by Meg Cowley
“They aren’t here. I’d be able to feel their power, as would you.” Dimitri clenched his jaw. “Wherever Toroth has hidden them, we will not find them here. They are either not hidden in the palace or hidden so well we shall not uncover them under his wards. He would not deign to stow them in the city, where the commoners are.”
“They could be down in the vaults again.”
“They could. But if they are, we would still not be able to retrieve them. Not when the magic of that place is keyed to the king. It would rip us apart if we even tried to look, Dragonhearts or not.”
“So we just give up? I’ve spent the entire day tramping around this place for nothing?”
“Not for nothing,” he said. “You’ve now discovered you quite hate the ostentatiousness of castle life. That’s something. Which, by the way, is very unbecoming of a princess.”
She whirled on him, balling her fists. “Don’t call me that.”
“But you are,” he said, stalking closer. “Princess Harper of House Ravakian.” He sank into a low bow, then rose quickly to catch her in his arms as she strode to him in blind annoyance. She could do nothing but struggle in his grasp.
“It’s not funny!” she snarled.
“Quite the contrary, princess.” His violet eyes ensnared her, and her heart fluttered at his daring closeness. “That’s not how you ought to respond to compliments anyway. You’re supposed to flutter your eyelashes and say ‘thank you’ most demurely, you know.”
Harper managed to wriggle an arm free and shoved him in the chest.
He laughed, releasing her.
“Just stop it with your masks, all right?”
“My apologies, princess.”
“If you call me that one more time, I’m going to shove your tongue so far down your throat, it’ll come out the other end.”
Cackling, he bent over, so she left him to it.
Dimitri caught up to her at a jog, loping beside her as she stormed away, angrily muttering to herself about feckless elves and wasting time. He grabbed her wrist. She pulled it free. He darted in front of her. Harper tried to dodge around him.
Suddenly, in the wide corridor, his hand snaked around her waist and he whirled her around in a dance, taking steps she did not know so that she stumbled, until they ended up on a balcony overlooking the mountains behind the city. He twirled and released her.
She clamped onto the railing to steady her dizzying head until the blurring subsided. “What was that?” she gasped, trying to catch her breath.
“A dance, of course.”
“Maybe on your part. I can’t dance.”
“You’ll have to learn. By his orders. If we cannot find Dragonhearts, I can at least help you with that. He ordered, so we must obey. You know how it is.”
“I don’t want to dance.” Harper turned to the mountains in the distance, standing in cold silence, wreathed in fog so they looked to hover in the sky.
“I know. There’s precious little to be thankful for, it would seem.” He walked up beside her and leaned upon the stone railing. Their arms were close enough to touch, but neither pulled away.
“If we left...went as far away as we could, across the seas...could he find us? Call us back?”
Dimitri turned his imperturbable eyes upon her. This close, they were mesmerising, and she tore her own gaze away.
“I honestly don’t know. Perhaps not at first, but he would eventually. His dominion would spread, and there would be no place in this world that could keep us safe from him. Besides, you’re not the running type. If you were, you’d already be fighting your way back to Caledan to escape all this.”
“I still feel guilty for leaving.” She had not forgotten Betta. The worst of winter would be over in Caledan now. She prayed Betta had survived it to see the easier days of spring. Harper shivered.
At her movement, Dimitri straightened and took her under his arm, warmth encircling them both.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
“It’s not your fault. You were never meant to be there. Pelenor is your home, and your birthright. You can’t run from that, not truly.”
“No.”
“So, for now, learn to dance with me. We must become them, Harper. Remember the masks you love to loathe. We must wear them as if they are our own faces.”
He pulled her to face him and lifted her chin with a warm finger and thumb, so their faces were only inches apart.
“This is all an act, but if we do it well, see ourselves safely through to the other side, see him cast down, we can save millions,” he breathed. “Millions, Harper.”
She could not even imagine that many people. “Dancing has nothing to do with it.”
