Chronicles of Pelenor Trilogy Collection

by Meg Cowley

  “Well, don’t you look a charm,” Dimitrius laughed. “Come, sit. I waited for you.”

  She joined him at the table, lowering her body onto a cushioned chair far softer than any stool she had ever sat on. Before her – between them, for she had sat as far away as possible – lay a veritable feast. Cold, cooked meats, cheeses, green leaves, breads, and other assorted foods she had never seen before were piled high on fine crockery.

  “You can eat it, you know,” said Dimitrius, leaning over the table to scoop food onto his plate. “It won’t poison you.”

  Harper chose a few things, but he tutted. “For goodness sake, you’re going to starve. Eat more, please.” He gestured at the plates.

  She added more to her plate, then started to consume it, savouring every bite of the fine, fresh new foods. Spiced cheeses, breads made with honey and herbs, cured and smoked meats cut wafer thin. It was more delicious than anything she had ever tasted, making her tongue burst with the intense flavours.

  She could not help herself. After so long without eating properly, Harper ate and ate and ate until she could eat no more, then sat back in her chair with a groan.

  “Enjoyable?”

  “The nicest meal I’ve ever had,” she said with a smile, before realising she had lowered her guard. She wiped it from her face. His own smile faded with it.

  “To business then,” he said with a brittle tone that made shivers crawl up her spine and alighted the fear curled in her stomach once more. “If you do exactly as I say, Harper, you might make it out alive.”

  Forty-Four

  Ragnar sat in the corner of the dingy inn, puffing on his pipe, nursing his flagon of ale. He slumped in the seat, eyes unfocused and dazed, as though he were already filled with drink, but his mind followed every conversation within reach. That afternoon, he had gone from inn to inn, soaking up the gossip that ran rampant and unchecked away from the ears of the city guard.

  It was just his luck to be the most inconspicuous of them all. Brand, the Aerian, would stick out, as would Erika with her strange, foreign appearance. Then there was Aedon and his well-known reputation. To the humans and elves of Tournai, one dwarf was much like another. Ragnar played to it as much as he could with a generic cloak and none of his usual beard embellishments or hints to his identity.

  Wrapped in his dark cloak, as anonymous as the rest of them, he listened for any mention of Harper. He did not hear her name, but the theft of a secret, most magical treasure and the ensuing capture of the thief could be no coincidence.

  It’s got to be her, he thought, his heart sinking the more he heard. It is her. We’re too late.

  It was impossible to walk as though he were drunk, bumbling and stumbling from the city to return to the others. He longed to run, but it would be too suspicious, so he endured the laughs and jeers of the guards as they taunted him, slamming the gate shut so quickly behind him it stung his backside, ambling into the dark countryside away from the city. Only when he was away from the lights of the towering walls did he break into a run, savouring deep breaths of the pure air. Time was of the essence.

  It did not take long to find them tucked up in an abandoned shepherd’s hut, and even less to relay the day’s events.

  “We’re too late,” Aedon said, adding to Ragnar’s own trepidation.

  “Aye,” he replied, slumping down beside the paltry fire.

  “She is probably in captivity as we speak.”

  Erika pursed her lips. “She will be suffering the worst treatment, especially if they have seen the mark on her bracelet.”

  “And whose fault is that?” Aedon snapped. “You’re the reason this blew up, that she is where she is. If you hadn’t been so high and damnably mighty, she wouldn’t be getting treated far worse than she deserves.”

  Aedon scowled at her, but Erika did not reply, frowning at the ground. Ragnar knew she believed Aedon was right, though she would not admit it.

  Brand ruffled his wings, making the shadows dance across the half-fallen walls. “We are all to blame. We should have tried harder to stop her from leaving.”

  “I feel more guilty than all of you,” Aedon offered with a wince. “We have to rescue her somehow. I can’t bear to think what they must be doing to her, how much she’s suffering at their hands.” He shook his head and shuddered. “I know it seems futile, but it’s our fault she’s in there. Damn the stone, but we cannot abandon her. She needs us even more now.”

