Wytchfire (Book 1) (22 page)

But the soldiers did not believe him. Instead, their corporal issued a quick order. Three Red Watch soldiers ran to the inn to help their fellows while the other three stayed with Rowen. These three drew their swords.

The corporal spat. “By all means, try to run!”

Another joined in. “My wife and son are out there. If anything happens to them, I’m coming for you.”

Rowen met his gaze. “I’d do the same.”

His answer caught them off guard. The corporal shoved him, and Rowen started toward the jailhouse again. Moments later, they reached a squat, gray, two-story structure with few windows and only one set of gates, these guarded by armed men who looked as though they would rather be anywhere else.

Rowen wondered if these men had families in Lyos, too. If so, surely they longed to be with their loved ones now, to protect them from the spreading violence of the mobs, despite whatever orders kept them here. But with all the rioters and looters being brought in, the jailhouse was more chaotic than anywhere else in the city.
Another thing that’s probably my fault.

“This is him,” the corporal announced gruffly, signaling the guards. He prodded Rowen in the back with his sword, hard enough to pierce cloth and skin. Rowen managed, with great effort, not to cry out as he felt a little of his own blood run down the small of his back. He knew the wound could not be deep and he would only make things worse by acknowledging it.

The corporal said, “I know you’d like to swap his bones with his organs, but the captain says leave him alone.”

The jailhouse guards scowled at Rowen. One spat on the ground at his feet. But they led him inside.

The jailhouse reeked of sweat, blood, and urine. Shouting men—many of them drunk—filled every inch of space in the cells. The men shouted to be released, but they also quarreled with each other. Jailhouse guards tried to keep order by breaking up fights, but they were hopelessly understaffed. As Rowen was led past the cells, he thought he saw at least one corpse being trampled and looted by cellmates.

“The wytch is downstairs,” a jailhouse guard said. “We’ve kept that level clear. Your quarters are in the cell next to hers. If it stinks, that’s just because we all took turns using it as a privy. You’re welcome for not locking you in.”

Rowen knew better than to reply. The jailhouse guards led him down a narrow set of stairs, into the dim, dank basement. One of them pointed. “The wytch is down at the end of the corridor. You’re on your own down here.”

The sounds of fighting echoed from the jailhouse cells above. The guards hurried up the stairs, leaving Rowen untended. He tried to ignore the reek of wet, filthy straw as he looked down the dim, torch-lit corridor.

Though it made sense for the guards to leave the cells down here empty, he almost preferred the noise and violence to this silence as he made his way toward the Shel’ai woman’s cell, one hand on his sword hilt. He wondered if she would kill him or transform him into a beast or an insect through some matter of devilry.

Then he saw her. Despite his fear, his eyes widened, and he felt a sudden pang of lust.

She had discarded the remnants of her burnt gown. Her exotic tresses fell about her nude shoulders as she rose from her knees, as though she’d just been praying or meditating, and faced him with violet eyes. Her dragonmist pupils sent a chill down his spine.

Surprised that she made no effort to cover herself, Rowen forced himself to keep his eyes on hers. “Did they... hurt you?”

“You mean, did they rape me?” the sorceress said with bemusement. The melodic quality of her Sylvan voice startled him though he had heard it before. “No. I saw in their minds that a few considered it, but they were too busy being afraid.”

Rowen looked away, searching for something she could wear. “I’m sorry for the stench down here. I’ll see if I can find you something.” He wished he wore a cloak so that he could give it to her. His own cell looked as filthy as the guards promised, but in another empty cell some distance from theirs, he found a relatively clean blanket forgotten amid the straw. He brought it to her. He hesitated, realizing as he offered it how shabby it looked. But Silwren accepted the blanket through the cell bars and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“Thank you.” She was quiet for a moment. “You are the one who saved me.”

Rowen nodded dumbly. “If you want to call it that. I came to Lyos, thinking I’d find you here. You said you were coming to warn the city. Did you?”

“They would not have listened.”

Rowen frowned. “So why are you here? What were you doing up on Beggar’s Drop?” Now that she was covered, his arousal was turning to rage. “Can’t you hear what’s happening out there? People are dying because of you!”

“They are dying because of their own fear and stupidity. I pose no threat to them. I swear this upon the Light.”

