Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) (8 page)

Rowen felt his face burning with shame, but he could not formulate a biting retort.

Again, Jalist came to his aid. “He could have killed you a dozen times. It takes no great skill to strike a cheating blow against someone who’s only fighting for sport.”

But Haesha was already walking away, vanishing into the night. Scowling, Matua went after her. Jalist helped Rowen to his feet.

Rowen whispered, “A dozen?”

“I was feeling generous. So, will you live to father a brood of redheaded bastards, or do we need to flay the girl for revenge?”

Rowen felt all eyes on him. He noted the onlookers’ expressions. Some were embarrassed on his behalf or ashamed that a fellow priestess had behaved in such a manner. Others still looked amused. He resisted the impulse to reach under his armor and massage his groin. “Seems like Dyoni’s followers have found a new way to worship.”

Jalist laughed. “Did she rattle your brains, Locke, or do you really not know an Iron Sister when you see one?”

Rowen blinked. “But she wore the chalice and the crescent moon—”

“So she changed her robes and pinned on a different symbol. Doesn’t change what she is. Or
was.
”

Rowen’s rage slackened, though the embarrassment remained. “Well, at least we know why she’s been drinking so damn much.”

Jalist nodded. “Come sit by the fire before you fall over.”

As the Dwarr helped him along, Rowen cast a murderous look in the direction the priestess had gone. He half hoped that Haesha would try the same bravado on Silwren and get herself burned to cinders.

Chapter Six

The City-on-the-Sea

T
hough Rowen and Jalist took turns keeping watch on the camp with some halfhearted assistance from the people they were trying to protect, no Lochurites appeared to assail the camp. At first light, Silwren returned. Rowen noted her bloodshot eyes, but she appeared otherwise stoic and tireless as she mounted her horse and joined the column.

They set out to the east again. Silwren rode some distance from the others, while Jalist continued at the rear. Rowen spotted Haesha, too, though she kept her distance as well and snarled at Matua when he offered her water. Matua proceeded to the head of the column. Surrendering Snowdark to a mother and child again, Rowen walked with the priest.

Matua said, “I’ll be glad when we get to the city. I still can’t believe those berserkers attacked us in those numbers. It wasn’t like this the last time I passed through Nosh. Things are getting worse.”

Rowen eyed the growing body of water on the horizon. Anxious to put the Lochurites out of his mind, he said, “What can you tell me about Atheion?”

Matua shrugged. “Only what you’ve probably already heard in legends. The city’s older than the Shattering War, built by the Dragonkin—or, more aptly, their metal servants, the Jolym.”

“I’ve heard of them. I thought they were just killers.”

“Mindless slaves, more like it. Not alive, exactly. My order says the Dragonkin used them as troops, sure, but also to build their cities. Anyway, as for Atheion, there’s still some kind of strong magic there. The city floats on skiffs that don’t tip or sink, no matter how heavy they get.”

“And the Scrollhouse?”

Matua’s grin told him that he’d asked the right question. “Followers of my order tend it. It’s as much a temple to us as it is a library. It’s said that it contains all the knowledge in the world, all the way back to the days of dragons.”

Rowen wondered if the library might also contain lore on the Isle Knights, not to mention the Oath of Kin. His pulse quickened, overshadowing his embarrassment over his encounter with Haesha. Perhaps he could learn more about Fâyu Jinn. Also, he’d heard nothing about Knightswrath on the Lotus Isles, but maybe the famous Scrollhouse could help him understand what was happening to the sword.

But what would I do with that information? Who would I tell? If I go back to the Lotus Isles, they’re more likely to arrest me than listen to me. And there’s still no telling what the Sylvs will do to me when I reach the Wytchforest.

Rowen glanced north, where Silwren still rode, distancing herself from the others. He wondered if she knew anything about the Scrollhouse. He knew that El’rash’lin had visited the place in secret, probing its histories for information on Namundvar’s Well, but he had communicated none of those memories with the rest he’d seared into Rowen’s mind. And he did not feel inclined to approach Silwren at the moment.

They traveled on and on, making good time for once. Finally, near sunset, they arrived at the shore of Armahg’s Tears. Ruddy, golden light bejeweled the face of the sea. The sight was as welcome as any Rowen could remember. He relaxed a little and took in the view.

True to the stories, Atheion was a city of water. While the banks of the sea were littered with homes, shops, and windmills, most of the city floated on the backs of enormous skiffs, each far larger than any sailing vessel he had ever seen. The skiffs were arranged like city blocks, linked by gangplanks and more often by ornate bridges that somehow avoided being sheared apart by the continuous rise and fall of the sea. Beyond them, scores of plainly dressed fishermen headed out on boats or simply tossed their lines off the edge of the city. He even saw stone—true towers and temples wrought of everything from sandstone to marble—floating on gigantic skiffs. The whole city creaked and swayed in the salty air.

