Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  Aeko glanced at Rowen’s expression then turned to Jalist. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “I don’t know any more than you do, but if I had to guess, I’d say magic. And nothing kind, by the sound of it.”

  Aeko nodded. “We’ll take care of him,” she told Saanji. She raised her voice. “We’ll see that he harms no one. Nor will anyone harm him.”

  For a long time, no one spoke or moved. Earless, Lancers, and a smattering of Iron Sisters milled around the protective circle of Isle Knights. Jalist could see that everyone’s nerves had frayed near the breaking point, even as the snowfall thickened and the cold continued to grow, seeping in through their clothes.

  “Leave them alone,” Saanji ordered finally.

  Gradually, the crowds dispersed. Saanji drew Aeko aside. The two spoke in heated whispers. Sang Wei helped Jalist take Rowen by the arm and half lead, half drag him back to his tent. A few Knights followed.

  Sang Wei said, “I’ll see to this, Dwarr. We’ll keep him safe. Ride on, if you like.”

  Jalist caught his meaning. He glanced east, in the direction Prince Leander and the other Dwarrs had gone. He turned back to Rowen, whose eyes remained wide and unblinking. Jalist shuddered. “No,” he said, “I’ll stay.”

  By the time sundown washed the tents of the camp, Saanji’s army had shrunk considerably. Even in the thickening snowfall, Lancers had continued to leave. Saanji spoke with officer after officer, pleading with them to stay. He offered them riches. He made threats. He spoke of Arnil Royce and the opportunity for revenge and tried to shame them into staying.

  When none of that worked, he considered capturing and hanging a few Lancers for desertion. But he had hardly begun issuing orders when he discovered that no Lancer and almost none of his Earless were willing to obey.

  As the day ended, he sat in his tent, shivering despite the half-empty bottle of hláshba he held in one wavering fist. Royce’s sword rested naked across his knees. One of his own officers was going down the list of all the Ivairians who had either deserted or seemed likely to do so.

  “Sir Altrick said he’s leaving at first light. Sir Hector and Sir Bowen plan to go as soon as the snow stops… and I think they’ll be taking most of the Cassican militia with them.”

  “What about Sir Bors?” Saanji slurred. “He wanted to storm the gates after Royce fell.”

  “Sir Bors left an hour ago. He said he meant to raise a bigger army and come back.”

  Saanji took a long drink of hláshba despite the roiling feeling in his otherwise-empty stomach. “I’m surprised none of them wanted to challenge my dear brother themselves.”

  “Begging your pardon, Prince, but I think it’s a matter of Ivairian law. Challenges of revenge cannot be issued until a month has passed, so the previous victor has time to recover and prepare.”

  Why didn’t I know that?

  Saanji took another long drink. His eyes swam. “Enough for tonight. Whoever’s still here in the morning, send them to me. I’ll beg them more then.”

  The officer nodded then cleared his throat. “M’lord, shall I have the cook prepare dinner?”

  Saanji shook his head. “Just go.” The officer saluted. Saanji returned the gesture halfheartedly. The officer started to leave. “Wait,” Saanji said. “Royce’s body. A funeral… I just realized his men are leaving, and we haven’t even buried him yet.”

  “I think that’s their way, too, m’lord. The actual body doesn’t matter much to them. They just bury it where it falls. A formal ceremony is held a month after the Lancer has fallen. The body itself isn’t necessary.”

  Saanji thought of a very different funerary practice observed by some Dhargots: the body was burned, then if the dead person was an enemy, his ashes were painted on one’s weapons; if he was a friend, his ashes were mixed with wine and drunk. Saanji imagined burning Royce’s body and mixing a pinch of his remains in a cup of hláshba.

  Saanji clutched his stomach, tried to hold it back, then threw up. He retched until his eyes watered. When he looked up, his officer was gone. He wondered how much the man had seen. He decided it did not matter anymore.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Sir Fey

  Rowen woke in darkness. He feared that he was still on the Wintersea. Then he found himself on a straw pallet. A low fire burned at the center of his tent, hissing when snowflakes fell through the hole and melted in the flames. He looked around and found himself alone.