Rowen swallowed his temper. “But others do. Others of your kind.”

She nodded. “As others of
your
kind would do
me
harm. Are you suggesting I burn you to cinders solely on the basis of your appearance?”

Rowen drew back a step. “I’m not threatening you. I’m trying to help.”

Silwren faced him a moment longer, then turned. “We fight those who hate us. We fight to save ourselves. Would you do differently?”

“Don’t fence with me, wytch. Either you let me help you or you let them kill you. Which will it be?”

Instead of answering, she knelt again, resuming her meditation.

Rowen snapped. He struck the bars of her cell, ignoring the pain that lanced through his knuckles. “What have we ever done to the Shel’ai? Whatever’s happened is between you and the Sylvs!” When she did not answer, he said, “What about the Free Cities your kind have already smashed? This is not defense. It’s conquest! It’s murder!”

Silwren faced him, her gaze hardening. “Name one place, Human. Take your time. Think hard. Name one place in all of Ruun where the Shel’ai would be welcomed. Do that, and we will go there.” She paused. “We are not a separate race, as you might think. We are Sylvs. Only we are born with magic in our blood, a throwback to the days of the Dragonkin. For that, we are banished from Sylvos and the World Tree… that place you call the Wytchforest—a kingdom itself forged of magic.”

The way she trembled made Rowen’s rage go slack. He backed up, wondering if he’d gone too far and she was about to kill him. Instead, she continued.

“At birth, you were given the color of your hair and the roots of your temper. We were given magic. We had no more say in this than you did. But for what we are, the Sylvs hate us. And you Humans are no better. If you think it’s only the Sylvs who have shed our blood, you are wrong.”

Rowen had traveled throughout many of the kingdoms of Ruun, and never had he found one that regarded the Shel’ai as anything but a frightful abomination, comparable to the wicked Dragonkin of old. While the Lotus Isles had a kinder view, that was due mainly to fairytales that few even believed anymore.

“Even if that were true,” Rowen protested, “Ruun is just one continent. Isn’t there a whole world beyond? Find a forest of your own. Find a desert if you want. Live there. The other races will leave you alone.”

Silwren snickered. “It’s always someone else who must give up their home, isn’t it? Besides, we’ve tried. Always, we are followed.
Hunted
.”

Rowen scowled. “So your kind’s answer is to kill everyone who might possibly threaten

you?”

Silwren’s voice grew quiet. “It will not come to that.”

This is getting nowhere. But what else can I do?
Rowen glanced into the open cell that was to be his new home. The cell contained an overturned chamber pot, a small washing basin, a straw bed, and a chair. His few, meager possessions had already been delivered there. The guards had taken the liberty of pissing on them.

Rowen grabbed the chair, placed it outside the closed door of Silwren’s cell, and sat down. “I have more questions.”

“I know. Your mind is open to me.”

Rowen winced at the thought that she’d been reading his mind all along. He tried to clear his thoughts. “No more talk of Lyos for now. Just tell me what you are. I’ve heard stories of your kind working feats of magic, but nothing like what you and your friend have done. You’re not just a Shel’ai, are you?”

Silwren eyed him curiously. A slow, sad smile formed on her lips. “El’rash’lin believes the Light guides our actions, that the Light even guided you to me. I do not. I wonder which of us is right.” She continued, “There were five of us. All born as Shel’ai, exiled from Sylvos and the World Tree, rescued from the wild by Fadarah. The name itself is a Sylvan word. It means
father
.” She looked away. “Fadarah knew that Shel’ai magic alone would not save us from our enemies. Our power has limits. Cast too much wytchfire, or speak too long with just our minds, and we risk death from exhaustion. Fadarah understood. We needed power that could
not
be exhausted, something greater than any of the Shel’ai wield. We needed the magic of—”

“The Dragonkin,” Rowen finished.

Silwren nodded. “There is a place, Human. An ancient place where one may gaze directly into the Light. But Fadarah learned... we could do much more than that.”

A great sadness filled him at the mention of the Well. He thought of the peace he’d felt for just that one moment—a peace and clarity unlike anything he’d ever experienced, all the more maddening now for its lack. “Tell me. Help me understand what I saw there...”

He saw that same sadness reflected in the mist-white pupils of Silwren’s eyes as she said, “More often than not, gifts are curses.”

