Chronicles of Pelenor Trilogy Collection

by Meg Cowley

What the... Since when has Brand ordered Aedon thusly? Not in her experience. Never had she seen that dynamic between the two of them. She looked at Brand, confused and a little scared by the huge warrior looming above her. What had brought on the sudden anger?

  Brand’s gaze softened as he saw her wide eyes. “Are you all right, Harper?”

  She nodded mutely, still speechless at what had happened.

  Brand moved closer, and Harper angled herself defensively, lowering her weight so she could run if needed. She did not fear Brand as the hunter and warrior she knew he could be, but Harper knew something was afoot, and it set alight her instinctive desire to flee.

  Brand stopped and held up his dark palms. “I don’t mean you any harm. I’m sorry to intrude, but it’s for your own good.” He looked away and rubbed his hand across the back of his neck.

  Harper frowned. Is he...embarrassed?

  “You ought not to have such dealings with Aedon,” he said awkwardly.

  Harper felt both intrigued and indignant. “It’s not your business,” she uttered rebelliously, though embarrassment sent a blush to her cheeks.

  “Yes, it is. You both travel with us. That makes it our business. But more than that, you are our companions. We care for you. It’s best for both of you if you do not dally.”

  “Why?”

  Brand paused and chewed on his lip. He still would not meet her gaze. “When Aedon lost Valyria, something within him broke. It has never healed, and he has never been able to truly love anyone or anything. Of course, he has dallied with maids from here to the blue seas–” it stung Harper to hear that, “–but never has he left anything but broken hearts in his wake. I will not allow that for you, and I will not see him hurt himself any more.”

  Harper did not know what to think of that. It was not what she had expected.

  “Will you heed my advice?”

  She looked at him as he met her gaze, wondering what she could say. “I’m not a child,” she eventually said. “I appreciate your care, but I make my own choices, whatever they be.”

  She could not forget the way Aedon’s warm, glowing skin surrounded his bright green eyes, or the way his warm breath felt against her lips, or the way the promise of his kiss had made her stomach flutter. She would not lie to Brand, or herself, and promise to walk away.

  Brand’s shoulders slumped with a mixture of disappointment and resignation, but he nodded. “Come, Harper. Back to camp. Our meal is ready.”

  It doesn’t have to be anything serious, she thought. I’ve never needed a man before, and nothing has changed. However, I’ll be damned if I deny myself a little fun.

  Aedon sat at the fire, glowering as much as the logs he stoked. Ragnar and Erika sat in tactful silence.

  “Oh good. We’re ready for you,” Ragnar said with a rush.

  “Sorry for the delay,” Brand mumbled. He sat next to Erika, who offered him a choice morsel skewered on a sharp stick from the fire. He took it gently, his fingers brushing hers, and murmured his thanks.

  Erika stiffly picked up her own stick and ate, not looking at anyone. Refusing to, Harper realised. She glanced between Brand and Erika. How had she never noticed it before?

  The way they gave to each other in silent appreciation. The strong bond they had when sparring. The close camaraderie – closer than they had with any of the others – a silent affinity. Harper wondered if there were anything more to it. The corner of her mouth quirked up in a small smile.

  When they rose simultaneously after finishing their food to go and train down near the beck, Harper was almost certain of it. She could have laughed. Brand had no call to question her or Aedon’s actions if he performed the same dance with Erika.

  “Yes. The irony isn’t lost on me, either,” said Aedon darkly as he caught her watching them leave.

  Ragnar looked between the two of them in confusion.

  “Brand and Erika... The not-so-secret romance the pair have,” Aedon clarified for him.

  “Ah, yes. And the irony?”

  “Oh, nothing,” Aedon said breezily - as he did, Harper slowly realised, when purposefully avoiding answering. “Harper has finally comprehended.”

  Ragnar pursed his lips. “They’re a funny pair. Never known anyone like them.”

  “Funny isn’t the word.”

  “What do you mean?” Harper asked.

  “Oh, just the two of them. You’ve seen how they are, together and apart,” Aedon said, gesturing a hand after them. “Not exactly normal. Both running from their pasts and what haunts them, always dancing around each other. It makes me want to bash their heads together and tell them to get on with it and be happy already.”