  He sat up, pushed aside his blanket, and looked for a weapon. He spotted his swords resting on a nearby table, exactly where he’d found them the first time. His new, mismatched armor lay next to it. He got up. The cold, damp ground pressed against his feet, making him shudder. He tugged on his boots.

  Despite the fire, his breath fogged before him. He paused, watching it dissipate. “This is almost the end,” he whispered to himself. He shuddered again. Then he got dressed. He had just girded his swords when he heard the tent flap rustle. He turned around, expecting to see Jalist or Aeko.

  Instead, he saw Shade.

  Rowen thought he must be dreaming. He blinked. When Shade did not disappear, Rowen drew both his swords and started forward. Shade held up his hand.

  “Wait—”

  Rowen threw his shortsword.

  Shade made a sharp motion, and the shortsword froze midair. Another motion made it fall to the ground. But Rowen had already expected this. By then, he’d crossed the tent and was thrusting the tip of his bastard sword at Shade’s throat.

  Shade stepped backward. His hands rose, but no wytchfire appeared. Instead, the Shel’ai summoned a wall of force that knocked Rowen’s lunge awry. Rowen recovered quickly. Twisting, he sent his sword sweeping back at Shade’s throat in a blurring backhand. This time, Shade made no move to defend himself.

  Rowen stopped short. He held the edge of his sword to Shade’s throat. A thin line of blood appeared. He frowned. “You’re letting me kill you.”

  “Isn’t that what you want?”

  Rowen shifted, turning so that he faced Shade fully, without removing his sword. “More than you could possibly know.”

  Shade nodded slowly. “For what I did to your brother.”

  “For what you did to a lot of men’s brothers. And to Silwren.”

  Shade smiled thinly. “Before you declare yourself champion of all the honored dead, hear what I have to say.” He paused. “El’rash’lin sent me.”

  “I don’t care if the gods themselves sent you. Nothing you have to say could possibly interest me.”

  For a long time, Shade met Rowen’s gaze, unblinking. Finally, he said, “Then why am I still alive?”

  Rowen took Shade’s sword. He noticed that while the Shel’ai still wore all black, his clothes no longer bore the emblem of a crimson greatwolf. “You’ve changed your colors.”

  “I’d like to think I’ve changed more than that. But we’ll see.” Shade paused again. “I killed Fadarah.”

  “Funny, I thought I did.”

  “He would have died from the wound you gave him. We couldn’t prevent that. But I hastened his departure.”

  “Why?”

  “The same reason you went looking for Brahasti. The Sylvan captives, the rapes. Even in war, there must be rules. Fadarah broke those rules.”

  Despite his anger, he managed two words: “The Unseen.”

  Shade flinched. “Those are old sins. Kill me for that later, if you must. But first, we need to talk.”

  Rowen hesitated then stepped back. He lowered his sword. “Speak.”

  “El’rash’lin is dead… but you already know that, I think.” Shade wiped his neck, glanced down at the blood, then wiped his hand on his tunic.

  “I suspected. He said he was going to throw himself into the Dragonward.”

  Shade n
odded. “That was his intention. But that’s not how he died.”

  Thoughts of the Dragonjol made Rowen white-knuckle is sword. “I think I know that, too.”

  Shade raised one eyebrow. “Then you’ve seen Godsbane?”

  Rowen did not answer.

  “You have no idea how far I’ve traveled, Human.” Shade’s eyes shone with unspeakable weariness. “What I saw in the north… Chorlga sent the Dragonjol to Ivairia. He did this for no reason beyond a desire to test his new creation. It turned a whole countryside to ash. The Lancers don’t know it yet, but most of them no longer have a home to return to.”

  Something told Rowen that Shade had witnessed this with his own eyes. “So why are you here?”

  “I searched the minds of some of the men when I slipped into the camp,” Shade said instead. “Half this army is about to abandon whoever still leads it. The other half has even less faith in their leader than I have in you. But I promised El’rash’lin I’d help you if I could.”

