by Meg Cowley
Dimitri returned to her chambers. He was not sure whether it was out of loathing for himself, or the king.
THAT NIGHT, HE WATCHED her from the shadows. Rosella, wearing a gown of starlight and diamonds, twirled on the arm of an elven princeling. He tried to suppress a pang of jealousy, unsuccessfully. At least he got to enjoy her in other ways, even if he would never be permitted to court her publicly.
Still, it soured his enjoyment of the celebrations, at which he was barely welcome in the first place. He stood far outside the globe of light, brilliance, and laughter that graced the finest ballroom in the city of Tournai, instead favouring the cold darkness of the gardens that were wet after the storm’s passing.
A figure melted out of the shadows beside him.
“Yes, Rook?” Dimitri’s informants all went by coded names. It was safer that way.
A flicker of light glinted as coins changed hands. Rook tucked the money away before speaking. “Dissent in the north. Those whom we spoke of. Avoiding duties at the ports by landing their most choice goods elsewhere. The ships turn up to the docks half empty.”
“The king thanks you,” Dimitri said, as he always did. Rook vanished into the night without another word.
Dimitri chewed on the knowledge. Did the king deserve it? Not at all. Was it worth hiding? Even less so. He sighed and turned his eyes to the heavens for a fleeting second. No answers would come from the cold stars above him, hidden by their blanket of dark clouds.
He was duty-bound to report it, whether he liked it or not. At least in some form. Dimitri picked through which information to feed onward. He always kept some choice tidbits for himself, or for ears other than the king’s.
I’ll give these traitors a chance to save themselves – and owe me – before I turn them in, he decided with a small smile. Some of those who had looked down their noses at him earlier that day would tomorrow be begging him to keep their secrets, lest they incur the wrath of the king and see their heads roll or their bodies burn in dragonfire for treason.
The bastard son of an elven lord had to make his own fortune one way or another.
Four
Harper wove through the crowded streets of Glymouth, wending her way through the town’s lower levels. Past the docks where the stink never left the air and the gutters ran red with the guts and blood of butchered fish. Past the market traders hawking their wares, though hardly anybody sold fresh produce for it had been an even barer harvest than usual from the barren lands of Denholme County. Past the inns, lodges, and hostels that housed travellers like her, though Harper would return home that day. She could not afford even the most meagre of them.
It was busy, unusually so, and abuzz, but Harper did not know what would be so interesting in such a remote place. They could hardly still be talking of the birth of the new prince, far away in the capital city. That had been last week’s gossip.
The tanner had hides already drying in his cobblestone courtyard when she came upon it, gratefully ducking into the empty square away from the crushing throng and the sweat and musk clinging to it. Harper swallowed her dismay as she looked at the fine stags and even wolf hides. Her paltry rabbit skins would fetch hardly anything. It would barely be worth the effort of coming and missing a shift at the inn. She pushed the thought from her mind and gathered up her hides.
“Hey, lass,” the tanner said, grinning when he saw her. He paused his work and straightened with a grimace from being hunched over his work for so long.
Harper grinned in return. Alric was still as handsome as ever, though he would never be hers. Their adolescent romance had been a whirlwind and half a dream, but nothing more, though he had always been kind to her since, and she him. Alric had been promised to the harbour master’s daughter, whether he liked it or not, and Harper had not dallied with him in the three years since they had wed. His sharp-eyed wife lurked in the background. She knew exactly who had come a-calling. Harper carefully avoided her gaze.
“What have you brought me this time?” As he spoke, he wiped the sharp blade on the rough leather swinging from his belt to clear it of the flesh he’d expertly scraped from his latest hide.
“Just four rabbits, Alric,” she admitted. “But I’d like to make a deal if I can.”
“Sure, sure,” he said, but she saw how the anticipation faded from his eyes. He bent to his work once more, wielding the blade skillfully to scour and scrape the hide before him without nicking a hole in it. “I can take ‘em, but I can’t give you much, lass. Rabbit hide i’nt worth much this season, what with the bounty of wolves I’ve been a-having.”
