by Meg Cowley
“How could you bear it for so long?”
He stirred on the ground but did not speak for a long moment. Finally, he sighed. “Thinking back to it now, I don’t know. At the time, I suppose I was so wrapped up in it all I forgot what the rest of the world was really like.”
“How did you get out?”
He chuckled dryly. “Emyria saved me, I suppose.”
Harper glanced at him, cocking her head. Emyria? How had the diminutive servant with less than an ounce of magic saved him?
“Not how you think. She didn’t carry me out of a flaming building, so to speak.” He laughed. “Meeting her changed me. Woke me up. After that, I realised I couldn’t stay, yet I couldn’t go back.”
“So you left...and saved her in the process?” Harper’s idle fingers tangled into the soft fronds of grass and moss beside her.
He frowned, as if wondering how she knew. Their food lay forgotten between them as Dimitri leaned back on his hand, his legs stretched out by hers, their shoulders almost brushing. His sweet, citrus scent mingled with the pines, surrounding her in a blanket of what felt like safety and familiarity.
“Yes.”
She raised an eyebrow, but he shook his head almost imperceptibly.
“It’s not mine to talk about. Suffice it to say, since I met her, my life has changed for the better, and I hope she feels the same way. You may not have met many of the lesser elves who tend my abode, they are a reclusive lot, but I offer them a sanctuary and a reprieve from their station that they cannot find elsewhere. They are as close to family as I have these days.” He grimaced.
She understood only too well what it was like to have no family. To have to find whatever small shreds of warmth one could in those around them. She felt a pang of sympathy for them all–herself, Dimitri, Emyria, the others she had not yet met. It seemed Betta had cared for her, a source of comfort and affection, in the same way Emyria cared for Dimitri.
“Not exactly what I expected from the king’s dark and terrible spymaster.”
Dimitri snorted. “If you have learned nothing else from your time in Pelenor, know that little is as it first appears.”
“Mmm...”
“Come. Eat. We’d best not tarry.” Dimitri sighed and returned to the last morsel of his repast.
SOONER THAN SHE WOULD have liked–and Dimitri, too, by his slow casualness as he packed the scraps into the basket–they were ready to leave. They stood for a long moment in appreciative silence, admiring the view, the unspoiled space, such a far cry from their daily grind.
“I think you’re ready to try this time,” he said, slipping her hand into his arm. She savoured the warmth, for the cold air had bitten into her. At her wide eyes, he gave her a resolute look. “I’ll help.”
Can I do it?
She did not feel ready. She could find the strange in-between place, though it felt like fumbling with something she could not truly grasp, but finding her destination seemed as impossible as firing an arrow and hitting a mark blindfolded.
“I’ll try,” she said, her voice wavering, betraying her doubt.
He encircled her in his arms, and she sank them both into the flow of magic until they stood in the in-between space, where it seemed as though she viewed the woods and the slate-coloured lake from a great distance.
“Good,” he murmured into her mind. “Now, pull toward your destination.”
She did, tugging them toward the familiar scent of warmth, wood-smoke, books, fresh sheets...and him. It seemed slow and jerky compared to his fluid, rapid movements, and she could feel him correcting her wobbles unconsciously, taking over as she wearied and lost the thread of direction, until they materialised back in the confines of the main living area of his quarters.
She bent double, groaning at the strain it had placed upon her shaking body and aching mind.
“That was excellent!” Dimitri said, a grin lighting up his face as he bent to support her. “I–”
Clap, clap, clap.
They wheeled around. Harper suppressed a swear as she saw Saradon reclined upon the chaise, and Dimitri stiffened against her. He let her arm fall and stepped away. Harper slowly straightened and hid her clenched fists in the folds of her dress.
“Most impressive.” Saradon rose, his glittering eyes fixed upon her. “She is more advanced than I realised,” he said to Dimitri, his scrutiny finally leaving her.
She hid a shuddering exhale.
“Thank you, sire. She was ready. As you can see, she has a natural aptitude.”
