Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (20 page)

Rowen was not about to turn his back on her, though. “All of you, go back to the camp.” He waited until the Sylvs had obeyed, then faced El’rash’lin again.

The old man’s twisted lips smiled again. “What strange allies these times have given us.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“I was. Twice.”

Rowen frowned. “Care to explain that?”

“I’d rather not, though I don’t think it’s up to me.” El’rash’lin winced, as though in great pain. He started to fall but waved off Rowen’s help and regained his composure. “This… hurts, Knight. More than you can understand. But I have to tell you…”

Something in his tone made Rowen shudder. “Tell me what?”

He looked up, and it stopped snowing. Rowen wondered if that was El’rash’lin’s doing or just coincidence. Finally, El’rash’lin said, “Iventine lives again.”

Rowen blinked. “The Nightmare?”

“If you wish to call him that.” El’rash’lin gave Rowen a cold look. “This is Chorlga’s doing. That’s why I live, too. But that part was an accident.” He paused. “I can’t explain. I can only ask you to believe me.”

Rowen took a deep breath. El’rash’lin exhaled, too—an impossible thing for a ghost—and Rowen watched the fog of their exhales mingle then dissipate into the winter air. “I believe you,” he said at last.

“I’m afraid there’s more.” El’rash’lin winced again then regained his composure. “Chorlga knows that Silwren is gone. He knows about you… and Knightswrath. He knows because I told him.”

Rowen tried to ignore the fresh shiver that ran down his spine. “I didn’t have many advantages, old man, but surprise was one of them. Now that’s gone.”

El’rash’lin smiled slightly. “It couldn’t be helped. Chorlga was about to destroy Lyos. Telling him about you was the only way to unsettle him, to distract him long enough that he forgot. But I was too late to stop what he did to the Isles.”

Rowen’s fear became cold dread. He thought of Aeko, the squires he’d trained with, and the magnificent temple where he’d studied the Shao arts. “What happened?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment. I’ll tell you everything. But first, Knight, you have to understand: my sanity is like a rope bridge that’s been doused in oil. The ropes are on fire. If I don’t cross before it breaks, I’ll be as dangerous to you… to everyone… as Chorlga. I’ll be as mindless as Iventine. I have to—”

Rowen caught the old man as he slumped and almost fell in the snow.

El’rash’lin offered a weak smile. “It seems, Human, that you’re fated to spend a great deal of time keeping overpowered Shel’ai from destroying themselves… and those around them.” Using Rowen’s shoulder as a crutch, he lifted himself. “Is that how you envisioned your Knighthood?”

“Not really,” Rowen admitted.

El’rash’lin clung to Rowen’s arm, but he managed to stand to full height. “There’s something else.”

“I figured as much.”

El’rash’lin managed to stand on his own. “I know where you’re going. I know why. I can’t explain, but I need you to go south instead.”

Rowen heard Kilisti scoff. Without having to turn around, he could imagine the expression on the faces of the other Sylvs. He shook his head. “We came to free those captives. We can’t leave until—”

“I’ll free them myself. Don’t ask me to explain, but I have to do it alone. You’ll have to trust me on this.”

Rowen gestured southward, into the darkness. “We have a pack of Olgrym chasing us. If we can’t lose them, we’ll have to—”

“Head south,” El’rash’lin said firmly, all trace of humor gone. “Sooner or later, you’ll have to face the Olgrym yourself. I can’t deal with them
and
save the captives. And I need to do the latter alone.”

“What’s waiting for me there?”

“The Free Cities need you. Besides, Chorlga won’t anticipate that. He’ll expect you to go straight to the Lotus Isles. The longer you can avoid him, the better.”

Rowen rested one hand on Knightswrath. “I don’t mean to avoid him. I mean to kill him.”

El’rash’lin smiled faintly. “Not yet, Human. You aren’t ready. If we had months in which I could train you, perhaps. But we don’t. Again, I can only ask you to trust me.”

