by Meg Cowley
Damir paled and shrank away.
Dimitri shook his head in disgust. Pathetic coward. “I didn’t think so. Are we done?”
Damir looked very much as if he wanted to be, but he shook his head. Dimitri raised an eyebrow in silent invitation for him to continue. Damir gestured for him to follow and set off to the far end of the gallery, which was shrouded in darkness from the shuttered windows that excluded the pale autumn light.
“The goblin massing,” Damir murmured. To anyone else, they appeared to be a father and son merely appraising the priceless works of art. “I want more news from the borders, more news of the troubles.”
Dimitri heard the reluctance in Damir’s voice. It killed his father to have to ask him for anything. “The king forbade we take any further part.”
Damir scoffed. “I know that will not stop you or your sources. Forewarned is forearmed. The dwarves are not likely to ask for help – not from Toroth – and if the uprising is more severe than we are led to believe, which I fear it is, we may yet have to act. I hope I worry for naught, yet...” Damir trailed off.
Dimitri nodded. He understood his father’s motivations. The family lands of Eyre lay close to the border, too far away from Tournai to receive the king’s aid. Too close for comfort to the troubles. Should no one stand in the way, they would be the first lands to fall.
“I’ll not promise anything.” He strode off into the shadows, abandoning his father to the solitude of the gallery without waiting for a response.
Six
Aedon stretched his toes toward the licks of fire that chased away the dark and threw dancing shadows on the cave walls. The warmth also banished the creeping cold from his feet, for which he was grateful. His sodden boots lay with all the others to one side, gently steaming as the water evaporated.
They all looked up as Brand strode back in, his wings tucked in tightly against the small passageway of the cave.
“All clear,” he said, his gaze raking across them all. The darkness surrounded him in stark shadows, and only his eyes glinted until he entered the small sphere of light beside them.
“Safe?” Ragnar questioned with a nervous glance toward the entrance.
Brand chuckled, a small bark of a laugh, as he squatted near the fire. “I wouldn’t go that far. The elves of Tir-na-Alathea are a murderous bunch when they want to be, and we’re too close for comfort. This is the most defensible position we have, but we cannot stay for more than one night. I’ve scouted the area. There are no traces of us...or them. We should still sleep with one eye open and some extra protection.” He glared pointedly at Aedon, who inclined his head.
“The wards are already up. Don’t worry.”
“I still don’t trust the trees.” Brand scowled toward the entrance, as if the trees were creeping in.
Aedon clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry yourself like an old woman, Brand. The trees here are harmless. They’re not the same as the Tir-na-Alathea dhiran.”
Brand did not seem convinced in the slightest, but Aedon let him be. He knew the Aerian warrior never let his guard down.
“Are you sure there’s no reason to worry?” Ragnar looked toward the inky void of the cave mouth again.
“If Brand says we are safe, I’ll trust to that,” Erika said.
Brand inclined his head to her, then turned to Ragnar. “You’re safe here, Master Dwarf.”
Even so, the night seemed to close about them, and even Aedon was glad for the light and warmth of the fire, though he would not admit it.
He leaned back onto an elbow and smirked. “What a tale for the ages, eh? The legendary Thief of Pelenor takes on the elves of Tir-na-Alathea and wins. I can hear the adoration already.”
Erika snorted at Brand. “You should have dropped him.”
“My apologies,” Brand said, shrugging. “He carried our prize. I could not, though I considered it.”
“You would be lost without me,” Aedon crooned.
“We’d be in a lot less bloody trouble,” Ragnar said, jabbing his wooden spoon at Aedon.
Aedon only grinned wider and swiped a taste of the broth from it, making Ragnar yank it back. “Yum.”
“If you knew what hunted us, you wouldn’t be so cocky,” warned Brand.
“I do know what hunts us,” said Aedon. “Why worry about what we cannot control? They shan’t catch us. We’re masters of evasion.”
