Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2)

by Michael Meyerhofer

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Epilogue

  Appendix

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  Knightswrath

  The Dragonkin Trilogy™ Book Two

  A Red Adept Publishing Book

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  Copyright © 2015 by Michael Meyerhofer. All rights reserved.

  Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  PROLOGUE

  The king stood naked on his terrace, surrounded by darkness. From his vantage point high in the city of Shaffrilon, built into the soaring boughs of the World Tree, Loslandril could look out over half of his father’s kingdom. Of course, the kingdom was not his father’s anymore. King Rhil’thys had been dead for three years. In his absence, Loslandril had commanded the Sylvan armies in their endless skirmishes against the Olgrym, traded with the Humans inhabiting the Dead Shores, negotiated with the Wyldkin north of the forests, and presided over the fierce and ongoing debate over what to do about the Shel’ai. Still, Loslandril chafed at his title.

  I am not my father. I will never be like him…

  Loslandril glanced up at the night sky awash with stars. As it extended even higher overhead, the expansive World Tree blotted out a portion of the sky before vanishing into the blue-black clouds. He traced his fingertips along his terrace railing. He remembered how, as a boy, he’d touched the smooth, white bark of the World Tree and felt as if he were touching his father’s silk robe—so different from the dark, gnarled texture of wytchwood trees. He smiled thinly.

  I won’t become him… but isn’t that what all sons say, in time? Isn’t that what my son will say about me one day?

  Loslandril touched the faint scar beneath his left eye and shook his head. No, Quivalen would never have so much cause to hate his father as Loslandril hated his own. Loslandril had sworn that to the Light, to the gods. He had sworn it days ago, kneeling beside Jalthessa’s grave.

  My sweet wife… how much easier it would be to keep that vow if you were here! More than anyone else had, Jalthessa had taught him compassion. She had saved him from whatever poison ran in his veins, giving him through her demonstrable love the precious antidote to his father’s malice.

  And now she’s gone.

  Loslandril fought back the tears that still came every time he thought of her. Sylvan women did not give birth easily, and Jalthessa had been no exception. Despite all the wealth and ancient medicines at his disposal, Loslandril had been forced to watch her die. Yet she had smiled weakly, held her newborn son, and nursed the infant one time before her spirit went to the Light. That, Loslandril knew, should have given him comfort. Strangely, it only made him angrier.

  Quivalen had not opened his eyes before his mother died. That was not uncommon for Sylvan babies—especially sickly ones, like Quivalen—but it also meant that the boy had never even seen his own mother. Now she was gone, and her son would grow to manhood without even the vaguest, ghostly memory of her inhabiting some dim recess of his mind.

  Loslandril clenched his fist and struck the ornate stone railing of his terrace. It hurt. He struck it again, even harder. This time, his knuckles left a smear of blood on the smooth white marble. His hand throbbed, but the pain was a welcome distraction.

  Like most Sylvs, Loslandril had not come from a large family. He had no siblings or close relatives, and his own mother had died when he was young—drowned after too much wine, his father had insisted. Loslandril had never believed that explanation, and the scar under his left eye was the result of questioning the circumstances of his mother’s death one too many times.

  While Sylvs usually mated for life, exceptions were made for royalty in order to preserve the lineage. Loslandril had no doubt that before long, potential mates would be not-so-subtly introduced to him at court. But for the time being, he had no intention of humoring them. Loneliness was all that he had left of Jalthessa—he kept it to honor her.

  No, he amended, that’s not all I have of her. I have Quivalen. I have my son.

  The pain eased a bit, like a knot going slack. He considered summoning the midwife and having her bring the babe to his arms. But Quivalen was still only a few days old and uncommonly weak. Loslandril still feared injuring him somehow—though he still savored those bittersweet moments when he watched the child sleep, frail but alive.

  Loslandril took a deep breath and let it go. Trying to clear his thoughts, he stared out at his night-wrapped city with its twisting towers, arcing walls, sloped rooftops, countless temples, and statues. There would be time to dote over his son—years and years. For now, he had other concerns.

  He glanced again at the heavy parchment unrolled on the table behind him. Though he had already read the missive enough times to commit the words to memory, he picked it up and read it again. Once again, the words, written in flowing Sylvan script, made him shudder.

  A king should not be afraid, he reminded himself, echoing one of his father’s favorite sentiments. But it was not every day that one received a message from a Shel’ai. A message… or a threat?

  Loslandril cursed, allowing a little of
his lingering bitterness to turn into anger. Like most Sylvan kings dating almost all the way back to the Shattering War, King Rhil’thys had waged a tireless war of persecution against the Shel’ai. Rhil’thys had taken a special liking to the persecution.

