Knightswrath (The Dragonkin Trilogy Book 2) by Michael Meyerhofer Read Free Book Online

Hesod?”
    Jalist shook his head. “Not bloody enough. Clerics and pilgrims, I’d guess. Doesn’t look like many of them are armed.”
    “Looks like they follow Tier’Gothma and Armahg,” Rowen said, scrutinizing the emblems on their colored robes. Some had a cluster of grain stalks under a quarter moon, and others a swirl of stars.
    “Should we ride around them?” Jalist asked.
    “Let’s see if they need help first.” Rowen dismounted and led his horse on foot. He held the reins in one hand, resting the other casually on his sword hilt.
    Jalist did the same, pretending to use his long axe as a walking staff. “I’ll save you the trouble of asking, Locke. They do.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Are you coming, sorceress?”
    Silwren caught the wariness and disdain in the Dwarr’s gravelly voice. She wondered if these pilgrims would hate her for what she was, just as so many other Humans had. She wondered if they would threaten her. If they do, I’ll kill them.
    She dismounted and followed after the others. As Rowen’s group drew nearer, the travelers shrank back. A few produced staffs or small knives, but only one—an old man—wore a sword. That man left his sword sheathed and came ahead of the others to greet them. The old man’s robes might once have been blue, but they had long since faded to almost white. He wore the starry, swirling emblem of Armahg, but his gray beard was patchy and uneven. He looked less like a cleric than a beggar, but he smiled warmly. Sunlight glinted off his coppery skin and earrings—he wore several in each ear—and she heard a faint Queshi accent in his voice when he said, “Welcome, friends. Will you share our fire?”
    Rowen spoke for them. “If it pleases you. Are you from Hesod?”
    The cleric’s smile faded. “No… but we heard the screams while we were traveling. We’re pilgrims from half a dozen towns to the north. We’re bound for Atheion, to visit the Scrollhouse and the temples. If all goes well, we’re hoping to stay there.” He lowered his voice. “We did find one refugee from the city, but she’s asleep now.”
    Rowen nodded, unkempt red hair hanging in his eyes. “We aren’t clerics, but we might be able to help, if you have wounded who need tending.”
    Silwren wondered if he meant for her to heal them. She’d kept her hood drawn so far. Despite her trepidation, she smiled. She could tell how hard Rowen was trying to sound courteous, ever mindful of the balancing crane he wore on his tabard. If all the Isle Knights were like him, the Lotus Isles might actually become what it claims to be.
    The cleric smiled. He looked Rowen up and down. “A Knight of the Crane! Why, I haven’t met anyone from the Isles in years. You don’t have the appearance of an Isleman, though.”
    “I’m Ivairian by birth. I trained on the Isles. Knighted less than a month ago.” Rowen introduced himself, then Jalist. “And this”—he gestured, a faint worry in his eyes—“is Silwren, our friend.”
    Silwren braced herself and lowered her hood. The cleric’s smile vanished, and he reached for the rusty sickle-sword hanging from his belt. Whatever courtesy had been poised on his lips was replaced by a vulgar oath.
    Rowen stepped in front of Silwren, sword half drawn. Jalist followed with a sigh, readying his long axe.
    But the cleric held up his hands. “Peace, Knight! You only caught me off guard. My eyes may have been soured from countless hours reading books by firelight, but they still know white-and-purple eyes when they see them.”
    An uneasy murmur swept through the company of pilgrims. Some reached for makeshift weapons. Others pulled children close or backed away, muttering curses and oaths.
    Rowen said, “We’re travelers. Nothing more. We mean no harm to anyone.”
    “Good news for us.” The Queshi priest turned and waved and his companions. “Lower your weapons, brothers. An invitation is an invitation.” He offered Silwren a wary smile.