Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) by Michael Meyerhofer Page B
Authors: Michael Meyerhofer
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area for rats then hid two of the three coin purses within. She doubted any thief in all the realms could rob from her, but she saw no point in taking chances. She kept only enough copper on her to pay for her drinks. After taking the Maelmohr pin off her tunic, she went down and ordered an entire pitcher of wine.
Unwilling to spend the evening fending off men’s drunken advances, she chose the company of a muscular, kind-faced merchant she suspected of being a man lover. She introduced herself as Igrid—a name she’d used in Hesod—and filled his cup. Soon, they were speaking like old friends. She used the opportunity to test her story, adding fabricated details to her fictional past: a rich father gone missing, an ailing mother, a merchant husband who would be meeting her in two or three days. She concealed her pleasure when the man not only believed every word, but also offered to help search for her father. She grew tired, though, so she excused herself and started for the stairs that led up to her room.
At that moment, crude laughter echoed through the barroom, and she turned to see Dhargots swaggering in. She counted three of them, strong and leering, their painted eyes clearly scouting the common room for a fight. She scrutinized their faces, wondering if she’d met any of them in battle before she’d fled Hesod, but one Dhargot looked like another. Resisting the urge to hurry to her room, she sat back down. The merchant spoke to her, his voice filled with concern, but she ignored him. Her hand touched the hilt of the dagger at her side, hidden beneath her cloak.
No, not here. Not yet.
It made no difference if those particular Dhargots had been at Hesod. All Dhargots were the same. Still, she forced herself to relax. She could not avenge her sworn sisters if, in the process, she wound up jailed and executed—or worse, hauled out and brutalized by the very Dhargots she intended to kill. Besides, she could tell already that she was too drunk for a pitched battle. She determined to pace herself, keep calm, and wait for an opportunity.
Igrid took a deep breath and released it. She filled her cup, then the cup of the man next to her. Then she waited.
Chapter Eight
Matua’s Plea
R owen woke early, shook off his hangover by forcing himself through the martial poses of the sha’tala, then went to buy supplies. Though he had rented one room for Jalist and himself and another for Silwren, he saw no sign of the Dwarr. Rowen figured his friend was still in the company of the inn’s cook, a young man whose acquaintance Jalist had made the previous night. Silwren had joined her comrades in the common room only long enough to eat and raise a single cup of wine before she retired.
Rowen could not blame her. Word had already spread through the city that a Shel’ai was in Atheion, and though no one dared voice animosity, the stares conveyed everything from curiosity to contempt. But unlike the people of Lyos, who had welcomed her only after first trying to kill her, the people of Atheion kept their distance. He wondered if they had other threats on their minds, and thought once more about the Dhargots. He guessed they were dignitaries, sent to persuade Atheion to join the empire. After all, without the Throng to help, Atheion might be too distant for the Dhargots to take by force, for the time being. Once they solidified their hold on the Free Cities of the Simurgh Plains, what they would attempt next was anyone’s guess.
Thinking of the now-decimated Throng, Rowen wondered again why Fadarah had not simply used that army to fortify one of the other conquered cities and live there in peace. Silwren had said that Fadarah’s ultimate goal was the Wytchforest. Beyond that, all past attempts to settle down had only seen the Shel’ai attacked by one superstitious people after another, from the Ivairians to the Dwarrs.
Maybe the Shel’ai don’t want peace. Maybe they just want revenge. If so, this war won’t end
Unwilling to spend the evening fending off men’s drunken advances, she chose the company of a muscular, kind-faced merchant she suspected of being a man lover. She introduced herself as Igrid—a name she’d used in Hesod—and filled his cup. Soon, they were speaking like old friends. She used the opportunity to test her story, adding fabricated details to her fictional past: a rich father gone missing, an ailing mother, a merchant husband who would be meeting her in two or three days. She concealed her pleasure when the man not only believed every word, but also offered to help search for her father. She grew tired, though, so she excused herself and started for the stairs that led up to her room.
At that moment, crude laughter echoed through the barroom, and she turned to see Dhargots swaggering in. She counted three of them, strong and leering, their painted eyes clearly scouting the common room for a fight. She scrutinized their faces, wondering if she’d met any of them in battle before she’d fled Hesod, but one Dhargot looked like another. Resisting the urge to hurry to her room, she sat back down. The merchant spoke to her, his voice filled with concern, but she ignored him. Her hand touched the hilt of the dagger at her side, hidden beneath her cloak.
No, not here. Not yet.
It made no difference if those particular Dhargots had been at Hesod. All Dhargots were the same. Still, she forced herself to relax. She could not avenge her sworn sisters if, in the process, she wound up jailed and executed—or worse, hauled out and brutalized by the very Dhargots she intended to kill. Besides, she could tell already that she was too drunk for a pitched battle. She determined to pace herself, keep calm, and wait for an opportunity.
Igrid took a deep breath and released it. She filled her cup, then the cup of the man next to her. Then she waited.
Chapter Eight
Matua’s Plea
R owen woke early, shook off his hangover by forcing himself through the martial poses of the sha’tala, then went to buy supplies. Though he had rented one room for Jalist and himself and another for Silwren, he saw no sign of the Dwarr. Rowen figured his friend was still in the company of the inn’s cook, a young man whose acquaintance Jalist had made the previous night. Silwren had joined her comrades in the common room only long enough to eat and raise a single cup of wine before she retired.
Rowen could not blame her. Word had already spread through the city that a Shel’ai was in Atheion, and though no one dared voice animosity, the stares conveyed everything from curiosity to contempt. But unlike the people of Lyos, who had welcomed her only after first trying to kill her, the people of Atheion kept their distance. He wondered if they had other threats on their minds, and thought once more about the Dhargots. He guessed they were dignitaries, sent to persuade Atheion to join the empire. After all, without the Throng to help, Atheion might be too distant for the Dhargots to take by force, for the time being. Once they solidified their hold on the Free Cities of the Simurgh Plains, what they would attempt next was anyone’s guess.
Thinking of the now-decimated Throng, Rowen wondered again why Fadarah had not simply used that army to fortify one of the other conquered cities and live there in peace. Silwren had said that Fadarah’s ultimate goal was the Wytchforest. Beyond that, all past attempts to settle down had only seen the Shel’ai attacked by one superstitious people after another, from the Ivairians to the Dwarrs.
Maybe the Shel’ai don’t want peace. Maybe they just want revenge. If so, this war won’t end
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