Wytchfire (Book 1) (24 page)

Sir Ammerhel waited for a response. When he did not get one, he indicated the knife, still thrust into the map at the Dhargoth Peninsula. The venerated Isle Knight sounded like a parent lecturing an ignorant, disobedient child. “For decades, the Dhargots have wanted to expand their empire beyond the peninsula, but what you call the Free Cities held them back. No more. Scouts have reported that this Fadarah does not even have the good sense to leave behind a considerable rearguard to defend the lands he’s taken! That means the Dhargots can sweep east and seize half the Simurgh Plains whenever they want. They are probably already mobilizing to do so.”

He yanked his knife from the table—leaving a gaping tear in the map. “Have no fear, good King. In a few days, the sorcerers will have no choice but to retreat or risk losing everything they’ve gained. Come winter, they’ll be neck deep in their own dead, trying to reclaim the same territories they took before. All we have to do is hold. We don’t have to beat them. The Dhargots will do it for us.”

Sir Paltrick Vossmore desperately tried to imitate the smug expression of his commanding officer. Aeko, on the other hand, met the king’s gaze with sympathy, though he sensed she still agreed with Ammerhel’s assessment.

Pelleas said, “Let’s suppose you are correct, Sir Ammerhel, as I hope you are. Say the sorcerers really have committed such an obvious tactical blunder. Even if the Dhargots are now marching onto the Simurgh Plains, I’m afraid you’ve forgotten two things.”

Crovis Ammerhel raised one eyebrow.

“The demon,” Pelleas began. “Whatever the sorcerers have conjured up. I have many reports of it demolishing whole cities in seconds, with little or no help from the Throng itself—”

“Rubbish,” Sir Ammerhel interrupted. “Magic is an abomination. The Light would never allow such a terrible affront to exist in this world. What you call reports are mere lies spread by this Fadarah to demoralize you.”

Pelleas hesitated. Out of the corner of his eye, priests and priestesses to the various deities nodded in agreement. “And the Shel’ai woman we have prisoner—”

“The wytch is just another diversion, Sire. The sorcerers probably sent her ahead to frighten and confuse us. You should have her executed immediately.”

Pelleas saw Rowen Locke tense.

“Maybe you’re right,” Pelleas’s eldest son, Heritus, interjected. “But what if you’re wrong? There are hints that this wytch has turned against her own kind and come to warn us.”

“My son speaks out of turn, but he has a point,” Pelleas said quickly. “Probably this wytch is a liar and an abomination, as you say. But what if she
can
be made into an ally?”

Sir Ammerhel shrugged. “It makes no difference. We would be damned in the eyes of the Light if we accepted help from a wytch. As the Codex Lotius says, ‘One cannot take on the countenance of one’s enemy without becoming that enemy.’”

King Pelleas felt tensions rise still further. “Perhaps we have discussed enough strategy for one day,” he said. “You and your Knights must be tired from your long journey. Please accept my full hospitality.”

“Thank you,” Crovis Ammerhel said. “I should probably inspect your troops, Sire, in the unlikelihood that there is a battle after all.”

Aeko scowled openly at her captain. Pelleas kicked Heritus beneath the table to keep him from responding. “Captain Ferocles will see to that. We make no claims to the fame and skill of the Knighthood. But I think you will find, Captain, that the skill and valor of the Red Watch far exceeds what you are expecting.”

Sir Ammerhel answered with a condescending grin and strode out of the chamber, boots and spurs echoing against the cold flagstone. Sir Paltrick Vossmore hurried after. Aeko moved more slowly, glancing over her shoulder at Rowen Locke again.

Now, the real question—do I dismiss the council and draw attention to the fact that Ammerhel left without permission, or sit here and listen to the rest of them argue about things we can’t change?

“All of you, begone. I must retire for a while and sleep. We will reconvene tomorrow morning to continue fussing over maps.” Before anyone could object, the king rose quickly and left the chamber, his anxious sons in tow.

Aeko Shingawa lingered by the doorway. The council chamber emptied until only she and Rowen Locke remained. She smiled at him. “Locke, it
is
you!”

Rowen hesitantly approached her. He bowed awkwardly. “Commander.”

Aeko laughed. Then she moved forward and embraced him. “What are you doing here?” She smiled at his uniform. “You only just left the Isles, and you’re already an officer!”

Rowen blushed. “The rank means nothing. Ferocles just promoted me because he said the other men were less likely to strangle an officer. And I imagine I’ll only keep the rank—and my life—if I convince Silwren to talk.”

“You’ve been interrogating her?”

“You could call it that, I suppose. I ask questions. She gives answers I don’t pretend to understand, which I pass on to the others, who understand them even less.” He rubbed his eyes. “Really, I’m just trying to keep them from torturing her.”

“I am sorry.” Aeko glanced at the falcon on his tabard. “Perhaps... we should speak of this? I meant to find you on the Isles, but you left before I could reach you.”

“I know. I... I needed to get out of there. I couldn’t stand how the others looked at me. The ones who hadn’t... failed
.
” Rowen’s voice broke. He took a moment to steady himself. “You owe me no explanation, Commander.”

He fidgeted, but Aeko barred his path. She glanced around, making sure they were alone, then lowered her voice anyway. “Rowen, you were one of twenty-seven squires dismissed that morning. If you want the Light’s truth, barely a dozen of those actually deserved it.” She squeezed his arm. “You were
not
one of the latter.”

