by Meg Cowley
“But how?” Ragnar’s quiet voice held hope and desperation.
Aedon only shook his head. “Who knows, my friend. The opportunity will present itself, I am certain. Saradon’s Curse spreads. Somehow, Harper is the key, as are the Dragonhearts. But moreover, we must all stand as one against him. Nothing will spell our doom more surely than divide.”
Ragnar sighed. “I do not know if I can reconcile with Korrin.”
“You can try, and that is all I ask.”
Through the rock of Keldberg Mountain and across the valleys lay Afnirheim, a shattered reminder of their fate should they fail.
“We must stop him,” Ragnar said.
“Let us hope we can outrun the storm long enough.”
Fifty-Five
When Harper awoke, it was to darkness, silence, and solitude. Heavy chains slithered and clinked as she moved in the small, confined space – but not too far, for she could do little more than sit or lay curled up, thanks to her restraints. With great effort, she quieted her panic and reached for her magic, which bubbled and simmered deep within her, as closed off as it had been since Saradon’s subjugation of her obedience.
Harper huddled, shivering and freezing in the dirty rags of the once fine dress, having no protection from the freezing stone all about her. At least her magic could help with that. She drew it forth, slowly, savouring the warmth that tingled through her, slowly banishing the chill, but her energy soon ran out, and the cold seeped in once more.
She did not know which was worse – the waiting, or the not knowing who would come for her. Saradon? Or Dimitri? Or...someone else? Harper fired a silent prayer into the heavens that her companions had escaped somehow. On a second thought, she sent another, hoping for Dimitri’s safe return. Out of all of them, he stood the greatest chance of seeing them both escape from Saradon’s shackles.
For now, Harper had no inkling what had passed. They were all gone, far beyond where she could perceive, and so was the safety net she had found amongst them all. Now she was at Saradon’s full mercy. Not that he possessed any. He had been furious. That was the last thing she remembered. That, and the pain that shattered through her. She shivered even more violently. She was certain worse would be her fate.
A wave of exhaustion rolled over her, threatening to completely fog her already drained mind. She was exhausted, bone crushingly tired, yet she did not want to sleep alone, vulnerable, and isolated. Not there. Her stinging eyes betrayed her after a time and slipped shut.
SOFT FINGERS LIFTED her chin, and Harper blinked into the pure, bright light. A hint of a smile on the face too light to behold. The golden, flowing hair. The endless robes of white light.
Erendriel.
“Be well, daughter. Rest at ease, and I shall watch over thee.”
Harper struggled to stand, barely able to rise to her knees, the chains still binding her. “Help me! I must escape him!”
Erendriel bent low and cupped Harper’s cheeks with her hands. “I cannot make it so. It is not your destiny to run, but to endure, child.”
“Endure what?” Harper asked desperately, even though half a thought later, she was not sure she wanted to know.
“The trials that will make you. I can offer you no guidance. It is not fated. Yet I will give you my gift.” Warmth spread through Harper, banishing the cold and the pain. “It is of utmost importance that you succeed, to be the flame forever lit against the darkness coming. It will be so very easy for you to fail, to be led astray. Do not let it pass. Do not let the mouth of Valxiron tempt you with foul sorcery.”
“But I don’t understand! If I am to succeed, you must help me...”
Harper started to fade back into the darkness. Erendriel’s cool hands found her own, squeezing reassuringly.
SHE FELT AN ENTIRELY different set of hands upon hers. Not cool and slim, but warm and enveloping.
“Wake up, Harper,” said Dimitri.
Harper jolted awake, pulling her hands from his grasp and shrinking away from him, disorientated and fearful after Erendriel’s cryptic warning.
THE JARLSHALLE RUMBLED with thunder as Dimitri and Harper entered. The lights were dim, the entire hall cast in shadows. Harper froze at the sight of Saradon, prowling through the hall with vengeance wrought upon him.
Dimitri slid his arm though hers, tugging her into a bow at the door, then forward, into the hall, even though every muscle in her clearly longed to run away.