  Under most previous kings, Sylvan children born with the violet eyes and white pupils—an unmistakable sign that they had been cursed with the gift of Shel’ai magic—had simply been raised in neglect then banished as soon as they were of age, left to wander the outer lands alone, to seek shelter in Human realms that wanted them no more than the Sylvs did. But under King Rhil’thys, as a formal tenet of the king’s law, such children were torn from their mothers and murdered.

  Magic is a stain, Loslandril had heard his father say again and again, his eyes made frightfully wide with rage. Better the poor souls afflicted with its curse be given a quick death! Better for them and essential for us, if we trueborn Sylvs are to survive.

  Still, sometimes, Shel’ai survived. If their parents did not have the heart to kill them and concealed them instead, they might live long enough to escape the mobs, inquisitions, and long knives. Loslandril did not know whether to call that salvation luck; such children almost certainly faced a lifetime of misery, evading Sylvan mobs and fleeing the forests only to face the even harsher outer world—alone. But if they survived, in time, their abilities would grow. They would wield the last vestiges of the old magic. They would be powerful. And no Shel’ai was as powerful as the two men who had signed their names to this parchment.

  El’rash’lin and Fadarah… Loslandril cursed again. He tossed aside the parchment, noting the smear of his own blood on the message.

  He did not know how the Shel’ai had delivered the message, and his palace guards had been unable to find out. Loslandril had returned from his wife’s funeral to find the parchment lying neatly in his bedchamber. At first, he had assumed a connection between the two events. Certain the Shel’ai had somehow contributed to his wife’s demise, he had momentarily burned with a wrath for the magic-born that would have rivaled even his father’s. But his wrath slackened. He knew it had to have been a coincidence. After all, Jalthessa had possessed strength of spirit but never much strength of body. It had come as a surprise to no one—least of all her—when childbirth proved her undoing.

  “Yet you still insisted on having a child,” Loslandril spoke to the darkness. “For me. And gods forgive me, I let you do it.” Loslandril pushed such thoughts from his mind and considered the sorcerers’ proposal instead.

  A bargain between Sylv and Shel’ai, a returning to the alliance of old… Loslandril laughed bitterly. The sorcerers’ demands—that the Sylvs halt the murder of the Shel’ai children, no longer hunt them, and welcome them back into Sylvos—were impossible. What they offered in return—help in fighting the Olgrym, plus the threat of revenge if Loslandril refused—was no small matter, but it would never be enough to convince his people. If Loslandril agreed to the sorcerers’ demands, as part of him wanted to do, he would almost certainly be the first Sylvan king in centuries to feel an arrow in his back.

  Still, he had no other choice. The letter made it clear that if Loslandril continued the genocide perpetuated by his father, all of Sylvos would pay the price. The threat was not an idle one. He had been receiving startling reports of late: Fadarah, El’rash’lin, and their ilk had been interceding to save Shel’ai children from the mobs. Each child saved was, in turn, added to their ranks.

  According to the wisdom of midwives, one in a thousand Sylvan children was born with dragonmist eyes. The children seemed chosen simply by chance, though some said that children with even one Shel’ai parent were guaranteed to have magical abilities. That meant that one or two Shel’ai were born each year.

  Of course, most Shel’ai infants are strangled by their fathers the moment they open their eyes. He clenched his fist, flexing his sore fingers. He glanced down at his knuckles. The bleeding had stopped.

  But Fadarah might still have fifty Shel’ai with him. That might as well be an army. Given the perpetual violence and endless border skirmishes between the Sylvs and the Olgrym, not to mention the tension between the forest-dwelling Sylvs and their Wyldkin cousins, Loslandril could not afford the soldiers it would take to defend his kingdom against fifty righteously vengeful sorcerers wielding wytchfire even more deadly than Sylvan longbows.

  I must bargain with them. I cannot give them everything they want, of course, but I must give them enough.

  He could not permit the Shel’ai to live once more in Sylvos… but perhaps he could spare their lives. An edict declaring it unlawful to kill Shel’ai children—a simple law that threatened banishment into the care of their fellow sorcerers instead of death—might be enough. Of course, that would mean letting the Shel’ai grow stronger, but at least it would stave off a war that Loslandril had neither the strength nor the will to fight. Besides, El’rash’lin and Fadarah were saving many of those children anyway. Better that Loslandril gain a measure of credit in their eyes.

