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

“Whatever blood’s in your veins, you’re free to join us, if you like. But first, you’ll have to forgive me. My addled brain didn’t catch your name as it flew by.”
    “Silwren,” Rowen repeated.
    The old cleric’s eyes widened. “The Wytch of Lyos?” He grinned and turned to Rowen. “And you’re the Knight who protected her.”
    I need no protection now .
    Meanwhile, the Queshi priest laughed. “The Heroes of Lyos, right here in our camp. I should have guessed! We’ve heard your story… a version of it, at least. I’ll wager such tales take on a life of their own, after a time. Perhaps you could tell us the version you like best.”
    Rowen smiled slightly. “Perhaps.”
    The pilgrims relaxed a little at the sound of their leader’s laughter, though they still gave the trio a wide berth as they followed the cleric to one of many campfires erected in the center of camp. Several priests offered to care for their horses. One offered them a wineskin, though Rowen offered it to the Queshi priest first.
    With a forced smile, Rowen said, “Honor does not permit me to drink before our host.”
    Silwren concealed a smile. She did not need magic to know that Rowen was lying.
    The cleric raised one gray eyebrow. “Don’t worry, Knight. We had no time to poison it before you arrived.” He winked, drank, and passed the wineskin back. Then he turned, issuing orders to bring food for their guests.
    Jalist leaned toward Rowen’s ear as the Dwarr accepted the wineskin next. Silwren’s acute Sylvan hearing caught him saying with sarcasm, “The Heroes of Lyos?”
    Rowen whispered, “If you could avoid telling them you fought for the other side, I’d appreciate it.” The Knight faced the cleric again. “Forgive me, Father. You’ve shared your wine with us, but not your name.”
    The old cleric blushed. “Apologies. I am Matua. I’m originally from Quesh—as you might have guessed by the color of my skin, if your eyes are any better than mine.”
    “I’ve been to your lands once, years ago. I remember the red horses your archers ride. ‘Lightning on four legs,’they say. I’ve never seen anything move so fast!”
    Matua laughed. “Bloodmares? Fast, sure, but ill tempered.” He indicated a scar just beneath his jawline. “One gave me a toss when I was a child. If you’re a Queshi, falling off your horse is like being caught stealing from the temple coffers. My prospects as a fighter seemed bleak, so I went north instead. I think my father was glad to see me go. Been moving about the Simurgh Plains ever since, one village to another.” The cleric’s expression sobered. “And your story, Lady Silwren?”
    Silwren felt all eyes on her. She’d taken the wineskin from Jalist and handed it back to Matua without drinking. “Not one I delight in sharing, if you’ll forgive me.”
    Matua nodded, unfazed. “Some stories, especially the painful sort, are better shared. Others, not. As it’s your story, we’ll trust that judgment to you.”
    Clerics appeared with bowls of stew. Silwren took hers and smiled at the scowling man who delivered it, but she did not eat.
    Rowen said, “I’m surprised you stopped for the night. If anybody got away from Hesod, the Dhargots will be hunting them. They can’t be more than two days away from you.”
    “It’s not the Dhargots we’re afraid of. I don’t think they’ll come this far south. But I’ve passed through Nosh before, and I remember the Lochurites have a fondness for attacking camps at night. Better we sleep here, do most of the rest of our traveling tomorrow. Don’t have to worry about being so quiet in daylight.”
    As though on cue, a baby began crying somewhere in the camp.
    “I heard about the Lochurites while I was in Quesh. They’re midland raiders, right?”
    Matua grimaced. “You’re too kind. I’d call them wolves, but that would be cruel to wolves. If you know anything about my order, you know that Armahg cautions us against passing