by Meg Cowley
Dimitri hesitated a moment. Even this was perhaps too much to trust to another, but Rook was the best at shadowy business such as this, and Dimitri could not risk being discovered. The lunar runes had given him a hare-brained idea, but an idea nonetheless.
“Find out where the Dragonhearts are kept presently.”
“Yes, Master.”
“And...”
“Master?”
“Never mind. As quickly as you can.” I will seek out the relic myself. He already knew where he would find one.
DARK. EARTHY. STILL.
The silence was both peaceful and watchful.
As he stood over Saradon’s mother’s tomb, Dimitri waited. Not for anyone else, but for his conscience to decide one way or another. It was one thing to speak of breaking the wheel and bringing a new power and peace to a land. Quite another to break into a grave.
Desecration.
Such a thing would leave a mark on a soul, a stain that would be hard to banish. The dead had earned the right to be left in peace. The way Karietta had died, she definitely earned her long rest. The likeness of her atop the tomb even seemed to stare at him with reproach. He looked away.
The cold stroked its way down his spine, threatening to reduce him to shivers. Then Dimitri recalled the burning of the false traitors, and his resolve hardened.
No other relics of Saradon existed. Everything had been destroyed, save this. A last gift to his mother, the only woman who had ever shown him true kindness and love, the only one he had ever cared for. It had only survived because no one had dared to do what he was about to.
He split the tomb with a wave of his hand, the stone cracking and creaking before him as the slab atop the tomb moved of its own accord. Open just a sliver, just enough for it to get out.
He sent his magic to retrieve what he hoped was still there. When it floated out, he grasped it, tucking it swiftly into a pocket and departing without a backward glance. He would not look at it just yet. The tomb snapped shut behind him.
With every footstep, his heart pounded at what he had done – the shock, the rush, the fear. The excitement and adrenaline, as far-fetched as his quest seemed, as infintessemally small as his chances were. With the relic, he would find Saradon’s resting place. With a Dragonheart, he would discover the truth of the lunar runes one way or another. With the truth, he would find a way to cast down Toroth.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Rook brought him news. The Dragonhearts were located precisely where he hoped they would not be – in the vaults alongside the king’s most priceless treasures, from gold to unhatched dragon eggs. He sent Rook back to watch for any sign of weakness, any vulnerability he could exploit. Dimitri’s status would gain him access to the vaults, but not without the questions he hoped to avoid.
Dimitri went about his usual business thinking of little else aside from how to obtain access to the Dragonhearts, only distracted by the unusual flurry of activity at court that day. There was no talk other than what had happened the day before, though most only dared speak in whispers, and away from the ears of the king.
Not from the ears of Dimitri, however. His informants brought news all day long about this noble or that noble being fearful and angry over what had happened. They were as intelligent as the king. They knew exactly what he had done and why. In building Toroth’s power and wealth, he had crippled strategic alliances.
Dimitri allowed himself a little smile of satisfaction. He would use that to his advantage. He had already ordered Rook and Shadow to infiltrate the destroyed households and turn their allegiance to his cause.
He would personally see to the rest, as difficult as it would be. He was already the subject of their suspicions. After all, who else would feed the king such information? It was an unneeded hitch, but not impossible to overcome. Especially when he told them all how Toroth had ordered him to plant false evidence. Of course, no one would dare to spread such treason – truth or not – but it would spread like wildfire nonetheless. How the king targeted his most loyal friends and subjects...
This would be too enjoyable to watch. But first, Dimitri needed to find out if there were any grounds to the prophecy. He had the strangest intuition that would aid him more than anything else, if he could somehow discover the truth of what had happened to Saradon.
THAT EVENING, DIMITRI sealed himself in his chambers to prepare for the most daring part of his plan. With meticulous attention and calmness, he smoothed the cushions and placed himself upon the centre of the chaise, sitting cross-legged, back straight, the cold metal of the relic in the palm of his hand. A silent talisman of confidence.
