Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) (23 page)

Well, that’s a start.
Despite himself, Jalist fought back a slight smile.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Knights of the Lotus

A
eko Shingawa sat and listened to Crovis Ammerhel’s ringing indictments.

“And lastly,” Crovis’s voice boomed through the vast circular Hall of Council, “I accuse Sir Rowen Locke of thieving the greatest symbol of our Order—namely, the Sword of Fâyu Jinn, Fel-Nâya, also called Knightswrath, a sacred relic from the days of the Shattering War.” Crovis paused for effect then resumed his seat.

A relic most of you didn’t even know existed until recently.
Despite this, many of the assembled Knights murmured their agreement. She rose to her feet, calling for attention. “I remind this assembly that Sir Locke is not here to defend himself against these allegations, nor is there any evidence of theft.” She seized a scroll off the table before her and brandished it. “Perhaps Sir Ammerhel has forgotten this signed testimony, sent from the Soroccan merchant who came by the sword honestly and gave it freely to Sir Locke in exchange for saving his life.”

Some Knights seemed to side with her, though more had agreed with Crovis. He faced her with a cold smile. His jet-black hair had been pulled back into a tight braid, giving him an especially fierce look. He did not rise, though it was customary to do so when speaking in the Hall of Council. “Lady Shingawa is quite correct. However, I remind her that our laws prohibit squires and those whose Knighthood has been revoked from owning or carrying adamune
.
Fel-Nâya is, at the very least, an adamune
.
It is, therefore, the sole property of the Order.”

Aeko spoke through her teeth. “Perhaps I nodded off during these proceedings, but not once in the past few hours did we vote on whether or not Sir Locke’s Knighthood should be rescinded.”

A wolfish smile touched Crovis Ammerhel’s face. He rose before he spoke. “Again, Lady Shingawa is correct. I move that we take such a vote immediately.” He turned in a slow circle, eyeing all one-hundred-odd Knights seated on tiered stone chairs in the great hall. “We have here the proper number of representatives from all three ranks of the Order. Let us vote now and put this matter to rest.”

Some of Crovis’s supporters cheered.

Aeko turned to face Bokuden. The Grand Marshal sat in a plain wooden chair in the center of the hall, dressed in the armor of a Knight of the Lotus. Though the ancient chamber had been designed so that speakers had to stand in an open area at the center, surrounded by Knights seated on progressively higher rows, Bokuden was permitted to sit. His face scarred by age and battle, he wore an adamune
at his side, though he seemed to favor a gnarled cane crowned with a visage of an intertwined crane and dragon. His knuckles were as white as his hair. Bokuden met her gaze, sighed, and rose heavily to his feet. He gestured for silence. The assemblage took longer than it should have to grant him that respect.

“I admire Sir Ammerhel’s devotion to the expediency of our laws.” He gave the Knight a strained smile. “However, the Codex Lotius clearly states that no Knight can be judged without first being granted the right to defend himself. Sir Locke is not here. While Sir Ammerhel would no doubt remind us that the vote can be taken in special circumstances in which the accused cannot be summoned, I remind this assembly that no attempts to summon Sir Locke to the Lotus Isles have yet been made. Therefore, any attempt to revoke his Knighthood is premature.” He faced Crovis, smiled, and added, “And morally questionable.”

Another uneasy grumble swept through the hall. Aeko could tell by the number of scowls versus the number of smiles that Bokuden’s support had waned of late. But he was still their Grand Marshal until he either died or was voted out of office, and not even Crovis dared attempt the latter. Yet.

Aeko said, “If Sir Crovis wishes to call for such a trial, he may do so. I move that we send an envoy to locate Sir Locke and invite him to appear before this council. I stress that this should be a request,
not
an arrest, in keeping with the spirit of our laws.”

Crovis stood and faced her, making no attempt to smile. “And if this kind invitation is refused?”

Aeko knew she was trapped, but that came as no surprise. Crovis was nothing if not cunning. She cleared her throat. “If Sir Locke will not appear before this esteemed council to speak in his own defense, then, in keeping with our laws, he must be stripped of his sword, armor, and title. But I have every confidence that he will agree to appear. After all, I remind this council of the courage he showed at Lyos… courage even his accuser has conceded.”

