Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) by Michael Meyerhofer Page B
Authors: Michael Meyerhofer
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too great for him to scream. Slowly, mercifully, it subsided. With great effort, he pushed himself onto his feet.
“Chorlga—” He choked on his own speech, as though using it for the first time. “All these years we fought the Sylvs, the Humans, each other. Turns out we should have been fighting you. Only we didn’t even know you existed.” He shook his head. “Clever. So bloody clever, aren’t you? But you didn’t know, when you brought him back, that you’d bring me back, too.”
As the small man smiled, he felt his face tense and strain like a cracking sunburn. “But you should have. I died with Iventine. We melted into the Light together, like two ripples of water.”
The small man winced abruptly and fell against the mouth of the well. He clutched his chest as though his heart had burst. His breath came and went in wet, ragged gasps as though he were rediscovering how to breathe. “Gods, it hurts to live this long. I can’t even imagine how it must be for you. ”
Eventually, the small man straightened, even as the glow streaming from the mouth of the well began to dim. His gaze passed over the corpses of the dragonpriests. He shook his head.
“So much life wasted on madness. So much time. Now, I’m here. And I can feel the Light slipping away from me the longer I stay. I can feel myself forgetting.” He paused. “Silwren is gone. Fadarah will be dead, too, before long. I can feel them all slipping away.” He eyed the dark stairwell in the distance. “And I’m still talking to myself. I guess some things don’t change.”
He turned and peered into the well. He stared for a long time. Finally, nodding to himself, he took a step. He almost fell but caught himself and took another, then another. Carefully, he picked his way through the tangle of corpses toward the stairs he knew Chorlga had taken.
The light streaming from Namundvar’s Well continued to dim with every step he took. By the time El’rash’lin reached the stairs, the chamber had been plunged back into cold, blinding darkness. Even so, pressing his hands to the rough stone walls on either side of him, El’rash’lin climbed.
CHAPTER FIVE
Columns
O ne hundred Knights rode across the Simurgh Plains, silent save for the jingle of armor and harnesses and the occasional rustle as the wind ruffled their cloaks and azure-blue tabards. Though the thin crust of snow slowed their pace, the Knights maintained their neat formation and steely composure.
Nevertheless, Aeko Shingawa could see their frustration in their terse scowls and the way they held their reins a bit more taut than necessary. She could hardly blame them. They should be back at Saikaido Temple, sipping tea or lotus wine in front of a fire, not slogging through cold, war-torn lands on what most of them regarded as a fool’s errand.
But it isn’t. Rowen needs our help… if he’s still alive.
From her position at the head of the column, she looked over her shoulder again, wondering how many of the Knights would betray her before their mission was done. Any other time, that would have been unthinkable. Isle Knights were known for nothing if not their dutiful sense of honor. But times had changed. Aeko had done what she could to select trustworthy Knights, but for every Knight who genuinely respected her or Grand Marshal Bokuden, two favored Crovis Ammerhel. And Crovis wanted what Rowen had—Knightswrath.
But by the Light, he’s not going to get it.
Aeko scrutinized her Knights. At least a fourth were women. Some carried long-bladed spears, but most only carried curved, long-handled swords and knives. None carried a shield, since the kingsteel glint of their armor made it clear that they had little to fear even from crossbow bolts.
All the Knights wore tabards bearing the sigil of a snow-white crane balancing on one leg. A handful wore the additional sigil of a white golden-horned stag. Those men rode ahead of the others, a bit haughty in the saddle. Like the
“Chorlga—” He choked on his own speech, as though using it for the first time. “All these years we fought the Sylvs, the Humans, each other. Turns out we should have been fighting you. Only we didn’t even know you existed.” He shook his head. “Clever. So bloody clever, aren’t you? But you didn’t know, when you brought him back, that you’d bring me back, too.”
As the small man smiled, he felt his face tense and strain like a cracking sunburn. “But you should have. I died with Iventine. We melted into the Light together, like two ripples of water.”
The small man winced abruptly and fell against the mouth of the well. He clutched his chest as though his heart had burst. His breath came and went in wet, ragged gasps as though he were rediscovering how to breathe. “Gods, it hurts to live this long. I can’t even imagine how it must be for you. ”
Eventually, the small man straightened, even as the glow streaming from the mouth of the well began to dim. His gaze passed over the corpses of the dragonpriests. He shook his head.
“So much life wasted on madness. So much time. Now, I’m here. And I can feel the Light slipping away from me the longer I stay. I can feel myself forgetting.” He paused. “Silwren is gone. Fadarah will be dead, too, before long. I can feel them all slipping away.” He eyed the dark stairwell in the distance. “And I’m still talking to myself. I guess some things don’t change.”
He turned and peered into the well. He stared for a long time. Finally, nodding to himself, he took a step. He almost fell but caught himself and took another, then another. Carefully, he picked his way through the tangle of corpses toward the stairs he knew Chorlga had taken.
The light streaming from Namundvar’s Well continued to dim with every step he took. By the time El’rash’lin reached the stairs, the chamber had been plunged back into cold, blinding darkness. Even so, pressing his hands to the rough stone walls on either side of him, El’rash’lin climbed.
CHAPTER FIVE
Columns
O ne hundred Knights rode across the Simurgh Plains, silent save for the jingle of armor and harnesses and the occasional rustle as the wind ruffled their cloaks and azure-blue tabards. Though the thin crust of snow slowed their pace, the Knights maintained their neat formation and steely composure.
Nevertheless, Aeko Shingawa could see their frustration in their terse scowls and the way they held their reins a bit more taut than necessary. She could hardly blame them. They should be back at Saikaido Temple, sipping tea or lotus wine in front of a fire, not slogging through cold, war-torn lands on what most of them regarded as a fool’s errand.
But it isn’t. Rowen needs our help… if he’s still alive.
From her position at the head of the column, she looked over her shoulder again, wondering how many of the Knights would betray her before their mission was done. Any other time, that would have been unthinkable. Isle Knights were known for nothing if not their dutiful sense of honor. But times had changed. Aeko had done what she could to select trustworthy Knights, but for every Knight who genuinely respected her or Grand Marshal Bokuden, two favored Crovis Ammerhel. And Crovis wanted what Rowen had—Knightswrath.
But by the Light, he’s not going to get it.
Aeko scrutinized her Knights. At least a fourth were women. Some carried long-bladed spears, but most only carried curved, long-handled swords and knives. None carried a shield, since the kingsteel glint of their armor made it clear that they had little to fear even from crossbow bolts.
All the Knights wore tabards bearing the sigil of a snow-white crane balancing on one leg. A handful wore the additional sigil of a white golden-horned stag. Those men rode ahead of the others, a bit haughty in the saddle. Like the
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