“They’ll see your fat head from a mile off,” the Aerian warrior grumbled, moving closer to the fire between Aedon and Erika.
The only sound besides the crackle of the fire and the rasp of Erika’s blade on her whetstone was the sizzle of the roasting meat dripping fat into the flames. The nomad woman’s gift to them that day was a wild piglet, caught before Aedon and Brand had returned from their mission. It had been a long trek since for all of them, up into the foothills and as far away from the waking forest as they could travel.
They had fled long into the dark without stopping. Erika guarded their rear, Aedon magically swept away any trace of their passing, and Brand carried their prize, ready to take to the skies at a moment’s notice to save it, should it come to that.
Yet, somehow, they had evaded capture. Aedon held their prize before him, the top and bottom of the vial between his finger and thumb, admiring the way the faceted crystal caught the orange light of the fire and shattered it across the cave in hues of honey and amber.
“Is that it?” Erika asked. She frowned and leaned forward, as if it might seem more impressive if she got closer.
“What do you mean, ‘is that it’?” Aedon spluttered, glaring at her indignantly. “It cost a lot – nearly my head, thank you very much – to get this much!” His numb buttocks protesting, he shifted on the hard ground. Even though the furs beneath them were thick and warm, the cold of the earth seemed to seep through.
The stoppered vial was a beautiful specimen, the likes of which few in Pelenor would see. Perfectly clear, tear-shaped crystal, stoppered with crystal to match. It was small, smaller than Aedon had hoped, and certainly not enough to save everyone he had hoped.
However, in the heat of the moment, and having come so far, there was little reason to not take it. What was inside was even less reason. The clear liquid glimmered with every hue of the rainbow...and a light of its own, if Aedon squinted at it...yet there seemed not enough to take even a sip.
“We were hoping for more, I think,” Ragnar said. His quiet, measured voice made Aedon wince much more than Erika’s sharpness. Somehow, his disappointment was worse.
Aedon threw a troubled glance at the dwarf, who stared at the vial as he turned the meat on the spit, basting it in its own juices. “I would have taken more had it been available.” He sighed. “This was it. The sum total of all that distillation.”
They all stared at it, and he knew they wondered the same. Did it hold salvation, and would it be enough? The liquid seemed so insubstantial. Aedon swallowed and pushed thoughts of failure aside. That was not an option. They all knew it.
“We can still save plenty,” he said quietly.
“Perhaps not enough, though. What else can be done?” Ragnar turned back to his cooking, because he knew the answer. Nothing. Erika did not reply at all.
When Aedon stilled, the others turned to him.
“Are you all right?” Brand raised an eyebrow. It was unusual for Aedon to be quiet or motionless. Both meant he was entirely out of sorts.
“We need to make more. Make this spread further,” Aedon said.
“I beg your pardon?” Ragnar leaned forward.
Aedon shook the tiny vial at them. Erika hissed and dove to catch it, lest he drop it into the fire, but he snatched it back and clutched it to his chest. “We can make more!” he crowed.
“I don’t follow,” said Erika. “I thought the whole point of taking this from the wood elves was because we couldn’t make any?”
“How? How is it done?” Brand asked.
Supper was forgotten as their attentio
n fixed upon Aedon. “There are certain substances which can be used to make potions more potent, so you can use smaller doses or even dilute them. They’re rare, of course, and pricey, but they exist. There’s no reason it wouldn’t work.”
“Are you certain?” Brand pressed him.
The light faded from Ragnar’s eyes. “If you’re wrong and the potion is spoiled, they’ll all die.”
Aedon faltered, but only for a moment. “Course I’m sure. That is what we need to do.” I think.
“What can be used, and where do we find it?” Erika’s dagger and whetstone lay in her lap, forgotten.
“Wait,” Ragnar said before he could reply. “Dragonhearts...” he said slowly. “Yes?” He looked to Aedon.
“Precisely. That’s one way.” Aedon grinned widely.
“Huh?” said Erika. Brand rustled his wings and cocked his head, but stayed silent.