He thought she would say more, but she did not. Finally, Rowen rose to his feet. Countless questions still raced through his mind, but he doubted he’d get more answers at the moment. “I have to go for now. But you have my word, you won’t be mistreated. I’ll return as soon as I can.” He added, “I’ll bring you some clothes.”

Silwren did not answer, seeming instead to return to her meditation. As Rowen turned to go, he saw her trembling. She’d let the shabby blanket slip, revealing the bare curve of her spine, all the way down to the dimples at the small of her back. He realized she was crying. He took a step toward her but stopped himself. Shaking his head, he hurried up the stairs.

Far to the west, Shade was kneeling, too, surrounded by a wispy, violet haze of magic. He and his reluctant bodyguard were still well ahead of the Throng, only three days from Lyos. He had no doubt now where Silwren was, but her refusal to mindspeak with him left him more and more troubled. Shade could not believe that she would betray them. So that morning, in the middle of the Simurgh Plains, he had called a halt, knelt on the grass, and willed himself into a deep, magical trance.

Unencumbered by his physical body, his essence sped on alone, faint as a wisp of vapor speeding toward the red, rising sun. In this state, he could sense much more strongly the wake left by Silwren’s flight, as if she had scorched the very air through which she traveled. He had hoped she was trying to work some sort of deception. Maybe she’d turned southward instead, to begin the second stage of their campaign on her own.

But that, he knew, was absurd. As his essence neared Lyos, he sensed her even more strongly than before, a growing spark of unmistakable light and power. It would not take him long to find her now, to see her. Then she reared before him—not a creature of flesh but of spirit, perceived by him as white hot and winged. Her gaze bore no expression as she regarded him for a moment.

Then she struck—a jolt of raw power that jarred him to the core. Shade’s essence reeled, thrown back faster than should have been possible. He thought he would fade like mist, but then he felt flesh and bones closing around his ethereal nerves, painfully reconnecting him to a living body.

By the time he opened his eyes, the violet glow had dimmed around him. He knelt, momentarily unable to move through a combination of pain and exhaustion. Gradually, he regained his senses. He stood, exhausted but fuming, and returned to his horse.

Lethe obediently handed him the reins. The assassin was still mounted, idly holding the reins to the rouncey laden with their supplies, and curled his lip with open derision. “Were you praying?” he asked mockingly.

“Not a very proper tone to use with one’s master, let alone one who saved your life.”

Lethe’s lips quivered with rage. “Forgive me. I tend to forget your boundless compassion, Master.”

“What you saw is called divination. What it sees, I see. But there are risks.” He wiped his nose, saw blood. “Even if all goes well, the spell is taxing. I can only cast it once a month, and it will leave my magic weakened for the rest of the day.” He snickered. “It will be up to you to protect me, Human.”

“Oh, you have nothing to fear from me. Your curse makes sure of that.”

Shade fought back a wave of exhaustion—both physical and mental—and laughed. “So it does.” He flicked the reins and started off, using what energy he had left to hold himself upright in the saddle. He thought of Silwren’s essence rearing up before him, how coldly and effortlessly she had batted him away from the city.
My love, what are you doing?

To distract himself, he fixed his attention on his bodyguard. “How does it feel to answer to the Blood Thrall’s every command?”

Lethe winced. “You asked, so I have to tell you. Whatever orders you give, I have to follow. If I don’t, pain like nothing you could imagine fills me until you decide otherwise. If I try to kill a Shel’ai—and believe me, I’ve tried—the pain drops me before I even get my dagger drawn.” The assassin spat. “Even when we Unseen obey, the curse is still there, always there, like a wasp inside our ears. Waiting, ready to sting.”

“You make an unlikely victim, Human. You made a choice. You
chose
this. You should accept the consequences without these daily, theatrical lamentations.”

“You call that a choice?”

Shade shrugged. “Were you not so untrustworthy, Human, the Blood Thrall would not have been necessary. Nor would you even notice it. It’s your own pride you should be snarling at, not me.”

Lethe looked at his fingernails. “Your kind has a strange definition of compassion.”

“And yours has a strange definition of honor.” Shade yawned. “This is tedious. I have no intention of wasting breath on one whose sins, were they bones, would fill all the graveyards of the world.”