Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (34 page)

“No,” Saanji admitted.

“Me, either.”

“Then what do you have in mind?”

“I don’t have
anything
in mind yet, besides a direction.”

“South…” Saanji shook his head. “Why in the gods’ names—” He froze mid-sentence. A Lancer was running toward him, his face flushed, one hand on his sword. Two Earless followed. The Lancer raced toward Arnil Royce, the renegade Dhargots toward Saanji.

Royce was already standing. “One at a time.” He pointed at the Lancer. “Reginald, speak.”

Reginald offered a quick salute. “Pardon the interruption, sir, but someone has just arrived at the gates. She’s demanding to speak with you.”

“An emissary?”

Saanji frowned, though not just because he couldn’t remember either of the Dhargots’ names. Lone emissaries were rare enough; lone
female
emissaries were rarer still. Saanji might have thought she was an Iron Sister if he hadn’t already heard that they’d been wiped out.
Unless it’s—

“A Shel’ai,” one of his Earless blurted out. “She surrendered to the gate guards. She’s alone. She says she wants to talk to whoever’s leading this army.”

Royce and Saanji exchanged looks. “You’re the prince,” Royce said.

Saanji scoffed. “No, thanks. She’s all yours.”

Reginald looked from Saanji to Royce. He lowered his voice. “Shall I… have her killed, sir? We have archers on the battlements, and she’s standing right out in the open.”

“Shouldn’t be too difficult,” one of the Earless added. “The wytch doesn’t even have hands!”

Saanji frowned. He wondered why someone would cut off a Shel’ai’s hands, then he came up with a reason.

“Who is she?” Royce asked.

“She says her name is Zeia,” Reginald answered. “She says a man named Rashlin sent her.”

Saanji frowned. “El’rash’lin?”

The Lancer nodded.

Royce said, “You know the name?”

“Only that he’s supposed to be dead. And that if he
isn’t
, he’s not someone you want to rile up.”

Royce turned back to Reginald and the Earless. “Did she say anything else?”

The Earless shook their heads, but Reginald said, “One more thing… though it didn’t make any sense. She said she’s been sent to help an Isle Knight. I told her there aren’t any here, but she said to tell you, anyway.”

Saanji asked, “What Isle Knight?”

“She said his name is Locke. Something Locke. Rowen, I think.”

Saanji whistled softly. “Now, that’s a name we’ve heard before.” He glanced at Royce.

Royce was quiet for a moment, then he started buckling on his kingsteel longsword. “All right, I’ll see her. Show her in. And for the gods’ sake, don’t threaten her.”

Jalist reined in his horse, scowling at the eastern horizon. He’d left the cave at dawn and pressed hard, intending to follow the Ash’bana Plains all the way south to Quesh, but a score of Dhargots on horseback had spotted him and driven him east. After losing the horsemen, he’d reluctantly chosen to head toward Quesh by way of the Noshan Valley. While in Hesod with the others, he’d heard stories of the Jolym besieging Atheion, so he resolved to give the City-on-the-Sea a wide berth. But the thick smoke darkening the eastern sky had piqued his curiosity. Then, cresting a hill, he reined in his horse, raised his spyglass, and beheld the devastation.

“Sweet gods…”

A cold, familiar dread filled his chest. He remembered standing outside the city of Quorim, seemingly a lifetime ago, back when he’d fought as a sellsword in the ranks of the Throng. He remembered watching El’rash’lin and the Nightmare fight in front of Lyos, too.

Common sense told him to point his horse south, ride until its heart gave out, then run until his own heart did the same. He even briefly considered riding north and warning Rowen. Instead, he rode east, readying his long axe and resting it in the crook of his arm.

Chorlga found the madman sitting cross-legged in the snow, half naked, shivering. He issued a quick mental command, ordering his Jolym to stay back, then sent his voice echoing through the minds of the dragon-worshippers, ordering them to do the same. He approached the Nightmare alone. He braced himself, ready to counter a sea of wytchfire if the madman attacked.

“You led me on quite a chase, Iventine. Tell me, why did you go to the library? Did you think you’d find a way to die there?” Chorlga scowled at the smoke still darkening the southern horizon. “Atheion was to be spared. Instead, you burned down a third of it… including half the Scrollhouse! A thousand lifetimes’ worth of knowledge…”

The Nightmare looked up, his violet eyes wide as wounds. Chorlga realized that the madman did not even understand what Chorlga was saying. “Why am I alive? I died. I keep dying, but I don’t stay dead. Why?”

Chorlga blinked. He’d told himself countless times that the Nightmare was nothing—a mere Shel’ai with amplified powers, an overgrown guard dog to be used as Chorlga saw fit. But the pleading desperation in the madman’s voice gave him pause. “You are alive because I wish it. Remember that.”

“I was”—the Nightmare flinched—“in the Light…”

“That was just a dream. You were here. You have always been here, serving me. You will continue to serve me until I release you. Do you understand?”

The Nightmare wrapped his arms around himself and started rocking. “Please… please—”

“Enough!” Chorlga lifted one hand to strike him, saw his own hand shaking, and tucked it into his sleeve. “You will obey me, Iventine. I am your master. I am your god. You will serve me a while longer… then I will let you go.”

The Nightmare looked up. He stopped rocking himself.

“I will let you go,” Chorlga repeated. “Do you understand? Simply do as you’re told, and your end is near. I swear it on the Dragongod.”

