by Meg Cowley
"I wonder if that's where the dragons live," she murmured to herself.
She joined the throng of people flooding toward the city, marveling at the variety of beings she saw. Humans of all skin colours. Elves, some on foot and some on horseback. Shorter statured people – dwarves, Harper presumed – moved along with the crowd. Men, women, and children of all ages surrounded her. Winged beings, Aerians, occasionally landed in the crowd. Harper wondered if perhaps they were not permitted to fly to the city. She could think of no other reason why they would choose to land.
Carts drawn by draught horses or donkeys carrying all kinds of loads bumped, rolled, and groaned around her, some covered and some open. The smell of their wares mingled with that of the crowd – sweat, smoke, and dirt, the faint fragrance of perfume and soap threading throughout. The clamouring of voices was as overwhelming as the sound of the crowd. Shouting, chattering, and calling all around her, the clopping of animals, and the creak and racket of the carts.
The rising sun was warm, and Harper soon started sweating under her cloak. The heat did not help the smell, either. The faint whiff of excrement from all the animals rose too, so Harper breathed through her mouth, carefully stepping over the steaming piles of manure so as not to trail her cloak in them.
Harper gawked, unable to stop staring. As they drew closer to the city and the imposing white walls, she had to crane her neck more and more to look at them. This close, she could no longer see over them. They towered over the rush of people climbing the incline from the wide valley. She could clearly see the windows and balconies now.
Drying clothes hung from the highest, the coloured garments flying in the breeze. Flags whipped back and forth high above them, too far away for her to see the crest. Occasional faces, which were just pale blobs from such a distance, peered over battlements or flashed past windows.
The crowd bunched together as people waited to pass through the gate. From the middle of the pack, Harper shuffled along with the rest of them. She could now see soldiers lining the way. Their gleaming armour shone in the sun, and she wondered if they were uncomfortable under the weight of it and their ceremonial red cloaks. Suddenly, her own cloak did not feel so oppressive.
Suddenly, it all felt overwhelming. The crowd pressed closer, and with every step, people bumped against her body, feet kicked her legs. She glared at those surrounding her, but was entirely ignored. With a protective arm around herself, she glanced up at the gates looming over her. The crowd passed through in a constant stream.
Anxiety tempered her excitement. Where was she supposed to go? The city looked huge. Where was she to start? Who should she seek? Should she try to go to the palace first?
Surely that was where the king would be, and he was the one who would give her the means to go home. The moment of misgiving niggled at her. She had been so concerned about getting to Tournai, she had not once stopped to think about what she ought to do when she finally reached the royal city.
"Oy!"
The shout cut through her thoughts. She turned her head. She was about to pass under the gate, which was only a few people and one cart wide. Its shadow engulfed them all. Ahead, mounted guards scanned the crowd. One stood tall in the stirrups as he called again, a word she did not understand, and pointed toward her.
She looked around, but the rest of the crowd had their heads down. As they all passed through the gate, they showed papers or tokens to the various guards, who nodded them through, before they peeled away into the maze of streets on their own business.
Me? she mouthed, pointing to herself.
The guard met her gaze and nodded, beckoning.
She smiled and forged through the crowd. Perfect. I'll ask him, even though he looks far too grumpy for a morning like this. As she approached, he dismounted, his scowl deepening.
“Where are your papers?” he asked in thickly accented Common Tongue, placing a hand upon the pommel of his sword as he strode forward.
"I beg your pardon?" Harper replied, scrunching her face in confusion. She stumbled as a group of dwarves passed, knocking into her. They hurried away as the guard stepped toward them with menace. He then called to her in another tongue she did not understand. At her look of confusion, he switched back to the Common Tongue.
“Do not move. What is your name and purpose?”
Harper froze. The man looked even more wary now, as though he expected her to pull forth some giant and fearsome weapon from beneath her cloak.
