Kingsteel (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 3) by Michael Meyerhofer

to say.” Briel drank. “Let’s speak plain, then. Shel’ai are going to continue to be born to Sylvs. Sylvs will continue to hate them. Even if I nail edicts to every wall and door and tree throughout Sylvos, even if I spend the rest of my life personally reminding every Sylv that Silwren saved them every bit as much as Fadarah endangered them, nothing will change.”
    Rowen considered the change he’d already witnessed in the Wytchforest, but before he could argue, Briel continued.
    “Listen, Knight. If you want to be the naïve champion of the weak and the innocent, if you want to put a stop to the madness that got us here in the first place, I don’t need threats. I don’t need your Codex Lotius, with its poetry. I need a place close by—a safe, real place—where I can send these unwanted children. And I need whichever unlucky bastard is going to raise them to swear on every god he holds dear that they will not be raised to seek revenge on the rest of us.”
    Rowen caught his meaning. “Me?” He almost laughed. “I’m not a gods-damned wet nurse!”
    “No, you’re not a wet nurse,” Briel conceded. “You’re a Knight whose Order wants him dead. You’re a Human who merrily rushes off to fight in wars that don’t concern him. You’re probably the dumbest bastard I’ve ever met. But you’re also the luckiest. And gods save me, I trust you.” He sipped from his goblet. “Take a drink and forget I said that last part.”
    Rowen obeyed. “Briel, where in the Light do you think I’m going to take this infant? In case it’s escaped your notice, I still have a war to fight.”
    “What war? Fadarah’s dead. The Olgrym are weakened. They’ll be beaten soon. It’s just a matter of time.”
    Rowen rose to his feet. “But Chorlga’s still out there. And the Dhargots—”
    “Humans fighting Humans,” Briel interrupted with disgust. “Plus one mad Dragonkin who’s probably scared of you—or will be, once he sees what you’re carrying.” The Sylvan captain gestured at Knightswrath. “Stay in Sylvos. Help us hunt down the Olgrym. Cut down Doomsayer the way you cut down Fadarah, and even Loslandril will call you a hero. You can protect the Shel’ai, too, if that’s what you want. Fact is, no matter how many Sylvs hate you, you’ll still be safer here than you will be out there.”
    Rowen stood in silence. Then he reached down and picked up Knightswrath. Briel tensed, but Rowen only sheathed the blade. “I can’t. You know I can’t.”
    “Fohl’s hells, you can’t.” Briel stood, too. “I have less than half my army left, Human. I have a mad king who’s starving himself and a comatose general who already had his cock and his hands cut off by an Olg who’s twice my size. And if that weren’t enough, I still have about a thousand more Olgrym raiding and raping throughout the kingdom.” Briel shook his head. “I need help. I need generals, archers, swordsmen, healers, horses, and a good night’s rest. Instead, the gods have given me one mad Isle Knight with a burning sword. Maybe you’re as dangerous to us as you are to that already-hefty list of enemies you’re carrying around with you. But right now, you’re all I’ve got.”
    The Sylvan captain sat back down. He took a deep, calming breath.
    “Kill me if you have to, but it won’t change a thing. You’re staying here, Locke. Set one foot beyond the Moon Gate without my permission or try to leave Shaffrilon by any of the bridges connecting the capital to the other trees, and my men will shred you with arrows.”
    Rowen fixed him with a stern expression. “For a man who complains about having too small an army, you seem to be in an awful hurry to get a lot of them killed.”
    Briel shrugged. “If you take Knightswrath, it won’t matter how many—or how few—of my men you kill in your escape. We’re lost either way.”
    “Fine. You want the damn sword? Keep it.” Rowen drew Knightswrath and cast it onto the table,