Unwilling to see that kind of punishment visited upon those who most often wished only to feed themselves and their families—something he’d done himself more than once—Rowen contented himself with merely apprehending thieves and returning what was stolen. Besides that, he broke up fights when necessary and generally minded his own business.
The work wore on him, dreary and nerve-racking. Still, even when his shifts ended at sundown, he could not bring himself to leave a place where he knew his uncharacteristic temperance and quick eyes were sorely needed. So he would stay and try to help the other soldiers maintain order as best he could. He thought this might earn their favor. Instead, this earned him nothing but a bloody nose from a drunken brawler’s fist and, from his fellow soldiers, the reputation of being a showy fool.
Before long, Rowen abandoned this practice. Better instead to settle himself in the nearest tavern. So, partly out of homage to his absent friend—gone now for two weeks—he returned again and again to Dyoni’s Bane. Often, he visited the inn while still dressed in his faded scarlet uniform, the blackness of the falcon masking the ale stains on his sleeve.
One day, as Rowen downed another flagon of warm ale, he glanced down at his tabard with sardonic appreciation. He’d noticed the first time he dressed in his new uniform that if the restitching was any indication, no less than three soldiers had probably worn—and died in—this tabard before him. Likewise, the leather armor he’d been given left much to be desired: heavy but poorly balanced, thicker at some points than others, and poorly treated besides. It had reeked so badly of blood and stale sweat when he donned it that at first, he’d gone to bathe twice before he realized the stench was not his own.
Rowen missed the light but stronger armor of the Isle Knights, each piece capable of near-blinding brilliance when polished, even though he’d been allowed to wear it only a few times during training. He squinted at the insignia of a falcon on his breast until he could imagine it was a crane instead. “I shouldn’t be here,” he muttered, his slurred voice lost in the noise of the crowded tavern.
Two weeks had passed with no sign of Silwren. So far, he’d saved almost nothing since all his meager earnings went toward staying at an inn. Though he preferred being alone, he considered simply moving into the barracks—which were free—then leaving Lyos for good once he’d saved enough coin. More and more, he wanted to head west, perhaps toward Cassica.
Maybe Jalist was right. I should have joined the Throng. He did not relish the thought of fighting for the Shel’ai, but what did it matter? Five years ago, would he ever have even considered joining the same Red Watch that had beaten and killed more than a few of his acquaintances when he was a boy?
Maybe El’rash’lin, that strange, deformed man, would appear to make sense out of this madness. Hadn’t the sorcerer saved Hráthbam from death after their battle with the greatwolf—then appeared again and magicked Rowen right out of the depths of Cadavash? One moment, he was deep inside the dragon priests’ temple. The next, he was out in the open, beyond the gorge and the mad priests within, still holding Silwren in his arms.
He thought of the Well and shuddered. Maybe it was all a dream. Maybe I’ve just lost my mind!
He tried to recall what he’d seen upon gazing into the Well—but it had not been so much a vision as a perception, a momentary feeling of wholeness. He’d heard Isle Knights refer to such a state as emptiness. Before, he’d always been unable to understand how such a thing could be positive. At the Well, though, he’d momentarily transcended all his fears and doubts, even the encumbrance of his own identity, and in their place, felt only joy. And now it’s gone. Maybe it’s just best I forget it… if I can.
He waved for another ale. When it arrived, he drank deeply. As he set the mug down, he thought of the drills.
If Rowen was not well-liked on duty, he at least received a measure of grudging respect from the other soldiers during each day’s training. As Captain Ferocles said, all soldiers of the Red Watch were required to train during at least one of each day’s drills, free at least to choose the drill that best matched their guard shift. Though nobody kept records, the captain was present at every drill, and somehow, even with hundreds of soldiers to oversee, he could tell at once who had not participated in training.
In his first week with the Red Watch, Rowen witnessed half a dozen fellow soldiers dismissed for this reason. He quickly learned that among the soldiers of the Red Watch, Captain Ferocles was infamous for not only his temper but also his sharp memory. This, at least, might work in his favor.