"I... My name’s Harper. I need to see the king," she said desperately as the crowd surged around her once more, pushing her closer to the guard, his sword, and his comrades, who began to turn to her with dark looks. For the first time, a surge of true fear, laced with crushing doubt, shot through her as she realised how ridiculous and far-fetched her naïve idea was.
She saw how his feet inched forward, almost imperceptibly, and her pulse shot up as her body flooded with adrenaline. She had a feeling something was about to go very wrong.
“I'm coming to see the king. I have something for him," she blurted out. On a thoughtless impulse, she brandished the Dragonheart before her.
At her movement, he pulled his sword free and raised it to strike, but he halted at the sight of the small stone she held. His comrades surrounded her, their own hands lowering to their weapons.
“That is a Dragonheart,” he said darkly, eyes narrowed. “Where did you take it from?”
“I didn’t steal it. I found it!” In the din of the crowd, no one heard her. Panic rose from the pit of her stomach.
“It belongs to the king, by law of Pelenor. Lay it upon the ground and step back.”
But Harper clutched it tighter, sure it was her only way out of the mess she had willingly and inadvertently walked into. "I didn't steal it. I swear. I must see the king!”
“The king does not bandy with thieves,” the man snarled. He looked at one of his men. “Does it match the description?”
He nodded. “Aye, Captain. Looks like the one that was stolen from the vaults.”
"I don't understand. I haven't done anything wrong," she said. She gripped the folds of her cloak as if it could somehow steady her, because it felt like a rug had been pulled out from under her.
Why are they acting like the villagers?
He stepped forward, pushing her back. This close, with his plumed helm and broad, muscled shoulders, he seemed to loom as tall and wide as the wall. "A Dragonheart goes missing, stolen from the hands of the king himself, and an unidentified Dragonheart appears of precisely the same description? Too neat a coincidence."
"I swear, I haven't done anything wrong!" shouted Harper. "The stone appeared to me weeks ago in Caledan! When I touched it, I was somehow transported to Pelenor. I've been trying to travel to Tournai for ages!"
Her voice rose in volume and pitch as panic set in. She knew nothing she said would change their minds. She had made a terrible mistake. She tried to back away, but they had surrounded her, so she was met with a wall of silent, cloaked, muscled men, each readying to draw his weapon.
"I will hear no more, lest you corrupt us,” he snapped. "Our king will no doubt like to deal with you personally, thief. Seize her!"
Thirty-Nine
A nerve twitched in Dimitri's temple as he stood, rigid as iron, before the whole court. It ought to have been an unremarkable night. The usual banquet after the day’s work, the relaxed hall filled with the tinkle of cutlery and glasses, as well as the muted laughter of lords and ladies.
In reality, they were silent, circled like carrion crow around him – their prey. The lights seemed extremely bright, stinging his eyes and making him feel especially naked before them, despite his sweeping, dark robes.
Before him, Rosella’s laughing eyes teased him, but with none of the mirth and lust they usually held. She taunted him today, publicly humiliated him, took glee in his suffering. How had he never seen this depth to her cruel selfishness before?
“Are you not going to kneel before yo
ur princess?” she said with mock astonishment at his supposed insubordination.
With a blank expression that masked raging emotions within, he knelt upon one knee, the motion smooth and automatic.
“Good,” she purred. The crowd tittered.
Hell to you all, Dimitri cursed them silently.
“I find myself insulted by your lack of respect to me. Princesses ought not to have to ask for such things.”
She ceased circling him, but at his lack of reply, his measured stare into the distance, resumed it again with a a twitch of annoyance to her lips. She wanted him to bite.
“I think you should beg for my forgiveness.” She stopped before him, her hips level with his head, and extended a jewelled, slender hand toward him.
Dimitri clenched his jaw. “I beg your forgiveness, Your Royal Highness. No male would ever insult such beauty and wit as yours.” He was tired and irritable from his constant travelling and lack of sleep, and it took all he had not to shake with weariness and keep the snap from his voice.
“You have such a way with words. You may rise.”