  “Of course,” said Ragnar. “But... Where can we find her? How? Will she have even made it to the castle? Tournai is so big, it will be like searching for a needle in a haystack.”

  Aedon rubbed his chin, deep in thought. He slowly turned to Ragnar. “Please tell me you did not throw away her knife.”

  Ragnar raised an eyebrow. “It’s in my pack. Why?” He rummaged for it and held it out to Aedon. The handle was burnt and cracked, and the blade dulled.

  Aedon’s face split into a huge grin, and he clapped Ragnar on the shoulder, surprising him. “We can find her with it! Like calls to like. It won’t be easy, but we can use it like a divining stick. It will lead us to her.”

  Ragnar dropped his gaze to the broken knife, wondering how it could be done. A moment later, Aedon snatched it from him, drawing energy from himself and the flames as his companions watched with bated breath.

  Forty-Five

  Harper felt her eyes drifting shut. She blinked them furiously, determined not to fall asleep, be vulnerable, in his presence. Dimitrius smiled a lopsided, lazy grin, as though he knew exactly what she thought.

  “Who are you, Harper?” he asked her, swirling his wine around in the fluted glass.

  “What do you mean?” she asked guardedly.

  “Exactly that. Who are you? Where do you come from? You’re not from Pelenor.”

  She winced. Was it that obvious? “I’m not,” she allowed herself to say, hiding her hands under the table when she realized she was nervously picking at a hangnail. “I’m from Caledan.” She looked up at him to see if he knew of it. He did not appear surprised in the slightest.

  Does he know more of me than I think?

  “Caledan is far away. What brings you to Pelenor?”

  Harper swallowed. Even now, she did not know how far away she had travelled, nor did she dare ask, for it seemed to be impossibly distant.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. Without really understanding why, she told him of the night she had found the Dragonheart, lost amongst the blizzard-covered forest, and how it had seemingly transported her to Pelenor.

  To her surprise, he did not seem to doubt her, though his eyebrows drifted farther up his forehead as he listened.

  “When the villagers chased me away, I ran as fast as I could. I didn’t know where, but I just wanted to get away from them. That’s when I bumped, quite literally, into Aedon.”

  She grinned at that, then pinched her lips together, wiping the mirth from her face. Harper might have told him some of her story, but she would say nothing of Aedon and his friends. It was not lost on Dimitrius.

  “You aren’t so grumpy looking when you smile. You almost look pleasant,” he offered in an offhand voice and took a long sip of his wine.

  Harper glowered at him, but he only laughed her away.

  “When was this? How long have you been here?”

  “You believe me?” An unfamiliar relief hesitantly surfaced.

  “Of course.”

  “Why?” The relief bloomed, along with curiosity.

  “Because it’s not as impossible as it sounds, and you seem like a terrible liar to me. I would be able to tell.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Hmph.” When his silence and undivided attention demanded an answer, she continued. “I’ve lost track. I suppose it’s been a few weeks.”

  He nodded. “That makes sense. That’s when the stone vanished.”

  “From the king’s vaults?”

  “Correct.”

  “But if you believe me, then the king wi
ll, too, right? If the stone brought me here, there must be a way home.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Harper.” Dimitrius’s face closed as he set down his glass rather hard. Crimson wine splashed out, damaging the fine white tablecloth. “I hope for you to never meet the king. He is not a kind elf.”

  Harper nodded slowly, but a part of her still refused to believe that all hope was lost. “Then why do you serve him?” she asked, though she already knew the answer. Why did anyone serve the unworthy? She was guilty of it herself, working to sustain the greed of Lord Denholme, like the rest of her countryfolk.

  Dimitrius let out a cold bark of laughter. “Because there is little other choice at the moment.”

  Harper’s ears pricked at that. “But you hope for better?”

  He looked her over, coolly, as if evaluating her worth. “Yes.” She sensed he would say little more.