  It will be hard to convince my people, though… He flexed his fingers again, winced as jagged pain radiated from his knuckles, and wondered if he’d broken his hand. Then someone knocked on his bedchamber door. Far from the usual gentle rapping of his servants, the knock was fast and frantic. Loslandril’s heart froze.

  My son! They’ve come to tell me my son has died. He bolted for the door, touching a luminstone along the way. As soft blue light flooded his bedchamber, he remembered that he was naked. He grabbed a robe and tied it tight then unbarred the door and flung it open.

  Old Hanwen, the midwife who had served his family all her life, stood in the hallway, flanked by guards. In place of her usual smile, her lips were tight, and her eyes were wide with panic. She was holding a small bundle wrapped in a blanket of the finest silk patterned with the broad weeping limbs of wytchwood trees.

  No…

  Old Hanwen spoke, but Loslandril did not hear. Grasping her arm, he yanked her into his bedchamber then wrested the bundle from her arms. The guards started to follow, but Loslandril kicked the door shut with a heavy, oaken boom.

  No…

  Forcing himself to be gentle, he peeled back the blankets until he saw pale, naked flesh. He reeled at the sight of Quivalen’s tiny face. The infant’s eyes were closed.

  No…

  Loslandril pressed his fingertips to the infant’s throat, feeling for a pulse, but his hands shook too much to tell. He raised the infant until his face was nearly touching his own. He prayed that he would feel his son’s breath on his lips. Nothing.

  Loslandril reeled and might have fallen, dropping his son’s corpse in the process, but Old Hanwen, in a moment of unheard-of familiarity, steadied him then gently but forcefully pried the infant from his arms. Loslandril wept, falling to his knees.

  Gone… he’s gone. I’m sorry, Jalthessa. I should have kept him closer. I should have kept him with me.

  Then he heard the infant cry. Loslandril stiffened as though struck. He stood. Quivalen was alive. He took the infant from her again, as gently as he could, and held him close. He laughed and wept at the same time. “My son…”

  Old Hanwen’s face was still taut with horror. He examined his son’s tiny, soft body for injuries. Nothing. Quivalen’s face was pinched and crying, his small limbs weak and flailing, but his skin was cool. His breath still came in tiny, quiet gasps that were easy to miss. Still, the infant bore no obvious wounds or indications of fever. The midwife was still talking, her voice rushed and frantic.

  Then Loslandril caught the word. Impossible…

  Quaking in disbelief, he held his son closer. Quivalen’s face was mere inches from his own when the infant opened his eyes. For a moment, Quivalen’s squalling stopped. The only son of the Sylvan king stared up at his father with wide, unblinking eyes. Violet eyes with white pupils.

  Loslandril stumbled, nearly dropped the infant, and choked back a sob. Once more, the midwife took the baby from his grasp. Quivalen began cry
ing again, his small body quaking with angry sobs, but Loslandril hardly heard the sound. He sank to his knees.

  Old Hanwen was shaking him, repeating something over and over, but Loslandril did not understand. Her figure blurred as he began to weep. Then she shifted the sobbing infant to one arm, reached into her robe, and withdrew a knife.

  Loslandril thought for a moment that she meant to stab her own king. He tensed. He was no fighter, though he had received a measure of training from the Shal’tiar. He was certain he could get the knife away from her, though she would surely cut him in the process. But she offered him the knife, hilt first.

  Loslandril stared at the knife for a moment, not comprehending. Then he stood, wrenched the dagger from the midwife’s grasp, and threw it away. The steel clattered on stone. He took his son from her and slapped her across the face.

  As Old Hanwen recoiled, Loslandril shouted for his guards. They burst into the room so quickly, shortswords drawn, that he knew they had been waiting for the slightest reason to rush in. Loslandril pointed at the cowering midwife. He told them that she had gone mad, mistaken her son for a Shel’ai, and tried to kill him.

  “Take her,” he ordered, seething. “Gag her. Take her down to the garden. Cut her throat.”

  The guards blinked. One said, “My king?”

  “You heard me. And tell no one. The kingdom is still mourning my beloved queen. The last thing they need is a vicious rumor souring them against their innocent prince.”

  The guards glanced at each other. Old Hanwen had been a fixture in the palace longer than anyone living, but these particular guards had been chosen from the ranks of the Shal’tiar, for their loyalty as much as for their skill at arms. They could not refuse an order from their king.

  Old Hanwen’s blue eyes widened. Her mouth opened as though to protest, but the guards were on her in an instant. One removed his glove and stuffed it in her mouth. The other pinned both her arms behind her. The midwife did not struggle. Instead, she looked at Loslandril with confused, pleading eyes. Loslandril did not waver as the guards hauled her away.