by Meg Cowley
Nearby, her brother appeared with a screeching Erika, struggling with her as she sought to draw her weapons. At least the Queen had permitted them to wield defences in their task. Ta’hiir sprang away with a hiss, baring his teeth at the Indis warrior. Erika scrambled to Aedon and Brand, her blade displayed to the wood elf.
“What devilry is this?” she snarled.
“Magic beyond your understanding, human,” Ta’hiir said coldly, “but you would do well to be grateful for it, for we shall save you weeks of sore feet with this small boon.”
Aedon eyed their surroundings. They did indeed seem to be on the moors to the east of the living forest. He saw hazy mountains in the distance. Had they truly covered such a great distance in mere moments? Yet his eyes surely could not deceive him, nor the rocky ground beneath his feet contrasting to the soft moss carpet he had stood on, nor the smell of winter in the air instead of the honey of summer blossoms that had teased it just moments before.
He felt a grudging appreciation for his new companions, as hated as they were. If we can travel in this manner, we’ll be there in no time. They could reach Tournai, seek Harper, for he was certain she would be close to Saradon, and try to find the truth of the Dragonhearts and the prophecy of Erendriel.
“Thank you,” he said slowly. Ta’hii’s and El’hari’s stern silence was his only response. “How is it done?”
They turned away and did not reply.
“WILL YOU HELP US OBTAIN or create a counter-curse?” Aedon prompted that night as they set up camp beneath rocky crags.
“Our Queen decreed it pointless. The court is gone. The curse has run its course.”
Aedon gritted his teeth. Never a yes or a no. “But if you did, what would you need?”
Ta’hiir narrowed his eyes. “I won’t give you any of our secrets, thief. Do not try to beguile me. It is fruitless.”
Aedon rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry. I don’t want to be here any more than you do.”
“We can take you back to our Queen, if you wish,” said El’hari with poisoned sweetness.
Aedon shot her a venomous glare. “We need a Dragonheart, yes? What else?” At their silence, he huffed. “Oh, come on. This is going to be a very dull quest if you don’t even speak.”
The wood elves shared a glance. “The Dragonhearts are pointless. Toroth is dead.” Aedon stilled. “Murdered by Saradon. With his death, the location of his horde, if it still exists, is lost. We would need Saradon’s blood, too, before there was anything to be done about it.”
Aedon groaned. “That’s impossible,” he muttered, even as the thought struck him. Harper was of Saradon’s blood. Did that mean...
He did not dare ask them, but he tucked the thought away to dwell on later. “Maybe the prophecy will be more useful,” he mused, half to himself.
“What prophecy?” Ta’hiir said sharply, leaning forward until the fire almost singed his long, trailing braids.
“Oh, you don’t know?” Aedon flicked a small stick into the fire, sending a cascade of embers toward Ta’hiir. He sprang back, glaring at Aedon, who only smiled sweetly. “Well then, I suppose it’s not mine to say. Privileged information and all that.” With that, Aedon turned back to his food they had been provisioned with–a flatbread filled with cheeses.
He ignored Ta’hiir’s prying, refused El’hari’s questions, but all the same, he threw extra mental wards around his companions and himself. It would not do for the wood elves to learn anything they did not know of Harper or their shared task.
He already felt the claws of the she-elf’s consciousness raking at his own. Aedon snapped down on them with vicious delight, relishing as they slid away. On the other side of the fire, El’hari blanched and cast her gaze down.
“WHAT NOW?” BRAND ASKED as they prepared, after a long evening of chilled, stiff silence, to retire to sleep, at the opposite side of the fire to the wood elves.
“We return to Tournai to see the truth of the current situation there,” Ta’hiir said, his tone gruff and grudging.
Aedon’s heart lifted at the prospect. At least they were going toward Harper...he hoped.
“Saradon is there?” he asked lightly, hoping he would not betray any undue interest.
“He was,” said Ta’hiir, rolling out a thin sheet next to his sister’s. Aedon and his companions had been afforded no such luxury. The bare, unforgiving sharp rocks were to be their bed.
