Chronicles of Pelenor Trilogy Collection

by Meg Cowley

  “Can you see me? Harper? Can you hear me?” Aedon asked.

  “What happened?” she mumbled, closing her eyes for a long moment again. Her head pounded to the point it hurt to look around.

  “I don’t know.” She opened her eyes to slits in order to see Aedon’s troubled face. “You collapsed and have been lying here, twitching and mumbling, for several minutes.”

  Harper slowly looked around. At the edge of her field of vision, she saw the company of dwarves lurking. Some openly looked toward her. Others glanced over subtly or pretended not to be listening.

  She lowered her voice. “I saw something when I collapsed. I... I don’t know what it is. But I think it might be connected to the dwarves, the goblins, and Afnirheim. I just cannot make sense of it.” She stopped, frustrated. How can I possibly explain it? It had already started fading at the edges of her memory, and she clung to it.

  “You can show me, if you wish,” said Aedon. “I will be able to see what you saw, nothing more. It might help us make sense of it.”

  Harper swallowed as Aedon reached his hands out. For some reason, she wanted to shrink away from his touch, the neutrality of it hurting her, but she forced herself to lace her fingers through his, as if there were nothing between the two of them.

  The faint caress of his magic stroked through her, and she closed her eyes, sinking into the memory once more, trying to remember every detail. Aedon’s hands grew tighter upon hers, until his grip grew painful. Harper opened her eyes as the memory faded, and Aedon’s grasp loosened.

  His pale face told her he had seen everything. She had hardly seen him so speechless before. A premonition of fear curled up her spine.

  Halvar loomed over her. “Is she well?” he asked, frowning.

  “Probably just exhaustion,” said Aedon with a reassuring smile that betrayed none of the consternation he had just shown Harper. He helped her sit up, then offered her a drink from his waterskin. “If we may have a healer at Keldheim check it is nothing more untoward perhaps?”

  “Of course.” Halvar waved his hand dismissively and returned to his own men.

  “What is it?” Brand asked, a sharp bite to his voice.

  “Far worse than we feared,” whispered Aedon. “Harper, I believe you just had a vision... A vision of inside Afnirheim.” He swallowed, and his eyes darted around to the dwarves, who lurked close. “I cannot explain. Let me show you.” He reached out to grasp Brand’s and Erika’s hands.

  A few minutes later, looking at their faces, Harper knew they had seen what she had witnessed. She tugged her cloak closer as shivers racked her body. “What does it mean?”

  “It means we must speak with the könig at once. Afnirheim is not only lost, but it is lost beyond their reach. Goblins are the least of our problems now.”

  “Was it really him?”

  “Yes,” said Aedon heavily. “I’d know that face anywhere. I’ve seen the portraits of him in the royal gallery of Tournai. A long time ago, of course, but one does not forget such a striking character.

  “I do not know how he can be here now. Maybe your vision was of the past, though I do not recall any record of him taking Afnirheim,” Aedon said, a desperate edge to his voice, but Harper could see he did not believe his words. “We must report it. It appears... Saradon has returned.”

  Twenty-Three

  A black cloud seemed to permanently hang over Tournai, and it was not the storms of approaching winter. The city had become a dark and unforgiving place. The king’s curfew was easier kept now, for Kingsguard swamped the city, pushing their capabilities to the boundaries, and the people had not the spirit to rebel against the king any longer. Anarchy had ruled the streets, but now it was a tired, cautious wait.

  Food, water, and supplies dwindled as trade stuttered throughout the city, partly borne by rioting and looting, partly borne by a cessation of trade coming into Tournai. Only so many carts could enter or leave between curfews, and with the threat of the goblin scourge blighting the passes, trade had completely stopped from Valtivar and across the mountains to the east.

  The court was darker still. Toroth clung to his throne with mind and body, even as he wasted away from Saradon’s Curse, which sapped his magic and strength. The queen hung on by a thread, and what nobles were left had grown increasingly suspicious and fearful for their own safety, both from Toroth’s increasingly insane hands and from the affliction. It felt like all were only a breath away from death, either by dragonfire or disease.

