by Meg Cowley
It was well-worded. Carefully worded. Dimitri wondered if the smith had seen him, recognised him. If he had, well-worded indeed.
Discontent still rumbled through the sullen ranks, mutterings of the king’s greed and laziness, as well as their own complicit meekness in not acting more strongly. Yet a vote was taken and cast, and the smith’s words chosen as their way forward.
Dimitri slipped away before the guilds dispersed, buzzing with euphoria at the prospects. The trade routes are closed. Pelenor would be crippled by the winter solstice if they were not to reopen, if the king did not act. It was another weapon to arm himself with.
By the end of the night, six taverns had erupted in riots over the king’s tithes, Saradon’s name ringing in curses upon Toroth and his greed. Moreover, Dimitri now knew the guilds might be receptive to his work, if it would allow them to continue trading in prosperity.
It had been a productive night, Dimitri reflected as he sank gratefully into his sumptuous bed as the sun rose, with orders to Emyria for no one to disturb him.
DIMITRI RECEIVED LITTLE respite, however, for his brothers and father would not be denied.
“I don’t care that he’s been up half the night, probably skulking around with some whore. How dare you talk back to me, servant scum!”
Dimitri roused from sleep at once at the sound of his brother striking Emyria, who cried out in pain. He leapt from the bed and charged down the hall.
“Unhand her at once!” he thundered.
His brother released Emyria, who rose to her feet, gave Dimitri a reassuring nod that she was all right, and fled to her quarters.
“You are not welcome here,” he said flatly. “I will not have you in my home, manhandling my servants. Get out, Dahir.”
Dahir smirked at him. “Father orders you attend him at once.”
“Father can shove his orders up his arse.” Dimitri turned away. “Get out, or I will see you cast out on your backside.”
“You cannot defy him, Dimitrius. He is the head of our House.” Dahir did not move.
“A House that my hard work gained him, let’s not forget.” Dimitri’s lip curled. “I’ll think about it. I need to sleep. Unlike you, I have a job to do. Get. Out.” Flames flickered to life in his palms.
Dahir scowled at him, but stuck his hands into his pockets and strode away, like he had owned the situation. They both knew he did not have the strength to match Dimitri.
Scum, cursed Dimitri as the door slammed shut behind Dahir so hard that the room seemed to shake.
He would attend his father, but he would make Damir wait.
First, sleep.
HIS BROTHERS AND FATHER awaited in silence and irritated boredom in the drawing room of Damir’s quarters in a lavish four-storey townhouse in the upper circles of Tournai where the nobles had their city homes. His wife, Dimitri’s stepmother, curtseyed and left at his arrival, regarding him with a flat, cold stare that he replied to in kind.
Dimitri glanced at his brothers. Dahir, the middle brother, who scowled at him. Hadir, the eldest, who utterly ignored him. And Namir, the youngest, who glowered openly at him. Dimitri fixed them all with casual boredom, as usual. The mask he always wore for them. They could not hurt him anymore. The boot was now upon the other foot, and all of them knew it. He leaned against the grand, stone hearth, the fire warming him through, waiting for one of them to speak.
“Thank you for coming, Dimitrius,” his father began.
Dimitri raised an eyebrow. Thank you? What does he want? Damir never had manners with Dimitri unless he had need of him.
He looked at them closer. Fear...
He did not know what they feared, but he could smell it upon them, see it in the nervous dart of their gazes, the flicker of anxious movement in their hands. He smiled lazily.
“We need news. Trouble is brewing. We’ve all felt it for some time – both here and at home.” He meant the lands surrounding Eyre, the lands of their House, far in the south of Pelenor. “The goblin raids on the east of Pelenor, near our lands, have ceased, but I do not trust the quiet. I fear more is at work than we can see. The scum were getting bolder, yet to suddenly vanish? It makes no sense.”
Dimitri said nothing, waiting for his father to continue.
Damir spread his arms wide. “And here! The queen is ill, and others besides. More use this mystery ailment as an excuse to flee, but why? For what? Others have disappeared without a single word. The court is afire with rumours, but no one knows the truth of the matter. It unnerves me to hear such things.”
Damir worried at the signet ring upon his finger. “If anyone knows, we reckon it to be you, Dimitrius. And if anyone will keep our House safe, we know it can be trusted to you.”
Our House? Trust? Dimitri nearly scoffed, but curled his lip instead as he eyed them, filled with disdain. Are they so fearful they think pandering to me will help them? Very well. He would beat them at their own game.
He would not tell them what he knew, however, or that he was behind it all. They would love a chance to grab more power for themselves, but he was under no illusions. They are not worthy of my trust. He would enjoy this.
“Of course,” he replied smoothly. “My sources say the goblins are massing. It is of concern that they will strike south.” At Damir’s lands. Damir paled at the thought. “It is a possibility. Some of my scouts have not returned... I do not think they will now.”
Dimitri let the implications sink in before he shrugged and pushed off from the hearth to stroll to the tall windows that overlooked the city.
“I understand your fears. By comparison, our House is as new as drying ink.”
“And we are grateful for your help in acquiring our fortunes,” his father said cautiously.
Dimitri stalled, his eyebrows raising as high as they could go. Had he heard that correctly? Another thank you?