Aedon shared a glance with Brand and Erika at Ta’hiir’s admission. They would be thinking the same as he. “What then?”
Ta’hiir drifted to the edge of the camp. “We’ll see. I’m taking first watch. Don’t try anything.” His voice held a bite of menace.
“We would never!” said Aedon with mock contriteness, earning him a glare. He shared a muffled chuckle with Brand and Erika.
Glancing at El’hari’s huddled form on the other side of the fire, then the shadow that was her brother’s silhouette, he beckoned Brand and Erika closer, lowering his voice. “I’ll take watch, too. I don’t trust either of them.”
Erika nodded, her eyes narrowed, and despite his own watch, she lay her dagger next to her within easy reach–a message to the wood elves that she would not be caught unawares or surrender to them without a fight.
Aedon sighed as he huddled against the rocks with nothing but his cloak wrapped around him. It was going to be a long night, but at least now, finally, they were making progress. He only hoped they were not too late. He had seen the horrors of Afnirheim, seen what Saradon was capable of. Hearing nothing but silence from their friend trapped with him was cause for naught but growing concern.
We’re coming, Harper, he sent into the night, though she would never hear his thoughts. Hold on.
Forty Six
Ragnar bowed low before his cousin in the empty königshalle, which had been cleared for his audience. “I thank you for your consideration, cousin.”
Korrin watched him sharply, his burly arms crossed as he looked down upon Ragnar from his throne.
“I cannot stay,” Ragnar said after a pause, his voice soon lost in the vast emptiness of the hall.
Korrin shifted upon his throne, his lips thinning into a line, but did not speak.
“There is so much at stake, as you well know. I cannot be content to rebuild our nation, not yet, not when our neighbours crumble beside us.” Ragnar shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unable to quell his agitation, the sense of strange urgency that he ought to be doing something, even if he had no idea what. “I cannot turn a blind e–”
“We do not turn a blind eye,” Korrin rumbled, standing in his indignation.
“Then help.”
Korrin glowered at him, but Ragnar did not look away. Ever had Korrin hated his defiance, his uncompromising morals, but ever had they led him true, and Ragnar would not doubt himself now. At last, Korrin subsided, grumbling.
“We must rebuild and shore our own defences, cousin,” Korrin said, glaring at Ragnar, who nodded. “Yet... We will not abandon the very neighbours who were our own salvation. I will hold you to your word. When all this is done, when Saradon is defeated, you will return to help us rebuild. We will have need of you. In the meantime, you have no inkling where your friends are.”
Ragnar cringed. The flaw in his plan.
“I have an answer. It is pointless to wander the wilds seeking them. You know it as well as I. You can help your kin whilst you aid them, too. You will be my envoy to the Pelenorians. Return with the dragon riders to their masters, speak for us. When the time comes, we will support them as they supported us.”
Ragnar blinked in surprise as Korrin’s words sank in. It was not what he had anticipated. Truth be told, he had expected a refusal, and an argument. This was...reasonable. Korrin still watched him like a hawk.
Ragnar swallowed and nodded. “I agree.” And I hope it will lead me to my friends. He sent a prayer earthward to the Mother that she would bring her children together once more–somehow.
To his surprise, Korrin heaved a relieved sigh. “I am glad of it. You will return as soon as possible. The riders already prepare to leave. Go now and make yourself ready. I will summon you when the time comes.”
RAGNAR SPENT THE ENTIRE journey to the Winged Kingsguard quarters hunched miserably on the back of a dragon’s abrasive, scaled, horned neck, his cloak wrapped around him to keep away the freezing, buffeting wind, his eyes firmly scrunched shut as his stomach roiled with every jerk.
RAGNAR HAD NEVER BEEN more grateful to feel stone and earth beneath his feet as, with the help of a Winged Kingsguard, he shakily descended from the dragon’s back upon legs that were frozen stiff, yet as wobbly as a newborn fawn. He alighted in the walled courtyard ringed by jagged peaks, and glanced around to take stock of his surroundings.