Dimitri rose.
“Come, ladies,” Rosella called to her retinue, the flock of sparkling, noble elf-maidens who followed her wherever she went for any favour she would give them. To Dimitri, they were a cacophony of shrill, gossiping, backstabbing sparrows he preferred to keep at arm's length.
Sensing their fun would go no further that night, courtiers began to turn away, and conversation rose around him. The stiffness in Dimitri’s shoulders eased a little at his humiliation being over – for now.
As Rosella swept past him, the caress of her favourite perfume was a heady scent teasing his nose. “You will visit me tonight,” she whispered to him alone, her voice covered by the noise around them.
I’ll be damned if I do, little harpy. “I regret, I am too busy, Princess.”
She stopped in surprise, but by the time she turned around, her mouth a perfect “o”, he was already halfway to the door.
HE PUNCHED THE CUSHIONS on his lounger with a growl of unbridled anger.
He had finally had enough. As glorious a prize as Rosella was to parade before his father, and insult the king with – adopted daughter or not, she was still his daughter and it irked him to no end that Dimitri dallied with her – it was worth it no longer.
I’m done with her, I’m done with Toroth, and I’m done with this entire festering court. No more duplicity. It’s time to play my hand.
His body ached from head to toe. It screamed at him to rest, to sink into the sumptuous, soft bed just one room away, but anger coursed through him, banishing the weariness.
Minutes later, he stood in Saradon’s chamber once more. Saradon’s watchful, wordless presence observed him, waiting for him to speak.
“I’m done with Toroth, with them all,” Dimitri said shortly, sending a mental barrage of images to Saradon, who absorbed them thoughtfully.
“There is no more time for delays, but I want assurances. I will raise you, but only if you make me your right-hand advisor. I will deliver everything we have discussed. I will not be a spectator in this. I want to orchestrate it. I want to crush them myself. If you agree, I will make it so. If you do not, I walk away and find my own way for revenge.”
“You dare to speak against me?” Saradon’s customary flickering anger lapped at the edges of the cavern, ready to spring. He laughed at Dimitri’s resolute silence, his set jaw. “No matter. I know it is born from anger, not insult. Our ends are aligned, Dimitrius Vaeri Mortris of House Ellarian. You have my word it will be so.”
Dimitri felt the warm, tingling magic wrap around him, then fade into nothing as their agreement bound to the magic of the world around them.
“I’m going to reclaim the stone.”
Dimitri executed a short bow and fled into the world once more, hungrily seeking the area of his last dalliance with Aedon and his companions. When he arrived, he found their camp empty, as he had expected. He followed their essence, drawing closer, until he stood on the moors before the great plains of Tournai. He could have laughed at the irony. They practically sat on the king’s doorstep, yet Toroth knew nothing of it. But his amusement was soon tainted by fear. They were so close to being discovered. He knew he had been right to choose now. There was no more time.
He drew himself toward their small fire, a tiny pinprick of warmth against the cold landscape, until he stood just outside their barriers.
With a cold rush that swept through him, he realised Harper was nowhere to be found. When he sought back along the trail he had followed, he discovered her essence was gone.
Panic drenched him. He shattered the wards around Aedon’s camp only to discover the worst. Hidden behind their wards, there was no trace of the Dragonheart, either.
“Where is she? Where is it?” he thundered, striding into the firelight. Aedon had already blanched at the crushing of his wards, reeling with the power of it. His companions jumped to their feet at the intrusion. Weapons appeared in their hands, and magic bloomed around Aedon. They formed a barrier against Dimitri, their backs to the fire.
“What in Pelenor’s name do you want, spy?” Aedon snarled, raising a hand full of crackling, magical energy.
“Where is Harper? Where is the Dragonheart?” Dimitri enunciated every syllable, his voice dangerously even, though he shook with fear and anger.
Ragnar spat at him as his only reply.