Whether with wooden swords or bare hands, Rowen held his own. Some of the other soldiers had themselves been squires on the Lotus Isles; they too seemed reluctantly impressed. Rowen hoped his skill might also earn him the respect of the captain, which would ease his time in Lyos—regardless of how long a time that ended up being. But if the captain noticed, he gave no indication of it. In fact, he had not spoken to Rowen since their terse exchange at the city gates.
Rowen was brooding on this when Sergeant Epheus entered the tavern and sat down beside him. The sergeant had a build similar to Rowen’s, with a close-cropped beard and long, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail so tight his hair looked like a black skullcap. Like Rowen, the sergeant was a former squire of the Lotus Isles, although his own failure to become an Isle Knight had taken place seven years before Rowen’s. Like other such men in the Red Watch, the sergeant had no wish to talk about it. But unlike the other soldiers, the sergeant was at least willing to speak to him.
Epheus asked, “How’s the ale here?”
“Warm and flat… but cheap.”
The sergeant snickered. “Figures.” He waved for a drink. “You know, there are a lot of better places in Lyos to get drunk. You should try the White Chimera, just up the street. That’s where most of the Red Watch goes. Good whores there—including some skinny, dark-eyed Isle women. Not to mention a few Dwarrs, if you prefer ’em with oversized tits and rumps.”
“Something tells me I’m not very welcome there.”
“Probably not. But don’t take it personal. New faces don’t get much respect at first.”
“How long’s at first?”
Epheus shrugged. “A few months, I guess.”
Rowen drank. “Then what?”
“Well, enough of the ones who have been here longer than you get killed, and suddenly, you’re a veteran!” The sergeant chuckled and slapped Rowen on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.” The sergeant took the mug that was handed to him across the bar and drained half of it in one long swallow. Then he grimaced. “You’re right. My horse’s piss probably tastes better.”
The barkeeper glared at him but said nothing.
“I hear you grew up here, before the Isles,” the sergeant said nonchalantly.
Rowen nodded. He was hesitant to speak of his past, but he did not want to appear rude to the only person here who had showed him a sign of friendship. “My brother and I grew up in the Dark Quarter after our parents died.”
Sergeant Epheus whistled softly. “Another Quarter-man! Just what we need.” He finished his ale then waved for another. “Barkeeper, one more of your worst!” He chuckled at the barkeeper’s glare. “Where’s your brother now—still trimming throats down here?”
“Gone.” Rowen raised his mug to drink but found it empty. “He went to the Isles a few years before I did.”
“Two in the same family, huh? Where did he go after they rejected him?”
Rowen bristled. “They didn’t. He became a Knight. He made it.”
The sergeant’s expression sobered. “I didn’t think that was actually possible.”
“It’s not. Not really. But Kayden did it anyway.” Rowen waved for another mug.
“Then what?”
Rowen realized what the sergeant was asking. He pretended to be inspecting his empty mug.
“How did he die?” the sergeant asked finally.
“Don’t know,” Rowen answered. “I wasn’t th
ere. The Knights say it was just an accident, though. He fell off his horse and dashed his brains on a rock.” Rowen almost laughed, imagining how Kayden might have reacted had he foreseen such a senseless, ignoble end.
“Have you heard about those Sylvan wytches?”
Rowen frowned. “The what?”
“That’s what we call them here,” the sergeant said. “Shel’ai, I guess they’re called elsewhere. Sylvs who can craft spells.” The sergeant grimaced as he spoke, this time not from the bad taste of his ale. “Rumor is they’ve raised an army in the west.”
Rowen thought of Jalist and rubbed his eyes. The ale was beginning to catch up with him. “An army of Shel’ai?”
“No, Humans. Mercenaries, mostly. Plus conscripts from whatever village or city they thrash. There are other stories, too, about some sort of creature. Not a wytch but something they made. Some kind of demon. They use it like an attack dog. They say nothing can kill it.”
