Chronicles of Pelenor Trilogy Collection

by Meg Cowley

  Six

  Landry sucked the froth from his moustache before taking another swig of his brew. The Dragon’s Horn was their usual meeting place. The landlord gave them the best price per pint for their custom, as well as use of the back room. Away from prying eyes. The guilds of Tournai valued that, rewarding him well with custom that flowed as golden as his brews.

  That night, the back room, clouds of tobacco smoke wafting, held only complaints as the guilds congregated to bemoan the king and his rising taxes, which bled them all dry, even though their trades had started dwindling with the closing of all passes east over the mountain, thanks to the goblin troubles.

  Landry stroked his beard, nodding as the Master of the Guild of Bakers looked at him, the chair of the proceedings.

  “...yet he will not act! How are we supposed to feed His Majesty when we cannot procure any of the fine flours from across the mountains that he demands we use in his breads?”

  “I understand your concern, Aberon,” Landry said, his voice even and measured. It was his duty to remain neutral, though he shared their frustrations. With his responsibility, he supped his drinks at half the rate of his peers, who grew more rowdy and malcontent with the bottom of every tankard they reached. He had a sore enough head from the hammering of the forges all day long without adding drink to it.

  “Yet you do nothing about it!” snapped Aberon. “Do your forges not grow cold without dwarven ores to supply them?”

  Landry frowned. “They do indeed, yet anger will get us nowhere, Masters.”

  Landry was Master of the Guild of Metalsmiths, and the dwarven ores were the lifeblood of his business. He was indeed running short of the ore he needed to forge new armour for the Kingsguard, new shoes for their horses, and all manner of accoutrements the cityfolk required of him. Yet the goblins were far from home, and a problem they could not solve.

  He glanced around their assembled company. The masters of the craft guilds on one side, the merchant guilds on the other. He had only been elected by the craft guilds’ weight of numbers, for the merchants sneered at those who dirtied their hands to earn a living. With a hand blackened by a day of forging, Landry set his now empty tankard upon the uneven wooden table. He was not ashamed of his craft.

  “All roads east through Valtivar are closed with the goblin troubles, it is true. That ought to only seek to unify us. We are all in this predicament together. None of our wares or materials may pass the eastern borders.”

  His gaze lingered on the merchants. Frowns covered their sneers.

  “We need the king’s help. We can only plead with him to address the issue, for–”

  Aberon scoffed at him, and the merchant leaders tittered. “Plead? Plead with him? He will not help us. He has made it very clear that the goblins are not his problem to bear. He cannot be reasoned with. Did you not see the traitors burning?” Aberon demanded.

  Their company shuddered at the memory of the burning pyres that had blighted the plains before the city.

  Aberon jabbed a finger at Landry and scowled. “That will be the fate of any who ask for aid from him.”

  Landry pursed his lips. “I can agree. Our chances are slim, but what do you propose?” He held his arms wide and looked about, challenging them all. “What can be done? Are we not all old men, moaning bitterly into our tankards, with no hope of recourse?”

  And thus, the meeting of the guild masters descended back into complaints and squabbles, for no one had a solution.

  Exasperated, Landry slipped out and left them all to it, until their next formal meeting, where he hoped they would come with more hope in their hearts. It was their only weapon.

  LANDRY MEANDERED UP the winding, cobbled streets to the lower, middle levels of the city, which were on the border between the poor districts and the wealthy. His forges were near the lower end, of course, for the fine folks did not like smoke clogging their clean air. Now, however, with the dark of night blanketing all, his forges were dead and cooling, his men gone after a day of hard work.

  Landry admired their work – piles of helms and breastplates for the Kingsguard – as he checked the forge, just as he did every night to ensure they were safe. His men were careful, the ashes cool and the embers dying. The stone houses still contained enough wood, thatch, and flammable materials for just one stray ember to damn the entire neighbourhood.

