Wytchfire (Book 1) (26 page)

Chapter Twenty

Rowen’s Plea

R
owen gasped for air. He looked around, speechless, and saw that he was standing once more in the basement of the jailhouse in Lyos. Silwren stood in her cell, her face taut with worry—but not for him.

El’rash’lin was lying on the cold stone floor, body shaking, his eyes blank and staring. Rowen knelt beside the fallen sorcerer, filled now with pity for the man whose memories he now shared. He felt for a pulse.

“Silwren, help him.” Rowen reached for the keys to her cell and realized they were still upstairs. It did not matter. Silwren touched the locked door of her cell, and it swung open. Rowen blinked.
Why didn’t she escape earlier?

Silwren moved forward and sank to one knee beside her friend. She took his hand in hers. Her eyes closed. A violet glow enveloped her body. Moments later, El’rash’lin coughed and opened his eyes. He glanced up at Silwren, almost without comprehension. Then El’rash’lin faced Rowen.

“Forgive me,” he gasped. “I wanted... to show you more, but my strength faltered.” His violet eyes rolled back.

Rowen looked urgently at Silwren, but she said, “There’s nothing more I can do. He needs rest. Help me hide him.”

Rowen grabbed the fallen sorcerer’s arms and dragged him as gently as he could into Silwren’s cell. She followed.

“It’s the magic, isn’t it?” Rowen asked. “It’s killing him.”

Silwren nodded slightly.

“Will it destroy you, too?”

She did not have to answer.

El’rash’lin did not look so hideous anymore. Only tired. The memories of the sorcerer’s life still filled Rowen’s mind as though they were his own: trees, blood, laughter. Fire. He still had many questions, but he was finally beginning to understand.

“He tried to use his own magic to heal you,” Rowen said. “You and the others. That’s what left him... like this.”

Silwren was quiet for a moment. “Iventine—the Nightmare—woke first. He had delved deeper into the Well than any of us. It warped him. Going so deep into the Light, then being ripped away...”

Rowen thought of his own experience at Namundvar’s Well, of that sense of wholeness and tranquility—woven into him, then torn out—and shuddered.

“When El’rash’lin woke, he could have saved himself, but he didn’t. He tried to use his own magic to heal Iventine, to save all of us from madness. He thought if he gave us time to heal...” Silwren’s voice lowered to a shameful whisper. “I went mad, too. When I woke... I lashed out. Aerios, Cierrath... I killed them.”

Rowen saw now why she so frequently bore no expression. Each moment for her was a battle against the same madness that had left El’rash’lin deformed and had turned Iventine into a demon. He wanted to soothe her but could think of nothing to say. He looked down at El’rash’lin instead. “The Light did this to him.”

“Not the Light. The subversion of it.” Tears clouded Silwren’s eyes now. “He spoke the truth when he said he wants to die. So does Iventine, I think. To go back...” Her voice broke. “When Iventine comes, I can’t fight him. Do you understand? If I do, it’ll be
worse
than death! I’ll go mad. I’ll lose control of myself. I could kill everyone...”

She broke off, trembling. Rowen took her in his arms. He tried to soothe her, but so deep were her fear and despair that he wondered if she even realized he was still there.

Rowen thought his careful retelling of all he had learned from Silwren and El’rash’lin would leave his audience impressed, perhaps even spur them to action. He’d gone first to Captain Ferocles and Sergeant Epheus, meeting with them in the barracks office of the captain, but neither of them wanted anything to do with it.

“Now we have not just one sorcerer to contend with, but two!” Sergeant Epheus spat.

Captain Ferocles eyed Rowen with disgust. “You’re proving to be more of a nuisance than you’re worth,” he said. “Locke, I do not care about sorcerers’ fairytales. I care about Lyos. If these two won’t help us, they’re a liability. We should kill them now and be done with it.” He tapped his sword’s hilt meaningfully.

Rowen felt his face go hot. Before he knew what he was doing, he drew Knightswrath and leveled the blade at the captain’s throat. Sergeant Epheus leapt to his feet, drawing his own sword, but Ferocles held up a hand to stop him.

“You will
not
harm them.” Rowen prodded the captain with his sword tip, hard enough to draw a tiny rose of blood through the man’s tunic. “They will help us. You have my word. But threaten them again, you bastard, and I’ll have your head!”

Ferocles blinked in surprise. A faint smile formed. He nodded slightly. “Have it your way, Locke.”

Fuming, Rowen withdrew his blade and sheathed it. He left without another word.

Epheus made to follow, sword drawn.

However, Ferocles stopped him. “Don’t bother,” he said with a chuckle. He dabbed blood off his tunic and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. “Odds are the good corporal will be dead in a couple days, anyway.”

Epheus did not smile. “And the wytches?”

Ferocles answered with a heavy sigh. “They’re locked away. They haven’t hurt anyone yet. And I suppose it’s a bad idea, on the eve of a siege, to waste the number of men it’d take to kill them. Let them live—for now. But when the siege comes, they’ll either help us, or we’ll kill them, regardless of what Locke thinks about it.”

Rowen cursed his temper. He kept looking over his shoulder as he made his way along the cobblestone streets, half expecting to see a squad of soldiers coming to arrest him—or simply to kill him on the spot. But he was alone. In fact, the streets of Lyos were eerily calm.

If the arrival of the Isle Knights had done nothing else, it had at least helped quell some of the people’s unease. Crovis had even reassigned the squires—several hundred in number—to assist the Red Watch. These squires, while not yet knighted, boasted the superb training and discipline of the Lotus Isles. Rowen knew this all too well, since many of the squires were familiar to him—though he’d done all he could to avoid them.