Dimitri waited until the precise moment and closed his eyes. He shut out the comfortable, warm room and the fire flickering before him. The fire he now felt uncomfortable around after the day before. Every crackle was a reminder.
He inhaled a deep, calming breath and relaxed his hands upon his knees, retreating deeper into his mind where the kernel of his power resided. He sent it into the dark, down into the city, seeking that bright core of energy and magic that would be the Dragonhearts in their vaults.
He slipped past the wards, which were slumbering, exactly as Rook had said they would be. Nimbly, he danced past them all – the guards, the keeper doing his daily tally. Then he waited. It would not do to strike too soon. The Dragonheart could be missed, and he could be detected.
He waited, unconsciously holding his breath as they drew closer, then passed. There was little time left before the wards closed. Dimitri opened his mind and sought out a Dragonheart.
A pure, blinding light. Power. Nothing sentient. No slumbering dragon spirit, but an untapped well of power that seemed limitless. He latched onto it, melding his magic with its, familiarising himself with the feel of it. He had transported other things through space and time before, but nothing as powerful as this. The footprint this left upon the magical plane was beyond anything he had sensed before.
No wonder the king hoards power like this and Saradon seemed invincible with it. The thought slipped out before he regained composure. This was much better than having a dragon, Dimitri realised. A dragon, a living thing of flesh and blood, susceptible to death and its own willfulness, was a liability. But the Dragonhearts... They were magic in its purest form, a well of power bound to the wielder. It was a heady thought that sent him soaring into euphoria.
Focus.
He pulled the well of power toward himself, summoning it to him with everything he had. Slowly, it shifted. He pulled harder. Harder. Harder again. Sweat rolled down his forehead, stinging his eyes, and his hands balled into fists, trembling, his fingers clenched so tightly his nails cut into his palms.
Eventually, it slowly accelerated toward him, picking up speed as the ripple of magic raced through the world. He suddenly felt the wards change from inert to active. Seeking. Protecting.
He tugged as hard as he could, then fled. The Dragonheart wobbled in his power, tumbling through the unseen plane.
The wards closed around Dimitri as he raced outward, recalling every tendril of power back toward his body. Something felt different, but there was no time to discover what. He was in a race to save his life. If those wards caught him, it would be over. They snapped shut at the fringes of his magic, fizzling it with their stupendous power – power he knew would kill him in an instant if he were to be snared by it – but he was free, soaring back into himself.
He opened his eyes with a gasp and fell forward, catching himself before he toppled off the chaise, as the magic crashed back into him.
Deep breaths rumbled through him as he staggered to his feet, overcome by dizziness, exhaustion, as if he had tried to lift a mountain with his mind and body. The tang of the ward’s magic seared his nostrils, leaving him wanting to retch. Every limb ached. But, charged with adrenaline, he pushed it aside.
In his left hand was the relic. He looked at his right... His palm was empty.
Where is it?
Dimitri looked around, seeing nothin
g. The Dragonheart was nowhere to be found.
Panic flooded through him as he swore. He had definitely moved the Dragonheart...but to where?
Eleven
Tam sighed. “There i’nt no one else comin’ in tonight.” He scowled at the darkening skies outside barely visible through the single pane of warped, clouded glass adorning the door.
Somehow, the dark of night seemed to become an even inkier black as the storm clouds piled high. Rain already lashed at the shutters, as though a barrage of blunt arrows assaulted them from all directions.
“Go on. Get gone. No sense you bein’ out later than y’ought to in a storm like this.”
Harper grinned and dashed into the back to fetch her cloak. A tingle of excitement rose in her. It might only be the smallest sliver of her life that she rescued from the drudgery she hated, but it was her sliver, rain or not. Her mind was already at home, sinking into bed. She hoped there was still some of last night’s warming broth left.
Sometimes one had to take the small victories in life.