  With his checks complete, he ambled up the stairs, tiredness dogging each step, to the home above the forge that he shared with his wife, Aislin, three boys, and youngest daughter. With a squeal, Shayla ran to greet him as he entered, throwing her arms around his legs. He scooped her up into a hug, kissing her forehead, his beard scratchy. At her protests, he deposited her upon the floor once more.

  Aislin, the slender, elven beauty he still did not know how he had won, slid her arms around his giant torso and placed a soft kiss upon his lips with a loving smile, before walking back into the kitchen to finish cooking. Her green, twinkling eyes caught his gaze before she turned away. Shayla tugged him toward the dinner table where the three boys awaited. It was the only time the boys were ever early for anything.

  “Evening, Fa,” chorused the twins in unison, drowning out their younger brother.

  “Evening, boys,” Landry replied and sank into a chair with a grateful groan. He washed his face and hands with the wet cloth, as he did every night, slowly teasing every last piece of grime from between the lines of his skin, under his nails, and in the corners of his face, until he gleamed and the cloth ran sooty and black.

  Dinner was soon before them – as was Aislin’s wooden spoon, rapping whichever of the boys dared try to sneak a scrap before Landry blessed the dinner and took his own cut.

  Once he had, the boys were permitted, with a nod from their mother, to partake, but at the warning glance from Landry, they held back...though barely...until Aislin and Shayla had taken their own portions. The twins squabbled raucously over the best cuts, as they did every night, whilst their little brother sneaked out the choicest pieces as they were preoccupied. Landry hid his smile in his beard.

  “Anyone would think we starved you,” tutted their mother.

  “Or that we had raised a pack of animals.” Landry glared with mock sternness at Fergus and Finn, who grinned at him and continued their tussle. It was all in good fun. Landry had once been the selfsame with his own brothers. The twins were burly boys, nearly men. They would take over the forge when he was too old to lift the hammer.

  Only their younger brother took after his mother. He was slim, willowy, unsuited for a life in the forge. Like Shayla, he had inherited their mother’s figure – and her magic. The forge ran strongest in the twins’ blood, despite their half-elf heritage, but the younger two had their mother’s elfin magic and looks. It was not them for whom he worried. He hoped their blood would send them straight to the academy for the Winged Kingsguard. The twins, however... Landry sighed, earning him a concerned look from Aislin. If his business ceased, their future would also be lost.

  “Are you quite all right, Landry?”

  He brushed her off with a tired, warm smile, but he knew he did not fool her.

  THAT NIGHT, WHEN THE children were asleep under the eaves above them, he tugged her close in their own bed, folding her frame into his and taking comfort from her arm encircling his waist, her head tucked under his chin.

  “I worry that we might not be able to sustain trade soon if this continues. Then where will we be?” Landry whispered after he had told her of the shambles of the impromptu meeting.

  “You have never failed us before, Landry,” she murmured reassuringly. “We will weather this storm, if one is to come, as we have weathered all that have come before us.”

  He kissed the top of her auburn head. “What did a city wretch like me do to deserve the likes of you?” he murmured into her hair. Aislin had forsaken her family to marry him, a lowborn mortal in their eyes.

  She let out a quiet chuckle and leaned up to kiss him on the tip of his ruddy
nose. “You were yourself, my love, and that will always be good enough for me. Worry not what the morrow brings. The answer will present itself in time, and whatever it may be, we shall face it.”

  Landry was glad for her faith and confidence, her strength in holding him up, even in times of doubt and despair. Yet he was not so sure he could be as optimistic as she, knowing the storm that could be coming to them both within and without the guilds.

  Pelenor is on rocky footing. Would that the dwarves take care of the goblins. Would that the king answer our pleas!

  Landry could only hope the king had mercy upon them all and would fight to open the trade routes safely once more. Without that, the country would falter, stumble, and crumble. But Landry knew Toroth, and he knew aid would not come from the king.

  Despite Aislin’s assurances, Landry did not sleep, but stared long into the black of night, hoping for answers.

  Seven

  Aedon had a dragon.

