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

edge of the camp, careful to avoid letting the fire spoil his night vision as he scanned the darkness for enemies. He’d left Jalist to keep an eye on Silwren, though Rowen was certain that the others were too afraid of her to risk getting close enough to harm her.
    Maybe they’re smarter than I am.
    Rowen walked the perimeter of the camp over and over again. Though he still wore Knightswrath, he used a fire-hardened spear as a walking stick. From time to time, fresh pulses of heat radiated off the sheathed sword, sometimes so painful that he wanted to ungird it and leave it behind.
    Something was happening to the sword. Whatever had begun in Lyos, where the sword had transformed seemingly of its own accord from tarnished and rusted to bright and flawless, had accelerated. He suspected it had to do with Silwren, though he could not decide if it was because of the wytchfire the sword had absorbed—which it had done before, when Shade attacked him—or Silwren’s mere presence. He had the terrible thought that as Silwren’s power and unpredictability grew, the sword was trying to warn him.
    Maybe I should just give the damn thing to Crovis Ammerhel after all. I might not need it to kill Fadarah anyway. Even without it, I might be able to invoke the Oath of Kin with the Sylvs.
    He moved his hand to the buckle of his sword belt. He started to remove it, changed his mind, and paced the perimeter again. In the distance, a baby cried. Two old men argued over which of the gods was the strongest. Haesha threatened to kill someone for something they’d just said to her. Then Silwren emerged quietly from the darkness right in front of him, her pale skin a stark contrast to her blue-black cloak. He thought for a moment that she was a ghost or a hallucination and that the real Silwren was still asleep in the camp.
    “It’s me,” she whispered, holding up her empty hands.
    Rowen realized he’d rested a hand on his sword hilt. He removed it. “Are you all right?”
    Silwren nodded then drew closer. Before he could stop himself, Rowen took a step back.
    Silwren winced. “Are you?”
    Rowen nodded stiffly.
    Silwren stared for a moment, unblinking. “I’m sorry. I hardly remember… what happened. Just jumbled images. But…”
    Rowen thought of the Lochurite child again. He wondered if he should tell her, then he washed the child’s face from his mind in case Silwren was reading his thoughts. “You should sleep. We’ll leave at first light and get to Atheion by sundown. We can start west the morning after.”
    Silwren turned to stare off into the night. “You’re right. I can’t go west yet. If you want my help, we should go more slowly. If not, you should go on your own.”
    Before Rowen could answer, Silwren vanished into darkness. He cursed, wondering if he should follow. Instead, he returned to the camp. Jalist rose from a fire, a flask in hand, and met him.
    “Thanks for keeping an eye on her,” Rowen said dourly.
    Jalist shrugged. “She woke. She walked off. I wasn’t about to argue.” He offered Rowen the flask.
    Rowen ignored the flask and made his way to the heart of the camp. Priests and pilgrims were talking, but he silenced them with a look. After ungirding Knightswrath, he laid it on the ground at his feet. He forced a smile. “We’re close to Atheion, but we still have a long day’s journey tomorrow. There’s still danger. We gave you those spears, but we haven’t had time yet to teach you how to use them. If you like, I’ll teach you now.”
    Some stared at him. Others went back to talking in low whispers. No one stood up. Jalist smirked.
    “Listen, if not tomorrow, maybe you’ll face a Lochurite or a robber or some other cutthroat a week or a month or a year from now. When you do, you’ll be glad for this practice.”
    Some of his listeners copied Jalist’s smirk. He cursed inwardly, reminding himself that many of these clerics were old and probably meant to live out the rest of their lives in