“What is the latest?” Saradon fired at Dimitri.
“The dwarves are gone, Lord Ravakian.”
Saradon growled, and the thunder in the hall grumbled with him. “Curse them all! No matter. They will be gone from all Valtivar soon enough. I do not need them to come to me to die.” He wheeled away. “The goblins suffered heavy losses. The pascha no longer wishes to ally with our cause.”
Hope pricked at Dimitri. “They will cease the alliance?”
Saradon barked a laugh. “Do not be a fool. Of course they will not break it. They will serve whether they will it or not.” His lip curled as he turned to them. “As will you,” he added flatly to Harper. She met his stare like a rabbit caught in a wolf’s gaze.
Saradon advanced upon them, and Harper stilled at Dimitri’s side. “I will suffer no more defiance from you. You are my daughter, and you are my heir. You will act as such. Do I make myself clear?”
“Agree,” Dimitri said into her mind. “Placate him.”
After a pause, Harper bowed her head. Relief bloomed in Dimitri.
“We can get out of this mess later.” He hoped.
It seemed to stall Saradon, who must have expected defiance, for he narrowed his eyes at Harper, then nodded, perhaps satisfied that he had broken her spirit. However, Dimitri could see her gaze...determined and full of fire...boring into the floor. He suppressed a smile.
We are not beaten yet.
“We are to leave this foul pit at once. I have had my fill of dark halls and death,” said Saradon. “I will leave it to the goblins to fulfil my mission in Valtivar. They will kill every last dwarf in the realm until there are no more, then it will be mine.”
“Where are we to go, Lord Ravakian?”
Saradon glared at him, but a grim smile broke through his stern visage. “Tournai. It is time to break the wheel, my friend, and may it bring death, devastation, and destruction to all those who oppose me.” He savoured every word. “Let us go.”
Dimitri suppressed a shiver. I am not your friend.
Beside him, Harper’s head lifted to stare at Saradon, her mouth partly open. A wave of uncertainty rolled off her, and he longed to offer her some comfort, some reassurance that all would be well, even though he had no certainty of it himself.
Despite their trepidation, they had no choice. As Saradon faded into the ether, Dimitri followed suit, holding Harper close beside him.
It could not have been more starkly clear.
The Saradon he thought he had raised...the visionary, the fair, the downtrodden...was gone. Whether he had ever truly existed was beyond Dimitri’s ken. What was left was nothing more than the remnants of Saradon, held within the grip of a greater power, whose name had faded from memory for three thousand years.
Saradon was a servant of the Dark One himself, Valxiron, and nothing more than his puppet. Now, Valxiron would move, and Dimitri was certain they were all doomed, for there were no legends to step from lore to save them. Erendriel and all her kind were dead and gone.
As he looked into Harper’s eyes as they appeared in the royal hall of Tournai beside Saradon, and the screaming of the courtiers began, he saw his own despair mirrored in her gaze.
Dimitri had succeeded, and yet, he had failed.
He had broken the wheel.
Utterly beyond repair.
Order of Valxiron: Chronicles of Pelenor Three
One
The battalion of Winged Kingsguard disappeared into the storm clouds crowding the sky, low and angry over the darkened lands of Pelenor. Raedon watched th
em go, impervious to the winds buffeting him atop his own dragon, thanks to the protective layer of magic surrounding them.
Beneath him, Zakynthor shifted, his night-blue scales dark against the storm clouds. “Would that we could join them,” he growled into Raedon’s mind, hungry for battle.
Raedon’s lips quirked into a smile that quickly faded. As the dragon of the general, Zakynthor rarely saw battle anymore, and he was none too pleased. It was not in a dragons nature to tend to peace and watch his equals fly into battle in his stead.
Each dragon that flew away carried five men–their rider and four Kingsguard soldiers. It was the only way to ensure the number of troops needed could reach the beleaguered dwarven lands of Valtivar in time. Time that was quickly running out.