  Ragnar snorted with laughter.

  “Brand told me a little about himself...and Nyla.”

  Ragnar’s mirth faded. “Yes,” he said somberly. “To this day, he blames himself, and she haunts him. I don’t know that he’ll ever let go of her, put her to rest as he ought to, enough to move on.”

  “But... It wasn’t his fault that she died, was it?”

  “Honestly, we cannot be sure. I think only he knows the truth of what happened. But he has always taken it upon himself.”

  “And Erika?” Harper dared to ask. She still knew almost nothing of the reclusive nomad woman.

  “If she has not told you, it is not ours to tell,” said Ragnar, glancing at Aedon, who nodded. “Suffice it to say, she has endured worse than us all.”

  He left it at that. Harper hung onto the cryptic clue, wondering how Erika’s past could be worse than Ragnar’s exile from his people, the death of Aedon’s soul mate, and the murder of Brand’s heart.

  Still so many questions. Every time I make headway, feel like I’m starting to understand, I’m tossed into the gale like a leaf again.

  Harper could not help but smile at the thought of leaves dancing in the wind, the feeling of being within Aedon’s arms. She wondered if either of them would heed Brand’s tense warning. Harper glanced at Aedon, but his gaze was on the fire once more, brooding.

  Eight

  It was the middle of the night. Afnirheim, the dwarven stronghold to the east of Valtivar’s capital, Keldheim, slumbered, unaware of the nightmare that was about to unleash itself upon the dwarven city.

  The last sheaf of rock crumbled away, opening the fissure to what lay beyond. It was only slightly less pitch black than where they stood. Saradon detested the cramped tunnel, but he bore being hunched over without complaint. It was time to show his goodwill to the goblins, fulfilling his end of the bargain, so they would serve him when the time came.

  Around him, they shrieked and chattered with excitement as the rush of cool, fresh air whooshed past them. Saradon breathed a sigh of relief. Even his wards had not been able to shut out the most permeating of the goblins’ stench.

  Behind him, the horde awaited the pascha’s signal. They filled the honeycomb of roughly hewn and hacked passages, which tunnelled through the rock, like a rot creeping from below to snare the roots, for that was what they were. A plague that would consume Afnirheim from below.

  It had taken every tooth and claw at the pascha’s command, along with Saradon’s own magic, to bind them. Goblins did not work in unity, but Saradon made them; otherwise, surprise and success would not be theirs, and both were crucial to his machinations.

  At the pascha’s screeching command, the goblins surged forward into the lower levels of Afnirheim. It was so far into the kingdom, the dwarves had no idea they were there. Saradon allowed his face to split into a wide grin as the feral beasts surged past him.

  Like a tide, they swept through the caverns where the dwarven goblin slaves, the tikrit, were kept. All were freed from their bonds and rescued from the grill-covered pits to join the horde. And join it they did, gleefully. They could now exact revenge on their dwarven masters.

  They took the settlement by surprise. Against the undiminished battle rage of the goblins, the slumbering dwarves stood no chance. It was not long before the air wa
s tainted with the iron tang of blood, the cool quiet of Afnirheim riven by an ear-splitting, crescendoing cacophony of goblin shrieking and dwarven screaming.

  Saradon had neither love nor hate for the dwarves. They were simply a necessary casualty – and their deaths were on the goblins’ hands, not his own. War was coming. They would be the first of many to die. After all, the wheel had to be broken before it could be rebuilt.

  Saradon did not need to stay to see what transpired next. By the bloody dawn, Afnirheim would belong to the pascha, and the pascha would belong to him.

  Nine

  Queen Idaelia never missed the Sauain festivities. As autumn turned to winter, the queen, who was winter incarnate, brought cold and slumber to the land. Without fail, she sat atop the dais in the king’s own place as a living embodiment of the mother of all nature.

  Tonight, the throne was empty.

  The king did not deign to sit upon it, though it was his own, for he would not break tradition, risk cursing the turning of the seasons. Instead, it was Rosella who arrived, late and flustered, to sit in her stepmother’s place. She was radiantly beautiful, but a sham, and all who dined within the hall knew it.