Rowen glanced back at the other Sylvs. He lowered his voice. “They came to free those captives, not fight Chorlga. They won’t follow me to the Free Cities. And even if they did, what am I supposed to do when I meet the Dhargots? It may have escaped your notice, Shel’ai, but I don’t have an army waiting for me anywhere… not a friendly one, anyway.”

“There’s a host of Isle Knights at Atheion.”

Rowen blinked. “Aeko?”

“And Crovis, I’m afraid.”

Rowen considered this. “Atheion’s far. I’d have to sneak past Hesod first. But—”

El’rash’lin held up his hand. “I leave the rest of this to you. Goodbye, Knight.” He turned to go.

Alarmed, Rowen reached for the Shel’ai’s sleeve. Somehow, the cloth passed through his fingers. “Wait! I need help, old man. You have to help me with Knightswrath. You have to tell me about Chorlga!”

El’rash’lin answered with a sad smile. “I’m sorry, Knight. I will do everything I can to help you. But I do not think we will meet again. Goodbye.”

And then, he was gone.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Hands

E
l’rash’lin stood alone, racked with guilt, as he watched Rowen and the others ride away. The Sylvs had argued with him for hours, but finally, Rowen had won out. Despite his rage at El’rash’lin’s sudden departure, he’d agreed to abide by El’rash’lin’s wishes. Rowen wouldn’t attack the Dhargothi compound. That meant the Sylvs either had to attack it without him—and Knightswrath, which meant certain death—or abandon the mission and turn south. El’rash’lin sensed the Sylvs’ rage, though he was reasonably sure they would not try to stab Rowen in his sleep.

I’m sorry, Rowen. I should have told you everything. But if you’d known Shade was there, you would have killed him. And we’ll need him before this is done.

El’rash’lin shook his head. Then he stumbled on through the snowy darkness, alone. He told himself that it could not be helped. But he wished he could at least have spared the strength to drive off the Olgrym or teleport Rowen safely across the Simurgh Plains. But that would have left him too weak for what lay ahead. Rowen would have to rely on Knightswrath.

If he can survive it…

El’rash’lin tried to clear his thoughts, trusting Rowen to the Light. He glanced up at the stars. He thought of Iventine as he’d been: a quiet, trusting boy to whom El’rash’lin had taught the constellations while Fadarah was busy teaching the others how to fight. Where had that boy gone? How had El’rash’lin stood by and permitted Fadarah to transform him into a mindless killer?

But I will give him rest,
El’rash’lin swore.
I did it once. I can do it again.

He traveled on through the night until a dark structure took shape on a distant hill. As he drew closer, the shape became a small, high-walled compound fitted with watchtowers and surrounded by a deep, dry moat. El’rash’lin did not have to search the moat to know that the snow concealed countless traps and caltrops.

A single bridge spanned the moat. In front of the bridge stood two huge, imposing men in full armor. Both of their arms ended in long, naked swords. Snow fell all around them and piled about their ankles.

El’rash’lin slowed at the sight of them. The Jolym had not seen him yet. Such creatures could not be confused by magic, but if he searched, he might find another way inside the compound. He quickened his pace. It had been a long time since he’d been in a battle, and the thought of wrecking Chorlga’s creations made him smile.

He lowered his hood and walked out of the night, straight toward the bridge. A guard in the watchtower spotted him and called out a challenge. El’rash’lin ignored it. As he drew closer, the Jolym stirred to life, blocking his path, looking down at him with their dark eyes and dull facemasks. Four sword blades rose, gleaming in the starlight. El’rash’lin lifted his hands. Wytchfire sprang from his fingertips. The Jolym jerked backward, their facemasks burning. Then they crashed to the snowy ground and did not move again.

El’rash’lin felt a rush of exhilaration, even as a buzzing in his mind threatened to erase his identity. He repeated his own name to himself, over and over, as he started forward. He walked between the fallen Jolym, feeling small compared to their great size. He looked up at the watchtower. He waved one hand, causing a crossbow bolt to burst into flames and burn to ash before it reached him. Before the crossbowman could fire again, El’rash’lin burned the tower down around him. He felt a surge of pity for the dying man when he heard his screams, but El’rash’lin reminded himself what the men had been doing.