Rowen was surprised to see the sergeant shudder. What would have been farfetched a month ago, before Cadavash, now loomed as an all-too-real fear.
The sergeant asked, “Have you ever seen one?”
“A Shel’ai?”
The sergeant nodded.
Rowen thought of Silwren and El’rash’lin. “No.”
“Me, neither. Nor a Sylv, for that matter. But I hear they look the same—except for the eyes. Sylv eyes are blue. But wytch eyes are purple. Only the pupils aren’t black. They’re white! Dragonmist, they call it.”
Rowen shrugged. “Superstitions told by old men with ugly wives.”
“I hope so. Because if it ain’t, not much anybody’s gonna be able to do about it. With none of these plains cities willing to stand together, I bet a strong enough army could sweep across the whole Simurgh Plains if it wanted.”
“As soon as they reached the coast—if they reached the coast—they’d have the Knights to deal with.”
“Boy, did someone brain you while I wasn’t looking? The Lotus Isles are a dung heap! Weren’t you there long enough to see that?”
Rowen tensed. “Why do you say that?”
The sergeant sneered. “Relax, Locke. You went there for the same reason I did. Probably your brother, too. You thought you were going to find honor there. But that doesn’t exist outside of fairy tales. Not here, not there, not anywhere.”
The sergeant waved something in front of Rowen’s face. Irritated, Rowen slapped the hand away. The sergeant chuckled and tossed a copper cranáf on the bar before him. “Look at that insignia, boy,” he said. “A damn crane. Not a falcon. Why do you suppose that is?”
Rowen had never bothered to consider that before.
The sergeant said, “Just a bunch of hypocrites! Didn’t you ever stop to wonder why the poor never become Isle Knights but the rich do? Do you really think you deserved to be shooed off like a stray dog, after all that training? Did I?” He scoffed. “The Knights took us in so they could take our coin. Then they let us go. We may as well have handed our coins to one of those wandering tonic peddlers, for all the good it did us.”
Rowen gritted his teeth. “That’s not true.”
“Locke, why do you think the Dark Quarter exists in the first place? Don’t you think King Pelleas would raze it if he could?”
“Every city has its slums.”
“Cities on the Lotus Isles don’t.”
Rowen shrugged. “Maybe he doesn’t care. Or maybe he can’t afford enough men.”
The sergeant laughed. “With all these taxes, all this trade?” He shook his head. “Don’t be so gods-damned naïve! I’ve served under three kings in my lifetime. Pelleas is as good as any. Do you think he likes his precious city ringed by slums like a jewel dropped in dung? No, you can blame the knights for that.”
Rowen rubbed his eyes again. “What are you talking about?”
“Are you telling me you don’t know?” When Rowen shook his head, the sergeant answered with a condescending laugh. “Locke, haven’t you ever wondered why every damn city on this half of the plains uses the same coin? How do you think the Isles can afford such big keeps and fancy armor? They tax the so-called Free Cities from Lyos to Cassica! In return, they promise protection. But if you see Isle Knights patrol the roads once in two months, you’re lucky. Twice, and it’s probably your town they’re getting ready to plunder!” He laughed. “There’s something the captain says. A saying, I guess you could call it. ‘If you’re in trouble, pray for a Knight. If one shows up, hide your daughters and your jewels until he goes away.’”
Rowen stared in disbelief. “That’s not true. If it were, I’d have heard about it a long time ago.”
The sergeant scoffed. “It’s a secret… of sorts. No king wants his people to know he doesn’t even rule his own city! Better we think they keep the gold for themselves than give it up for nothing.” The sergeant paused then added thoughtfully, “Well, not nothing, I guess. In exchange for what the Isle Knights call tributes, Lyos doesn’t burn. Only difference is, it’s their swords they’re sparing us from!” He shrugged. “The secret used to be easier to keep before the Knights got this greedy. Now—”
The room was spinning. “Prove it. Give me proof...”
The sergeant waved the coin again. “Ever been to Phaegos, a couple days northeast of here?”