Before Tam could change his mind, Harper dashed past him, pulling her hood up and tucking her cloak tightly around her before surging outside. As she barrelled through the door, her head tucked down, it was not rain that lashed at her.
She stopped in wonder. The ground was white with hail. Above her, the clouds were a castle. Plumes of lightning flashed unseen in their depths, illuminating roiling walls of obsidian. The rumble of thunder was a thousand horses charging as the atmosphere held its breath. Then the wind surged again, beating itself about her until it seemed to steal the very breath from her lungs.
It was beautifully terrifying. She lingered, looking up at the grandeur, even as the lightning within her own veins urged her to move, to run from the danger of it.
The hail started again. She broke into a sprint toward the trees as the icy shards pelted her. When she reached their cover, the barrage ceased. She heard the shake and shudder as the canopy above her bore the impact.
In the gaps between the trees, the hail piled, like the first snows of winter. Then she realised it was snowing. The hail had ceased, and though lightning flashed and thunder rumbled above her, snow fell, twirling on the dying breeze between the trees.
The forest lit up with it as it blanketed the ground swiftly, a great white carpet broken by black circles around each tree. Harper’s breath fogged before her, and the cold bite of the air nipped at her face.
She pulled her cloak tighter and hurried onward. It had been many winters since the first snows had been so early, and she had not yet repaired her cloak to see her through the cold to come. Already, the chill seeped through it, aided by the fraying holes here and there.
Great, soggy flakes settled on her. Harper looked up, grinning as one landed on her eyelashes. She stuck out her tongue to catch another, enjoying the cold wetness that lasted a second before it melted.
Harper trudged on in silence, each step crunching through the fresh crust of snow as she savoured the clean beauty of it all. Snow was her favourite kind of weather, though really only when she was tucked up at home with no errands to run or shifts to cover.
A crack of thunder split the air, and shivers raced down Harper’s spine. Her heartbeat increased. She had never been afraid of the dark, but there was something about that noise that had been utterly wild. A child of fear sent to haunt nightmares. She quickened her steps. Her gaze roamed under the dark trees, and she could not help but grasp the handle of the ever-present small knife tucked into her belt.
It’s just thunder. Perhaps a lightning strike. That was not an encouraging thought, either.
She continued trudging as quietly as she could, her gaze scanning around her and barely daring to breathe so she could hear. Nothing moved.
Crackling through the falling snow, she saw a glow. The rumbles of thunder receded with the fading lightning, but there was warm light ahead.
Before her loomed the giant oak tree where, on a summer’s day, she would sit under its boughs as they trickled dappled sunlight and warmth upon her. Once, she had even brought Alric there, and that afternoon remained one of her most favourite memories. Now it was a dark, sentient menace, foreboding as it skulked in the shadows, watching her approach.
Home... Got to get home. And yet, the glow under the tree lured her closer. A lightning strike? she wondered. But the tree was whole, not riven, and living, not burning. The lightning would not strike the ground instead of the tree. A traveller? She crept closer.
Something moved within the shadows. Adrenaline flooded her system, sending every fingertip tingling. Harper pulled for her knife and held it before her, prepared to stab should someone – or something – jump out at her. The small blade seemed insubstantial against wraiths of a stormy night.
It’s just the firelight. She had never seen firelight quite like it. She drew closer, unable to stop herself. This fire was not just ribbons of amber and gold. It crackled with iridescence.
Even as she watched, it began to die down, but something glinted within the flames, nestled in the embers. She could not help but be drawn closer, moving cautiously with silent footsteps.
Harper gulped and chanced a look around. Nothing else stalked her across the snow. It seemed as though the entire land held its breath with her. The snow continued to fall, as silent as the grave, settling on her head and shoulders as the thunder and lightning faded farther away.
She didn't know whether it was worse to feel alone. It was too dark. No matter how much she strained her eyes, she couldn't see. A loud crack rang out. She trembled from head to toe, torn between fleeing and staying.