  The thought hounded her. Harper longed to ask more, but knew she ought not to. The hurt in Aedon’s eyes had been clear. It did not invite prying. It was also a reminder that they were worlds apart. Not only an elf and a powerful magical being, but also a dragon rider? Against her, a commoner, even if of elven blood with slight magic of her own, it was a paltry comparison.

  Her magic had become a distraction of sorts. Harper turned her hands, watching golden sparks arc and dance from fingertip to fingertip, a half-smile tugging at her mouth. Now it bubbled fiercely within her, a little spring in itself, unable to be quelled.

  It was the fourth time that day that she had glanced down to see her fingers alight with it. In the weeks since she had been in Pelenor, she had, true to Aedon’s promise, already seen the tips of her ears lengthen and point ever so slightly.

  “Very pretty, Miss Harper,” Ragnar said as he sat next to her upon the fallen tree. In his hands, he held his own magic – a carving. Harper had only recently noticed that all of his chatura pieces were hand-carved. No wonder his fingers were stiff with the wear of it.

  She grinned at him. “What are you carving?”

  “A king,” Ragnar said and held up the piece. Already, the delicate head and half of the cloaked, armoured king was carved from the pale wood.

  Harper shook her head. “I don’t know how you do it. So intricate.” Her own prowess at carving wood stopped at chopping logs for the fire.

  Ragnar winked. “Years of practice.” He pulled a little figure from his pack, a pawn, and passed it to her. “Here. A gift to start your collection.”

  Harper rolled the small piece – a kneeling serf upon a block – in her fingers. “Are you sure? I cannot accept this. It’s–”

  “I insist. It might only be a pawn, but even pawns can take down kings.”

  Harper watched him return to his carving. “Don’t you wish you had magic so you could do it easily? Maybe even in an instant?”

  Ragnar frowned at her. “Never. Where would the fun be in that? I derive my joy from making them, from each little shaving and cut, from the improvement of my craft. There would be no joy in making one with just a thought.”

  Harper frowned, confused.

  “Would you want to go hunting and kill an animal upon a wish?” Ragnar pressed.

  She recoiled, appalled. “No!”

  “Precisely. Why?”

  “Because the animal deserves the honour of a death bought with skill, not, not...sorcery.”

  Ragnar nodded. “It is the same for me. Each piece deserves my craft.”

  “A noble craft it is, too!” said Aedon, appearing behind them and clapping each on the shoulder. “Your chatura game pieces are the finest in all Pelenor and Valtivar.”

  “You’re just saying that because you’d like a new set,” said Ragnar, turning to fix him with a pointed stare.

  Aedon grinned without apology. “You see right through me, master dwarf. Whom else should I ask but the finest carver around?”

  “I’m the only carver around. Someone’s got to take no mischief from you, laddie.”

  Harper giggled.

  “Would you like to see what you can do with magic, Harper?” Aedon asked, an impish twinkle in his eye. “We’ll have to teach you how to stop that.” He nodded to her hands, which still sparked.

  She gasped. “Really? Yes!” She scrambled to her feet and followed him to the babbling stream they camped near.

  Aedon leapt with uncanny agility onto a flat rock in the centre of the stream. Harper followed suit, but wobbled as she landed. His strong hands grasped her wrists and pulled her away from a watery landing. Instead, she found herself crumpled to his chest as he laughed at her.

  “Almost!” he said.

  “Thanks.” She grinned back at him.

  Slowly, slower than he ought to, he let his hands fall, his fingers tracing down the fabric of her sleeves. Aedon stepped away, and cold flooded in where his warmth had just been. He sat on the rock at its highest end, where the ledge-like stone jutted out above the water. Harper joined him, dangling her feet over the edge, inches away from the brook swirling around them.

  She cast sidelong glances at him as he gazed out over the vista, at the stream winding through the pale trees and into a silvery pool that reflected the steel of the sky. He belongs with nature, Harper thought. His very form seemed a beautiful reflection of nature’s bounty around them, though now it was on the steady decline into winter. Already, the ground was a carpet of fire and the trees upheld nothing to the sky above them.