Crovis nodded, the hint of a smile forming on his lips. “It takes more than courage to be a Knight. It takes reason, temperance, humility—and obedience to our founding principles. Of these, Locke has none. That is why he stands accused. But I am a servant of the law. If this council wishes to have Locke present when his Knighthood is revoked, so be it. I will see it done.” He sat, pretending not to hear the cheers around him.

Aeko seethed. She knew that at best, she had only delayed the inevitable. Either Fel-Nâya would be taken from Rowen when Crovis found him in the wild, probably in or around the Wytchforest, or it would be taken when Crovis brought him back, found him guilty, and likely had him killed. And once Crovis had Jinn’s sword, he would become a living legend. Crovis would replace Bokuden, or kill him, and nobody would object.

Unless I ride ahead and find Rowen first
. But that was impossible. Laws decreed that whenever possible, a Knight of the Lotus must oversee the apprehension of another accused Knight. Aeko was only a Knight of the Stag. She could ride out ahead of Crovis, but she would have little hope of traveling through the realms alone with the Dhargots abroad.

She faced Bokuden and found him staring back. She realized they were thinking the same thing. Bokuden called for attention again.

“The Codex Lotius also states that the verdict comes at the end of a trial, not the beginning. Sir Ammerhel has clearly made up his mind as to Sir Locke’s guilt. That is his right. However, to maintain fairness, I call upon this assembly to choose another Knight of the Lotus to lead the envoy.” He stared down the glares from the dozens of Knights around him.

A disquieting silence swallowed the chamber. Aeko thought at first that one of Crovis’s supporters would volunteer, but it quickly became obvious that none wished to claim a role they felt had been stolen from their leader. Of the ten Knights of the Lotus present within the hall, two or three were still loyal to Bokuden, but Aeko could tell by their meek expressions that they were in no hurry to openly defy the man who would almost certainly be Grand Marshal before long. Others might simply have been reticent to conduct such a mission through territories rife with Dhargots.

The silence wore on. Crovis eyed the Grand Master with open derision as he rose from his chair again. “Since no one else volunteers for this duty, I offer my own name and call for an open vote. That is my right.”

Many Knights nodded their agreement, but Bokuden shook his head. “I am still Grand Marshal, Sir Ammerhel. I may choose whom to send, if I wish.”

Crovis bowed. “Then we await your wisdom, Grand Marshal.” He left the center of the chamber and resumed his seat in the lowest, closest row, which was reserved for Knights of the Lotus.

Bokuden, who had been standing since first he spoke, turned slowly, leaning on his cane. He seemed to take in the whole assembly before his gaze settled on Aeko. She saw his grave look and the faint hint of apology in his eyes. She started to shake her head, but Bokuden spoke, his voice booming so loudly that many of the Knights were startled. “Aeko Shingawa, Knight of the Stag, stand and be recognized.”

She obeyed, though her armor suddenly seemed thrice its normal weight.

“In recognition of your unchallenged valor in the field, for temperance of thought and action, and for your steadfast loyalty to the precepts of both the Codex Lotius and the Codex Viticus, I hereby invoke my special authority as Grand Marshal to grant you the rank you deserve.” He bowed. “I greet you, Aeko Shingawa, Knight of the Lotus.”

Aeko felt the blood drain from her face. She’d sought the rank all her life… and when she finally received the honor, it was nothing more than a political maneuver.
She forced herself to return the bow. For a long time, no one spoke. Then everyone was on their feet, shouting.

Crovis Ammerhel rose from his seat, as though he meant to charge Bokuden. Some Knights tried to restrain him, but he shrugged them off as though they were children. “This is an outrage. Ranks are granted by vote of the entire Council, not at one old man’s whim!” Crovis had his sword half drawn.

Aeko stepped between them. She touched her own sword hilt but did not draw it.

Bokuden smiled, still holding his cane. “The Codex Viticus makes no such distinction, Sir Crovis. Indeed, in the early days when the Lotus Isles were still ruled by a king, such things were always done one Knight to another. No law forbids it.”

“But tradition—”

Bokuden smiled thinly. “Fâyu Jinn had something to say about traditions that no longer serve their purpose.”