Rowen jerked his arm away. “Three years, Commander! Every day for three years, I trained as hard as any man could. Tell me, what great offense did I commit?” Rowen’s fingers curled into fists.

Aeko held up her hands, trying to calm him. “There are many requirements for Knighthood, Locke. Skill at arms is only one of them...” She hesitated. “Lord Ammerhel has final say over which squires are dismissed from Saikaido Temple and which ones are made into Knights. I can argue with him—and believe me, I do—but in the end, it’s his decision.”

Rowen scoffed. “Too many rich men’s sons needed to be knighted ahead of me. Is that what you’re saying?”

“In essence, yes.”

He blinked. “So much for the Codex Lotius.”

He started to stalk away, but Aeko grabbed his arm. “Rowen, don’t be a fool. Beneath all that posturing, words are just words. You can’t expect the knights to base their lives around ancient writings they don’t have the time or inclination to interpret!”

Rowen stared at her, speechless, then wrenched free and hurried away, his boots ringing off the cold stone.

Aeko knew she’d gone too far. If she wanted to keep her rank as a Knight of the Stag, she needed to be more careful. What she had said might be true—especially among the older Knights—but no one dared speak such things aloud.

Never mind that Crovis probably agrees with me.
She sighed. Truth did not matter. This was politics, for which she had no stomach. But she’d seen other Knights banished or transferred to obscurity for opposing Crovis Ammerhel and his ilk. Aeko might be popular among the poorer knights, but they could do little against Crovis. Besides, for every young Knight of the Crane who admired her, there was another like Paltrick Vossmore.

Rowen, I did you a favor
.
The Knighthood is not what it used to be. Not anymore—if it ever was.
Lowering her head, she hurried to catch up with the other Knights. By then, Sir Ammerhel must have been cursing her name.

Rowen blinked back tears as he walked briskly from the palace, heading for the jailhouse. He was glad that Captain Ferocles finally trusted him enough to let him travel alone, for he did not think he could have withstood the other guards jeering at him.

I was wrong.
Everything Epheus and the others had said about the Knights was true. He thought of Sir Ammerhel again. While Rowen had lived on the Lotus Isles, he saw the man a handful of times, always at a distance. At the time, Ammerhel left him awed. Strong, charismatic, and confident, the man boasted of legendary skill in combat. Men followed Ammerhel, trusted him with their lives. Rowen remembered how desperately he wanted that same sort of respect for himself. But he knew that was impossible now.

But what about Aeko? Hadn’t she also been poor once, like him? Wasn’t she the same Knight who trained Kayden? Rowen smiled faintly, remembering the letter his brother must have paid a fortune to send him. The letter spoke glowingly of the Knighthood. But even Aeko was not what she seemed.

No, the Knighthood can wither and die for all I care! Let the sorcerers and their demon come. Let them bring down the walls of Lyos if it means at least a few of these vainglorious bastards will be taken out of the world.

Rowen drew Knightswrath and considered casting it away. He stopped himself.
No,
he thought,
I’ll sell it, raise what I can, and leave all this rot behind me.

The jailhouse guards saluted halfheartedly as Rowen approached them. His promotion did not sit well with the men, but they knew as well as he did that all the promotions in the world were meaningless if Captain Ferocles changed his mind. If Rowen failed to extract the necessary information from the city’s famous prisoner, they’d kill him.

One of the guards chortled as he finished his salute. Rowen did not care. He returned the gesture with the same insincerity, thought to himself that at least the jailhouse and the city seemed quieter now that the Knights had arrived, then made his way down the dank stone stairs to Silwren’s cell.

At least they cleaned up the place.
He had spoken with Silwren several times now, bringing her food and a clean set of clothes, including a pale, Lyosi sarong, but he still could not get used to the lingering reek that always struck him when he went down to the basement level. Nor could he grow accustomed to the slight jump of his heart whenever he saw her.

Gods, I’m a fool. She’s as foreign to me as the stars—and probably dangerous as poison, besides. Except I’m not afraid of her anymore.
He wondered if that was a good omen or a bad one. He reached the bottom of the stairs and started down the corridor. Then he stopped. Someone else stood at the end of the corridor—a short, stooped figure in a dark cloak.

Rowen drew his sword. Aside from Rowen, Captain Ferocles, and the king himself, no one else was permitted down on the basement level of the jailhouse. Nor could he imagine anyone brave enough to get that close to her, anyway. Rowen barreled down the corridor, sword raised. He did not shout for the guards. Rage overwhelmed him, and all he wanted to do was kill this assassin himself.

The cloaked figure turned to face him. Scarred, wart-covered hands lifted to throw back the dark hood, allowing the yellow flicker of torchlight to illuminate familiar, sad eyes and a face even more sore-covered than he remembered.

Rowen’s sword was already in motion. He grunted and wrenched it higher, angling the blade away from El’rash’lin’s neck. Knightswrath’s rusty edge whirled over the man’s head and sparked off the iron bars of Silwren’s cell instead.

El’rash’lin glanced down, unflinching, and stepped on a few sparks before they could ignite the straw strewn across the floor. “You Humans have a strange way of treating those who try to save you.”

Rowen saw Silwren unharmed, staring back at him with her usual unblinking expression. He sighed with relief, then turned back to El’rash’lin. “How did you get down here?”

The disfigured sorcerer smiled faintly. “Of all the questions on your mind, that one seems the least important.”