Aedon gestured to Ragnar. “You know the lore then?”
Ragnar inclined his head. His voice took on a grave cadence as he recited an obscure passage. “The Heart of Dragons is a substance most potent. A crystalline structure, hued and jagged as the dragon it comes from, contains such magics as are yet misunderstood. The Heart of Dragons may affect potions or incantations in many different ways, most notably lending the strength of the dragon to the magics performed.”
“Thank you, oh wise one,” Aedon said, a hint of fond mockery in his tone. “Ragnar is quite right. Dragonhearts are incredibly potent. Part blood and flesh, but part magic and spell, too. The very essence of a dragon is captured. They’re beautiful. They shine with iridescence and their own inner fire. Almost as if the dragon isn’t truly gone.” Aedon stared past the flames to another time and place.
“Do you mean their literal heart? I imagine they are not very common,” interjected Brand, narrowing his eyes. “If you set aside the fact that every dragon we see wants to kill us and is entirely invincible, as far as we’re concerned, I doubt they’re willing to simply...give them up, no?”
Aedon winced. “Well, yes, that is a problem. I do mean the literal heart. You won’t be able to obtain one from a living dragon, of course.” He swallowed. “But they can be...harvested from a dead one.” He paused a moment.
Brand’s face softened and he nodded to the elf. Aedon smiled half-heartedly in return. “They’re very rare. I’m sad to say the King of Pelenor stockpiles dragons, alive and dead.”
Erika scoffed. “What man thinks he can own a dragon?”
“The king believes he can own every dragon, as you well know.” Aedon pursed his lips. “So he also considers Dragonhearts to belong to him. He never allows them to have final rest, as befits them.”
Aedon shook his head, and his lip curled. “I digress. The hearts can be kept whole, or broken apart and powdered to make into elixirs. Any form would help. Perhaps if we could procure some, we might be able to make this potion—” He raised the vial for all to see, “—more potent, so it will save more lives than otherwise possible.”
“Where can we find some?” Brand asked. “Must we go to Tournai?”
Aedon tipped his head to one side and chewed on his lip. “The king most definitely has what we seek. There will be stockpiles in Tournai, as well as the knowledge of how to use them to aid us. However, we are already so far away...”
No one filled the void. They all knew there was not enough time to divert.
“There’s a fair chance every lord from here to Valtivar has some stockpiled,” Aedon eventually continued. “There’s a black market for any prohibited items. Dragonheart is no different.”
“So we could buy some?” Ragnar asked. He still turned the spit, but it was force of habit. He paid no attention to the roasting meat.
Brand barely suppressed a snort of laughter. “With what coin?”
Ragnar’s shoulders sank a little, but there was still a plea in his gaze as he searched Aedon’s.
Aedon smiled gently. “I’m sorry, my friend. We shall have to take it. There’s no other way.”
Ragnar looked away. A jerk of his head was the only acknowledgment Aedon received.
“I’m sorry. I wish it could be otherwise, but you know we never take for the sake of gluttony, avarice, or selfishness. We take what we must to help those in dire need. Of all our quests, surely this is worth it. Some dust, really. That’s all we’re stealing, and we can save lives.”
“Don’t,” said Ragnar. “I know why we do what we do, but it does not make it any easier for my conscience to bear, no matter how great the need.”
Aedon’s lips thinned. “I feel the same. What is right is not always easy.”
“Theft is wrong.”
Brand clapped Ragnar on the shoulder. “It is, yet we will steal again as we have stolen before because it is even worse to let innocents die, isn’t it.” There was no question in his voice. Ragnar met the Aerian’s piercing golden eyes. To his credit, he did not flinch, though it felt like looking into the hunting glare of an eagle.
“Yes,” he said dully, looking away.
“None of us enjoys this life, of living in the shadows and having to steal to do what we feel is right.” Brand’s voice was gentle. “Yet I would rather do this, live like this, be with you all, than have every privilege that was afforded to me before.” His gaze flicked to Erika, who nodded, face grim. He looked at Aedon. “There’s no other way?”
