lyos, the horses’ accommodations were certainly better than anything on the road.

Then he heard a commotion, including the unmistakable stamping of hooves, and went to investigate. At the far end of the stables stood six enormous horses with blood-red coats. Each was a full foot taller than the others in the stable—all of which were keeping their distance. Despite being even more muscular than destriers, they had a sleek appearance that promised quickness as much as fury.
Bloodmares.

Though Rowen had seen such horses a few times in the past, he could not help but stare. He heard the sound of footsteps and tensed, wondering if the Dhargots had returned for their mounts.

Instead, a tall, gray-haired stable master approached him, glancing spitefully at the unruly horses. “Would you believe I was excited to see them? Damn things won’t stop trying to bite the other horses.” He lowered his voice. “You can tell they belong to Dhargots, all right!”

“Unless they’re trained not to, bloodmares naturally try to kill any other horse that isn’t one of their own. If you have a whole different stable, one that’s empty, you’re better off keeping them there.”

The stable master scratched his face. “I do, but it’s not well guarded. Something tells me those Dhargots will have my ears if one of these brutes gets stolen.”

Rowen imagined a would-be thief trying to steal a bloodmare, facing red, flailing hooves that could kill a man in armor. “Don’t worry about that. Bloodmares will also kill any man who isn’t their master if he gets too close.”

The stable master obviously wasn’t convinced. Rowen couldn’t blame him. When it came to punishment, Dhargots were every bit as vicious as Olgrym, who, according to legend, smeared their own bodies in the entrails of still-living opponents.

Gods, why are there so many damn madmen in this world?
He handed the stable master a few coins and asked where he could find Atheion’s market district.

The stable master laughed. “Which one? This whole city’s one big market district, Sir Knight.”

Rowen forced a smile, trying to take pleasure in the use of his new title rather than feeling insulted by the laughter. “I just need supplies for a week’s travel. Rations, feed for the horses, some sweetbitter leaves, maybe a few articles of clothing. Nothing extravagant.”

The stable master nodded. “If price matters, head for the vendors by the temple of Armahg. Quality’s not great, but they’re less likely to rape your coin purse. Oh, they’ll try and tell you that those cranáfi
of yours aren’t worth as much as Atheion’s coins, but don’t listen. Copper is copper.” He added, “It’s a bit of a trudge, but I’ll send a couple of my stableboys to help haul the goods back here. We’ll store them until you’re ready to leave. We keep the stables guarded. Your goods will be plenty safe.”

Rowen thanked the man, handed him another copper cranáf
,
then waited for the stable master to select two stableboys to send with him. Both seemed glad to be leaving the stables for a while, and Rowen wondered if they were as anxious about the Dhargots’ return as he was. They proceeded through the streets. Rowen’s armor drew stares, but no one stopped him. On the next barge, he saw a breathtaking structure that put the palace of King Hidas to shame. He stared, dumbstruck by the towering, ornate pillars and stained-glass windows depicting everything from dragons to naked clerics, both male and female, holding scrolls. “Is that the Scrollhouse?”

The stableboys nodded with a touch of boredom. Rowen wondered how anyone could ever get accustomed to such a sight. Even the path leading up to the Scrollhouse, lined with statues, gardens, and exotic blossoms, was unlike anything he’d seen in the fairest districts of Lyos. He thought again of his desire to search the ancient scrolls for further evidence that Fâyu Jinn and the Oath of Kin had actually existed. Then, as though on cue, he turned his head and saw Matua rushing toward him.

Rowen blinked in surprise, thinking the sight must be a trick of his senses, but it was indeed the Queshi priest. The rusty sickle-sword was gone, though. Rowen tensed when he noticed the grave urgency in the cleric’s expression.

Matua had hardly greeted him when the words tumbled out. “Thank Armahg I found you, Sir Knight! I heard you were at the Borrowed Crown, but the innkeeper said you’d left already. I spotted the Dwarr, but he was… in an offensive condition.” His shudder would have made Rowen laugh under other circumstances.

Rowen explained what he was doing and asked what was wrong.

The cleric grimaced. “Haesha. Turns out she caused… quite a stir last night.”

Rowen smiled. “And what new mischief has Fohl’s bitch wrought now?”

Matua glanced uncertainly at the stableboys. “She knifed two Dhargots in an alley behind a tavern. Knifed them dead then slashed a third one ear to mouth.”

Rowen’s smile melted. He’d expected to hear that she’d been caught picking pockets.

“She might have killed the third one, too, or gotten herself killed, but it seems a few guards were assigned to keep watch on the Dhargots in case they caused trouble. They stepped in, but from what I hear, Haesha gave one of
them
a good scar, too.”

Rowen had no idea what the specific penalties for such crimes were in Atheion, but in Lyos, an assault on the guards alone would have meant death. If the foolish woman really had done all that, she was as good as dead.

“I found out myself just this morning,” Matua went on. “Some merchant recounted it all. He came to pray for her at the temple. I spoke with my order, but the high priests have declined to intervene on her behalf.”