Red cloaks everywhere, though little else was to be expected in their own stronghold. Ragnar twitched instinctively, so long had he, Aedon, Erika, and Brand been running from them, but he reminded himself it was not so anymore. You are here as the könig’s cousin and envoy. It was a strange thought, one he had still not become accustomed to in the days of preparation and travel there.
“Lord Anorian,” Ragnar greeted respectfully as the head of the Winged Kingsguard, Lorcan, who had been sent to Valtivar, strode toward him.
Lorcan greeted him with a curt nod, his stern visage unwavering. Ragnar did not blame him, given the news that had come from Pelenor so soon after the battle for Afnirheim–news of King Toroth’s, his father, and his family’s murders. “Come, Jarl Dúrnir–” that was to be Ragnar’s title outside their people, though it was one he loathed, “–our general will wish to speak with you at once.”
Ragnar followed Lorcan into the hold, jogging to keep up with the elven prince’s long strides, as his eyes wandered, looking for any trace of his companions, futile as it might be. Through dark halls and long corridors, Lorcan led him until they reached the conclave chamber, where their guards peeled away and only the two of them entered.
Ragnar’s heart stuttered as Aedon turned from the head of the table to face him...before he realised it was not his friend, but Aedon’s older brother and the General of the Winged Kingsguard, Raedon.
Don’t be silly, Ragnar admonished himself. They are not here. Yet the same green eyes he knew so well seemed to fix him in their deep stare before Raedon’s attention flicked to Lorcan, and all those present gave their prince a low bow.
“My condolences, Lorcan.” Raedon’s words were murmured by the others. “We will right the wrongs that have been done. We will avenge your father.”
Lorcan nodded, his lips tight, as he wordlessly slipped to a vacant seat beside Raedon, his eyes downcast. All attention turned to Ragnar.
“Well met, Jarl Dúrnir.”
“I thank you, General. König Korrin sends his best regards, and his heartfelt gratitude for your assistance in the reclamation of Afnirheim and the extermination of the goblin scourge. We are indebted to you.” Ragnar bowed again, feeling at a loss as to what to say. Perhaps this had been a mistake. Who was he to bear the word of his entire nation?
“You are most welcome here, and we are most grateful for König Korrin’s support in our shared...problem,” Raedon finished delicately, gesturing for Ragnar to sit on his other side.
“Of course. As soon as we ensure our borders are safe from the scourge, our arms will stand by yours.” Ragnar hurried to sit, wincing as the chair leg screeched against the wood floor as he tucked into the table.
Ragnar listened as Raedon swiftly updated Lorcan on what had passed in his absence, and Ragnar’s heart grew heavy with dread at the tales of Pelenor’s descent into Saradon’s control, as well as the dark Order that now controlled the capital, and all those poor souls within.
“And just today, our scouts from Tir-na-Alathea returned,” Raedon said, his tone dark.
Ragnar whipped his head to Raedon at the mention of the living forest, the last place he knew his companions were to travel to.
“They will not help.” Raedon scowled, and his hand balled into a fist upon the table. “We have no other allies close or willing enough to assist. For now, this problem is ours alone.”
Ragnar longed to speak up, to tell them Aedon had journeyed to the woodland realm to seek assistance, but though he shifted in his chair, he remained silent. It would invite too many questions of how he knew Raedon’s brother so intimately. Besides, he would not give Aedon away.
Raedon turned to Ragnar unexpectedly, and Ragnar hastened to clear his dark expression as Raedon clapped him on the shoulder. “I am most glad that we have one ally who will stand beside us in this. All is not lost. If we have one, we may yet find more. Nay, we may yet be enough to tip the scales.”
Ragnar returned Raedon’s tight-lipped smile, but he knew enough of elves to hear the ring of fake confidence in the general’s voice.
Forty Seven
It was against every instinct Dimitri had to seek out Aedon, but he pushed his distaste away. The Thief of Pelenor, the disgraced General of the Winged Kingsguard, would be Harper’s salvation. Dimitri only needed to make it come to pass. That would be difficult enough.