Dimitri thrust a clawed hand at him. Ragnar sailed into the air, landing on the ground with a crunch. He moaned and was silent. Erika slowly backed up to tend to him, her blade raised, not daring to turn her back on Dimitri.
Brand and Aedon, filled with defiance, tightened the gap between them.
“If you won’t tell me willingly, I’ll drag it out of one of you.” Dimitri swept his hand in front of him. The two males fell to the ground, their legs plucked out from beneath them.
“Over my dead body, dragon-offal,” growled Brand.
Using the same curse the woodland elves had used on Harper, Dimitri pounded them with a sensory overload of pain. Aedon paled, his fingers clenching into balled fists. Brand grunted, eyes shut against the agony. Ragnar still lay prone, and Erika struggled to balance as she dropped to all fours, moaning, huddled over him protectively. Her limbs shook with the exertion of bearing it.
Again and again Dimitri hit them, until all four lay on the ground, twitching, their veins running with white-hot fire.
With a jerk of his hand, he ceased the magic. It ebbed away, along with some of his frustration. He knew they would not tell him anything. He did not know whether it was more out of loyalty to Harper or spite for him, but it did not matter.
“I will find her,” he promised them with a growl, then vanished.
Forty
It was a long, dark, restless night as the four aching warriors huddled around their fire, built as high as resources and energy would allow, refusing to rest in case Dimitri should return.
Even Brand drooped with weariness by the time the sun rose, its pale light blinding to their swollen, heavy eyes. Every limb was stiff, the pale flickers of the fire failing to permeate the freeze of night. In silence, they broke fast that morning on unsatisfying, cold rations.
Aedon had renewed the wards thrice, but even so, they had not dared speak for fear Dimitri would be listening. Brand scouted the area, ambling back uncharacteristically slowly.
“If he is here, I can find no trace of him.”
“We have to find her,” Ragnar said. His eyes were as dull as his voice as he stared listlessly into the flames. “She is in danger from that...monster.”
Brand shook his head. “If we’re not too late.”
Aedon glanced at Erika, who remained silent on the matter. “I fear you’re right, Ragnar. As much as she swore she was capable of independence, Dimitri is too great a match for her.” He shook his head. “If she’s not walking into a trap, she goes to her doom. It would be unforgivable if we let her.”
The group sat in silence for a long moment.
“There’s a slim to none chance that we will procure any more Dragonheart, powdered or whole,” Brand said carefully. “I think we all realise that. We have no Dragonheart and no knowledge of how best to use one. Going to Tournai may be our own doomed mission.”
Aedon gritted his teeth. “We made a promise, and I will not renege on it. Lives are at stake. We might find another way to fulfil our oath and save her at the same time. She’ll be branded a thief and imprisoned – or worse.”
Brand held up his hands in submission, though he knew Aedon had taken his point on.
“Besides which, Harper is in trouble. I know she is not what some of you would consider one of us, but even so, I feel a duty to help her. Do you not agree? The quest for the stone might be futile, but at the very least, we could save one more innocent life from Toroth. Is that not worthwhile?”
“You know where I stand,” Ragnar said. “I’m ready to go when you are.”
Brand dipped his head. “You are right. It’s foolish, beyond madness, but you are right. I could not live with that on my conscience.”
Aedon turned his attention to Erika, who sat there as taciturn and imperturbable as always. He fidgeted as he waited for her answer, disturbed by a sudden sense of urgency that they had to leave now, find Harper before it was too late.
“It’s idiotic to risk ourselves for a stranger,” she said shortly.
“You were a stranger when I risked my life for you.” Brand stared at her until she dipped her gaze.
“Dimitrius hunts her,” Aedon said. “Dimitrius, the spymaster of King Toroth himself, personally hunts her. If that is no clue to the danger she finds herself in, I do not know what is. She is clever and fit, especially now she’s eaten better than I suspect she has in her entire life, but she is no fighter. She does not understand politics, at least of Pelenor. Leaving her is like leaving you to the wolves, which we could have done,” he added pointedly.