Thanks to the presence of the Knights and squires, the riots had finally ceased. Rumors of Cassica’s fall and the approaching Throng had spread, but by word of Crovis Ammerhel, the people of Lyos suffered a strict curfew. This made Lyos appear almost deserted, save for the taverns. Rowen thought of his first day back in the city, seeing children playing while mothers tended the small gardens in front of their homes. He wished suddenly for a bit of noise to break the awful stillness: a flute, an angry shout, a child’s laughter, anything.

He wondered what had become of Hráthbam. Was the merchant back in Sorocco by then? Rowen missed him, but at least his friend was far from harm. He thought of Jalist too, wondering if the Dwarrish sellsword had indeed joined the Throng.
If so, doesn’t that make him my enemy now?

He sighed and thought of Ferocles. He could not blame the captain for doubting him. He had to admit his story sounded absurd. Epheus had even suggested that this was all some kind of elaborate ruse. But what did the Shel’ai have to gain? Surely, they could free themselves from their prison whenever they wished—just as Silwren had opened her jail cell with a touch. And if they planned to use a Human to help them gain the city’s trust, they might have chosen someone more influential than Rowen!

He went to find the Isle Knights. He loathed the thought of speaking with Aeko again after their last meeting, but perhaps she could make better sense of the renegade sorcerers’ strange tale. Or maybe she had further news of the Throng.

He found Crovis Ammerhel, Aeko Shingawa, and Paltrick Vossmore—representatives of the three orders of Isle Knights—positioned on the battlements overlooking the gates of Lyos, ringed by other Knights and squires, halfheartedly discussing the city’s defenses in the unlikely event that the Throng attacked after all.

Rowen hesitated, fearing the humiliation he’d feel if one of the squires recognized him, but they seemed preoccupied with grooming their armor and trying to look impressive for the female citizens of Lyos. Instead of mail wrought from kingsteel, these squires wore tough leather armor finely embroidered with the sigil of the Knighthood. Also, in place of adamunes,
they bore curved shortswords called
tashi.

Gods, I almost forgot about Knightswrath!
The Codex Viticus forbade squires from wearing adamunes. Aeko had not mentioned it when they last spoke, but it would not help his case if they saw him with it now. He shifted his sword belt so the weapon was concealed by his cloak. Then he approached the battlements. With the other olive-skinned Knights deep in conversation, only Aeko saw his approach. She smiled faintly, but Rowen knew better than to address her. He cleared his throat, his face already flushed, and requested a moment of Sir Ammerhel’s time.

The Knight of the Lotus fixed him in a haughty stare, looking for a moment as though he would refuse. Then, he bowed slightly. “Of course, Corporal. We are your humble servants.”

Somehow, I doubt he means that.
For the second time that morning, just as tendrils of sunlight unfurled like bloody ribbons across the battlements, Rowen related his tale. He strove to sound more confident than he had in Captain Ferocles’s office, but his voice faltered. Being in the presence of established Knights unnerved him, reminding him of his disgrace. His only comfort was that he doubted Sir Ammerhel even remembered him from the Isles, anyway.

Before Rowen had finished, Crovis Ammerhel raised one eyebrow. Sir Paltrick Vossmore fought back a grin. Aeko looked away. Rowen decided to leave out the part of the story where Silwren refused to fight the Nightmare. When he concluded, Sir Ammerhel cleared his throat and answered formally. “You speak well, Corporal. Tell me, what is it you ask of us?”

Never had Rowen felt so intimidated, but he knew he could not turn back now. He needed the Knights’ guarantee that Silwren and El’rash’lin would not be harmed. But he had nothing to bargain with.

Honor be damned,
he thought. He decided to lie.

“Silwren and El’rash’lin have pledged their aid in defending Lyos, just as the Shel’ai aided the Isle Knights long ago in the days of Fâyu Jinn. In exchange, they ask for your pledge that neither the Knights nor the armies of Lyos will engage this demon on their own. To do so, they say, would be suicide.” He tried to sound nonchalant as he added, “Also, they would like your word that they’ll not be harmed, so that they can carry out their own end of the agreement and keep Lyos safe from harm.”

Sir Ammerhel cleared his throat again. “Thank you, Corporal.”

Baffled, Rowen watched as the Knight of the Lotus simply returned his attention to the battlements, speaking in hushed tones with Sir Vossmore about the defense of the city, as though Rowen had not said a word.

Rowen summoned his courage, reached out, and tugged on Sir Ammerhel’s tabard. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aeko give him a warning shake of her head, but he ignored it. “Sir Ammerhel... forgive me, but I must have your answer.”

The Knight of the Lotus faced him with naked irritation. “Must you?” He sized up Rowen with a derisive glance. “I thought to treat you with humility, Corporal, but you are testing my patience. Clearly, these sorcerers have bewytched you. And you insult me if you think to come here this morning and share your curse with us!”

Sir Ammerhel showed him his back. “Go treat with sorcerers and the damned if you like. Your soul is not my province. But the welfare of Lyos is, and you have already taken too much of my time.” He resumed his conversation with Sir Vossmore.

Rowen stood there for a moment, stunned. He could feel the gaze of the Red Watch, squires, and Isle Knights, all momentarily unified in appreciating his humiliation. Rowen wanted to press the matter further. For one wild moment, he even wanted to fight. But Sir Ammerhel could kill him in seconds.

Finally, he slumped from the battlements. Moments later, he heard Aeko call his name. He ignored her. He could tell by her lighter footfalls and the jingling of spurs that she quickened her pace. He jerked away when she touched his arm, heading instead for the morning bustle of the market. Business opened early in Lyos. Already the scents of fish and herbs filled the air, mingling with the sweetness of freshly baked bread.