He sought Aedon’s essence through the fabric of the world, searching for the tiny thread that connected them. Westward he looked, to the great forest of Tir-na-Alathea, but he stumbled upon the elf on the fringes of Tournai’s territory, much sooner than he thought possible. Dimitri stilled, then chased toward them. Aedon had left the living forest alive, but with companions–both friend and foe. He recognised those essences.
Sharp anxiety lanced through him. Unknowns were variables he did not like to account for. How had the wood elves he had dealt with so long ago come to accompany the elf, the Aerian, and the Indis warrior? Where the Queen’s servants passed, he would have to tread most carefully.
Dimitri stepped from the shadows a distance before them. Rain pitter-pattered steadily upon them all, drenching the already miserable and barren winter earth. Slowly, the cloaked shadows approached through the thin mist, until they perceived him.
Aedon halted and swore, before rushing forward. Dimitri felt the elf’s magic welling, but Aedon did not strike. The magic of the wood elves seethed behind him, too, preparing to lash.
Aedon slipped to a halt before him. “Where is she? Is she okay?”
Dimitri’s attention fixed on Aedon’s companions. “She is...alive.” It was all he could truthfully say, for she was far from “well”. “Why do you come with them?” He glared at the wood elves, who met his dislike with open hostility, hands dropping to their weapons.
“Long story,” Aedon muttered, and his eyes narrowed, as if he would not share the likes of it with the king’s former spymaster.
Dimitri pursed his lips. “We need to talk. In private.” He would not have the wood elves overhearing anything if he could help it.
After a pause, Aedon nodded to his friends and followed him a small distance away. Dimitri shrouded them both in wards so their words would not pass beyond the two of them.
“You first,” said Aedon. “I want to know that Harper’s safe.”
“She’s as safe as can be, but things are not...easy,” Dimitri admitted. As a token of his good faith, and in as few words as he could, he outlined all that had passed since their return to Tournai with Saradon.
Aedon grew more closed and stern with every word.
“That’s why I’m here. I thought you would be farther afield, but this could work in our favour. The bond cannot be broken. Her only hope is to be taken far away, and protected, where he cannot find her...”
“Why did you not just take her before any of this then?” Aedon turned his anger to Dimitri, who winced.
“It’s not that simple. I... I can’t leave. I have to set things right. But Harper doesn’t have any part of that, nor should she. She’s destined to play a higher purpose, but she cannot do it from the confines of his court, in ever-present danger.
“Saradon knows the prophecy. He knows sh
e is to be his downfall. He keeps her close, but I have no doubt that if he decided the risk too great...” Dimitri left the thought unsaid.
Aedon folded his arms, clenching his jaw. “What are you proposing?”
“You’ve been in the living forest, yes?”
Aedon nodded.
“Then you’ve come too far to have walked. Come too far to have travelled by non-magical means in such a short span of time.” He gave Aedon a pointed glance.
The wood elves could only have travelled as he did. He wondered how they knew such a way, for their Queen would not preach of such dark ways as the Order.
Yet even Valxiron’s beginnings were noble. Perhaps this is nothing more than a long-forgotten art, mispurposed by the Order.
Aedon nodded again, pursing his lips.
“If I can get her out, you can take her away. Somewhere far away, under wards, where he cannot touch her, find her, harm her.” Dimitri’s gaze bored into Aedon, whose serious, green eyes did not waver.
“Why do you care, spymaster?”
“Probably for the same reason as you, thief.” Dimitri smiled sadly, then looked away for a moment.
Aedon stirred, but suspicion still lingered within him.
“Look, you and I both know what is between us is a grief long passed,” Dimitri said, stirring slightly. “Valyria’s death was not my fault. You know it as well as I. We both misjudged each other that day.”
Aedon’s stare was long and cool, but he finally nodded. “I suppose so.”
“All the enmity between us since has been needless. I’ll not shirk. I played a fair part in riling that. But it can be no more. Not with what we are to face.”
At Aedon’s silence, Dimitri continued. “I made an oath to you. I promised to keep her safe. I’m doing just that. I need you to trust me, as I must trust you...for her sake.”
“The wood elves won’t like this. They’re under their Queen’s orders.”