“There’s wine,” he managed. “Would you like some?”
Taking her silence as an answer, he went and fetched one of the wineskins, avoiding Hráthbam’s scowl as he did so. He brought her the wine. She accepted it and drank without comment.
“Do you... know where you are?”
She chewed, swallowed, and answered stoically. “I am beyond Sylvos, far from the World Tree, in the Wyldlands.” Her eyes settled on him. Rowen tried to focus on the violet irises instead of the white pupils. “The land of Humans. I assume my kind are still not welcome here.”
Rowen nodded uncomfortably. “We found you in Cadavash. My name is Rowen Locke. That’s Hráthbam. There’s more, but he’ll have to tell you the rest of his name himself.”
Hráthbam watched closely from the fire but offered no greeting of his own.
“The other one mentioned your name, but I’m afraid I missed it,” Rowen said.
The woman faced him, eyes narrowing.
Rowen drew back a step.
“The other one?”
“Yes... the other one. Like you. Well, not like you, exactly. He had white pupils like yours, and he could work magic, but he was covered in scars and sores. He was dressed like a beggar, all hunched over—”
“El’rash’lin,” she interrupted. “His name is El’rash’lin.”
Rowen nodded. “And your name?”
“Silwren,” she said. “That much, at least, I still remember.”
Rowen frowned. “What do you mean?”
Silwren tugged the silk robe around her body and said nothing.
“Can you tell us what you were doing in Cadavash, at least? Or why you summoned me?”
“I did not summon you,” Silwren answered curtly. “Even a Human does not deserve to be endangered for no reason.”
Rowen hesitated. Should he push her further?
Silwren had apparently finished with her supper, because she returned the bowl. Then she said, “I have no more answers… and probably more questions than you ever will. Let me sleep until dawn, if it pleases you, then I will be gone.”
She climbed into the back of the wagon, taking the wineskin with her.
Rowen’s relief turned to curiosity. “Where... where will you go at dawn?”
She was quiet for so long that he thought she meant to ignore him. When she finally answered, he immediately wished he had never asked. Turning her ghostly eyes to face him, she answered his question with a single word: “Lyos.”
Despite their intentions to leave that night, as soon as they were rested and fed, neither Rowen nor Hráthbam Nassir Adjrâ-al-Habas could summon the courage to hitch up the wagon and start off again while Silwren was sleeping. Rowen still hoped that El’rash’lin might appear as he’d promised to answer at least some of the questions plaguing him.
But there was no sign of the sorcerer. So they milled about and spoke in whispers as the night wore thin around them, drawing conjectures about what the Shel’ai woman intended to do once she reached Lyos.
“My brother always said only fools believe in coincidence,” Rowen whispered. “Of all the people she could run into, why me, who happened to grow up in the same city she’s heading to?”
“A lot of people grow up in Lyos,” Hráthbam reminded him. “Besides, you said the other one could read your thoughts. Maybe that’s just what she did—although I’ll be damned if I can guess why!”
It was on the tip of his tongue to speak of the well, but he had no idea how to describe the experience, and the very thought of it nearly brought tears to his eyes. Whether they were tears of anguish, he could not say.
He stared into the campfire instead. “She said she didn’t summon me,” he said at last. “Something led me down into Cadavash, led me straight to her, but she says it wasn’t her.”
Hráthbam shrugged. “Maybe she’s lying.”
“You think she’s lying about where she’s going, too?”
“It doesn’t really matter. Let’s say she does go to Lyos. They’ll kill her the moment they see what she is!” He took a long drink of hláshba. “Shel’ai or no, she won’t last ten seconds against a few hundred armed men, and probably a mob besides.”
“Never seen a Shel’ai before,” Rowen admitted, “but she seemed different somehow. So did El’rash’lin. More like Dragonkin—whatever they used to be. I don’t think a mob could stop them.”
“Then you’re worried about her torching your home the way this other one, this Nightmare, is burning cities in the west?”
