Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  “Captain, actually, for what it’s worth.”

  Rowen straightened. In place of a golden-horned stag, his former teacher wore a tabard emblazoned with a white, nine-pointed flower. “And a Knight of the Lotus, besides!”

  Aeko’s smile vanished. She glanced past Rowen. “Sir Royce, if you’re done questioning my former squire before he’s had time to dress, let alone heal, I’d like to wring his neck for a while.”

  Royce cleared his throat as though he meant to object, then left the tent without another word.

  “That one seems less than happy,” Jalist muttered.

  Aeko said, “Could be the fact that he’s outnumbered, with an even stronger army at his back, led by a Dragonkin. Or maybe he just thought that by the time he reached Hesod, he’d be sharing camp with a few thousand Isle Knights.”

  Rowen asked, “How many are with you?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  Rowen’s expression soured. “I was hoping for twenty-four thousand.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you. On the bright side, thanks to you, Royce has about a hundred Iron Sisters, plus more coming in from the wild every day. And that’s not all.” She nodded toward Jalist.

  To Rowen’s surprise, Jalist blushed. “I found Leander,” he said simply. “He has five hundred Housecarls with him, plus another five hundred Queshi who got tired of all this trouble on their borders and came to see what’s the matter. Step out of this tent and turn east if you want to see what a whole damn corral full of bloodmares looks like.”

  “You found him…” Rowen grinned. He squeezed Jalist’s shoulder. “I’m surprised you’re wasting time with me, then.”

  Jalist cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, it seems my people haven’t changed their minds on men bedding down with men just because they had their kingdom torn in half.” He turned to Aeko. “Tell him the rest.”

  Aeko hesitated. Then she said, “The Jolym invaded the Isles. So did the Nightmare, though I don’t pretend to understand how. Saikaido Temple is—”

  “I know,” Rowen interrupted. “El’rash’lin told me.”

  Aeko raised one eyebrow. Though tears had welled in her eyes at the mention of her old home, she blinked them away. “Then it seems you have some interesting stories to tell as well. But I’ll finish mine first. The Jolym spent a few weeks tearing up the countryside then massed at Cadavash. The Nightmare hasn’t been seen since the Lotus Isles, but if it’s still alive, it’s probably there, too. Chorlga has been entirely too quiet. But… someone’s come to help us. Help you, I should say. El’rash’lin sent her.”

  Rowen thought of Silwren. For one wild moment, he wondered if El’rash’lin had somehow brought her back to life, as Chorlga had done for the Nightmare. Heartache filled him. He nearly wept at the thought of seeing Silwren again. Then a cold breeze touched his face.

  He turned to see a woman entering the tent. He saw at once that she was a Shel’ai, though in place of a bone-white cloak embroidered with crimson greatwolves, she wore armor and a pair of Ivairian shortswords. Her dark hair—unusual for her kind—had been cut short. Though Rowen had never seen her himself, he recognized her face from El’rash’lin’s memories. “Zeia?”

  The Shel’ai’s violet eyes widened in momentary surprise. “My master said you might know me.”

  “Just a few glimpses from his mind. He and Silwren saved you, when you were little.” Rowen forced himself to bow, though he kept one hand on the hilt of a sword. “El’rash’lin thought of you as… one of Fadarah’s closest allies.”

  Zeia’s eyes sparked with anger. “That was a long time ago, Isle Knight. Fadarah is dead. Shade killed him, to punish him for what he planned with Brahasti.” She added, “Though I think Fadarah would surely have died from the blow you struck, if it bolsters your pride to think so.”

  Rowen stiffened at the mention of Shade, but Zeia turned to Aeko. “I must speak with him alone. Wait outside.”

  Aeko touched the hilt of her adamune. “I’m afraid I don’t take orders from Shel’ai.”

  “And I don’t waste time discussing courtly politics and troop strength when the world is set to burn.” Zeia faced Jalist. “You wait outside, too, Dwarr. My words are for the Knight of the Crane alone.”

  “These people are my friends,” Rowen interrupted. “You are not. Speak or don’t. I don’t have time for this, either.”