He burned down two more guards as they were sprinting toward him with swords drawn. He burned down a third as he stood, dazed, his eyes wide with fright. Then, with vengeful slowness, El’rash’lin crossed the bridge and entered the compound, wytchfire trailing off his fingertips.

Shade blinked in the darkness, roused by the cries that echoed through the walls of his cell. He tried to sit up, momentarily forgetting the chains that pinned him—naked—to the cold stone floor. A flash of light caught his attention. He blinked, tensing, then realized it was just a torch passing by the bars in the window of his cell. Another torch followed, then another. More shouting echoed through the corridor.

Shade did not bother calling out to them, though he wondered what had happened. For days, he’d been chained in the dark, weak from his wounds, pinned to the floor with his arms outstretched so that he could not hurl wytchfire at his interrogators. But after he used his mind to strangle a guard with the chin strap of his own helmet, his captors had switched to asking questions from the corridor, beyond the locked door.

The men—sellswords, by the look of them—had wanted to know why Shade was here. They’d asked if Fadarah had sent him or if he was in league with one of the Dhargothi princes. But Shade sensed that the questions themselves were pointless. They were simply testing him. The sellswords wanted to ascertain the best way to keep a Shel’ai captive without getting killed in the process. Once the Sylvan captives began to give birth, the sellswords would have a whole generation of Shel’ai to deal with.

Shade ignored their questions, demanding that the sellswords tell him what had happened to Zeia. The captain of the sellswords—a cruel man with only one eye—informed Shade that Brahasti himself had been raping Zeia for days.

Shade relaxed. He knew just by the tremor of fear in the sellsword’s voice that he was lying. Shade wanted to force his mind into the sellswords’ so that he could truly ascertain whether Zeia had died from her wounds—as he thought she must have—but he was too weak for that. Instead, he spent his days wondering how Brahasti had obtained Jolym guards. There had been no hint of the Jolym in Fadarah’s mind, meaning it must have happened recently. And as far as Shade knew, only the Dragonkin could make Jolym. And the only Dragonkin he knew of—Silwren, El’rash’lin, Iventine, and the other Initiates—were all dead.

Unless there’s another Dragonkin in Ruun… a
real
Dragonkin!

That seemed impossible. Then, once only, Brahasti himself had come to gloat. Careful to remain in the hallway and address Shade through the door, he bitterly mocked the Shel’ai, reminding him of all his past threats, detailing the many punishments he had in store for Shade—unless he decided to sell him to the Dhargots, which might be the worse fate. Brahasti had asked about Fadarah, too.

Shade, determined not to reveal how much he knew, said as little as possible. But when Brahasti spoke of a mysterious benefactor and indicated that it was he who had entrusted the Jolym to him, the impossible became a certainty.

More screams outside his cell caught Shade’s attention. The screams sounded closer. He saw the flash of more torches and heard the clatter of steel falling to the floor. He wondered if Zeia had gotten free somehow. His pulse quickened. They were not exactly allies, but he thought surely she would not leave him here to die. Besides, she would need his help to get away.

“Zeia!” Though he meant to shout, his parched throat offered only a whisper. He strained against his chains, wishing again that he had the magical strength and focus needed to spring the locks. He feared she would pass by, unable to hear him.

Then the door opened. More flames illuminated the cell. Violet flames burned quietly from the palm of a cloaked figure he could not see. “Zeia,” he whispered again, suddenly conscious of his own nudity.

The figure gestured. Shade expected his manacles to spring open. To his surprise, they shattered. Shade tried to move his arms. Nothing happened. He flexed his fingers and willed his blood to quicken, trying to awaken limbs that had not moved for days. A little of the feeling returned. He managed to move his arms to his sides, brace his elbows, and sit up.

Zeia knelt beside him. She pressed a waterskin into his hands. Shade’s limbs shook, unable to lift it. Zeia helped him raise the spout to his mouth. Water ran down his chin, so cold against his bare chest that he shivered. Still, he drank. The taste of cold water made him weep with relief.