  The king had not purged the city again. Dimitri and Raedon had seen to it, though the king was unaware of their tenuous alliance. Dimitri was certain it was only that which held utter disarray at bay. The guild meets grew more rowdy and discontent each time, and it seemed it only needed the common people to have a chance to rise. Dimitri and Raedon both knew it. Why else did Raedon double the patrols throughout the city?

  Dimitri had not spoken to Raedon again about his obvious desire to rule, but he knew it drove the elf, who even now watched the king with a hidden gleam in his eyes.

  He is a predator waiting to pounce. Far too proud to serve a broken king and watch his hard work waste away.

  Indeed, the king was slowly becoming prey. Even the summer enchantments over the gardens, fed by his magic, had started to fail. The rose garden was withered and dying. The flowers gone. The leaves fallen. The gardens had become almost as lifeless and dreary as the court.

  “The time to act is now, General,” Dimitri said as he and Raedon stood upon the tallest tower in Tournai, the same one from which he had allowed Brand and Harper to escape. Gusts of wind buffeted them as Raedon’s dragon soared overhead, somersaulting through the steel-grey sky.

  No one would hear them, their words lost in the wind and shrouded by wards, whilst the court wasted away below them. Still, Raedon stirred but did not speak. Dimitri cast him a sidelong glance.

  “It matters not who rules in the end, General. What matters now is that the people can trust a strong leadership.”

  “Yet it will be seen as usurpation.”

  “Not if done the right way in order to stabilise the realm whilst the king sickens and wastes.”

  Raedon frowned. “What is the right way?”

  Dimitri turned back to the battlement, looking over the city sprawling below them. “The right way is to notify the court, the city, and perhaps even the realm of what has transpired. The court is sick. All know it. Such gossip spreads like wildfire. It is the general’s place to uphold order and peace. You are merely doing your sworn duty.”

  “I will not sit the throne.”

  Dimitri could not decide if Raedon sounded eager to do so, for the general guarded his tone.

  “Of course not. Whilst the king and his kin live, the throne is not yours to sit. You will install the queen’s throne below the king’s. That way, you will sit by the seat of power, not in it. All will know what that gesture means.”

  It was Raedon’s turn to give Dimitri a sidelong glance. “You seem to have all the answers, Dimitrius.”

  He shrugged. “It is my job to see all the possibilities to best guard the realm, Raedon.”

  The general pursed his lips. “You do not seek to sit the throne yourself?”

  Dimitri snorted and shot Raedon a look of disgust. “Certainly not. I’d have to put up with this confounded court all the time. I couldn’t stand such a thing.”

  Raedon chuckled dryly. “I hear that. I cannot stand the bowing and scraping myself.”

  That’s not the half of it, thought Dimitri. Far much more sin passes here than that.

  To his credit, Raedon was one of the few who rose above such pettiness, who kept his reputation intact. But Dimitri did not say it.

  “I will lend my support in any case, General,” Dimitri pressed, for Raedon dithered. “I will stand beside you, in the shadows, and keep the peace.”

  Raedon shook his head. “I worry still about this curse. Is it truly Saradon’s Curse, or is it mere rumour, blown out of prop
ortion by a thousand mouths?”

  Dimitri turned to Raedon, who stilled at the seriousness on his face. “It is Saradon’s Curse.”

  “How can you know?” Raedon fired at him at once.

  Dimitri regarded Raedon, choosing his words with care. “Saradon has returned. He is alive.”

  The general gaped at him. “No! It cannot... Impossible!”

  “It is so. I have reports of unquestionable validity that say he walks once more.”

  “But it cannot be the case. He’s a half-elf. Even if he had somehow lived, he ought to be dead by now.”

  Dimitri shook his head. “Saradon is as young and strong as the day he vanished.”

  Raedon took a long moment to recover. “You...You are certain? Beyond any doubt?”

  “Yes.”

  The general looked out over the city in dumbfounded shock. “What should we do? Ought we tell the king?”

  “No. We must deal with this. Toroth is currently unfit to. The mere mention of Saradon’s Curse sent him into madness.”