“I understand,” she said, swallowing her pride as much as her desperation. “Whatever you can give me will help.”
Harper waited until he finished, then offered the hides to him. He took them, running his finger over the soft fur, examining the inside of the skin. “You did a good job skinning these. You’re getting better.”
“I learned from the finest,” she said, giving him a nervous smile.
He batted away her compliment with a calloused hand. “You’re too kind. But I’m glad all the same. A better hide means a better price when I sell it, and I can give you a copper more for them. You have some good warrens down your neck of the woods, Miss Harper.”
He counted out the coins and bid her farewell. Harper left, pausing on the threshold so her eyes could adjust from the darkness inside his workshop to the weak, albeit bright sunlight piercing through the grey clouds. It made the city appear ever more bleak. The grey stone under the grey sky by the grey sea.
Harper tucked her cloak around her before diving into the maelstrom. She kept her eyes and ears open, finding it was some kind of celebration for the marriage of the lord’s daughter to one of his finest knights.
Harper sighed wistfully as she unwittingly joined the throng of people gathered, watching the procession go past. The young, handsome knight parading his glowing, beautiful wife. Harper could not help but feel a sting of jealousy.
I bet she doesn’t have to sell rabbit hides to put food in her belly.
As much as she denied even the rare offers of a dalliance those days, Harper could not pretend it was because she was holding out for hope of marriage. Who would want her? A penniless orphan with no dowry or assets had nothing to bring to a union. Yet neither would Harper be content to play wife and broodmare. Her pang of jealousy turned to disdain as she saw the doting adoration the lord’s daughter emanated toward her new husband.
What do I need a husband for?
She had survived for years on her own. What value could a man bring that she could not, save for warming her bed every night? Harper was no fool. She knew that would be her sole duty as a wife. She wrinkled her nose in disgust at the thought.
She looked at the knight. He radiated calm assurance, prowess, and power. That was who she envied. Not the simpering slip of a girl riding at his side, beautiful as she was with her doe eyes and willowy frame draped in luxurious fabrics. As much as the cheering crowd waved to their lady, it was to him the ladies lining the way threw flowers and favours.
That kind of status... That’s what I want. If I were so grand, I wouldn’t be pawed at by leches in the dark. I wouldn’t be too poor to eat. I wouldn’t ever have to worry about pleasing other people. I could please myself – and they’d leap to please me, too.
After a warm meal to fill her belly, she turned away from town with a heavy heart. Away from dreams of the knight and grandeur. Back to her dreary, cold shack and the adventures she only managed to live by re-reading the tattered pages of her much-loved storybook.
Five
Dimitri rubbed his hand across the back of his neck, closing his eyes for a moment to enjoy the relief of it. It had been a hard morning with the king, relaying just enough information to earn his rewards, along with some entirely insincere gratitude, but not so much that he had no leverage over those he had incriminated.
The king had been too eager to dismiss him, and Rosella had deserted him en
tirely that week, too. There were far more important things to do. Rosella had already bored him to a living death with talks of gowns, each more fancy and ridiculous than the last. The king had stretched his patience to within an inch of its tolerance with discussions of grand parades through the city – which, of course, Dimitri was expected to use his accomplices to infiltrate for any sign of trouble.
It was a time of celebration, but the king was wise to be cautious. With the city overcrowded and in high spirits for the celebrations, there were bound to be a few dissenters in the midst who would use the charged atmosphere to fuel their warmongering.
Dimitri stopped, realising he had wandered into the royal gallery. His gaze flicked to the nearest painting on the wall, and he let out a bark of laughter at the irony. Of all the works he could have stopped before, perhaps it being that one was apt.
The outcast views the outcast, he thought dourly as he stepped closer.
Dimitri had never thought to look at this particular painting before, but then again, he had never cared to visit the royal galleries to look at paintings of rulers long dead and grand scenes that were no doubt elaborated.