Matua said, “Shall we be on our way?” For the first time, the clerics and refugees did not need prodding. They hustled along, almost running toward the city. Rowen followed more soberly, glancing around for the others.

Both Jalist and Silwren had rejoined the column. They dismounted and led their horses toward him. Rowen accepted Snowdark from the mother he’d loaned her to. She bowed her thanks before hurrying down the hill after the others.

Jalist said in a low voice, “All right, Locke, we got these people here in one piece. No sense risking any more. If you still want to get to the Wytchforest, I’m sure the World Tree is as impressive a sight as this.”

Rowen cast a worried look at Silwren. Despite her hood, any fool with eyes would see the wisps of brilliant platinum hair peeking out. He doubted it would be long before someone noticed her purple eyes. But they dared not camp in the wilds of Nosh, either. Silwren needed time to regain her composure—perhaps he did, as well—and they could not do so while fighting off Lochurite berserkers.

But what if the Noshan king turns out to be as dangerous to us as they are?
“No,” he said finally, “we’ll stop here… at least for a day or two. Matua can vouch for us.” He glanced at the old Queshi cleric and wished he’d thought to ask him to speak to the city on their behalf.

Jalist said, “And what do we do if the Noshan king decides to clap us in irons?”

Rowen glanced at Silwren and forced a smile. “Melt them.” He turned before Jalist could protest. “Best we stick with the clerics instead of straggling in like fools.”

“You mean, like the damn fools we are? May as well be true to our nature.”

Rowen cast Jalist a cold look and rode after Matua.

With the bulk of the city built on the water, Atheion obviously had no great need for stone walls. Still, a squat wall of sandstone formed a half circle on the banks of the sea. From its wide-open gate, a squad of Noshan soldiers rode out to greet them. All wore Atheion’s sigil pinned to the blue-and-white-striped tabards: a white sailboat between mountains.

Their lean sun-bronzed captain greeted Matua with formal friendliness, but his eyes widened when Matua introduced Rowen. They widened further at the sight of Silwren. When the other Noshans saw her, some swore. Others signed themselves superstitiously. Rowen tensed.

The captain tapped the hilt of his sword. “The Wytch of Lyos. We’ve heard of you here, too. They say you’re different from the rest of your kin. Is that true?”

Silwren answered in a quiet, even voice, “I will trust you to decide that for yourself. But if you’re asking if I mean any harm to you or your city, the answer is no.”

The captain turned to Rowen. “Helps that you’re with an Isle Knight… and that you have clerics to vouch for you. I’ll let you in, but I’ll have to take you to see King Hidas. As for you”—he turned to Matua, and his smile returned—“you may proceed unhindered. You’ll find the Temple of Armahg on the southernmost skiff. The temple dedicated to Tier’Gothma is there, on the shoreline.” He pointed.

Matua hesitated. “Captain, I hope I’ve been clear. These people aren’t enemies. They protected us—”

“I believe you, Father. It will be up to my king if these people stay in the city or not, but they won’t be harmed by me or my men. I swear it.”

Matua nodded his thanks and approached them. He offered Rowen a handful of coins. When Rowen refused, he offered them to Jalist, who accepted them without hesitation. Then Matua stepped back and thanked them all, though he seemed to avoid looking at Silwren, before rejoining the others.

The clerics and refugees were already beginning to scatter. Haesha lingered alone on the plains for a moment. She cast Rowen a quick, indecipherable look, adjusted her cloak, and started toward the city gates. She appeared so lonesome that Rowen almost pitied her. Almost.

“This way, if you please,” the captain said sternly. With the clerics and pilgrims gone, the captain openly wore the same distrustful expression his men did. But something in his demeanor told Rowen that he’d spoken the truth: they would not be harmed—at least, not until after they’d spoken with the Noshan king. He nodded at Jalist and started forward, hoping he had not just made another serious mistake.

As soon as they passed through the gates and set foot on the first skiff, the noise of a bustling crowd washed over them. The experience reminded Rowen of the King’s Market in Lyos, but the floating market was accompanied by the smell of the sea and the faint sway of the ground.

Their horses seemed none too pleased with their new setting, and the Noshans appeared to have anticipated such. While their own horses seemed accustomed to their surroundings, the guards dismounted anyway. As soon as they passed through the first gate, the captain summoned a flock of stable boys, who led the horses toward a separate skiff that hosted a huge, sprawling stable. Rowen handed over Snowdark’s reins, despite his hesitance to trust his piebald palfrey, along with the others’ horses and the few supplies left in their saddlebags, to strangers.