  Zeia looked surprised, then nodded. “So be it. El’rash’lin sent me to help you. By helping you, I help all Shel’ai left in Ruun, and perhaps all those yet to be born.”

  “And how, exactly, do you plan on helping me?”

  “By retrieving what you so carelessly left behind. I pulled the image from your mind while you slept. You lost Knightswrath in Hesod. But the Bloody Prince does not have it. Not yet. The sword is alive now. For whatever reason, it’s chosen you to be its champion. No one without strong magic dare touch it.”

  Jalist answered first. “So it’s been lying in a river of muck and shit for days… a bright, priceless adamune with a dragonbone hilt long as my forearm… and no Dhargot thought to wrap it in a cloak and pluck it out?”

  “Fel-Nâya’s ancient powers have been revived. Silwren saw to that. The sword protects itself. I doubt the Dhargots could see it even if they looked right at it. But Chorlga could… and will, which is why we need to move quickly.” She faced Rowen, her expression cold. “Without the sword, you are just a man. The Dhargots would kill you in an instant. So I will go into the city by myself and retrieve the sword. Meanwhile, you must prepare yourself to use it.”

  Rowen shook his head. “Knightswrath isn’t my only reason for going back into the city.”

  Zeia nodded. “I saw the comely, red-haired swordswoman in your dreams, too. While I’m thrilled that you’ve found love, Human, I’m not about to risk all the lives throughout all the kingdoms on Ruun just to retrieve your favorite bedmate.”

  Rowen blushed, half from embarrassment, half from anger. “At the risk of offending you, Sorceress, I’m afraid you’re not turning out to be my favorite ally.”

  “Nor should I be. You’ve killed many of my friends. I suspect I’ve killed some of yours. I don’t imagine we’ll be sharing wine in this lifetime. But I’ll see this war through to its end. You must do likewise. All that matters is slaying Chorlga. To do that, we’ll need magic far stronger than mine. We’ll need Knightswrath.”

  “You talk like a fairytale,” Jalist grumbled. “Chorlga is a man, not a god. Are you telling me that since the gods threw Zet down out of the sky, nobody’s ever killed a Dragonkin just by sticking a knife in his back or hitting him with a poisoned arrow?”

  Zeia gave Jalist a stern look. “I remember you, Dwarr. You were at Cassica and Lyos. Have you already forgotten about the Nightmare? Chorlga is stronger still. He’s drunk so deeply from the Light that he’s barely even a Dragonkin anymore. He survived the purge after the Shattering War, when Jinn’s armies scoured the entire continent for any Dragonkin who escaped justice. He’s kept himself hidden for centuries, growing stronger. Now he can instantly heal any wound that isn’t severe enough to kill him in the blink of an eye. If he wishes, he can see, hear, and sense every living thing surrounding him for miles. And he has an entire army of Jolym around him. If you think your axe can kill such a thing, by all means, ride to Cadavash and try.”

  Jalist glared at her but said nothing.

  “You told me to prepare,” Rowen said. “How am I supposed to do that? If you want me to kill Chorlga, just take me to him. I don’t need to pray or meditate. Just get me Knightswrath, and the Dragonkin dies.”

  Zeia faced him with open derision. “You don’t even remember, do you?” She shook her head. “How many times have you really unleashed the sword’s power?”

  Rowen did not answer.

  She answered for him. “Once, against F
adarah. Once, against Doomsayer. And once, in the sewers of Hesod. Each time nearly killed you. Instead of becoming stronger, you’ve gotten weaker. Already, being without the sword nearly drives you mad, doesn’t it? If you were pushed just a little, you could be as drunk off power as Chorlga, as mad as Iventine, as blind as Fadarah.” She paused. “Well, Knight? Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Rowen saw his friends bristle out of the corner of his eye. His face flushed—first with anger, then with shame. “I can’t,” he said finally. “So what should I do while you’re gone… pray to the Light for help? Practice my sha’tala? Maybe learn to forget my own name?”

  “I’m not the champion, Human. You are.” Zeia took a step backward. “I go to get the sword. Remember what I said. Prepare yourself while I am gone.”