Floor to ceiling it stretched and was so big, it seemed he could step through the canvas into the scene before him, though he would not have wanted to. Saradon stood there, tall and powerful, in the moment before he was cast down by the small glimmer of hope at his feet.
Dimitri looked at his face with morbid curiosity, wondering how exact a likeness it was. Saradon stood taller than average, towering over Dimitri, who was tall himself. Saradon wielded a dark blade, the match of his armour, shadows and fire seeming to cling to him.
The half-elf’s brows were furrowed with anger, and his violet eyes pierced Dimitri where he stood. Dimitri shivered, though only a little. It was incredibly lifelike, whether accurate to himself or not.
“Five hundred years since you were defeated,” Dimitri mused to the painting. He would receive no answer, but how he recalled the legends was curious all the same. “Five hundred years... No body did they find, no way to mark your death. Were you cast down, I wonder?”
He dismissed the notion almost immediately. “Of course you were. If you had not been, if you had endured, you would have won. The legends say how close you were. Besides which, you would have avenged what they did to your sweet mother. And then we would all live in a very different Pelenor.” He scowled. Would that really have been such a bad thing?
Outside, however, the country celebrated. Banners and bunting adorned Pelenor’s capital city, Tournai. It seemed plays and minstrels sprung up on every street corner to sing and act the tale of Saradon – his uprising and his defeat. The city was filled with music and joy, celebrating the return of the normal order five hundred years later.
And it was filled with money. The king was most pleased about that. The taxes this celebration would raise had Toroth rubbing his hands together in glee every time he looked out of the windows at the busy city below.
“You just wanted to break the wheel, didn’t you?” Dimitri asked the painting.
Saradon’s eyes still stared at him, unblinking and unforthcoming with answers.
“Who could blame you.” Dimitri sighed. It’s a damn broken wheel as it is.
The legends spoke of Saradon. He who had tried to wipe out the monarchy, an evil that grew unchecked. And yet, on the other side of the coin, the tales spoke of a male wronged by society, cast out for his differences, and punished for his quest to right the wrongs of a sinful nation.
“Who could blame you indeed,” Dimitri muttered. Perhaps you wanted a better life for those oppressed like you. Like us. There were some thoughts he did not dare speak out loud, for there were ears everywhere in the palace. Most belonged to him, but one could never be too careful.
You had half blood, and no magic. I have half blood, and illegitimate at that. Magic makes no difference to me. I’m cursed for a different reason. Yet perhaps we are not so dissimilar, you and I. Both of us were cast out for faults that were not of our own making.
This was one of the few remaining portraits of Saradon that Dimitri knew of. So many had been destroyed. He gazed down the gallery at one of the others and strolled toward it. Saradon sat, appearing just like any other member of the royal family. There was nothing to mark him out. Even his gaze was muted. Dimitri frowned at the picture. It was such a bland and uninspiring portrayal.
His eyes flicked to the first one. In that one, they painted your true fire.
Then back again. Dimitri shook his head. Saradon looked stern and melancholy all in one. Strong and full of hidden depths – or maybe Dimitri imagined that, desperate to draw something from the art that was not truly there. And yet...
Did you know when they painted you here what atrocities you would commit? What vile acts would be committed in your name?
It was so difficult to reconcile the placid male posing here to the one who had wreaked havoc on Pelenor. Dimitri’s lips pursed as he viewed the first painting once more. The symbolism of the stark contrast of light and dark was not lost on him.
The small pinprick of light and hope at Saradon’s feet. The overwhelming darkness that was him filling the rest of the frame, as if it would spill out.
So trite. So rarely is the beholder’s eye untainted. So very rarely is history told by the losers. I wonder if Saradon would have painted himself thusly.
“What are you doing here?” Damir’s sharp voice rang in the empty halls.
Dimitri turned, swallowing his distaste into bland indifference. His usual mask.