  There were other notable absences that no one could miss. Thaeus, pleading illness, had already fled, as had some others. It created a flurry of rumours to circle around the room in whispers the king, dining with his sons and daughter at the top table, could not hear.

  Illness were some of the whispers. Treason were others.

  “Did you know Lord Khyrion hasn’t been seen for two weeks?”

  “Dead and buried already, I hear.”

  Dimitri let them gossip. He knew full well that Khyrion, one of his own now, had fled, also under the pretense of illness, to avoid the king’s wrath, spooked that the king would somehow discover the very crimes Dimitri had blackmailed him with.

  Toroth brooded at the top table, where a cloud of darkness held court. The conversation quieted around him, for his foul mood dared anyone to speak just one word he did not like. Dimitri sat in silence, too, listening and observing – as Toroth had intended, but for his own ends.

  It was clear Saradon’s Curse was at work. Some of the absences were the result of cowardice, nothing more. Other ailments were inexplicable, including the queen’s. She had never been struck down by any malady. Dimitri knew what would happen next, if Saradon, and the tales of his first rising, were to be believed.

  Idaelia would wither away, her magic dwindling until, at last mortal, she would die. Elfkind could not survive without magic in their blood, so intimately were the two bound. It had been easy, at first, to imagine death changing the court. But faced with those he knew dying, whether he liked them or not, Dimitri did not entirely know how to feel.

  Dimitri caught the subtle beckon, the curl of Toroth’s finger, to attend him. He hurried to the king’s side, bending toward him.

  “Yes, sire?”

  “I like it not. All these missing faces? It is no coincidence. Who plots what, Dimitrius?”

  “No one before you, sire.” Dimitri’s words held truth, in a way, for he stood beside the king, not before him. He suppressed a grin at his duplicity. “They are fearful of the rumours of a sickness sweeping the city. They can talk of little else.”

  Toroth clenched his jaw. “I would know more. This is unlike ought I have seen before. Never has my court been so empty when all are ordered to remain by my side. You must ascertain the truth of the matter, Dimitrius.”

  “Of course, sire.” Dimitri bowed.

  Toroth has no idea I am orchestrating anything. That thought gave him glee. He will not know what strikes him.

  Ten

  The hood shadowed Dimitri’s face as he hunched in the corner of the tavern. It had been a long while since he had ventured out under such guises. No one approached him. He had ensured neither his humped back nor the stench of an unwashed body, which he had conjured to keep them at bay, could be missed.

  He was quite looking forward to finding out the lay of the land, listening to the reports Rook and his other associates usually fetched. Rook, displaying a prominent limp and a wounded, gammy leg, artfully made with a cut of meat and a dash of magic, edged over to join him. They sat in near silence, breathing in the stale, smoky, sweaty air with distaste, listening. There was much talk of discord, but little of war, and none of rebellion. The common peoples were not naïve. They knew the king’s men had ears everywhere.

  That was as telling as anything. Dimitri stirred. If they’re not discussing war and rebellion here, where are they discussing it? He had caught a few grumbles about the king’s rising tithes from the group of mortals propping up the aged bar, but those had been swiftly quashed.

  They moved through the city to even more unfavourable locations and ever worsening beer, until their tankards were just for show, their contents too bitter to stomach. The mood was noticeably more sour there. Right by the walls of Tournai, this inn held the lowest echelons of Pelenori society, and they were none too pleased with their load.

  “If they raise those damnable tithes one more bloody time...,” one of the men swore.

  “Saradon-cursed greedy pig swill,” another growled.

  Dimitri sidled closer to the group.

  “Steady on, Fen,” one of the man’s companions said, having a strong southern accent from the farmlands. Unbeknownst to them, he was Dimitri’s man, Raven. “Ain’t no good mouthin’ off ‘gainst the king like that. His rats are everywhere! Yer want to watch yer tongue.”

  “Says who?” Fen challenged, drawing himself up tall.