Crovis glanced around. The other Knights had fallen quiet so they could hear the exchange. He straightened, stepped back, and let go of his sword. “You are within your rights, Grand Marshal. I apologize for my outburst. Nevertheless, I remind you that only two women have ever risen beyond the Order of the Stag, and the last was three hundred—”

“Again, no law forbids this. In fact, the legends say that near half of Fâyu Jinn’s first battalion of Knights were women. Lady Shingawa has distinguished herself countless times… perhaps more than many of the old men in armor I see around me, myself included.” He looked around the Hall of Council as though daring someone to disagree. A few older Knights blushed, but none spoke out.

Crovis cleared his throat. When he spoke, he was all formality. “So be it. I will accept the legality of your actions… though I believe they show contempt for this assembly and its traditions and do damage to the honor of our Order.”

He turned smartly to face Aeko. “Lady Shingawa, I welcome you to the Order of the Lotus. Though I question the means of your promotion, I acknowledge your past courage. If it is the Grand Marshal’s wish that you command the envoy sent to capture Sir Locke, then I will submit dutifully to your authority.” His eyes cast daggers at her as he bowed.

As Aeko returned the bow, she wondered if Crovis’s use of the word
capture
was deliberate. “Thank you, Sir Crovis. I look forward to serving the Light at your side, in Jinn’s name.”

Crovis straightened, stone faced, and stalked out of the Hall of Council. Nearly all the Knights of the Lotus left with him, followed by most from the Orders of the Crane and Stag, until only a handful remained. Some eyed her with respect, others with pity.

Aeko sighed. Bokuden returned to his chair. He looked tired. She had been about to rebuke him, but the sight of the cane wobbling in his grasp frightened her.

She approached him slowly and knelt. “Old friend, what have you done?”

He took her hand and kissed it. “I have saved the Order… for another month, at least. Beyond that, it’s up to you. And Sir Locke.” He squeezed her hand and settled back in his chair. “I hope you are right about him.”

I hope I am, too.
Aeko rose, bowed, and started to go. Then, on impulse, she turned back, bent low, and kissed the Grand Marshal’s forehead.

He reached up and brushed his hand against the long dark braid hanging over her shoulder. “Goodbye, child,” he said.

Aeko left, walking briskly so that no one would see her struggling to stave off her tears. Somehow, she knew that she would never see Sir Bokuden again.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Healing

F
or three days, Igrid watched Arnil Royce sleep. The Lancer remained feverish and shaking, even after she’d cleaned and stitched his wounds and rubbed them in a special Hesodi poultice she’d made from herbs she’d found growing north of the stream. Though he had not spoken directly to her after their first encounter, he mumbled incomprehensibly in his delirium. Igrid feared moving him, but for all she knew, Dhargothi warriors would return to scour the field for survivors.

So Igrid had fashioned a crude litter, bound it to a horse, and taken the wounded Lancer half a mile north, to a copse of trees beside a stream. There, she reasoned that she could treat his wounds and still keep a sharp lookout.

The Dhargots had taken such a risk in attacking the Ivairians. Who was to say the Lancers would let so gruesome an insult go unanswered? There might have been no love lost between the Lancers and the Isle Knights, but Ivairia could always ally itself with another of the remaining Free Cities.

Anything that involves more people killing Dhargots has my vote!

She squelched her memories of Hesod, thinking instead about her plan to move to Lyos and start her own tavern or brothel. The loss of Knightswrath had shaken that dream, but she still had the fat pouch of coins that Arnil had given her.

Not me. He gave them to Anza.
But the girl was dead. And odds favored Arnil succumbing to his fever in the next day or so. Surely, she would be blameless in the gods’ eyes.

Then why do I feel so damned guilty?
She reminded herself that Arnil had not only saved her. Most commanders would have been practical and merely admonished the rapists or forgiven them entirely—especially amidst a battle, when all swords were needed. Others might have even killed Igrid and Anza outright to prevent them from speaking of it. But Arnil had dealt the sternest of punishments with his own sword while all his surviving knights watched.

Then again, his troops had done the deeds in the first place.
Aren’t commanders responsible for the actions of their men?
She gave up on resolving such matters and checked on him again. He was tossing his head and mumbling. She felt his forehead. He was still frightfully warm to the touch. She sighed.

She had done her best, but she doubted any of her efforts would keep the man in Ruun for long. He had eaten little and drunk even less, and his condition seemed to be worsening. She eyed his kingsteel bastard sword again. She would take that once the Lancer was dead.
No sense leaving it behind.