  Rowen shook his head. “This is madness. Maybe you can get into the city without being seen, but you won’t be able to touch the sword. When I was in Shaffrilon, a Sylv tried to touch it, and it nearly burned his hands off.”

  Zeia smirked. She lifted her arms. Her sleeves fell, revealing puckered scars. “Then it’s a good thing I no longer have hands.”

  She turned and hurried out of the tent.

  Jalist whistled softly. “Strange friends you’re making these days, Locke. Which reminds me… Leander said they ran into a Sylv who claimed she knew you. A rather surly woman, covered in scars.”

  “Kilisti,” Rowen said. “What happened to her?”

  “They didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re asking. He thinks she rode back for the Wytchforest. Oh, and the Queshi got that grim little message you sent about Chorlga. So did the Lancers, the Noshans, and the king of Lyos… which probably makes you the only person without royal blood who’s known to damn near every kingdom on the continent!”

  Rowen wondered how many of his warnings had not reached their destinations and how many lives had been lost because of it. “What has Chorlga been doing?” he asked wearily.

  “We don’t know,” Aeko answered. “Royce says he’s been sending scouts toward Cadavash for days. None have returned.”

  “He must have Jolym hidden on the way to ambush them,” Jalist mused.

  “Or else Chorlga is killing the scouts himself,” Rowen said. “Otherwise, one or two would make it back.”

  Jalist shrugged. “Either way, there must be something happening there that he doesn’t want us to see.”

  Rowen rubbed his eyes as his headache blurred his vision. “That would explain why he hasn’t moved against us.”

  “Oh, he’s moved against us,” Aeko corrected. “Stillhammer and the Lotus Isles are in ruins. Meanwhile, his Jolym have thrashed half the countryside.”

  And I’ve done nothing… “But we’re still here. He could wipe out this whole army himself, if he wanted to.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t know we’re here yet,” Jalist offered.

  “Gods help us if he finds out.” Rowen remembered Chorlga’s offer: if Rowen surrendered Knightswrath, Chorlga would stop the killing. Perhaps he’d been holding back in order to give Rowen time to decide. But Knightswrath was gone. Until Zeia retrieved it, Rowen couldn’t surrender even if he wanted to.

  Rowen finished his wine then smelled the stew again. His stomach rumbled, but the thought of eating made him queasy.

  Jalist said, “We should attack the Bloody Prince now. If we can take the city, we can at least hide behind thick walls and a few thousand archers. Might not be much, I know, but it beats fighting Jolym and a Dragonkin while we’re also fighting off frostbite.”

  Rowen wiped sweat from his brow. Just then, frostbite did not sound altogether unappealing. Despite the roaring fire, neither Jalist nor Aeko appeared overheated. He rubbed his eyes again as his headache throbbed.

  Jalist said, “You look pale as bone, Locke. Lie down. You’re safe here.”

  Safe? Rowen shook his head, partly in refusal and partly in sheer disbelief that such a thing as safety could exist. “Too much to do…”

  “Not for you,” Aeko said. She squeezed his arm. “Rest, Squire. But keep your armor on.” She looked down at his new weapons. “I’m sorry I don’t have another adamune for you. Or more armor. I might be able to find a tashi—”

  “These suit me fine.” Rowen unbuckled his swords, even though he’d just girded them. Their weight alarmed him. Had he just gotten used to kingsteel? He thought of the few pieces of armor he’d left back in Hesod. Then he froze. “The scroll…” He faced Jalist. “The scroll Silwren gave me! I left it in my saddlebags. I gave my horse to Kilisti so she could get away.”

  Jalist and Aeko exchanged looks. “Just a scroll,” Jalist said. “If you like, we’ll go back to the Wytchforest and get it once all this is over. Might even steal a few of those glowing stones while we’re at it. I bet we could sell them for a fortune.”

  Just a scroll…

  “Luminstones,” Rowen muttered. He realized that Jalist and Aeko were guiding him back toward the bed. “Had one of those in my saddlebag, too.” He felt his pocket. “Wait. No. I have one here. This was Kilisti’s.” He drew out the small, seemingly nondescript stone and cupped it in his hands. A blue glow formed, spilling between his fingers. He gave it to Jalist. “For your prince.”