  “But if this is truly Saradon’s Curse, then...”

  “Yes. Those affected have poor prospects.”

  “They will all die?”

  “Unless a counter-curse or cure is found. I have scoured the old records, and nowhere is any remedy recorded.” The Dragonhearts had been the key when Saradon had risen before. Their power had scoured the land, obliterating his curse. And, as Dimitri and Raedon both knew, the king’s entire stock of Dragonhearts was gone. Part lost in the escape of the Thief of Pelenor, and the rest to the king’s selfish greed and paranoia.

  “We must tell the king.”

  “No!” said Dimitri quickly. “It would reduce him to tatters. We must stay his hand, contain him, neutralise him, before we deal with the threat of Saradon. If Toroth knows, he will not act in good sense and of sound mind. He is quite insane at the moment.”

  Raedon’s gaze slipped to the still blackened plains before the city. Toroth would purge everyone and everything he could if he thought it would help. Suppressing a smile, Dimitri watched Raedon come to that conclusion.

  “We cannot tell him,” Raedon said at last. “I will marshal my riders and the Kingsguard. We shall secure Tournai, then send riders throughout the land to spread news of the necessary measures we are taking to secure Pelenor.”

  “Excellent.” Dimitri turned to leave.

  “What of Saradon?” Raedon asked quickly. “Where is he? Does he possess assets? Allies?”

  Dimitri mulled over what to share. “He has power that the old stories do not mention. At present, he is outside our borders, but not by far. I am informed of his movements.”

  “Then we shall go to him, attack him!”

  Dimitri scoffed. “Do not be so brash, Raedon. Such rashness is what got your brother into the mess he’s in now. Saradon already has the alliance of the goblins. They sweep across Valtivar, taking what they will. That is the truth of why the dwarven kingdom is in such chaos and why the passes are closed to our trades. The dwarves hold out, for now, but Pelenor will be next.”

  “Then I will mass our army. I will call everyone to arms.”

  Dimitri laughed without mirth. “What army? Given the talk in the city, the common folk will join Saradon just to be free of Toroth.”

  “They are bound to their king and country,” Raedon growled.

  “What will you do? Burn them if they will not fight for you?” Dimitri’s stare was hard and cold. “No, I do not think so.”

  “I have the riders and the Kingsguard. They will stand for Pelenor.”

  “If there are any still to stand. I have seen your ranks falling, General.”

  Raedon winced. He had clearly hoped Dimitri would not know that, but he forgot the spymaster had eyes and ears everywhere, including inside the dragonhold, where riders lay abed, their dragons sick, as well.

  “The academy and the keep are as yet untainted.” The school of dragon riders and the stronghold of soldiers lay across the mountains from Tournai. New stock for Raedon’s ranks, if all else failed. “We have time yet to see how this plays. One step at a time, General. First, secure the court. Secure Tournai.”

  Dimitri made to leave, but Raedon stepped before him. “What will you do?” There was a slight glint of desperation in his eyes, Dimitri was pleased to note.

  “Stay in the shadows, as always, and make sure this doesn’t blow up in our faces.” Dimitri walked away, enjoying the grim worry in the high and mighty general of the Winged Kingsguard.

  It is almost like playing a game of chatura. Except with living people, not wooden pieces, Dimitri thought. He rather enjoyed it.

  DIMITRI ALMOST JUMPED out of his skin as she appeared from the shadows, blooming like a ghost in the dark night.

  “Oh, thank goodness. There you are, Dimitri.” Rosella staggered forward and clung to his forearm.

  He stared at her, quite dumbfounded as he took in her appearance. She looks awful.

  Her beauty had dimmed, her light extinguished. She was a rose no longer. Rosella’s once shining sheet of golden hair hung lank around her shoulders. Her perfectly tailored dresses now sagged from her skeletal figure. He took in the jut of her collarbone, the twig-like fragility of her wrists, the high cheekbones that now protruded below shadowed, hollowed eyes that darted around with a hint of insanity.

  Dimitri could not comprehend what she had been reduced to in mere weeks.

  “What do you want?” he said without thinking, yet she did not berate him, humiliate him, punish him, as she once would have. Instead, she clung harder to his arm.