“Dancing has everything to do with it. Be the princess you are proclaimed to be. I will be the monster I am perceived as. The annals of history may never know what we did, we may never be more than villains, but we both vowed to stop this as much as we gave our word to him. I must be as abhorrent as my role dictates.
“And you? You must learn to dance like a princess, walk like a princess, talk like a princess–like his heir. Can you lock yourself away and never speak of your secret again? Perhaps not even to me? Whoever knows, we might never have the privacy to do so again. Can you keep your purpose burning through it all, as I have done all these years?”
Their faces were almost touching. His eyes filled her world, the amethyst depths flaked with lavender and a hint of grey, framed by his high cheekbones, warm skin, raven hair. Her breathing stuttered, and a tingling rose through her at his touch, at the anticipation of his words, at his fervency.
“Can you do it?” he urged. “Can you follow Erendriel’s prophecy and your own conscience, no matter the cost it might exact, the time it might take?”
Her answer was obvious. Why else had she given her word to Saradon in order to save her friends? Why had she not strived to escape the black halls of Afnirheim when she had the faintest chance? Why had she steadfastly remained by Dimitri’s side, no matter what Saradon promised and plotted? What other hope did she have?
“I can, and I will.”
“Then swear it, and I will do likewise. Nothing shall turn us from our cause then.”
“I swear it,” they intoned at the same time, almost chest to chest and lips to lips, their noses almost touching and breath mingling.
Magic caressed them, rising like a breeze and curling around them, through them, binding them together, charging them with power and purpose. Their lips touched for a brief moment, sending a jolt through her. The tingling magic consumed her until she felt abuzz with it from head to toe, her hair moving of its own accord, as though a wind took it.
As the magic faded, cool air rushed in as Dimitri fell back half a step. Both of them breathed raggedly. Fire still ran through Harper’s veins. Was it the magic filling her with boldness and lust?
Dimitri looked alive, his lips parted, eyes filled with extra vitality.
Neither moved. They stood, waiting, each breath steadying, until the magic had faded, yet anticipation still charged her. Did he feel the same?
Dimitri moved first. “Let’s dance.” He swept her into his arms with unexpected force, pulling her close. Harper pressed her body to his, feeling his steps as he led, her gaze fixed upon his, an unspoken bond between them now shaping her every step.
Somehow, she knew where to step. His body nudged hers, his mind moved hers, so every step she took fell almost perfectly, until they had danced from one end of the hall to the other, the silent music of blood and attraction crashing through them. Dimitri dipped her in the last step so her head tipped back and his lips fell to her neck, where they stayed, their bodies pressed close, living the rise and fall of each other’s chests in the silent hall.
It would be so easy to give in to the rising tension within her, the need for physical release. But it would solve nothing. And complicate everything.
Harper clung to the dizzying feeling of life and lust for a moment longer, the dangerous
line they would now walk in a time of isolation and vanishing hope, before she let it fade.
Fourteen
Their shared living quarters were filled with only the ghosts of his companions. Ragnar solemnly paced through the cool, empty rooms, spotting the forgotten and discarded items they had left behind–a water gourd, a torn shirt, and other small items that would not be missed.
He sighed. I will miss them terribly. They had been his companions for so long, steadfastly accepting him no matter what. Ragnar swallowed. Now he felt alone and isolated. He steeled himself. It was for the best.
There was no more reason to delay. Korrin had summoned him, and to the könig’s side he would go.
KORRIN GRITTED HIS teeth at Ragnar’s arrival. “You’re late.”
“Apologies, cousin.”
Two jarls filed in behind him, also earning glares from Korrin.
Ragnar was not expected to speak, so he gladly just listened, for much had already been done before he had rejoined their ranks. The assault on Afnirheim–the final one, the one Korrin was certain would see the goblin scourge exterminated from dwarven halls–was almost planned, the forces almost massed. Dwarves from all corners of Valtivar had converged on Afnirheim, waiting for the könig’s orders to attack.
