Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) (53 page)

EPILOGUE

I
grid sat on a stone bench in a newly planted grove of dogblossom trees, watching the children play. She disliked seeing them play so close to the fissure, despite the stone wall—gated and guarded—that now separated Cadavash from the outside world.

Though all the children but Thessa had violet eyes, they seemed to welcome the Hesodi girl easily enough. In fact, the only untrusting stares came from the faces of the Isle Knights who guarded the new gates into Cadavash.

And my face, probably
.

A tiny scream drew her gaze back to the infant in her arms. Sariel had woken again. The infant writhed ferociously in her blanket but stilled the moment Igrid looked at her. Violet eyes stared back. Squelching a feeling of panic, Igrid hummed a lullaby and smoothed back the infant’s platinum hair, tucking it behind her tiny, tapered ears.

Sariel smiled, yawned, and went back to sleep.

Igrid stood, readjusting the infant—whose name, according to Rowen, meant
Echo.
As she emerged from the circle of dogblossom trees, she saw Rowen heading toward her. He was scowling. Before he had a chance to speak, Igrid pressed Sariel into his arms. “Hold your damn daughter,” she said, not unkindly.

Rowen blinked then obliged. Sariel woke, stared at Rowen with wide, purple eyes, and opened her mouth to cry. Rowen kissed her forehead, and the infant went back to sleep.

Then he directed his gaze back at Igrid. “You don’t have to do this. Briel sent nursemaids—”

“She doesn’t frighten me,” Igrid lied. Staring at Rowen, though, she wondered once again what Knightswrath had done to him. He had not worn the sword in months; still, though, he had nightmares. And more than once, she thought she’d heard him call Silwren’s name in his sleep. She wanted to hate him for that, but after Chorlga’s defeat on the Wintersea, she’d confessed her own sins: that she’d tried to steal Knightswrath from him once before, and Silwren had intervened. He’d been quick to forgive her. In fact, he confessed that he’d sensed as much when he’d found her in Hesod and healed her. She did not know whether to feel relieved or enraged, though she could not say why—only that sometimes, she wished he’d hated her for a while.

Shaking herself, she said, “What’s wrong?”

“Word from the Lotus Isles,” Rowen answered. Sariel began to stir. He smiled at her then lowered his voice. “From Aeko.”

“About Crovis?”

Rowen nodded. “He’s more powerful than ever. He has the whole Council and the Noshans convinced that he alone saved the Lotus Isles. And he’s angry that I haven’t gone back.”

“Angry that you didn’t give him Knightswrath, you mean.” Igrid thought of the sword, locked away deep in the sorrowful depths of Cadavash, near Namundvar’s Well. As far as she was concerned, it could stay there.

“Well, Aeko says he’s trying to force his way into King Shigella’s tomb. She says he thinks there’s something in there… maybe another sword like Knightswrath.”

Igrid felt a knot of panic. “Is there?”

Rowen shook his head. “If so, Chorlga never mentioned it. Neither did El’rash’lin. And nothing was ever written about it.” He paused. “There must be
something
in there, though. Nobody can break through the stone. The whole thing’s sealed by some kind of magic. Zeia said it isn’t Shel’ai, either.”

“You’ve been there. What do
you
think?”

Rowen hesitated. “It felt… older. Dragonkin, I think. Maybe Nâya built it. I don’t know. I’ve told Matua to learn all he can about it.”

Igrid nodded. She’d seen the cleric of Armahg weeks ago, and still marveled that he’d survived his encounter with the Nightmare—an encounter that had reduced half the Scrollhouse and a good portion of Atheion to ash. But Matua had not escaped unscathed. He’d lost one arm, and half his face had been burned to the texture of rippled silk. Yet, thanks to Rowen’s invocation of Knightswrath’s power, he could at least live without pain.

Thessa stopped playing long enough to wave.

Rowen waved back then studied the Isle Knights in the distance. “I have one hundred Knights here… maybe half of whom I trust. I have Aeko and Sang Wei back on the Isles. I have Jalist back in Lyos and Briel in the Wytchforest. And the Shel’ai.”

Igrid glanced at the cloaked figures speaking in the distance, milling near the gates, their white robes emblazoned with the hand of purple flame. They seemed to sense her scrutiny. Turning, they nodded at her, stone faced.

Igrid nodded back, suppressing a shudder. She was tempted to ask about Zeia and Saanji, if Rowen had any further word on their campaign since they had unexpectedly refused Rowen’s help in battling the Red Emperor. She decided she did not want to know.

Instead, she touched Rowen’s burned arm, left bare by his sleeveless tunic. When he turned, she kissed his forehead. As an afterthought, she forced herself to kiss Sariel’s forehead, too. “And me.”

Rowen smiled. “And you.” Shifting Sariel to one side, he leaned in and kissed her. As he did so, Igrid felt the cold, brass pommel of Rowen’s new sword press into her belly. She shifted. Sariel cried.

Igrid winced then smiled. “It’s going to snow soon,” she said.

Rowen nodded. “I know. Come inside. I’ll build a fire.”

Dear Reader,

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Kingsteel
, by Michael Meyerhofer. Please consider leaving a review on your favorite book site.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Michael Meyerhofer grew up in Iowa, where he learned to cope with the unbridled excitement of the Midwest by reading books and not getting his hopes up. Probably due to his father’s influence, he developed a fondness for
Star Trek
, weight lifting, and collecting medieval weapons. He is also addicted to caffeine and the History Channel.

His fourth poetry book,
What To Do If You’re Buried Alive
, was recently published by Split Lip Press. He also serves as the poetry editor of
Atticus Review.
His poetry and prose have appeared in
Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine
,
Brevity
,
Ploughshares
,
Hayden’s Ferry Review
,
Rattle
, and many other journals.

He and his fiancée currently live in Fresno, California, in a little house beside a very large cactus.