  “You must help us!” she hissed, winding her arm through his and pressing close. “Mother and father waste away. Father is quite out of sorts, and I worry I am ill, too. You must help!”

  Dimitri untangled her arm from his and pressed her hand down to her side, away from him. “I cannot help you.” His words were colder than he had anticipated, but how could he treat her any differently? For as much as they were lovers, she had been far more heartless to him over the years.

  As she gazed up at him, aghast that he had dared turn her away, he smiled cruelly, turned, and stalked into his quarters, slamming the door behind him.

  For once, he would not chase her, not hurry to meet her every demand, not pander to her every desire. For once, he turned her away. For once, he had the upper hand. Yet in the pit of his stomach lurked something quite unfamiliar toward her wretchedness. Something he could not quell.

  Pity.

  EVEN THE STENCH OF the city of Tournai was a far sweeter perfume than the rot of Afnirheim, clogged with carrion and goblin filth, but Dimitri did not show it as he bowed before Saradon, who had installed himself upon a giant, stone throne above the pascha and his seat of bones in the jarlshalle of the dwarven city.

  Like a king.

  It was an unsettling feeling. Technically, Saradon had the right of blood to rule, the royal blood of Pelenor ran through his veins, but a throne in Afnirheim seemed utterly wrong, perverse.

  I do not want to rule over this with him. Not a kingdom like this. He clung to the thought of Pelenor – the open skies, the green lands. The vision Saradon had promised him. It will not be like this. Not the devastation, the blood and death in the dark halls.

  “What happened here?” Dimitri asked Saradon, his voice hollow. He knew he did not need to ask. The once thriving dwarven city was no more.

  “The goblins wanted to advance their domain.”

  Dimitri eyed Saradon. “And you assisted them.” The goblins, even with their numbers, had never before managed to overpower a dwarven dwelling. Dimitri had little reason to believe that had changed.

  “It was the price of their alliance.”

  Anger curled in Dimitri’s stomach. “You sacrificed an entire city?” Disgust and horror wrestled within him.

  Saradon regarded him steadily. “It will be worth the cost.”

  “To whom?” Dimitri snarled. He clenched his fists beside him to stop his hands
shaking.

  “For us all. I see you find it difficult to stomach such warfare, but such is the price of peace.”

  “We did not need the goblins’ alliance. The dwarves did not deserve this. Tournai and Pelenor are ready to fall without their help. The guilds will rise, and the Kinsguard will take control from the king.”

  “I am most glad to hear of it. You have done well, Lord Ellarian. The goblins are merely a...bonus, shall we say.”

  Dimitri stared around the great hall. Columns soared into the dark heights. The banners that once adorned them were now piles of ash at their feet. It was utterly empty and silent, devoid of the dwarven life that ought to have had the very air thrumming with talk and warmth. Their blood still stained the floor, and Dimitri had seen the bodies piled outside. Saradon had not suffered to reign over corpses.

  “Do you seek to reign over Valtivar, too?”

  Saradon laughed. “Not yet. However, the pascha certainly aspires to do so.”

  Doubt curled in the pit of Dimitri’s stomach. It was one thing to ally with the goblins...and, of course, change came with a price...but this was not what he had envisioned. Nowhere did he think a city full of innocents would be slain for the wanton greed of goblins.

  Saradon had confirmed his worst fears. The green and pleasant land is a lie. But what would the truth be? Would it be as bad as he was growing to worry?

  “The court is falling then?” Saradon pulled him away from his thoughts.

  “Yes, Lord Ravakian. It balances upon a knife’s edge.”

  As Dimitri reported his work, a growing sense of dread crept through him. He wished he had been less successful at sowing discord, that the curse had been less virulent so he could have bought more time to figure out how to navigate the mess he now suspected he was in.

  “The king hovers on the edge of madness. The queen is almost dead. Even the riders of the Winged Kingsguard are falling. The people are troublesome and ripe for revolt. They are a spark, ready to catch ablaze when the time comes. They have no love for the king, and more spread word of how misunderstood and tarnished your name is.”