Rowen sneered. “If she wants to burn down the Dark Quarter, I’ll hand her the torch!” He remembered the fire that fell from the sky. “If she needs one, that is.” He glanced at the wagon, imagined the figure sleeping within, and wondered if the delicate-looking young woman really had that sort of power. “I suppose the real question, then, is whether we try and stop her or applaud her.”
Hráthbam’s eyes narrowed. “Indeed.” He stabbed the fire with the drawn blade of his scimitar. “Well, neither one of us has tried to kill her yet, so it seems we’ve made up our minds on that, at least.”
“Ignoring her isn’t the same as helping her.”
Hráthbam shrugged. “Seems we’ve already done that, too. Or did I imagine you risking your neck—and mine—to get her out of Cadavash?”
Rowen’s stomach sank. “You’re right.” He bowed slightly. “For what it’s worth, you have my apology.”
Hráthbam scoffed. “Fohl’s hells, it’s my neck to risk. My choice.” He stabbed the fire again. “What I meant is you already seem... well, I’d say taken with her, but maybe ensnared is a better word!” The Soroccan did not laugh.
Rowen didn’t laugh either. “My brother always said I was dull-witted. Maybe he was right.”
“I doubt that,” Hráthbam said. “Dimwits don’t see trouble coming. That’s why they can’t help getting themselves killed. But you, my friend, seem just thick-skulled enough to see it coming then walk right into it anyway!”
Rowen’s temper flared. He stood, fists clenched, biting back an angry retort, and stalked away.
Dawn brought no sign of trouble from Cadavash. Rowen would have preferred to see a column of angry dragon priests bearing down on them than face what was to come. Both he and Hráthbam, still awake, saw Silwren emerge from the wagon. She wore one of Hráthbam’s extravagant gowns, belted and folded so it would fit her. But the gown was still much too large for her thin frame, and despite himself, Rowen laughed at the sight of her.
Silwren glanced toward the sound, eyes narrowing, but instead of offering a rebuke, she blushed.
As she passed the horses, Rowen expected them to shy away from her, but they regarded her as though she were no more obtrusive than the grass beneath their hooves or the faint morning breeze blowing through the trees in the distance.
Hráthbam frowned. “Where is she going?”
Rowen blinked in surprise. “East, I guess.”
Hráthbam scoffed. “You’re welcome,” he muttered after her. “Let’s get going, then.”
But Rowen was already moving. Before he realized what he was doing, he ran after the Shel’ai and blocked her path. “Wait! Where are you going?”
“I told you last night.”
“So you did. But you didn’t say why.”
“I was not aware I had to.”
Rowen steadied himself. “You will if you intend to get past me.” He moved his hand to his sword hilt.
Silwren studied him a moment and then laughed. Not unkindly, she said, “Forgive me, Human, if I doubt the sincerity of your threat.” She stepped past him and continued on.
Rowen’s face burned. Hráthbam laughed. Cursing, Rowen glared at the merchant. Then he turned to face Silwren but saw her back instead.
“Lyos is my city!” he called after her.
Silwren turned, half smiling. “I took you for a fool, not a king.”
“There’s stories of someone… something… like you burning cities in the west. If tho
se stories are about you, if you intend—”
“I’m not the one they call the Nightmare if that’s what you’re asking.”
Rowen swallowed hard. “Just the same, I was born in Lyos. If you mean its people harm, I can’t let you go.” Fixing the bravest expression he could muster, he drew Knightswrath and prayed the rusty blade would not fail him. As he did so, he winced when he felt the hilt nearly hot enough to burn him. “I don’t want to kill you,” he added. “I just want to understand what in Fohl’s hells is happening here!”
Kill her? Gods, I probably couldn’t even get close before she burned me to ashes!
But Silwren did not attack. Her expression sobered. “You would do well to fear for your people, Rowen Locke. But not because of me. I go to Lyos to warn them.” She bowed slightly, then turned and walked away.
Rowen stood a moment, dumbfounded, then returned to Hráthbam and the campfire.
Hráthbam said, “Let it go, Locke. Better this way. Don’t forget, my friend, we have dragonbone to sell!”
Rowen tensed. “Where do you want to take it?”
“Somewhere pretty and far away. Atheion, maybe. I’d like to see those streets made of water.”