Saradon nodded approvingly, his gaze raking over her from top to bottom. “As she ought to. After all, she is my blood.” His wide grin did nothing to reassure Harper.
Twenty One
Raedon and Zakynthor alighted at the dragonhold of the Winged Kingsguard hereditary headquarters. Raedon touched the worn, millennia-old, dark grey stone with familiar relief, while Zakynthor rumbled in greeting to the half-dozen other dragons currently residing in the hold.
“Thank you, my friend.” Raedon rubbed Zakynthor’s nose, and the dragon huffed warm breath over him. “Get some well-deserved rest.” He sighed.
“Gladly will I leave you to your politics,” Zakynthor said wryly, then ambled away to take his fill of the water trough. They both knew he would be there, a silent partner in whatever Raedon had to face.
Raedon crossed the open floor of the hold, circling past the troughs of water and piles of fresh kills, before taking the long, descending stairs to the halls where his own kind resided. With each step came a new thought, a new realisation, until by the time he reached the wide, tall hallways with windows set into the mountainside, worry had creased his brows into a stern visage.
“Raedon!” A tall elf halted in her tracks as she beheld him, before rushing forward to gather him in a crushing embrace that defied the slenderness of her limbs. “What in Pelenor’s name are you doing here?”
“Liv, you must call the elders at once.” Raedon stepped back, still grasping her forearms. “Any senior ranked riders here, send them to the chamber for conclave.”
Liv’s grey eyes faltered at the urgency in his voice, the wildness in his eyes, but after a momentary pause, she nodded shakily and rushed away.
Raedon strode after her, until she darted down another hall. He made his way to the kitchens, for he had neither eaten nor drank in two days, and heavy dizziness dogged his step. He had clung to Liv because of weakness, though he would not admit it to any other than himself.
Bonded servants dropped into low bows at his entrance, until he dismissed them with a flick of his finger back to their duties. He helped himself to fresh bread, butter, honey, cheese, and a tankard of cold, fresh spring water straight from the year-round glacier atop the mountains that expanded its domain as winter took hold.
A few minutes later, he could afford to dally no more. Licking the last of the honey from his fingers, he made straight for the conclave chamber, where two already awaited him.
“Raedon, what’s the meaning of this?” the elder asked, his grey brows crinkling.
“Well met, Fabian,” Raedon said, making a light bow to him. Fabian had been his own mentor once, a long time ago. “I’ll explain when all others who ought to be privy are present.”
“It’s good to see you, Raedon.” The younger male nodded, a curt, sharp movement, his beady eyes narrowed as he wondered at Raedon’s words.
“And you, save I wish for better tidings to bring, Nolan.”
Liv soon returned, several others following behind her. They each took seats about the round table set in the centre of the circular room, and servants poured them all drinks–rich, deep red wines–and left wordlessly. Raedon watched the last leave, and only when the door snapped shut, the protective wards of silence and secrets around the room, did he speak.
In a low voice, he described what had passed over the past months in Tournai–some of which they knew, much of which they did not. His own duplicity against the king, conspiring with Dimitrius to
secure Pelenor’s future, safe from the mad king’s whims, though news of the burnings had already reached them, unsurprisingly. His determination to stop Saradon and aid the dwarves, albeit too late.
Despite the quietness of his tone, they listened, hooked on each word, their goblets forgotten, as he recounted how Tournai had fallen to the dark half-elf, Saradon.
“Our brothers and sisters perhaps fight even at this moment, shoulder to shoulder with the dwarves. I await word of their progress. Nolan, if you would send word to them of what has passed. It would not do well for them to attempt returning to Tournai. They must come here instead.” He was thankful the bulk of his forces were elsewhere when Tournai had been taken, for with the pyres upon the plains, Raedon had to wonder whether even his full might would have stopped Saradon.
Nolan nodded. He would do so as soon as the conclave finished.