They would come soon enough. Ragnar held his apprehension at bay. He had not been the greatest fighter before, but now, permanently maimed... He looked at his hand–and the missing fingers and tip of his thumb. What could I possibly add? He pushed aside the thought before it could manifest and grow.
Nevertheless, it was better that he did not speak. In every private meeting he previously had with Korrin, the dwarven ruler had expressed nothing but frustration with Ragnar’s views, which did not conform to those of their culture. In the end, Ragnar had acquiesced to his authority, promising to do as he was instructed, and Korrin had dismissed him with relief.
Yet Ragnar did not question himself. I was not made to be könig, nor did I ever want it. I know little of war or politics anymore. So much had changed in his absence. I will help as I am bidden. Then I will make myself free. His heart felt heavy with the knowledge. It was one thing to run from his duties, quite another to publicly reject them entirely.
Never have I been one of them, not truly. Yet this will mark me as an outcast forevermore.
“—and my cousin will agree,” Korrin stated to those gathered. Ragnar blinked from his reverie as all attention turned to him.
“Wholeheartedly,” he said without hesitation, no matter that he had not heard a word Korrin had said. He knew his cousin only did what he felt was for the good of his realm and peoples. No matter that they disagreed, Ragnar knew Valtivar could not have a more devoted könig, and he would follow him to whatever end.
Korrin nodded. A hint of a smile twitched his beard before he turned back to the jarls.
Once more, war was coming to Valtivar, and Ragnar would stand beside his cousin for the first and last time, no matter what came to pass.
Fifteen
The sickly scent of ladarum was heavy upon the stagnant air as Dimitri led Harper through halls he had not trodden through for almost a century–yet still remembered like the back of his hand, much to his discomfort. She drew closer. He tightened his arm upon hers tucked in his elbow, clenching his jaw as they walked past curtained alcoves in the vaulted cellars.
The laughter of drugged patrons whooped from behind them, exaggerated beyond the bounds of true joy. Incoherent murmuring, sobbing, the sounds of lust. His lips were white, clamped together with disgust.
“What are they doing?” Harper pried into his mind.
“Debasing themselves.” Dimitri scowled. “With drink, other intoxicants, and debauchery, no doubt.” Standards had slipped if the Grandmasters allowed it in such prevalence. He quickened his steps, through double doors and into quieter quarters, where black-cloaked figures walked in silence like dark wraiths.
At last, they turned right into the meeting chamber, a large, octagonal room with steps down to a flat, central platform. He smoothed his expression at the sight of hundreds of members turning at their entrance, leading Harper down the steps at a slow, deliberate pace.
“Don’t be afraid. Just follow my lead. We are to be initiated, but it will be symbolic more than anything else.”
He could feel her trepidation, but she tightened her grip on him and straightened. He suppressed a smile at her resolve. Despite the unfamiliarity of the confusing world she now found herself in the midst of, she still found courage to go on. He admired her.
She’s braver than me. I would have run, had I known what truly awaited me here in these halls.
They approached the octagonal base, which was clear save for four kneeling figures and an ornate metal burner. Smoke poured from it, layering the room in a thick, musky scent with notes of citrus and herbs.
Dimitri took a deep breath. It had been a long time since he had smelled that. It brought back memories of this chamber, these people. He felt the smoke layering over his anxiety, smoothing out his cares, as it entered his blood.
Dimitri led Harper to the front of the four figures and helped her kneel before them, facing away. Her black dress caught the layer of dust upon the floor, puffing it around them so it melded with the smoke. The fabric crumpled as she sank onto it awkwardly, looking up at him with an intensity in her grey eyes that told him everything without words. He gave Harper’s hand a final, unseen squeeze of reassurance before he placed them in her lap. He knelt beside her, placing his own hands similarly.
“Now, breathe the smoke as little as you can, for it will befuddle and lull you into false security, and try to keep your wits about you.”
It was easier said than done. He already wrestled with his own acuity and will as the fog permeated his every sense.