Igrid felt herself blush.
What’s wrong with me? Gods, I’m just being practical. I tried to help him, didn’t I? Just like I tried to help the girl. I could have left them behind, but I didn’t. Not my fault. The gods saw fit to make them wither.

She wiped the sleeping Lancer’s forehead with a cloth dampened with cool water. “Not my fault,” she muttered into the darkness.

A wolf howled in the distance, as though the night had decided to answer. She reached for a blade. She had seen plenty of wolves and wild dogs shamelessly feasting on the dead during the past few days, but thankfully, they kept their distance. After all, they already had plenty of bodies to satisfy them. Still, when she noticed that the fire was beginning to die, she gathered more wood. Fire, she knew, was her best defense against the wild.

Near dawn, rain began to fall. The campfire hissed, sputtered, and went dark. Igrid tied a cloth around her nose to block out some of the grisly reek and returned to the field of dead men. She gathered a stack of battered shields and propped two of them together to form a makeshift tent over Arnil’s face, offering him a little protection from the storm. He continued to toss and mumble, completely unaware.

“You’re welcome,” she grumbled. She fashioned another crude shelter for herself. Then she stooped wretchedly in the cold, arms crossed, and waited for the storm to pass.

Igrid did not know when she fell asleep, but she awoke shivering and hungry. It was mid-morning and cold, but the rain had stopped. She checked the First Lancer. Though he trembled from cold, his fever had broken. She did not know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. Shaking her head, she set about finding kindling for a fresh fire.

The rain had rendered all the surrounding wood unusable. She’d had the foresight to prop a shield over her remaining firewood, but the storm had produced far too much rain, so thoroughly soaking the surrounding grass that the wood had become damp anyway. She tied a cloth around her face and forced herself to approach the dead again.

Days of rot plus the routine machinations of scavengers had done their work. The smell was terrible but not as bad as the grisly, open eye sockets. Her stomach tightened and turned, but she pressed on. She approached one dead Lancer, then another, using a knife to cut the straps and remove their armor, which was already beginning to rust. Holding her breath, she cut away the wool and leather padding the Lancers wore beneath their armor. She did the same for several slain Dhargots.

The cloth was stained in dried blood, but the armor had kept out the rain. She returned to the campsite with a grisly mass of cloth she could use for kindling. She sprinkled the cloth with liquid from a flask of strong flammable spirits she had found among the dead then used flint and tinder to start a fire.

The fire was smoky and foul, but the wind was in her favor. She stacked the damp firewood near the sickly blaze, hoping the heat would dry it out. She checked on the Lancer again. His shivering had ceased. She grabbed the waterskin and managed to get him to drink a little, though he still did not stir.

She contemplated what she would do once he woke up. He was still an important man, and she might earn even more rewards for her assistance if she got him back to Ivairia in one piece. Her rumbling stomach reminded her of the dried rations she’d found. She ate her fill, forcing down the tasteless foodstuffs, and washed it down with a little sweet wine she’d also taken off the dead. Then she armed herself as best she could, taking up a crossbow in addition to her sword and knife, and went on patrol.

No one had returned to the field to claim the dead. Still, Igrid wanted to have a solid awareness of her surroundings. If any surviving warriors approached, she would see them long before they saw her, giving her time to flee, hide, or prepare to fight. She walked a broad perimeter of several miles and saw only empty grasslands scattered with trees and the remains of the dead.

Around early afternoon, she returned to the camp. She checked Arnil again, saw that his condition had not changed, and tried to feed him a little more broth. She ate a little more herself and rested.

She felt a familiar, tingling tightness in her abdomen, accompanied by a vague soreness in her nipples, and cursed.
This is a hell of a time for my monthly bleeding!
Still, it was something of a relief. The last thing she needed was to find herself with Rowen Locke’s bastard child.

She stayed at the camp until boredom overtook her, then she went down to the stream to bathe. Late-afternoon sunlight sparkled off the water. She stripped naked and left her clothes—a mismatch of articles looted from the field—on the ground beside the water, next to her sword, which she’d thrust into the earth where it would be within easy reach.

She tested the water with her toes. Despite the sunlight glinting off the stream, the water was shockingly cold. She forced herself to wade in anyway, stopping only when the water rose past her thighs to her waist. She shuddered and swore loudly, but she was glad for the way the cold drove the lingering weariness from her body.