Fabian shifted in his chair, his long cascade of silver hair shimmering down his back as he turned to survey his fellow conclave members. “What does this mean?” he finally asked Raedon, finding nothing but his own confusion mirrored in his peers.
“It means that Pelenor is in grave danger and may yet even be lost to us,” said Raedon with a heavy heart. “Prince Lorcan is the only royal heir who lives, that I know of. He commands our forces in Valtivar–”
A mutter of shared relief went around the table at his words.
“–but we are far from restoring him to the throne.” Unease curled within Raedon. Not for the first time, he wondered what Dimitri had not told him. Had the spymaster double-crossed him? He was, by his own admission, now Saradon’s second-in-command.
Perhaps he wanted this all along. Yet the fraught desperation within the elf had seemed real enough. He helped me. Why would he help me if he deceived me?
“Raedon?” Liv prompted at his silence.
Raedon stirred. “Apologies. I only wondered where the spymaster fits into all of this.”
Nolan snarled. “Ignore him, for he only lives to serve his own ends.”
“I’m not so sure,” murmured Raedon, stroking his chin, but he let the challenge stand. “He will keep me informed of all that passes in Tourn–”
“Surely you cannot trust him.” Nolan’s eyebrows could not rise any higher.
Raedon spread his hands. “It’s not about trust. He’s the only source of information within the city that I have at present. I’ll take whatever he will give, and we may make what we wish of it.”
“I won’t blindly trust a duplicitous monster like him.” Nolan’s teeth were bared.
Of course, Raedon recalled. He has personal cause to hate Dimitrius.
Nolan had sworn publicly never to forgive Dimitrius for what he had done. Raedon could understand. But the king’s spymaster was above the reproach of the son of a minor noble, so he had given Nolan a position within his ranks instead–one that kept him far away from his nemesis.
Raedon’s lips thinned. They would all have to work with one they hated soon enough, for when it came to survival, war made friends of enemies. “You will do as you are commanded by your general, Nolan,” Raedon said sharply, reminding the younger elf of his place. Nolan subsided, unhappiness and resentment written on the taut lines of his face.
Liv cleared her throat. “If I may...” All eyes turned to her. “We have patrols in the east now. If the Indis come, as you say, they will report such. Other patrols through the kingdom report no strife, however.”
“I would suspect most outside the capital will not even yet know what has passed.”
“Then we ought to act now,” Kier said, breaking his silence. He leaned forward, his whitened knuckles grasping the arms of his chair. “Contain the problem in Tournai. Exterminate it.”
“And how do you propose we do that, Kier?” Raedon asked icily. “I will forgive you for not seeing the pyre of dead dragons burning before the city.”
He pushed a mental image of it to them, sending the scale, and the smell, to each, seeing them shudder and pale as he did so. His voice swelled in volume as he vented his own frustration.
“But now you can see what he makes so easily of a handful of our dragons, you will understand why I will not blindly take chances against one who reportedly takes the power of those he vanquishes. In any case, he is ensconced in a city of our fellow citizens. Would you have them die? I have no doubt that would be the end result of such a battle.”
Kier looked away.
Raedon subsided and sighed when no one else spoke. “I do not have answers.” He looked around, meeting each of their gazes earnestly. “Dragons above, I wish I did. For now, we must regroup. Gather all the strength we have here. Fabian, I need reports of all those at the Académie who may be close to graduating. I fear their first test will be greater than many of us have faced in a lifetime.”
Fabian nodded, his emerald eyes grave.
“Nolan, send word to Lorcan in Valtivar at once. When their business concludes there, they must return here.
“The rest of you, attend to your duties and prepare for whatever may come. Goodness knows, we must be positioned to survive a siege. Inventory everything we have–every body, dragon, resource. We will meet at dawn tomorrow to strategise. Dragon speed to you all.”
Liv’s steel eyes met his, a wordless question, as they rose to attend their duties. But he could give her no reassurance, for in him yawned only deep despair and a bubbling unease.