  “There’s nothing you can do.” Rowen hesitated then decided it no longer mattered if Shade knew the truth. “Chorlga has Knightswrath. I lost it in Hesod. He took it before Zeia could get it back for me. He’s waiting for me in Cadavash. He’s probably already destroyed the army that was marching east to confront him.”

  Shade paled. “He has Knightswrath…”

  “And Zeia, if she’s still alive.” Rowen sheathed his bastard sword. “He says that if I surrender, he’ll show mercy.”

  Shade’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t actually believe that.”

  Rowen picked up his shortsword and sheathed that as well. “I don’t pretend to understand even half of what’s happened all around me, as far as magic goes. But something tells me that Chorlga’s idea of mercy isn’t something I’ll enjoy.”

  Shade touched his throat again. “You’re going to try and kill him without Knightswrath.”

  Rowen did not bother answering.

  “When?”

  “As fast as I can ride to Cadavash.”

  “With your army?”

  Rowen shook his head. “Alone. Besides, this isn’t my army. I’m not Fâyu Jinn. I never was.” Rowen thought of Igrid. He realized that if he went to Cadavash, he would be abandoning her to her fate. But how could he rescue her alone?

  Then again, what can I do against Chorlga?

  “Can you get me into Cadavash without Chorlga knowing it?”

  Shade shook his head. “I might be able to slip in by myself, but I can’t do anything against the Dragonjol.”

  “Could you kill Chorlga if I distracted him?”

  Shade answered more quickly this time. “As strong as he is now, I could only kill him if all his defenses were down—which they won’t be. Only Knightswrath can do that. And you’re the only one who can use the sword.” The Shel’ai turned. For a long time, he seemed to study the dying fire at the center of Rowen’s tent. “Is Zeia still alive?”

  “I don’t know. He showed her to me, showed her dying, but I think that was just to hurt me. I think… he believes she means as much to me as Silwren did.” Rowen hesitated, remembering that long ago, Shade and Silwren had been lovers.

  Shade stared into the fire again. “If Chorlga thinks that, then she might still be alive. If she is, we have a chance.”

  Rowen shook his head. “She looked hurt. He’s probably just keeping her alive to taunt me. I don’t think she’ll be able to help us fight him. Besides, she has no hands.”

  Shade nodded. “That’s why she might be able to help us.” Slowly, he explained his plan.

  Rowen listened, keeping one hand on his sword hilt. When Shade finished, Rowen nodded—his only answer.

  Shade faced him for a moment, then nodded back. He seized the hood of his cloak and drew it up over his tapered ears. Then he turned and vanished into the night.

  Saanji woke to one of his bodyguards shaking him. He cursed and fumbled for a weapon, asking if they were under attack. The servant said no. He asked next if Zeia had returned. When the servant answered no to that as well, Saanji rubbed his eyes, directed his gaze toward the tent flap, and saw darkness beyond. He realized he must have slept for only a few hours. A stabbing headache made him reach for the bottle of hláshba beside his bed. The servant repeated something about a visitor.

  “Gods, who is it?”

  “One of the Isle Knights, m’lord. He insists it’s urgent. We tried to send him away, but he won’t leave. When your guards tried to make him leave, he knocked one down and broke another man’s nose. Do you want him killed?”

  Saanji took a long drink, closed his eyes, and waited for his headache to slacken. “You said he. I take it it’s not the woman?”

  “No, m’lord. It’s… the Knight who went fey earlier.”

  Saanji opened his eyes. “He’s here?”

  The servant nodded. “We’ve taken his weapons. If you like, we can bind his hands—”

  “Just send him in.” Saanji stood up, wrapped himself in his robe, and went to urinate in the privy. He kept his shortsword lying on his bed, within easy reach. The sight of it reminded him of Royce’s sword. He wondered where he’d put it. He turned and spotted it lying on a table, glinting in the candlelight across his tent.

  Then he realized he was still pissing, corrected his aim, and finished. By the time he turned, the Isle Knight was being escorted into his tent. Although he still wore a battered kingsteel cuirass, the rest of his armor was mismatched. Four Earless warriors stood around him, all scowling. One had a bloody nose. The Isle Knight’s hands had been tied in front of him.