  “Autumn is my favourite season,” he said, almost dreamily.

  She glanced at him, waiting for him to continue.

  “The world never changes more than in the autumn. Nature turns to rest, and all goes in a blaze of glory.”

  He snatched a fire-coloured leaf from the stream as it floated past. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  He handed it to her, and she traced the blood-red veins across its surface. It was unlike the autumns in Caledan. A greyer, darker, wetter season than the rest of them, save winter. There were no golden carpets there. No blaze of glory.

  She nodded.

  Seemingly of its own volition, the leaf danced from her palm and up into the air, where it hung, swirling, before slowly floating down to the water once more. There was no breeze. Harper raised an eyebrow.

  “Child’s play.” Aedon winked at her. “Come. Try it. Wish for it to fly.” He plucked another leaf from the stream and placed it, wet side down, upon her palm.

  Harper furrowed her brows and willed the leaf to fly. The spring bubbled up inside her, eager, yet the leaf did not move.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “As I mentioned before, magic is a muscle you need to train, like any other. Just because you have the ability does not mean you possess unlimited power. You must condition your focus and strength of will to control the magic within you. Try again.”

  Harper tried again. And again. And again.

  By the time Brand’s shouts called them back to eat, Harper had barely made the leaf wobble on her palm – and she was not sure if it was her doing or the stray breeze that had picked up. Yet she had somehow mastered how to keep the magic from bubbling up through her hands.

  Magic makes no sense. Yet she was still excited by the thought of it. With this power, I can do great things.

  Her thoughts strayed back to the tavern and the lecherous drinkers therein. They would not dare touch me if they knew I had power. No longer would she be helpless in the world. It was a pleasing thought.

  Tired, hungry, and disgruntled, she stood, her limbs stiff from such long stillness. Aedon rose smoothly, as graceful as always, and offered her his hand, pulling her across the water.

  He caught her scowl and laughed. “Harper, don’t worry. It will come. I promise. Let me show you.”

  He slid behind her, his front pressed to her back, and reached his arms along the length of hers until their fingers intertwined. She stiffened at his touch.

  “Relax!” he chuckl
ed. “Look.”

  She felt his magic flow through them both and erupt from their fingers. At once, a maelstrom of leaves arose from the ground, as if battered by an invisible gale. Up they soared, coalescing into a giant, swirling, elegant dance. Harper relaxed and sank back into Aedon’s chest, laughing at the feeling of magic rushing through her, the beauty before her as the oranges, golds, and reds cascaded through the air in a tumbling dance.

  Aedon twirled her around to face him, his back straight. Harper knew his posture would be from his past days as a dragon rider of the Winged Kingsguard. He whirled her around in time with the leaves, somehow compensating for her ungainly steps – Harper had never danced a day in her life – until they were both flushed and laughing.

  Closer they twirled until his warm arms encircled her, their faces inches apart. The way he stared at her, it was as if the rest of the world fell away. Gone were the twisting leaves and the slight nip of the cold air. Gone were the woods, and the stream, and the sky.

  Harper looked into Aedon’s green eyes. She could now see they were not just green, but flecked with blue, yellow, and amber, gleaming iridescent with their usual sparkle of mirth and mischief. Aedon leaned closer. Harper’s breath caught as she tilted her face toward his, his breath rolling hot across her lips.

  “Harper! Aedon!” Brand’s thundering voice snapped across them both. The leaves fell to the earth as the magic ceased in an instant.

  The warmth receded and cold rushed in. Aedon stepped back, his eyes flashing in uncharacteristic anger as he looked at the giant Aerian striding down the bank toward them.

  “Camp. Now,” Brand growled at Aedon.

  “I–”

  “Now.” His tone brooked no argument.

  Still catching her breath – both from the dancing and the almost-kiss – Harper stood frozen, glancing between them. To her surprise, Aedon’s mouth set in a thin, grim line. He did not look at her as he strode away, fists balled.