“I could ask you the same, Father.”
His father rankled at that, but he answered anyway. “I was looking for you.” His eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here?”
Dimitri shrugged and turned away, for he knew it infuriated his father. “It does not concern you.”
Damir puffed with indignance, and Dimitri allowed a small smirk of satisfaction to show. True to form, his father’s thunderous scowl deepened.
“I came to admire the art, of course.” He flourished a hand at the walls with a mocking smile. “Such a curious misfit you selected to view.” His father’s eyes flicked to Saradon towering over them both.
“Perhaps he was simply misunderstood.” Dimitri cocked his head to one side, meeting Saradon’s gaze once more.
“He was a dangerous, evil thinker who nearly toppled the peace of many nations.” Damir’s tone rang with warning to cease speaking of such matters.
Ears everywhere.
“Curious for one with no magic, don’t you think?”
“He had others to act for him. And powerful magics. Why do you think the king, and all those since Saradon, have kept the Dragonhearts and such artefacts under lock and key for centuries?” His father lowered his voice, eyes darting to either side, as if he did indeed fear being overheard. “No one must be allowed to grow that powerful again.”
“If so many chose to follow him, perhaps his message was not so hateful after all,” Dimitri dared to say, not matching his father’s whisper.
“You speak treasons,” his father warned him.
“Curiosity is not treasonous.” Dimitri’s indignance echoed around the chamber.
“Saradon curse your smart tongue, boy!”
I haven’t been a boy for a long time, no thanks to you. “I’d have thought you would appreciate the fact your bastard...” Damir flinched. He hated the word, the very reminder of the indiscretion he had tried so very hard to conceal but could never escape, “...has done so very well for himself, despite your attempts to hamper that. Be thankful I am so clever. If I were not, you would not have gained half the privileges you are honoured with.”
Damir had no answer for that, speechless with indignance.
“Well, you clearly haven’t come for the pleasure of my excellent company, so what do you want?” Dimitri turned away from Damir, ignoring the pointed glare he received in answer, and pretended to admire an ornate antique. His father could not bear
to be ignored. Dimitri delighted in indulging that whenever he could.
“No indeed. You need to tread more carefully. I won’t have you angering the king.” Damir folded his arms across his chest. He was as cold as usual, but Dimitri was well-schooled in being on the receiving end of such indifference. After all, he had learned from a master, not that he would ever admit it.
“As if you have a say in anything I do, dear father.” Dimitri flicked an imaginary piece of dust off his immaculate, slate, velvet cuffs and strolled down the gallery, stepping from light into shadow and back again as he passed each tall window.
“I’m your father and won’t have you shame our House any more than you already do.” His father strode after him, dogging his footsteps.
Dimitri scoffed. “Frankly, the shame is all yours. Aren’t I nothing more than your shame? Yet you have your current fortune to thank me for. I’ve worked hard, despite every limitation you placed upon me.” He stopped and glared at his father. “You’re welcome,” he added pointedly.
Damir pursed his lips.
Still no thanks. As ever. Old dragons don’t change their scales. Dimitri’s lip curled as he turned away again.
“Do you hear me?” his father insisted. “I shan’t have you drag our name through the mud. I don’t want the king’s wrath upon me for your misdemeanours.”
“Oh, don’t worry!” Dimitri whirled on his father, his words as scathing as he could possibly make them. “I shan’t endanger your delicate little head, nor that of your latest harlot.”
“She is my wife!”
“Your latest wife.”
“You will show her more respect. I command it! She is a lady of your House, not one of the common slatterns you associate with.”
Dimitri spluttered with laughter, unable to contain it. “You deign to lecture me? Please tell me the irony is not lost upon you.” His amusement faded to darkness. “And before you so much as say another word, may I warn you that by association, it would very much appear that you call Her Royal Highness a slattern. I am sure you are very much mistaken and do not need to inform the king you hold such views on his most precious daughter.”