  He managed to smile then lay down on the bed, closed his eyes, and collapsed into nightmares.

  Saanji found Zeia in her tent.

  The Shel’ai had conjured her hands of fire and was using them to gird a shortsword about her waist. The leather smoked where she touched it. The brass buckle had already blackened. She looked up and scowled. “Entering my tent unannounced is a good way to get yourself killed, Human.”

  Though it was still midday, Zeia’s tent was dark. Only her flaming hands held back the shadows. The wytchfire shone off her face, matching her violet eyes. For a moment, Saanji could only stare.

  Zeia scowled again. “Well?”

  Saanji shook himself out of his stupor. “Royce seems to think you’re going into the city—”

  “I am.” Zeia finished with her shortsword then picked up a dark cloak. She threw it over her shoulders. The seams smoldered.

  “Is that… wise?”

  “Necessary,” Zeia corrected. “That foolish Knight lost Fel-Nâya in the sewers. It’s probably still there. I have to go and get it.”

  Saanji nodded. “The Iron Sisters say there’s an opening to the sewers just outside the city, but it’s probably heavily guarded. Wait a moment, and I’ll pick out my best men—”

  “I’m going alone.”

  Saanji chewed the inside of his lip. “At the risk of repeating myself—”

  “I’d rather this not turn into a bloodbath, Prince. I can slip in unseen. Your men can’t.”

  “I don’t know much about magic—”

  “Good. I appreciate your honesty. Now, avoid looking foolish and keep your thoughts on magic to yourself.”

  Saanji blushed. “I was just going to say—”

  “That I can’t possibly get past scores of armed men without being seen, and what will I do if I’m spotted,” Zeia finished.

  “Oh, I know what you’ll do if you’re spotted. That’s the problem.” Saanji blushed further. “You’ve gotten to be pretty good with a sword. And honestly, just the sight of your hands might scare half the Dhargots out of their wits. But from what I’ve seen, you can’t throw wytchfire anymore. All you’ll have to defend yourself with is that sword. And that’s not enough.”

  Zeia answered with a derisive smirk. “If that were really all I had, you’d be right. But it isn’t.”

  “Fine,” Saanji conceded, “you can read minds, maybe make one or two guards think they hear—” He broke off, interrupted by the distinct feeling that someone was stirring a razor-sharp knife through his brain. He tried to scream, but no sound came out. He sank to his
knees, shaking uncontrollably.

  Zeia’s smirk disappeared. She rushed forward. “Are you… I didn’t think—”

  “What did you just do?” Saanji tried to say, but the words came out jumbled.

  “El’rash’lin taught me. It’s called a mind-stab. It’s something all Shel’ai can do, with some training, but most don’t even know it. He says we’ve forgotten most of our old skills—”

  Saanji did not hear the rest. He lurched forward and retched. Tears of pain and humiliation streamed from his eyes. A searing sensation lingered within his mind, sending random, white-hot jolts through all of his senses. Then, all at once, the searing ceased.

  “Keep your eyes shut,” Zeia said. Tingling warmth emanated from her flaming hands as she held them to his temples, as though her touch were composed not of flesh but of countless small, hot needles.

  Saanji nodded dumbly. He did not even remember closing his eyes in the first place. With the searing pain now absent, he felt a dizzying vertigo. Then that, too, subsided. The tingling withdrew. He felt Zeia wipe his mouth with a piece of cloth.

  “I shouldn’t have done that. I only wanted to demonstrate. I thought that at its lowest strength, it wouldn’t… I’m sorry.”

  Saanji tried to answer, but the words he formed in his mind stayed there as though frozen. He felt Zeia’s tingling caress on his forehead. Eyes closed, mute, he savored it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The Belly of the Rat

  Zeia made her way out of the camp. Arnil Royce had assigned a contingent of bodyguards to stay with her even after they left Cassica, and these armored men followed quietly a few yards behind her. Meanwhile, Lancers and Earless hurried to get out of her way. None of the sentries challenged her. Finally, at the edge of the camp, she dismissed her bodyguards. They looked only too happy to be relieved of duty. Alone, Zeia moved stealthily through the darkness.