Raedon could not dispel the coil of unease running through him. On the other side of the giant storm lay Valtivar–and Saradon. He could only hope that his men would arrive in time to bolster the dwarven ranks, to stop the mountains being overrun by goblins and the unchecked evil of the half-elf who led them. If his men failed, Pelenor would be next.
It felt too tenuous. King Toroth had been deposed, thanks to Raedon’s alliance with the spymaster, Dimitrius, and a tentative peace held in the capital, Tournai. With the imminent defeat of the goblins, he hoped the trade routes through the mountains would once more open, breathing life into the crippled country.
Yet if Saradon were to turn his attentions to Pelenor...
Raedon could not finish the thought. The once secure realm lay weak and open, like a smashed egg upon the ground with its rich treasure of land, peoples, and assets ripe for the taking.
It will not come to that. Raedon sought to reassure himself. We will push them back from the front line, back into the foul pits from whence they came.
Of Saradon, Raedon could have no such certainty. He did not truly know what he dealt with. All he knew of Saradon was his appearance in the paintings in the royal gallery–paintings that even now were being removed at his order. There would be no tribute, no reminder of the darkness of Saradon in the royal halls.
Raedon shivered as the winds rose with the storm’s approach. With a nudge of his leg, Zakynthor shifted beneath him and banked, wheeling away. Back to Pelenor. Back to safety. Back to the country he could now rebuild to greatness in the king’s name, though he hoped King Toroth would never rule, and ruin, it again.
Two
The court was frozen as statues before them. Harper stood pressed against Dimitri’s side, his arm protectively encasing her, upon the platform in the royal hall of Tournai, but the king’s throne was empty. The noble elves before them were not frozen in fear at their arrival, but of the tall, threatening one standing before them all.
Saradon.
Somehow, he managed to be even more imposing here than under the mountain. He seemed taller, more thickset, and brimming with even more power. It rolled off him in dizzying, nauseating waves.
“Will no one welcome me to my halls?” Saradon crooned in mock indignance, before letting out a bark of sharp laughter at their collective silence. Not even a garment rustled.
Harper stood rigid, too, not daring to move from Dimitri’s side lest Saradon’s attention, and looming ire, be turned to them. She had not forgotten the promise of punishment for her disobedience. She had not forgotten the chains.
From the back of the hall, a tongue of blue fire seared toward Saradon. He instantly quelled it and snatched up his attacker, dangling him in mid-air, higher and higher over the crowd, who now gasped and shrieked.
Saradon’s iron gaze, stern and unimpressed, bored into the elf, who continued to rise. He struggled against the invisible bonds of magic that held him, without result.
“That is no way to welcome your future king,” Saradon said in a quiet, even tone.
The elf cursed him, though his voice shook in fearful defiance. He was now so high above them, all had to crane their necks to see him rising, stopping when he was level with the rib-vaulted ceiling.
Without a word of warning, Saradon’s magic snapped free. The elf plummeted to the floor, striking the stone with an impact that cracked like a dozen whips. He was still, his body bent at unnatural angles, a growing pool of...
Harper looked away quickly. Her heart trembled in her chest. Dimitri’s fingers twitched upon her arm, but he did not move.
“You all know who I am.” Saradon’s voice echoed through the hall, filled with warning and menace. “A new age dawns in Pelenor. The line of Anorian is dead. It ends with Toroth and his issue. The line of Ravakian begins anew–with me.”
He stared around the hall, but none would meet his gaze. “Stay and serve, or die.”
HARPER WAS RELIEVED Saradon had placed her under Dimitri’s care for the time being, for it meant having what little anchor to familiarity and safety she could find amidst a whirlwind of chaos. As she stepped into his quarters, the irony of that was not lost upon her.
How different it had been the last time she had been there.
Dimitri’s maid bustled down the corridor and sank to her knees, prostrating before them. “Welcome back, master. May I take your cloak?”
Dimitri glanced at Harper, and a smile tugged at his lips. “It’s all right, Emyria. Harper is...a friend. No airs and graces needed.”