I would too. “Bad idea,” he heard himself say. “Atheion’s full of simple folk. They don’t even wear jewelry. You won’t get a good price there.”
Hráthbam frowned. “So simple that they live in floating houses?”
Rowen kept a straight face. “They hate dragons. As much as those worshippers at Cadavash love them—or love their bones, at least—the folk in Atheion hate them. Some ancient legend about one of the last dragons killing their king.” Gods, I’m a bad liar! He’ll see right through this!
Hráthbam was quiet for a while then shrugged. “You’re the wandering fool, not me. Where would you go?”
Rowen chose his words carefully. “I’d say Cassica, but that’s close to Syros—and Syros has probably already fallen to the Shel’ai and that demon of theirs.” I’m telling the truth about that, at least.
He thought of Jalist going to join the Throng but pushed the Dwarr from his mind. “That doesn’t leave many options,” Hráthbam grumbled. “I suppose Phaegos—”
“Lyos is closer.” Rowen pretended not to notice the Soroccan’s scowl. “Forget Silwren. Forget demons and Shel’ai and all that nonsense. You’re right. She’s just one woman. And anyway, Lyos has the biggest market I’ve ever seen. Lots of rich, fancy bastards who like spending their dead parents’ money. And it’s closer to Sorocco, besides. You ride all the way west, you might get caught up by these Shel’ai and lose everything. Make it to Atheion, and you’ve still got to come back. Finish your business at Lyos, though, and you’re just a few days from the coast.”
Hráthbam mulled it over. “The sooner I can put all this madness behind me and sail home to the warmth of pretty wives, the better.” He gestured absently. “Fair enough. We’ll make for Lyos instead. May as well fix some breakfast first, though. Give that wytch some time to get well ahead of us and maybe forget you just pulled a sword on her.”
Rowen smothered a grin. “Agreed. But no more stew.”
“Don’t jest about Soroccan stew, my friend,” Hráthbam answered, stoking the fire. “It’s just the thing for thickening a soft skull.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
ROUSING THE THRONG
Fadarah sighed.
The great war camp had been broiling on the Simurgh Plains for days now, a stain no amount of sunlight or rainfall could purge. Cassica lay sacked in the distance, its city walls still blackened from the Nightmare’s onslaught. But things had calmed since then. Cassica’s surviving men-at-arms had joined the Throng—some voluntarily, others less so. The Shel’ai wisely divided the newest members of the Throng, stationing them so that all served with strangers, in case they still fostered notions of rebellion. Farmers were free to return to the fields and bring in crops, provided that a substantial portion of the yield went to feeding Fadarah’s hungry soldiers.
The army had barely moved since the attack. Men stirred amid a great sea of tents, smoke, and waste, all of it ringed in a protective palisade.
Fadarah had heard some of the Shel’ai whispering, “It is not good to keep the army so close to Cassica. The sight of the broken city might yet incite a rebellion!” He could not entirely disagree. Still, the Throng was the least of his worries at the moment.
Just past sunrise, he knelt in his tent. He had sent his servants away even though he had yet to don his armor. His great half-Olg frame knelt in the center of the tent, eyes closed as though in prayer. But the faint violet glow enveloping his body hinted at a level of magical exertion not usually seen with mindspeak.
“General... I have failed you.” Shade’s voice echoed in his mind, drawing a scowl to Fadarah’s tattooed face.
“Kith’el, to mindspeak over such a great distance—”
“My Human thrall can protect me if needs be.” A pause. “Master, I lost her. I tracked her to Cadavash, to Namundvar’s Well. But then…”
Fadarah’s frown deepened although his eyes remained closed, deep in concentration. “Did she attack you?”
“No, Master. She was unconscious. But El’rash’lin was with her.”
Fadarah’s open hands clenched into fists. The glow around his body turned a deeper shade of purple, almost black. “He teleported her away from you?”
Shade answered, “Yes. I can’t believe he had that much power! Almost as much as Iventine—”
“What was she doing in Cadavash?”
“El’rash’lin claims she went there to try and be rid of her powers.”