For a time, the Nightmare was silent. Then he whispered, “Who do I have to kill?”

Chorlga grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. “Whomever I tell you.”

“Who did this to me?” the Nightmare asked.

“The world,” Chorlga said. “The world did this to you.” He hesitated then removed his own cloak and threw it over the Nightmare’s shoulders. “They did the same thing to me. That’s why we’re going to burn the world.”

He led the Nightmare back toward Cadavash. The Nightmare followed without objection. The Jolym fell in behind them, followed by throngs of dragon-worshippers, many of them chanting Chorlga’s name.

Hráthbam Nassir Adjrâ-al-Habas stood at the prow of his fastest ship, watching it plow through the ice-blue waters of the straits his people referred to as the Cold Passage. Though Hráthbam had been raised in a family of merchants, they had always done the bulk of their business on the mainland, with the occasional run to the Lotus Isles or another of the islands on Ruun’s eastern coast. Hráthbam was already farther north than he had ever gone but not even half as far as he would go before this was over.

He glanced back at his passengers. One hand rested uneasily on the hilt of his massive scimitar. He was glad that most of the passengers had confined themselves to the lower decks, though two in particular had inhabited the top deck almost since they came on board.

His crew—all strong, young Soroccans who had served his family for years—went about their duties in fearful, sometimes angry silence. Hráthbam could not blame them. He wanted nothing more than to be back home, arguing with his wives and children, and he was sure they felt the same about their own families. But he was grateful that so far, none of them had defied his orders.

He was even more grateful that none of them had raised a hand against his passengers. He liked his crew. He did not want to see them turned to ash.

The two male passengers—one young and coldly handsome, the other old with a ghastly, sore-covered face and twisted lips—had been arguing in heated whispers for hours. Finally, the younger man threw up his hands and walked away. He stood by the starboard railing of the ship and stared out at the ocean, his expression as hard as stone. The older man looked after him, shook his head, then approached Hráthbam.

The Soroccan merchant braced himself. Though he’d seen the old man’s twisted face in his dreams and relived some of the old man’s memories after they inadvertently entered his mind months ago, this was still the first time he’d actually seen El’rash’lin in person. El’rash’lin was kind, and the gods knew that Hráthbam owed the man a great debt. Still, his appearance made Hráthbam shudder despite his best efforts to appear calm.

El’rash’lin stood beside him, staring out at the calm, parting waters. “What is it your people say about patience and children?”

“Children were put here to drive their parents insane.”

El’rash’lin’s twisted lips formed a slight smile. “I was expecting something a bit more articulate.”

Hráthbam glanced back at the Shel’ai who called himself Shade, though Hráthbam had heard El’rash’lin refer to him by another name he had not caught. “Is that one… your son?”

El’rash’lin shook his head. “Almost none of us have children. No time. Besides, it’s hard to run for your life if you have a squalling infant in your arms.”

Hráthbam thought of the Shel’ai children in the lower decks of his ship, some crying from seasickness. One had already thrown a tantrum that set the sails on fire, though El’rash’lin had managed to extinguish the flames and repair the damage in the blink of an eye. “So those children down below—”

“Were born to Sylvan parents,” El’rash’lin said. “Born… then abandoned. Believe me, it could have been worse.” After a moment, he added, “The odds are one in a thousand, they say… though it’s a certainty if one or both parents are already Shel’ai.”

Hráthbam remembered the pregnant Sylvan women who had accompanied the Shel’ai onto the ship. He considered asking what kind of children they were carrying then decided he would rather not know. “We should be there in three or four days,” he said. “I’m not worried about storms, and we shouldn’t have any problems with ice if we keep east of the Wintersea, but…”

“You’re afraid of what we’ll find to the north?”

Hráthbam shook his head. “Not afraid, just confused. I haven’t been up there, but my people have. I’ve seen the maps, too. There’s nothing but a few little islands and a mass of icebergs. No Dragonkin, no wall of fire. Are you sure you don’t want to go south?”

El’rash’lin shook his head. “The Dragonward surrounds the entire continent, a ways out to sea. It doesn’t matter where we go, though the people who want us dead are less likely to follow us into the cold.”

Hráthbam hesitated. “Isn’t that where the legends say the Dragonkin went?”

“Yes, but the world is shaped like an orange. If they went far enough north, they’d end up on the other side of the world and start south again.”

“I know that,” Hráthbam said. “That’s not what I mean.”

El’rash’lin smiled again. “I know what you meant.”

A cold wind blew over them. Hráthbam tugged at his cloak, marveling that El’rash’lin did not shiver. “If you’re just looking for a place to run, I can suggest a few that are a lot warmer. You won’t even have food in the north, unless you want to live off fish and snow foxes.”

“Not especially. That’s why your cargo hold contains twelve cases of Dwarrish darksoil. I know, because I teleported them there.” El’rash’lin added, “They’ll only need ten. Keep the other two as payment for your troubles.”

Hráthbam touched the bulging coin purse hanging from his belt. “Gods, I don’t need any more payment! You brought me back from the dead. I owe you.”

“Then give it to your wives by way of apology.”

It took a moment for Hráthbam to realize that El’rash’lin was joking. “They’ll appreciate that.” They stood in silence for a moment, then the Soroccan said, “If there’s a wall of wytchfire stretching up to the clouds, shouldn’t we be able to see it by now?”