Twenty Two
“Where is Tristan?” Harper dared to ask the Third Grandmaster.
His hand twitched as though he longed to strike her. He would if he could. He had done so to others for lesser insolence, but her rank protected Harper, so she glared at him to add insult.
“It is none of your concern, princess,” he said icily, his sour tone clipped. “Return to your studies.” He moved along the bench to survey another student, his back turned to her.
Harper glanced at the empty seat beside her. Worry niggled. Tristan had never missed a class before. Was he ill? She pitied the boy. At least she had the luxury of being able to leave the Order each day. He had no such luck.
WHEN DIMITRI ARRIVED to collect her, she tugged him aside.
“I just don’t know what could have kept him. He’d be punished for not attending class, and it doesn’t seem like him,” she muttered.
He glanced at her, frowning. “You don’t know these people.”
“He’s a boy, Dimitri, as scared and meek as they come. I don’t think he wants to be here. You know how they’re conscripting people now. I just need to know he’s okay.”
Dimitri sighed and leaned against the wall. “All right,” he said after a moment. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
THE BOY’S SOBBING REACHED his ears long before he saw the pitiful, shackled figure in the dark, squalid chamber.
“Tristan?” he called in a low voice, breathing through his mouth to avoid the worst of the stench of decay, mould, and excrement.
A sniffle, and the sobs petered out.
“Is your name Tristan?” Dimitri asked.
“Yes, sir.” The boy sniffed.
Dimitri sighed as his faelight bloomed in the dark space. The boy threw up his hand before his eyes against the brightness, but Dimitri had already seen the bruising on his cheek. Blood glistened on his hands.
“What did they do to you?”
“Punishment, sir.”
“For what?” Dimitri’s voice was gentle.
Silence.
“You can tell me. I won’t hurt you.”
The boy sniffed again and glanced up at him through watery, suspicious eyes, but Dimitri saw no spark of defiance. Tristan knew where the power lay in this place. “I tried to escape.”
Dimitri exhaled loudly. “You’re lucky to be alive. How?”
“Using alchemy, I tried to dissolve the sewer cap to escape down the pipes.”
Dimitri barked with laughter. “Clever.”
Tristan scowled, and Dimitri could sense the torrent of anger, h
urt, and fear within him.
“You want to leave?”
Silence, but for the steady drip in the distance, the rustle as Tristan huddled into a tighter ball.
“Who are you outside this place, Tristan? Who is your family? Where are they?”
It was hopeless to think the boy could escape, even Dimitri would be unable to smuggle him out, but Dimitri had not missed the refined accent, the way the boy carried himself, even in defeat.
“Tell me,” he said at the boy’s silence, though he put no threat into his voice, for he knew it would not serve him.
“Fa is the Master of the Smithy Guild.”
An icy chill flooded through him. “Landry?”
The boy’s head whipped up, his eyes locked on Dimitri’s. “You know him?”
Dimitri nodded, drawing closer.
Tristan struggled to his feet, hobbling forward in the confines of the heavy cuffs and shackles. “Please, I don’t want to stay here. Get me out! I want to go back to my family!”
“I can’t get you out, boy. Nothing can.”
Tristan faltered, and Dimitri could not miss the desperate gleam in the boy’s tear-filled eyes. Dimitri shifted from foot to foot. Some part of him felt bound to help. In Tristan, he saw the same young, lost soul he had once been.
“I may have a way, but it won’t be easy...,” he said slowly.
“Tell me! I’ll do anything!” Tristan stumbled forward again. This close, Dimitri could see a hint of Landry in the boy’s face.
“Only if you can keep a secret, Tristan...”
Apprehension curled within Dimitri at his daring. Discovery of his deception would be his undoing, but if they succeeded, it would be worth it. He had wondered how to discover more about the Order, how to destroy it from within. He just needed a spy. One he could trust not to betray him.
“Anything,” Tristan blurted.
Dimitri smiled grimly and clapped a hand on Tristan’s sodden shoulder.