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

wake. Her platinum curls smelled of smoke and charred flesh. Slowly, afraid to wake Silwren, Rowen rode back to find the others.
    Jalist met him halfway. “Is she dead?”
    Rowen felt a lump in his throat. “No.”
    “Then close her eyes before she gives me even more nightmares than she already has.” Jalist rode closer. When Rowen did not move, the Dwarr switched his long axe to his other hand, reached out, and, with surprising gentleness, closed Silwren’s eyes. “What happened?”
    Rowen shook his head, unwilling to answer.
    “The Lochurites?”
    “Dead.”
    “Good. I don’t see any blood. Did they hurt her?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Then why is she unconscious?”
    Rowen tried to edge his horse around Jalist’s, but the Dwarr grabbed his arm. “Locke, you’re pale as a shade. What happened?”
    “Nothing. The wildmen are dead. We’re safe. Let’s just stop for a while and let her sleep, then we’ll move on.”
    Jalist’s eyes narrowed. “It’s almost sunset. You sure you want to stop? The way things are going, we might not get any farther today if we do.”
    Rowen remembered the barbarian child’s face, wide with awe and terror, a moment before she died. Sweat beaded on his forehead, though he could no longer tell if the heat came from Knightswrath or Silwren. He resisted the urge to push her off his horse completely. “We have to stop.”
    Jalist nodded and moved out of the way. Rowen felt the stares of the priests and pilgrims as he rejoined the column. Haesha stood in the distance, frowning, knife in hand, but he rode toward Matua and dismounted. He stepped close to the old cleric and whispered, “Silwren needs to sleep. We need to keep her out of sight. Are there any tents?”
    Matua blinked. “Yes. That is, no, but we can make one out of cloaks and spears, if needs be.” He turned to Silwren, who had slumped against Snowdark’s neck, prompting the horse’s eyes to go wide. “Is she hurt?”
    “She just needs to sleep.” Rowen pulled Silwren down from his horse. While Matua took the reins, Rowen carried the prone sorceress toward a soft patch of grass. “She needs to be left alone,” he said loudly.
    Matua followed hesitantly. “Does that mean we’re stopping for the night? Your friend spoke of Lochurites—”
    “They’re all dead. We’re safe. We just need to stop.” And the next person to ask me why is going to get a split skull . Luckily, Matua did not press the matter, and despite their fear of the Lochurites, the others seemed relieved for the rest. As Silwren lay on the grass, shaking in short, unsettling spasms, Rowen gathered cloaks and spears. The priests and pilgrims seemed reluctant to part with their cloaks, even if only for a while, but Rowen’s expression, coupled with Matua’s urgings, persuaded them otherwise.
    Rowen carried everything back to where Silwren lay. Jalist helped, silent for once, though the others kept their distance. The two jammed spears in the ground, forming an outline around her body, then draped the spears with cloaks. Shadows covered her. Rowen stepped back.
    Jalist whispered, “Locke, you’re still as pale as the bone handle on that sword of yours. Would you mind—”
    “We can’t take her to the Wytchforest like this.” Rowen glanced toward the setting sun. “I know we don’t have time to waste, but we can’t go west until she’s… better. We need time. Atheion’s as good a place to wait as any.”
    Jalist cleared his throat. “That’s… a change from what you’ve been saying.”
    Rowen turned to face him.
    Jalist held up his hands. “All right, Locke, don’t bristle. Atheion it is. I’ve always wanted to see the City-on-the-Sea anyway. Maybe I’ll even spend some time in the Scrollhouse, make myself smart, become a merchant. Who knows? Maybe—”
    Rowen walked away, ignoring the rest.

    As the sun set, darkness swallowed the camp, keeping pace with Rowen’s mood. The others lit fires, but Rowen stuck to the