Rowen frowned. “Intervene? Father, why in the hells would they do that?”

Matua blinked in surprise. “She’s a priestess of Dyoni, Sir Knight! No matter our particular dislike for her, surely she deserves—”

“She deserves whatever she gets. She knifed two men in the dark.”
Even if they were Dhargots…

“But you’re a Knight of the Crane. In the king’s eyes, you represent the Lotus Isles. If you were to speak on her behalf, the king might show leniency.”

“Father, she’s probably not even a cleric. You saw how she handled that spear. And you said yourself that she came from Hesod.”

Matua nodded. “An Iron Sister, then. All the more reason for her actions! Besides, my order teaches that no matter one’s sins, everyone deserves to have
someone
speak on their behalf. Doesn’t your order teach the same?”

Rowen scowled. Unbidden, a passage from the Codex Lotius came to mind:
Give aid and mercy when asked—but mostly, when they are not asked.
He cursed so vehemently that the stableboys blinked in surprise. “Fine, Priest. Once I’m done at the market, I’ll go. And by the Light, I’ll bet she shows neither of us a shred of gratitude.”

Matua shrugged. “I am a cleric, Sir Knight. I am quite accustomed to ingratitude.” He bowed hurriedly then was gone.

Seething, Rowen continued to the vendors. All the joy seemed to have been drained from his surroundings. When he had bought all the necessities, including two shortbows in case they encountered Lochurites as they headed west, he paid a few coppers to rent a wheelbarrow from one of the vendors and sent it with the stableboys. Although Rowen had intended to return to the stables with them, he decided to get this business with Haesha over as quickly as possible.

So dark was his mood that he did not ask for directions and so spent far more time than he cared to wandering Atheion in search of the king’s palace, stomping over bridge after bridge, from skiff to skiff. It was late afternoon by the time he finally spotted the palace.

The place looked as busy and crowded as it had before. Despite his armor, Rowen still felt like a slumdweller from Lyos as he milled in the shadow of the palace, trying to decide how best to address the matter. Finally, he pulled aside a Noshan guard and conveyed his wish to speak with the king about the woman who had attacked the Dhargots.

The guard regarded him as though he had gone insane. “Sir, the king likely won’t grant you an audience, but I’ll see if I can fetch one of the prefects for you.”

Rowen nodded, swallowing his impatience. He waited outside the palace for what felt like hours before a bald, wiry man in silk robes came out to meet him. The man introduced himself as a junior prefect. Rowen had not seen the man the last time he was in the palace. Still, Rowen explained his purpose. His listener frowned and asked him twice to repeat it. Then he curtly told Rowen to wait while he fetched a superior.

Next, an acolyte ushered him into the palace, where Rowen waited even longer. He had been gone so long that he feared his companions had started to worry. Soon, a prefect appeared and urgently drew him aside. The young man walked with a limp; one leg was a full handspan shorter than the other. The man introduced himself, then said, “His Grace has been made aware of your desires but cannot meet with you today.”

Rowen balled his hands into fists.

The prefect quickly continued, “I should add, His Grace is most displeased by last evening’s bloody events. In addition to an injury visited upon a city guard, the priestess slew two Dhargothi dignitaries and wounded a third. There are even accusations that she may have poisoned their wine to weaken them before she struck. Jaanti, the Dhargothi ambassador, swears that if she is not turned over to him for punishment, he will report the incident back to the empire.”

“Do you know what the Dhargots do to women who offend them?”

The prefect blinked. “Such matters are not within my purview, Sir Knight. However, I can assure you that the king’s commitment to justice—”

“They’re even worse than Olgrym. Olgrym just rape you to death. But the Dhargots… if they’re feeling merciful, the offending woman is taken as a slave and used to birth as many fellow slaves as she can. If she objects to her children being taken away, they’ll kill the child right in front of her and make her dine on its flesh. Even Haesha doesn’t deserve that.”

The prefect paled.

“When her womb is of no more use, they’ll impale her. Shall I describe the process? First, they take a wooden stake and they smear it in pig fat. Then—”

“Enough!” The prefect wobbled heavily on his cane. “You’ve made your point, Sir Knight.”

“Good. I’m just saying that if she has to die, make it quick. Don’t send her back with the Dhargots.”

The prefect cleared his throat. “I will… convey your message, Sir Knight.”

Rowen nodded, turned on his heel, and stomped out of the palace. He thought of heading back to the Borrowed Crown or to the stables to make sure his purchases had arrived intact. He started that way, then stopped and approached the closest guard. After muttering a stream of curses that made the guard reach for his sword, Rowen asked for directions to the prison.

Haesha blinked as a torch was thrust through the bars of her cell, blinding her. She recoiled as cinders fell upon her clothing. She patted them out then looked up to see her visitor. The bottom dropped out of her stomach.

Igrid. That was my name in Hesod. That’s who I have to be now.

Her visitor was a Dhargot, huge and well muscled, with painted eyes and a thick necklace of human ears. The man’s eyes were narrow, despite his smile. “So this is the woman who does not fear a slow death.”