“Do you believe him?”
Shade did not answer.
Fadarah said, “Don’t judge her too harshly. She’s not in her right mind. In such a state, any of us might do as she has done—myself included.”
Shade did not reply for such a long time that Fadarah feared his pupil had succumbed to exhaustion. Then Shade asked, “What are your orders, General? Shall I return to the army?”
“No. Hurry ahead to Lyos. Gauge the city’s strength, as we discussed.” He added, “And I would not be surprised if you find Silwren there. If so, appeal to her if you can, but do not risk yourself needlessly. Remember, as painful as this may be, she probably hates both of us right now. But that, too, will be remedied.”
“I understand.”
“But rest first,” Fadarah insisted. “If all goes well, the Throng will reach Lyos in three weeks.”
Lest Shade be tempted to continue, Fadarah emerged from his trance, ending their discussion. He opened his eyes. He continued kneeling for a moment. Then he called for his servants. “Bring my armor. And wake my captains,” he said. “We march east in two hours.”
Pallantine Hill rose from the Simurgh Plains like a gigantic, mossy fist in the late afternoon sun. As Hráthbam and Rowen drew nearer, their ears caught a cacophonous mix of shouts and drunken laughter. Hráthbam stopped the wagon. He stared into the distance for a moment.
Hráthbam’s face broke into a smile. “Well, I see no flames wreathing the battlements. Seems the pretty wytch was merciful.”
“Unless she’s not here yet.”
“She should be. Something tells me she made better time than we did.”
Rowen nodded absently. At the moment, Silwren was the farthest thing from his mind. Home. “Let’s get this over with,” he muttered.
Hráthbam silently flicked the reins. Left and Right stirred, looking annoyed that their rest had been disrupted so soon, and began to pull the heavy wagon toward the city of Lyos.
Peasants and carts choked King’s Bend—the wide, cobblestone road that wound up to the great hilltop, hauling goods and people to and from the city. The road had been deliberately fashioned in a winding manner so that any army charging the summit would be exhausted by the time they reached the walls and, all the while, would be fodder for bowmen lining the parapets above.
Trees lined the trail, their leaves drie
d by autumn. The musk of the city washed over him, overwhelming him for a moment: sweat, whiffs of floral perfume, the tang of foreign spices and sweet, charred meat. Rather than breathe through his mouth, Rowen inhaled deeply. The act made his eyes water, but it clogged his senses—an old trick he’d learned in the Dark Quarter. He told Hráthbam to do the same.
“No need,” the Soroccan answered. “I’ve visited cities before, my friend. Besides, you haven’t felt your senses roil until you’ve been to a hláshba brewery.” Nevertheless, the Soroccan dabbed his watery eyes with one sleeve.
As when Rowen was last here, countless vendors had set up stands everywhere along King’s Bend beneath the shade of the trees, selling silvery-blooded fish and rainbow-shelled crabs hauled in from the coast, next to bolts of rough leather and bows fashioned from shafts of urusk bone. Other items vied for attention: bolts of fine, watery silk from Sorocco; string-tied stacks of sweetbitter leaves; beautiful, blue-white seashells drawn from the oft-frozen Wintersea; poor imitations of the long-handled adamunes of the Isle Knights, their curved blades forged not from folded kingsteel but common iron; even clay pots packed with darksoil, the legendary stuff of the Dwarrs to the south, who grew their food in caves without need for sunlight.
He even saw obscene paintings and drawings from Dhargoth, their purpose as obvious as their popularity. The sight of these reminded Rowen that he had not been with a woman in a long time—in a brothel or otherwise—but he blushed and pushed the thought from his mind. Rowen suggested Hráthbam remove his jewelry—several thick, gaudy rings and a brass choker fixed with precious stones—but the Soroccan refused. “If I were buying, I’d be dressed like you. But when I’m selling, I fetch a better price when it looks like I don’t need the coin.”
Rowen rolled his eyes. As a merchant driving a wagon, Hráthbam would already be a prime target for cutpurses. “My job would be far easier if you wouldn’t draw thieves and murderers like ants to honey.”
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