He tried to face Zeia, but her wytchfire blinded him. Then it dimmed. Instead of Zeia, Shade faced an old man with twisted, ghastly features. The old man smiled.

“I greet you, Kith’el. And by the Light, I forgive you.”

Shade’s eyes widened. He answered by weakly lifting one hand and hurling a violet gout of wytchfire into El’rash’lin’s face. El’rash’lin raised one hand, absorbed the flames with his palm, then shook his head. “Enough of that, young one, or I’ll leave you here.” With surprising strength, he hauled Shade to his feet. He took off his own tattered cloak and wrapped it around Shade’s shoulders. “While you’re busy not thanking me, you should be grateful that I steered Rowen Locke away, or else you’d probably be cinders by now. After what you did to his brother, he might not be as forgiving as I am.”

“This can’t be real,” Shade gasped. “You’re just a shade…”

“To some,” El’rash’lin answered with a twisted smile. “For Chorlga, a nightmare.”

Before Shade could say he did not understand, El’rash’lin led him into a hallway littered with ash and fallen swords.

Brahasti woke to the sound of his bedroom door being thrown open. He sat up, using one hand to shield his face from the glare of a torch while his other hand fumbled for the hilt of his sword. Then he remembered that he’d locked it in the trunk at the foot of his bed, just in case his female captive regained enough will to try to stab him in his sleep. He got out of bed without dressing and looked about for a weapon. He relaxed when the intruder moved his torch to one side and revealed himself. Dagath wore mismatched armor, and the hand holding the torch also had an oak-and-iron shield strapped to the forearm.

Brahasti scowled. “Dagath, what in Fohl’s name couldn’t wait until morning?” As he reached for the fine silk robe draped over his chair, he glanced at the Sylvan woman lying on his bed. Though awake and nude, she lay blank faced, blinking at the ceiling.

The Dhargot sighed at the sight of her. Though the prettiest of the remaining Sylvan captives, with the lean body of a fighter and hair of interwoven auburn and platinum, like the rest, she’d been left so emptied by Chorlga’s elixir that she didn’t even seem to notice what was happening to her. Brahasti might have killed her for disappointing him, but a faint swell to her belly convinced him she had value in other areas.

Dagath said, “Sorry, General. An attack at the gates. The watchtower’s burning!”

Brahasti listened. For the first time, he heard shouts and screams of panic elsewhere in the compound. His irritation turned to bemusement. He’d recently ignored a summons from Prince Karhaati, but that had been only a few days ago. Brahasti had not expected even one as brash as the Bloody Prince to respond so quickly. He wondered how many men Karhaati had sent to fetch him—or kill him. It hardly mattered. Thanks to the Jolym, they would not be enough.

Brahasti took the key from around his neck, opened the chest at the foot of his bed, and removed the Ivairian shortsword he’d taken from Farl. Dagath’s eyes flickered with recognition at the sight of the waisted blade, but Brahasti ignored him and started girding the weapon over his robe. “I want prisoners. The Jolym will tear any attackers apart, so once the battle’s nearly won, I’ll order them back. Have your crossbowmen aim for the legs of whoever is left.”

Dagath shook his head. For the first time, Brahasti realized the big man was shaking. “Not Karhaati. The gates, the watchtower, everything is burning… the flames… they’re
purple
!”

Brahasti froze midway through girding his sword. He listened again—more screams. Brahasti swallowed a sudden lump of fear and finished girding his sword. “Is it Fadarah?” Remembering that Dagath probably didn’t know what Fadarah looked like, he added, “Big man, black armor, blue tattoos. Half Sylv, half Olg. Probably very angry.”

“No idea. Didn’t see who or how many. I just ran here as soon as I got my armor on.”

Brahasti swore. He sat down on the edge of the bed and tugged his boots on. It
had
to be Fadarah. But Brahasti still had his Jolym and a small host of sellswords. The latter might be panicking now, but once Brahasti entered the courtyard and took command, that would change.

Brahasti rose. “Send more men to guard the pits.”