His choice of word piqued Harper’s curiosity, and her gaze flicked to him, before returning to the friendly elf-female, who stood and reached for her own, shamefully sullied cloak.
Emyria’s shoulders relaxed. A smile graced her face, lighting up her tired eyes. She tucked a greying strand of hair behind her pointed ear. “It’s good to see you. What word is there? The castle servants are all a-flutter with the news of the king’s deposition.”
Dimitri let out a chuckle. “That was supposed to be a secret. Nothing gets past them, does it?” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, motioning for Harper to shut the door. “We return with ill news, I’m afraid, but it’s not for others to hear.”
Emyria’s face fell. “Every time you return you bring worse tidings.”
“Not for wanting, Emyria. I promise.”
“Mightn’t we be better...elsewhere?”
Dimitri glanced at Harper again, who watched them both with interest.
“We aren’t permitted to leave, I’m afraid; otherwise I’d have taken us home a long while ago.”
Home? Harper frowned. Are we not already in his home?
“It’s a paltry imitation,” Dimitri said, as though he had read her thoughts. By the way he smirked at her bristling indignance, she knew she had as good as said it out loud to him. “Come.”
She followed him as he strode down the corridor toward the reception room.
“My real home is far from here. Far from anyone, in fact. When I’m not running around trying to fulfil the king’s abominable demands, I prefer to spend my time there. It serves two purposes. When I disappear for a time, the court usually assumes I am up to ‘dark and despicable deeds’, which I rather prefer, as my reputation tends itself without really having to get my hands dirty.”
At Emyria’s raised eyebrow, a silent request, he smiled. “Orange blossom and bergamot tea, please. A hint of valerian, too.”
“What will you drink, Miss...”
“Harper.” Harper looked uncertainly at Dimitri.
“Bring two, please.”
Emyria left, and Dimitri sank onto a chaise before the small, crackling fire. It was the only sound in the quiet of the late evening. Harper drew closer without much thought. It smelled of pine, and the warmth... It banished the unrelenting, seeping chill that seemed embedded in her bones after so much time underground, in the mountain. She shivered at the memory.
Dimitri shifted. “I don’t want to go back there, either,” he said quietly.
Harper rounded on him and fixed him with a glare. “Can you stop doing that?” she snapped.
Dimitri only smirked. “You ought not shout your thoughts so loudly then. Besides, it’s written in yo
ur body.”
Harper consciously straightened, forcing her clenched fists to loosen, and retreated to a chaise opposite him, sinking slowly onto it.
Dimitri continued to smirk. “I wouldn’t sit on that. You’re a bit...” He wrinkled his nose in distaste, mimicking a bad smell.
Harper flushed.
“I jest, I jest. We’ll both need a bath tonight.” He glowered at her suggestively.
One of his masks is back then.
She growled, picked up the first thing at hand–a cushion–and threw it as hard as she could at him.
He easily caught it and laughed. “Only a suggestion,” he said lightly, and his smile widened with genuine mirth. The shadows still sank deep beneath his eyes, however, and she knew he was making light, though darkness stained his soul, the same way it stained hers.
Her gaze flicked to the door.
“I do not think he will call upon us tonight. There are others he seeks to...neutralise. For now, I am your gaoler,” Dimitri said quietly, his grin fading, the shadows returning to his face. “My business will begin anew on the morrow, but I think you will be confined here until he has need for you. Emyria will look after you while I am away.”
She noticed how even he did not utter Saradon’s name. It seemed he did not want to darken his home with it, either.
Harper swallowed and nodded. She rubbed her arms, now ridden with goose pimples, wishing for warmer clothes, her cloak, anything, for the chill seemed to seep in, banishing the fire’s benevolence.
Emyria brought them their drinks, and Harper eased back onto the comfortable cushions–a welcome relief after nothing but hard, cold stone. The velvet surface brushed against her skin, a contrast against the smooth, silken dress–or the tatters of it–that she still wore. The infusion warmed her through and dulled the extremities of her frayed nerves and aching limbs.