“I don’t know of one. I only know of the Dragonhearts because, well... You know.”
“And you would know how to use the Dragonheart to dilute the potion?” Brand pressed.
Aedon squirmed. “That’s where I’m a little unsure, but one step at a time.” He turned to Ragnar. “I won’t say we don’t have a choice, Ragnar, because you never agree,” said Aedon with a forced grin. “You know he’s right anyway.” He jerked a thumb at Brand.
Ragnar pursed his lips. “I know. I just wonder when we’ll ever not have to make such choices.”
“Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps never.” Aedon shrugged. “I’ll make them gladly every time.”
Seven
Dimitri leaned against the golden, stone column, soaking in the atmosphere, admiring the enchanted domed ceiling of stars and moonlight. It was the most relaxed he had felt in an age. Even the ever-present tightness in his shoulders had faded.
He had not been in this part of the palace for over a year, since the last summer ball of the previous season. It was one of the few parts of the palace he liked. Warm and inviting, a world away from the cold, grey stone, foreboding gloom, and politics in the rest of the place.
He sipped at his nectar-like drink in the delicate glass flute, raising it in toast to those who greeted him with a dip of their head or a smile. On this one night, all came together. Political agendas, familial ties, personal vendettas... All were forgotten for a night of genuine merriment.
He had no doubt that in the morning, along with sore heads, they would have hate for him once more, but tonight, it was nice to feel like one of them for a change. To not have to keep the cold and distant mask. Still, his smile was clipped as he toasted them, and no one stopped to speak with him.
He was here as his father’s guest, not in his own right. That irked him – and delighted his father, who was convinced he granted Dimitri a great and gracious boon.
Pompous git.
Dimitri watched his father stalk past with his wife on his arm. He looked through the crowd, but his half-brothers were lost in the throng. His step-mother glowed with a beauty Damir did not deserve, but she was as cold as the rest of them. Calculating. She had not wed him for love, but money and position.
Dimitri knew a lot more than she thought. He had been there – or at least his ears had – as her family had arranged the union. One of many strings the family had to its bow, always trying to improve its standing and wheedle its way into royal favour.
Dimitri had not been overly concerned. Every House was like that. Self-serving, out for their own gain. All friends on the surface, but conniv
ing and conspiring to take the others down. Now, with warm faelights bathing them all in golden light, they laughed and danced as if they were naught but good friends.
On the edge of the whirlpool of swirling bodies, those mingling and those dancing, it was the perfect place to observe who spoke to whom, who slipped away with whom, and even who was present or absent. Dimitri was never off duty. The king would grill him for the details on the morrow, as he always did.
He shoved away from the column with casual grace, meandering through the laughter and gleaming smiles for another drink. He would have just one more. It would not do to have a buzzing head and lose his mind. Elven wine was extremely strong.
The scent of Rosella’s perfume reached his nose before she crossed his path. Suddenly she was upon him, giggling, dragging him into the whirl of dancers. He let himself be pulled, sweeping her into his arms and falling into step with those beside them.
A wispy gown of palest blue, like the glowing moon, adorned her, swirling around her sculpted figure as her feet danced upon air. Next to his black tunic adorned with silver threads of stars and moons, she was the light to his darkness, glowing in comparison and effortlessly eclipsing all those around them.
She was indeed the most beautiful of all there. At least outwardly. Her dress floated with her. She was wind and water, her feet seeming to never touch the floor. He followed their neighbours’ steps with ease, her long-fingered hand in one of his, her slim waist cradled in his other palm.
For all the limitations of his younger days, he had been well-schooled in the courtly arts and did not shame her. Even so, he felt the king’s disapproval radiating from the dais. He fixed his mask into bland cheer, not letting the king drag his attention as he twirled the princess past her father, pretending that all his attention was on her.
