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

Dragonkin—or, more aptly, their metal servants, the Jolym.”
    “I’ve heard of them. I thought they were just killers.”
    “Mindless slaves, more like it. Not alive, exactly. My order says the Dragonkin used them as troops, sure, but also to build their cities. Anyway, as for Atheion, there’s still some kind of strong magic there. The city floats on skiffs that don’t tip or sink, no matter how heavy they get.”
    “And the Scrollhouse?”
    Matua’s grin told him that he’d asked the right question. “Followers of my order tend it. It’s as much a temple to us as it is a library. It’s said that it contains all the knowledge in the world, all the way back to the days of dragons.”
    Rowen wondered if the library might also contain lore on the Isle Knights, not to mention the Oath of Kin. His pulse quickened, overshadowing his embarrassment over his encounter with Haesha. Perhaps he could learn more about Fâyu Jinn. Also, he’d heard nothing about Knightswrath on the Lotus Isles, but maybe the famous Scrollhouse could help him understand what was happening to the sword.
    But what would I do with that information? Who would I tell? If I go back to the Lotus Isles, they’re more likely to arrest me than listen to me. And there’s still no telling what the Sylvs will do to me when I reach the Wytchforest.
    Rowen glanced north, where Silwren still rode, distancing herself from the others. He wondered if she knew anything about the Scrollhouse. He knew that El’rash’lin had visited the place in secret, probing its histories for information on Namundvar’s Well, but he had communicated none of those memories with the rest he’d seared into Rowen’s mind. And he did not feel inclined to approach Silwren at the moment.
    They traveled on and on, making good time for once. Finally, near sunset, they arrived at the shore of Armahg’s Tears. Ruddy, golden light bejeweled the face of the sea. The sight was as welcome as any Rowen could remember. He relaxed a little and took in the view.
    True to the stories, Atheion was a city of water. While the banks of the sea were littered with homes, shops, and windmills, most of the city floated on the backs of enormous skiffs, each far larger than any sailing vessel he had ever seen. The skiffs were arranged like city blocks, linked by gangplanks and more often by ornate bridges that somehow avoided being sheared apart by the continuous rise and fall of the sea. Beyond them, scores of plainly dressed fishermen headed out on boats or simply tossed their lines off the edge of the city. He even saw stone—true towers and temples wrought of everything from sandstone to marble—floating on gigantic skiffs. The whole city creaked and swayed in the salty air.
    Matua said, “Shall we be on our way?” For the first time, the clerics and refugees did not need prodding. They hustled along, almost running toward the city. Rowen followed more soberly, glancing around for the others.
    Both Jalist and Silwren had rejoined the column. They dismounted and led their horses toward him. Rowen accepted Snowdark from the mother he’d loaned her to. She bowed her thanks before hurrying down the hill after the others.
    Jalist said in a low voice, “All right, Locke, we got these people here in one piece. No sense risking any more. If you still want to get to the Wytchforest, I’m sure the World Tree is as impressive a sight as this.”
    Rowen cast a worried look at Silwren. Despite her hood, any fool with eyes would see the wisps of brilliant platinum hair peeking out. He doubted it would be long before someone noticed her purple eyes. But they dared not camp in the wilds of Nosh, either. Silwren needed time to regain her composure—perhaps he did, as well—and they could not do so while fighting off Lochurite berserkers.
    But what if the Noshan king turns out to be as dangerous to us as they are? “No,” he said finally, “we’ll stop here… at least for a day or two. Matua can