  “Ah, nobody, lad. That’s who. I ain’t no better off than th’ lot o’ ye, but if ever I knew a thing, Saradon would ha’ brought us more fortune, goin’ by th’ old tales.”

  A spike of appreciation rose in Dimitri. I could not have worded it better myself.

  Fen looked around nervously. “Don’t be saying stuff like that in this city, man. The king will have you for that.”

  “Not afore he ‘as you! I tell thee, Saradon would ha’ brought us better luck.” Raven muttered darkly to himself, almost unheard by the rest of them. They drew closer to listen. “Th’ ol’ tales say Saradon wanted peace for this land, but not the king’s version.”

  Dimitri nodded to Rook – a signal. The man slid to the opposite side of the tavern, behind Raven.

  “Hear, hear!” cried Rook in a city accent, then moved to one side before anyone could note him.

  “I’ve heard it. Tis true,” he said again, now with a sharp, stern voice.

  “That’s codswallop,” said Fen dismissively, batting at Raven with a giant hand. Raven stepped back to avoid the clumsy Fen, jostling someone, who spilled his pint over the sticky, stone floor.

  Raven was repaid with a punch to the jaw, much to Dimitri’s regret. Before he and Rook could intervene, the entire tavern descended into a riot, with fists and furniture flying. None shouted in defence of the king, to Dimitri’s pleasure, but all were keen to affirm their true knowledge of the legend of Saradon – and claim recompense for the number of spilled pints soaking them all.

  Dimitri, Raven, and Rook dodged through the mess outside and into an alley, where Dimitri stopped, bent over in laughter.

  “Oh my. I forgot how much fun that sort of thing was.”

  “M’lord?”

  “Oh, lighten up, Rook. It’s not all treachery and treason. Sometimes, a good, old-fashioned fight is enough of a solution.” Dimitri grinned at his nonplussed associate. “Come on. We have other places to spread this malarkey before our night’s work is done.”

  “I don’t follow, m’lord.” Raven’s dark brows creased with confusion.

  “And you don’t need to. The king thanks you for your service,” reassured Dimitri. He dismissed Raven, who still grimaced and rubbed his jaw. As the man walked away, Dimitri beckoned to Rook, who followed him back into the higher levels of the city, to the tavern where he knew the guildsmen were to meet to discuss their latest business at home an
d farther afield.

  When they entered The Dragon’s Horn, the front of house was packed from wall to wall with a mass of bodies. Dimitri held back a gag as he pushed through their sweaty, unwashed ranks to the back, where he lurked by the open arch that led to the back room.

  Inside it crowded more men, but the ale was thin between them, and they spoke of business and affairs beyond the ken of the drunkards on the other side of the wall. Dimitri and Rook lurked outside their ranks, the solid line of backs facing them, listening with care to what passed within.

  Dissent was clear within the merchant and craft guilds. It seemed none could escape the effect of the goblins closing Valtivar’s trade routes. Dimitri shared a meaningful look with Rook upon hearing that.

  Their unruliness grew with the flowing beer until their presiding head, the blacksmith master Dimitri could not name, stood and raised his hands to quiet them.

  “I hear your concerns, my fellow guildsmen. Know that I respect all your views, and all said herein is held in confidence between us, as brothers in trade. Valtivar’s troubles are our own, it is true. Yet we cannot continue to pay the king’s tithes as our businesses wither.”

  His gaze passed across them all as they listened, waiting for what he would offer them in hope. Dimitri and Rook shuffled closer, peering over the shoulders before them.

  “I will speak with the head of the Kingsguard,” the blacksmith offered. “I’ll tell him of our troubles, and ask that he escalate it to the king’s ears.”

  He was drowned out momentarily by a round of disgusted murmurs.

  “I know. I know, brothers. We have no love for the red cloaks, but might I remind you, they are a hearty source of business for us all.”

  His warning glare raked over them, then flicked to the back of the group, catching sight of Dimitri and Rook lurking. His eyes narrowed, before he glanced away and continued.

  “I will also ask him the best way that we might approach the king most humbly to beg for his assistance with this matter, since it affects us all. I can only imagine that if the trade routes remain closed, the kingdom will struggle over winter at a time we need provisions more than ever.”