Rowen thought of the Sister City, nestled against Artisan Bay near vineyards and good soil. Phaegos had been pillaged, robbed house to house, but left standing. Word was that now, four years later, the city still struggled to recover. “They were planning to invade the Isles. The Knights heard about it and struck first. What of it?”
The sergeant glowered. “Ah, yes. The mighty Phaegian army: poets, fishermen, and brothel dancers. Hardly a blade among them! But they stopped paying the tributes. So the Knights dealt with them.”
“I heard—”
“You heard what the Knights wanted you to hear.” The sergeant finished his ale and stood, tossing a handful of copper cranáfi onto the counter. “Believe what you want, Locke.” The sergeant rose and walked away.
Rowen saw the sergeant through the window, probably walking up the street toward the White Chimera. Rowen’s fists clenched. He could not believe what Epheus had said, nor could he imagine why the man would lie. Maybe Epheus was simply wrong. Weren’t the bandits who attacked Rowen’s own village defeated by Isle Knights?
But how many times since then had he even seen a Knight before he ventured to the Isles? How many times in his whole life had he seen a single patrol on the mainland? How much of his knowledge of them had been based purely on stories?
Rowen’s rage slackened. Nausea roiled in his gut. He hoped it was only the putrid ale he was drinking. Cursing, he ordered another.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
HARD CHOICES
El’rash’lin found her just where he knew he would: on the edge of the parapets, overlooking the palace at the spot the city’s people called Beggar’s Drop. She was kneeling—either in prayer or meditation, he could not tell. Platinum curls spilled down her back, all the way to the dirty walkway.
El’rash’lin said, “I figured you’d left Lyos a long time ago. Gone south, maybe.”
Silwren did not answer. El’rash’lin extended his mind into hers. He felt her trepidation and wondered how long she had been wandering the city, invoking enough Dragonkin magic to render her invisible to Human eyes. Moonlight and the soft, steady glow of Armahg’s Eye illuminated her curls and then his scarred hand as he reached for her. At the sight of his own deformed flesh contrasting with her beauty, he withdrew his hand.
Finally she said, “Have you come for counsel or comfort?”
“I doubt you can offer me any more wisdom or comfort than I can offer you. Such truths are well past lamentation, though.” He eyed the sleeping palace in the distance. “I came to see which option you currently favor.”
She opened her eyes. “Two options? I didn’t know we had so many.”
El’rash’lin gestured to the white s
tones and moon-washed rooftops around them. “To save them”—he laughed thinly again—“or kill them.”
“Or do nothing,” Silwren interjected.
El’rash’lin grew thoughtful. “Yes, apathy is always an option. I’m sure even Fadarah would agree to that.”
Silwren stood so slowly that it seemed to El’rash’lin she floated onto her feet. The pupils of her eyes flared like iced starlight. “You know it makes no difference. The Dhargots will take the plains. The Isle Knights will fight the Dhargots, which means they won’t be able to help the Sylvs fight the Olgrym—even if they wanted to, which I doubt. Either now or later, Lyos will burn just as surely as will the World Tree.”
“Something might still be done,” El’rash’lin insisted. “If you didn’t believe that, you wouldn’t have come here.”
“Not belief, my friend. Foolish hope. And that died once I looked into these people’s minds.”
“It took you weeks to look into their minds? You could have done that in seconds.”
Silwren’s eyes narrowed. “What are you implying?”
“Just that I’ve never known a Dragonkin to wander aimless and invisible through a city she’d given up on.”
Silwren almost smiled. “Have you known many Dragonkin?”
“Just three, if you count myself. Of all of us, you’re prettiest.” El’rash’lin hoped the jest would add to her momentary flash of humor, but already, he could feel her mood shifting.
“We tried it your way, old friend. You saved a Human from the grave, showed another one how to look into Namundvar’s Well, into the Light itself. Their response? They pretend it never happened. We hoped for too much from Humans. The people of Lyos will be no different.”
Wytchfire (Book 1) Page 20