  Saanji took another drink and picked up his sword. “So, Sir Fey, have you come to kill me?”

  The red-haired Isle Knight shook his head. “No, m’lord, though what I have to say will probably sound no less sane than I sounded earlier.”

  Saanji sat down in an empty chair. “Then speak, Knight. I’m curious to see if there’s anything left in this world that can surprise me.”

  The Isle Knight hesitated. “I just spoke with Shade.”

  Saanji blinked. “Congratulations.” He lifted the bottle and took yet another long drink of hláshba. “Tell me, what did Fadarah’s right hand say? Did he tell you why he calls himself a ghost? I’ve always wondered.”

  “He didn’t, m’lord, but I’d be happy to tell you. Only I think we should discuss this in private.”

  Saanji chuckled. “You assault my guards then ask me to talk to you in private?”

  “Your guards didn’t want to let me see you.”

  “That’s because I was busy having nightmares about my friend getting his skull split open.” He rubbed his stomach and realized there was only one swallow of hláshba left in his bottle. He finished it then snapped his fingers and pointed to a bottle of wine on a far table. One of his bodyguards brought it, along with a cup. Saanji drank straight from the bottle. A moment later, content that he’d finally drowned his headache, he studied the Isle Knight’s expression. For a madman’s, his eyes looked exceptionally clear.

  “Fine.” Saanji waved his hand. “Leave me alone with the Knight. If I need you, I’ll scream.”

  The bodyguards hesitated. One issued a threat that Saanji could not hear. Then they filed out, leaving the Isle Knight’s hands tied.

  “Talk fast,” Saanji said, waving his wine bottle. “I don’t intend to be lucid for much longer.”

  “You might want to alter that plan, m’lord. I need you clearheaded by morning.”

  Saanji laughed. “Did Royce’s ghost put you up to this?” His smile vanished. “I shouldn’t have said that.” He looked up at the roof of his tent. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He poured a little wine on the ground then took another long drink.

  “I’m going to kill Chorlga,” the Isle Knight said.

 
“Good for you. I’ll light candles and sacrifice something in your honor. Would you like a city named after you? If so, I’m afraid you’ll have to remind me what your name is—”

  The Isle Knight took a step forward, his expression severe. “I’m going to kill Chorlga, but I can only do that if you kill your brother. And it has to happen in three days.”

  Saanji blinked. “Now I know Royce put you up to this. He always believed in the impossible.” Suddenly wanting to hold his dead friend’s sword, Saanji stumbled across the tent and picked it up. As he turned, he lost his balance. Using the sword as a crutch, he caught himself then returned to his chair. He held up the sword, letting the light shine off its blade.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” He laid the sword on the table then changed his mind and picked it back up. “Not sure what you saw earlier today, Sir Fey, but Arnil Royce couldn’t beat my brother. And Royce was the best swordsman I’ve ever seen. What in the Dragongod am I supposed to do?”

  Fearing he was about to retch, Saanji stood and began to pace. He held the bottle of wine in one hand, Royce’s sword in the other. “I’m not saying I’m giving up. Royce was my friend, and my brother is a rotten bastard. Only I’m about to lose the Lancers, meaning I’ll be laying siege to a city that’s defended by an army bigger than mine. Oh, and it’s a gods-damned blizzard outside!”

  “It stopped snowing,” the Isle Knight said.

  “How lovely. Maybe if we start shoveling now, we can clear a path to the walls by morning. Some attack that’ll be!” Saanji tired, forgot why he was pacing in the first place, and returned to his chair.

  “I didn’t say you have to take the city in three days. I said your brother has to die in three days.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because Chorlga will be watching.”

  Saanji shuddered. “There’s a pleasant thought. Maybe if he sees me sending assassins, he’ll get sufficiently rankled and send all his Jolym to wipe out my little army… and that’s if my brother’s men don’t do it for him.” Saanji finished the bottle of wine and looked around for another.