  “Aren’t you little better?” she dared. “You’re the king’s spymaster, are you not?”

  Dimitrius’s face closed even more, narrowing his eyes. “Have you not realised yet that not all is as it seems? Or are you so naïve and sheltered that you do not realise people may be far more than they present to the world?”

  She subsided, but it did not stop her from wondering who he was and what dark things he did for the king. It sobered her to be reminded of his danger – and the danger she was in, if she displeased him.

  I don’t know him. He fed me and allowed me to wash. It does not mean he is a nice person or means me well. He could just be using me for information, she reminded herself, though she was positive she had nothing useful to offer.

  “Another reason to return to Caledan. I know nothing of this court and its ways.” Nor do I want to.

  “Of course, but the king will not be your means to get home. I suppose you have a family waiting for you to return? They shall be worried for your absence.”

  “No,” Harper mumbled. “Nothing like that. There’s an old lady I look after. She once made sure I survived, so now I’m returning the favour. I think she might be the only person in the world who needs me.” She stared at the table until the silver cutlery blurred before her.

  What am I wanting to return to? I have no family, no prospects... All I have is a tiny shack, a worn book, and a sparse pile of coins that Betta will spend to see her through the winter when I don’t return.

  It was too much to contemplate. Her entire goal since arriving in Pelenor had always been to return to Caledan, but what was that worth if there was nothing to truly return to? Where did she belong if not there?

  “Don’t look so wan. That’s not such a bad thing. Family is overrated,” Dimitrius said darkly.

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know your family?”

  “No. I’m an orphan. Do you have family?” It was impossible to imagine him with a wife and children, to be capable of kindness and love.

  “Unfortunately.”

  Harper waited expectantly.

  “I prefer not to associate with them whenever possible.” He shrugged, but she could tell it was a casual movement meant to hide an old pain. “So, what do you know of the Heart of Dragons, Harper of Caledan?”

  She allowed herself to follow the change of topic. “Hardly anything. It’s a powerful thing, said to be the actual heart of a real dragon, but dragons haven’t been seen in Caledan for centuries, so it’s a myth...right?”

  Dimitrius tipped his head to one side. “Not exactly. It is true. The Heart of Dragons is literally that. I daresay they are rarer in Caledan than they are here, where the king hoards dragons – both dead and alive.” His disdain was clear, oozing from his tongue.

  He hates the king, yet he serves him. Interesting.

  “Their magic is legendary. Not that anyone would know, given the king’s penchant for collecting them.”

  Harper nodded and let out a great yawn, unable to stifle it.

  “You must be beyond exhausted. Come, rest.” Dimitrius rose from the table, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin made of a fabric finer than Harper had ever touched, let alone worn or used as a rag to wipe her mouth. “Come,” he said at her reluctance.

  She pushed back her chair and rose, unsure of what to do.

  “I have a spare bedchamber that you are welcome to use. No one else knows you are here, so you are safe tonight. I promise you.”

  Am I safe from you? she did not dare to ask. No doubt the bedchamber had a latch on the door that would be equally as ineffective as the bathing room’s at keeping him at bay. Harper realised she had let her guard slip even lower over dinner, lulled by warmth, more food than she had ever been allowed to eat, and a seemingly generous host. She admonished herself.

  Dimitrius tsked. “Sleep in there, sleep on the floor in here. I care not. For your own safety, however, you may not leave my quarters. I can return you to the dungeons, if you find that a preferable option.”

  He pursed his lips at her visible shudder. “I thought not. Come. The chamber is yours for the night. I shall not bother you, have no worry of that. Good night.”

  “Wait,” she called, then swallowed, worried at her boldness.

  Dimitrius turned and fixed her in an impassive stare, an eyebrow raised.

  “There...” Harper took a deep breath. “I had a bracelet with me. A leather thing, old and worn, with a silver bead on it. It’s nothing much. It has no worth to any but I. I don’t suppose you have it?”