Run, run, run, her blood sang.
Stay, look, just a little glance, her curiosity answered.
A flash of lightning, bigger, closer. A flash of... Scales? Harper could have sworn she saw scales illuminated at the bottom of the tree for the briefest second. Her heart leapt into her chest, pounding wildly as fear took her.
Is it a dragon? Some dangerous beast set to eat me?
Only after a few moments did she realise that it was far too cold for them to survive here, even if they had been seen in the last several hundred years, and that it was too small to harm her – she hoped.
The fire died further, almost sputtering out. She drifted closer, curiosity warring with instinct. She dithered, torn. It was so small, the night was so cold, and she could not see it properly to assess if it was a threat, though it seemed as if nothing living was there at all.
Harper inched closer, her trembling hand holding the knife before her. The oak loomed over her now.
A stone, as big as her clenched fist, sat there, but Harper could tell it wasn’t an ordinary stone. Multi-faceted, shining with every colour of the rainbow, and capturing the light from the dying flames beneath it, sending shards of colour out in every direction, as if it had its own inner light. It looked almost like quartz – rough, ridged, and angular, with crystalline protrusions on the outside. It was opaque and translucent at the same time.
"What the...” I can't be seeing this right.
Curiosity won as she stepped forward, disbelief fuelling her. The arm holding the knife slowly fell to her side.
"This looks...like a Dragonheart..."
Harper blinked. She was clearly imagining things. The cold's gotten to me. Lost my mind. Yet no matter how hard she blinked or rubbed her eyes, the strange stone, the stone that looked like the Dragonhearts of legends, did not disappear.
What in Caledan is a Dragonheart doing in the middle of a forest in this godsforsaken place?
Dragonhearts... Never had she thought they truly existed. Never had she seen one. And yet, this seemed to hold true to the mystical stones she had heard of in tales from wandering bards and storytellers. She was certain it had been nothing more than a tale. Surely they did not...could not exist. She rubbed her eyes again. There was the Dragonheart before her.
The fire was gone, the darkness reaching toward her as the last embers faded. It felt oppres
sive, even with the tumbling white snow so close. The branches looked like hands above her, their dark fingers stretched wide as though they would fall upon her and take her. She could not take her eyes off the stone, even though her body cried for her to run. Worse things prowled beyond the safety of the village at night that her little hunting knife was no match for.
It was so beautiful. Somehow, it reflected light where there was none.
"What do I do with you?" she said aloud. Should I... Can I touch it? Dragonhearts were supposedly gifted with legendary powers bestowed by their former bodies, but were they dangerous? She had no idea. I can’t leave it here. But I can’t take it, either...can I? She knew Lord Denholme would want such a treasure.
Then a thought struck her. Perhaps I can sell it to him! He would pay generously for a powerful artefact like this. Even if it’s not a Dragonheart, it’s very pretty. Perhaps someone, somewhere, would pay handsomely for such a trinket. I could finally buy my freedom...
Harper’s heart tightened at the thought. She could go far on the proceeds for such a treasure. Start over somewhere new, somewhere far nicer than the drab, cold, dank County Denholme. Perhaps even Pandora, the capital city. It was an irresistible thought, one she had long harboured but never truly acknowledged. It was too painful to be so far from her dreams of freedom and fortune where she would always be well fed and well kept, not a copper away from starving.
Harper inched closer to the stone, allured by the prospect of a better life. Her senses tingled in the dark night. It was utterly still, as if the blanket of snow muted all sound. She scanned the horizon one last time. Nothing seemed to move in the darkness around her. The tree seemed both protector and enemy, friend and predator.
You’re imagining things, you silly fool.
Tentatively, she reached a shaky hand toward it, inching forward on numb feet. Her fingers bumped against the stone. For a moment, she felt the strangeness of its surface. Smooth and rough at the same time, the jagged crystaline pattern imprinting on her hand as she grasped it. At the same instant, the entire world disappeared.