He heard the swish of Saradon’s cloak, the quiet, firm tap of his heels upon the stone steps, before he swept into view. Harper kept her eyes lowered to Saradon’s immaculate, black leather boots, but at Dimitri’s mental prompt, bent forward so they prostrated themselves at his feet, as did the other Initiates behind them.
Other figures filed into a line behind Saradon, Khyrion chief amongst them, Dimitri realised as he rose from his bow.
“We are gathered here today to welcome new Initiates into our ranks,” Khyrion said, his nasally voice ringing harshly about them. “They have taken the Acolyte training and have been deemed worthy of progressing to our Order. They have paid the blood price.”
“Pretium sanguinis est...” A whisper, a murmured phrase common to all their lips, rippled around the room, echoing from the faceted walls.
“We welcome back our long absent brother, Dimitrius. Our blood is your blood.”
“Nostri sanguinis est sanguis,” the gathered crowd murmured.
Dimitri’s heart skipped a beat. He knew what price they had paid. He had paid it, too, a long time ago. He forced down the memories threatening to emerge, taking steadying, shallow breaths to try and breathe good air, but only more cloying smoke filled his lungs, dulling his head.
The bleating of a terrified sheep clattered from the walls as it was forced down the stairs to stand before them, straining against its leash. Khyrion brandished a serrated, curved knife from within the folds of his cloak. With one swift slice, it was done. The cream-coloured wool was stained by gushing crimson as the screaming sheep silenced and convulsed before them. Hands held it in place, and a ruby-studded chalice caught the blood as it fell.
Dimitri chanced a glance at Harper beside him. She was wide-eyed and pale. He could not blame her. Perhaps the burning shirah leaf was a blessing. It would dull her fear, upset, and shock...he hoped. His hands twitched. He longed to comfort her but did not move, gazing steadfastly at the chalice as the rubies reflected the sickly orange of the faelights dimly lighting the chamber, and the gushing blood of the sheep.
In a few moments, it was over, and the stiffening, still form of the sheep lay in a pool of its own lifeblood as Khyrion
raised the dripping chalice high.
“Drink and be united with us, brothers and sisters. Our blood is your blood. Your blood is our blood. Till our end, we protect the cause. Nostri sanguinis est sanguis. Sanguis tuus noster cruor. Carmina nostro fine, nos causam defendat.”
Dimitri and the rest of the Acolytes intoned the words. Beside him, Harper remained silent, her parted lips offering no tribute.
Kyrion approached, his boots ringing on the floor with each step, stopping before Dimitri. Dimitri took the offered goblet in two hands, and before he could think about what he did, all that it meant, he took a gulp of the blood within, still warm, still rich, still tangy, then gave Khyrion the goblet, head bowed.
“Rise, Brother Dimitrius.”
Dimitri rose with a rush of icy fear. The Second Grandmaster, Toroth’s own treasurer, daubed a bloody, four-pointed star upon his forehead. The elf smiled unpleasantly at Dimitri’s wide eyes, and Dimitri moved aside to stand with the ranks of silent brothers watching the proceedings.
Next, Harper took the goblet with shaking hands and brought it to her lips. Dimitri met her eyes and pushed reassuring thoughts toward her. She fixed him in her gaze, unblinking, and drank, then handed the cup back, still transfixed upon him.
“Rise, Sister Harper.”
She rose, still refusing to look away from Dimitri as the Second Grandmaster daubed a trickling star upon her brow. With slow steps, she drifted to Dimitri. He gazed grimly back at her, unable to show even a flicker of concern or kindness in the chamber of snakes.
“You did well. Not much longer left, and no trials. Stay with me. You will be safe.”
She melted into the shadows beside him, in her crumpled and dusty dress, clasping her hands together so tightly her knuckles whitened.
Soon, all four of the other Acolytes stood alongside them, initiated and amongst the ranks of the Order.
“Welcome one and all.” Khyrion threw the goblet upon the floor, and the remaining blood inside splattered in a violent arc. “Nostri sanguinis est sanguis. Sanguis tuus noster cruor. Carmina nostro fine, nos causam defendat.”