  Dimitri narrowed his eyes. “Why do you want it?”

  “It’s the only thing I have left of...of home.”

  “Where did you come by it?”

  “I’ve had it for as long as I can remember. Please, it really is worth nothing to anyone else. May I have it back?”

  “I shall see if I can find it. Perhaps.” He inclined his head and slipped down a corridor to what she presumed were his own quarters.

  She walked across to the bedchamber and opened the door. Harper swallowed, looking around. She doubted even Lord Denholme had chambers so fine. With a backwards glance at the empty living quarters, she slipped inside and shut the door behind her.

  It was almost dark but for a few lamps dotted about, all of which contained small, bobbing lights that cast the room in a faint, warm glow. Harper spun around, taking in every detail of the wood panelled room as her toes scrunched up in the furs beneath her feet. She looked down. It must have been a huge beast to almost cover the parquet floor, but its fur was as soft as duck’s down.

  Slowly, she walked toward the bed – a giant four-poster that shamed her rough, wooden pallet – and ran her fingers along the silken oversheets, the thick undercovers, the plump pillows and cushions. It was hard to put a price on such luxury. Certainly more than she could have earned in a lifetime.

  And mine for a night.

  Again, her gaze flicked to the door. Trust... Do I trust him? she wondered.

  Not in her lifetime. Yet it was no prison, at least not the same one she had been in earlier that day, nor did she seem to be in mortal danger from Dimitrius.

  Another yawn threatened. She swayed with tiredness, but remained standing. What’s better? To knowingly sleep in the home of my enemy, or to collapse from exhaustion?

  Forty-Six

  He couldn’t sleep, though her light snores showed she had no such qualms. Dimitri leaned against the doorpost, his eyes narrowed, watching the gentle rise and fall of the covers on Harper’s prone form.

  Despite their conversation, he still could not fathom how she came to be there, from Caledan to Pelenor, and the strange series of events, not the least of which was the Dragonheart’s bizarre destination.

  Was it my own miscalculation, or fate?

  Had he not seen the Mark of Saradon that she carried so preciously at the expense of any other treasure or talisman, he would have said the former. But with the mark of the infamous half-elf, and the elven blood running through her veins that marked her as different from all others in Caledan, t
here had to somehow be an element of fate within it all.

  How did it find you? Why you? he silently asked her still form. Did it have something to do with Saradon? Perhaps because he had somehow recovered the relic when his magic had failed, the stone had found some form of Saradon’s likeness somewhere else.

  Did it have something to do with her tattered bracelet and the Mark of Saradon upon it? What did that mean far away in Caledan? It all seemed entirely impossible, yet there he was, grasping at the smallest explanation.

  An enigma.

  He started at a small tapping on the door outside. With a last look at Harper, he silently closed her door and answered the tapping.

  “Yes?”

  “Rook reporting, sir. Word has made it back to the king that you have the prisoner he detained for the theft of a Dragonheart. You’re about to be summoned.”

  He nodded, and Rook melted into the shadows. Dimitrius barred the door again, locking it and putting up his wards, then charged back to Harper’s room, pulling a bell cord on the way.

  “Harper, wake up,” he called in a low, urgent voice. She stirred. After a second of grogginess, she jumped from the bed and brandished a candlestick holder at him.

  “What are you doing in here?” she demanded, her eyes narrowed, every muscle in her body tensed. He noted that she still remained fully clothed.

  He decided not to remark on the candlestick holder, which she had somehow filched from the dining room. “I apologise, but there’s no time. The Kingsguard is on its way. They come for both of us.” He knew there remained only one card in his arsenal. To take her to the king as his own tool.

  “You called, m’lord?” a maid appeared, and both Harper and Dimitri jumped at her presence. Her blank eyes slid over Harper without lingering before settling upon him.

  “Emyria, I need you to obtain a squire’s outfit for this young lady at once. Nothing too fancy or too shabby.”