She washed her face, rubbing her eyes. She hadn’t bathed since washing the blood off Anza. Igrid shuddered again, though it had nothing to do with the cold. She pushed the image of the girl’s face from her mind, willing anything to replace it.

The Isle Knight had probably reached the Wytchforest. She wondered if he was still alive. Part of her even missed him. “Don’t be a fool,” she grumbled. “You betrayed him. He hates you now. You’d be better off falling in love with an Olg.”

She knelt on the pebbly stream bottom, letting the water rise above her head. She stayed a moment in watery darkness, her eyes closed. The water did not feel so cold anymore. She could even feel the sunlight streaming through the water, caressing her. Despite herself, she smiled. She held her breath as long as she could then straightened. She combed back her wet hair with both hands, wiped her face, and opened her eyes.

She found Arnil standing on the bank, dressed only in his trousers, using his sheathed sword as a crutch. Arnil’s pale face blushed. “Forgive me. I was just…”

“Being a man,” Igrid snorted. She waded back to shore without covering herself and used an old cloak to dry off. Arnil turned his back as she dressed.
How is he even awake?
“You shouldn’t be moving yet. You’ll reopen those damn wounds I spent so much time stitching.”

Arnil inspected his bare chest. “You sew well, milady. These should hold.”

Igrid finished dressing, pulled her long crimson tresses behind her head, and tied them in a wet knot. “I’m no lady, Lancer. And I’m not an Iron Sister anymore, either.” She grabbed her sword and started back to the camp. “You’re probably hungry. There’s plenty of bread and dried meat, though you’re probably better off with broth and wine for now.”

He reached to grab her wrist, wobbled, and missed. “How long—”

“Three days. Four, if you count today. I thought for sure you’d go to the gods.”

Arnil traced his stitches with his fingertips. The skin was an ugly purple, and the stitches were seeping blood and pus, but that was not unusual. “You’ve cared for me all this time?”

For no reason Igrid could understand, she blushed. “Spare me your courtly gratitude, Lancer. I’m still keeping your coins, and whatever else your king gives me for keeping you alive.”

Arnil nodded. As he hobbled back to the campsite, she looked at him more closely and realized he was balding. He was thin, too, and only a little taller than she was.

He looks like some dainty princeling exiled to the wild to reform him of his cravings for common whores and gambling.
She smiled.

Then again, she had seen him charge five Dhargothi horsemen by himself. And when she’d found him by the river, he was wreathed in the bodies of slain foes. Spurred by sudden curiosity, she asked, “Why were you scouting the Dhargots? You don’t really think they’d invade Ivairia, do you?”

The Lancer returned to the tree he had been leaning against and, with Igrid’s help, sat down again. Igrid fed the fire and handed him a wineskin to drink from while she fixed his broth. When she looked at him again, the wine had left his lips red.

He took another drink, his face still expressionless, and said, “We’d heard how the Dhargots were sweeping east, claiming all the realms previously conquered by the Throng. Cassica is close to our borders. We trade with them for cloth and grain. When the sorcerers took Cassica, they never marched any farther north. They left us alone, but we didn’t know if the Dhargots would do the same.”

“If you just wanted to scout, you should have sent fewer men. You were too obvious.”

Arnil laughed. “A scouting party of a hundred horsemen. We might as well have been blaring trumpets while we rode, for all the noise we made. Had it been up to me, I would have ridden alone, or nearly so. But courtly protocol requires that the First Lancer travel with an appropriate entourage.”

She heard an unmistakable tone of bitterness and self-deprecation in his voice. “I’ve never known a knight to disparage his own precious Order.”

“Any decent knight hates his Order, or else he’s a fool. And anyway, I have a habit of voicing thoughts other men know to keep quiet. It’s why the king listens to me… though he’d probably rather I shut my mouth half the time.” He yawned and checked his wounds again. “What’s your name, Iron Sister?”

She frowned. “I told you—”

“Then give me your real name so I can stop offending you.”

My real name?
She almost laughed. She thought of inventing a new one, or maybe using Haesha again. “Igrid. But I don’t feel like telling you my story, so if you want to talk, tell me yours.”

Arnil shrugged. “I was born into House Royce. My father is King Rodrick Whitetower’s nephew. When I was five, they stuck a wooden sword in my hands, pointed at some sack men stuffed with straw, and told me I’d better learn how to kill. Not my fault I happened to be good at it.”