“Don’t worry about your horses. They’ll adjust to the sea in a few moments. We have oats seasoned with a drug to calm their stomachs,” the captain said.

“Wish they’d thought to offer that to us,” Jalist muttered to Rowen. The Dwarr blinked rapidly, rubbing his stomach. However, Silwren appeared unfazed, and Rowen found the swaying strangely comforting.

The captain led them onward, through thickening crowds, toward the heart of the city. Given the short distance the guards had ridden, Rowen wondered why the guards had not simply gone out to greet the travelers on foot in the first place. He wondered if they had wanted the advantage of horseback in case a fight started, which made him wonder what had made them so jumpy. He pushed the thought from his mind, figuring he would learn soon enough.

The palace was a surprisingly plain but ancient-looking structure, three stories high, with stucco walls. The Noshans had obviously tried to pretty it up by draping it with tapestries and surrounding it with nude statues. Jalist eyed one statue depicting a strong young man, reclining to read some undoubtedly brilliant scroll of poetry.

The interior of the palace was more extravagant. Statues lined the walls, and bright tapestries hung beside brassy candelabras that flickered with candlelight, through which a crowd of merchants, dignitaries, and citizens moved. A few women in spangles and veils danced about, though no one seemed to notice them. The captain led Rowen’s group past an impressive garden and pool in the center of the chamber.

Even indoors, the garden overflowed with exotic flowers of every color and shape, most of which he had never seen before. Jalist’s eyes widened. “These flowers must be planted in darksoil,” he said, referencing his race’s greatest export, which allowed plants to blossom even in the absence of sunlight.

The Noshan captain hurried them to a closed door. There, they waited. He disappeared inside the next chamber, closing the door behind him, but the guards remained. Rowen was glad Silwren had kept her head down and her hood drawn. So far, everyone seemed too distracted to notice her, but it was only a matter of time before that changed. He eyed the figures around them. Most were haughty old men wearing rich silk robes and speaking in heated whispers. Each looked as though he bore the weight of the world, despite the glinting, gaudy jewelry.

Finally, the captain returned. A small, scowling man came with him. The captain introduced the man as a prefect, though Rowen failed to catch the man’s strange, nearly unpronounceable name. Rowen braced himself for questions.

But the prefect simply cleared his throat and said, “You must surrender your weapons. You’ll get them back, with the king’s permission.”

Rowen hesitated then unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to the Noshan captain, who passed it to one of his men. He did the same with Rowen’s dagger, along with Jalist’s long axe and shortsword. Jalist made no move to surrender the dagger in his boot—the captain saw it anyway. He held out his hand. Jalist apologized, feigned surprise, and handed over the dagger.

The captain smiled slightly and took the weapon. “These will be cared for. Don’t worry. My men have never stolen a blade, nor have I.”

Silwren opened her cloak, revealing that she was unarmed—as far as steel was concerned. Rowen wondered if the captain was thinking the same thing.
But how could they handicap her sorcery?

Finally, the captain led them through the archway. The next chamber was nearly as large as the first. Decorated sumptuously, it was far less crowded. Though the room was well lit, Rowen saw no candelabras or braziers. Then he spotted glowing, blue-white stones the size of his palm all lined up on pedestals so that they formed a hallway of light leading into the chamber. The rest of the chamber was dim and shadowed.

“Are those magic?” Jalist whispered, surprised.

Rowen thought he remembered them from El’rash’lin’s memories, but he was not certain. He turned to Silwren.

She said, “Luminstones, from the days of the Dragonkin. They’re very rare. I’ve never seen one outside the forest.”

Rowen wondered how the Noshans had come by them. Dwarrish darksoil was one thing, since the Dwarrs were renowned as traders and craftsmen, but as far as he knew, the Sylvs did not trade with outsiders. Then again, given how old Matua had claimed Atheion was, the luminstones could have been there since the Shattering War.

The captain and the prefect hurried ahead and conferred with the old man seated at the rear of the chamber, surrounded by other men who looked nearly identical to the prefect. Aside from the richness of his blue-and-white robes, the king did not appear much different than his administrators. The king raised one eyebrow before he nodded. The prefect joined his fellows. The captain stepped back but remained at the king’s side, one hand pointedly resting on his sword hilt.

King Hidas stood. He frowned as if he were having trouble seeing them and waved them closer. They obeyed, the guards keeping in step behind and on either side of them. The king studied them a moment. “Dwarrs have visited our fair city before, as have Isle Knights, on rare occasions. We even had a Shel’ai visit us, many years ago. But never all three at once.”