It had been his doing, though inadvertently. In exposing the old lord of Eyre and his House’s treason, then damning them all to death by dragonfire at the king’s orders, a power void had left only one choice. Damir, the steward of Eyre. He had gladly and greedily taken the reins, proved his loyalty to the king in weeding out any remaining dissent, and promptly been granted all land and titles associated with the House whose name they had acquired.
He pursed his lips. “Yes, your fortunes. I take no part in them.” Not as an illegitimate child. Not for the first time, he wished his father would reveal which mistress had birthed him, but Damir had never strayed from being tight-lipped on the matter.
“That might well be the case, but we are indebted to you all the same. Aren’t we?” Damir prompted Dimitri’s brothers, who grumbled their assent. Dimitri had never before managed to make them all beg for his assistance. They soon would, he reckoned.
Dimitri sighed and turned back to his father, who waited expectantly.
“Fine. If I hear any whisper of the goblin’s movements, I will inform you.” Maybe. Damir’s shoulders sank with relief. “As for the rest of it... Keep your noses out of trouble and none will find you.”
“But what of the mystery of the illness? And the disappearances? The withdrawals from court?”
“Keep yourself distanced from it all,” Dimitri said coolly, fixing his father in a stare. “Do your duties.” His gaze flicked between his brothers. They looked away. He knew as well as they did that they had shirked their duties for quite enough time now. The king would notice, eventually, and punish them for it.
It was an irony not lost on Dimitri that as the king’s informer, it was his duty to pass on such knowledge. He would spare his brothers – for now. They visibly squirmed as they realised he held their fates in his hands.
Not so nice to be the one tormented now, is it? Dimitri thought, viciously pleased with their predicament.
“Take no part in any rumour or gossip. There is more here than you know,” he hinted, piquing their interest, but he would not feed them more than that. “It is critical you are above reproach in all eyes. I
f you do that, I will ensure we make it through the storm that is to come.”
His father paled at his words. “What storm?” he asked, aghast.
Dimitri shook his head. His expression was serious, but inside, he coiled with suppressed glee at their discomfort and upset. “I will say no more. Heed my words.”
Dimitri left them all sweating upon their fate.
Eleven
The days ate up the long distance, and the Dragontooth Mountains, which had been a low, hazy smudge in the distance, soon soared so far into the heights that their summits were lost. Harper craned her neck, trying to see them as they rode. Today, she rode with Aedon once more, as Ragnar and Erika each took their own horses and Brand glided above them.
Still, the lurching movement of the horses unsettled her, and she was glad she did not have to figure out how to ride one herself. Her arms encircled Aedon’s waist firmly as she rode behind him, clinging on for dear life and looking forward, as ever, to dismounting that night, for the sake of both her sore legs and bottom.
They made for quicker progress than on foot, however, so she was ultimately glad for them. A sore bottom and chafed, aching thighs were a worthy payment, or punishment, against miles of walking, Harper reasoned. Even with the lure of her magic to experiment with, it was hard to distract herself from the misery of the saddle.
As the mountains neared, Ragnar, who led them, altered his course toward a giant rift in the peaks and a great valley hemmed in by sheer cliffs. The gorge penetrated deep into the range until it was lost in the twisting, turning valleys between the peaks. Harper wondered how long it would take them to get there, because the mountains were so large, they were inexorably slow at reaching them.
A rising wisp of smoke up ahead caught her attention.
“What’s that smoke?” she called to Aedon as the wind rushed past her face, beating her hair against them both.
“A full stomach!” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “It’s the Last Inn. The final hearth before we cross into the dwarven realm of Valtivar.”
Harper’s heart lifted at the prospect of food – a hearty, hot meal, with any luck – and their impending crossing into Valtivar. She hoped reaching the dwarven realm meant soon reaching shelter for a longer period. Already, she missed her shack more than she thought would be possible. Her pallet seemed like a kingly bed compared to the cold, packed earth and open elements. Even though Aedon had now taught her how to spell against the cold and shroud herself with a blanket of warm air, she could not conjure a soft place to lay, no matter how much she wished it.
It grew dark by the time they reached the inn, which sheltered against a bluff. Harper realised that, to her surprise, the inn was a single-storey dwelling of timber that seemed embedded within the very hill itself. The chimney rose through the grass above, and the warm glow of firelight danced through the small, diamond-paned windows.
They picketed the three horses in the lean-to with the other patrons’ mounts, where fresh hay was stacked against the most sheltered wall. The horses seemed to be as glad as they to be out of the elements, for they strained at their tethers at once to graze on the stacks of dry hay.
Heat blasted Harper as she stepped across the threshold of the inn and onto a rush-lined, stone-flagged floor. The heat tingled through her and she removed her cloak quickly as her cheeks flushed. Harper flexed her fingers to ease the stiffness and chill within them.
For a lone inn situated in the middle of nowhere, it was busier than she had anticipated. The noise was unexpected after the silence of the outdoors, apart from the thundering drone of horses’ hooves as a constant companion. Now, conversations assailed her from all sides, in all manner of strange tongues. Dwarves, men, and elves filled the inn, but it was a far cry from Tam’s inn back in Caledan.
Here, she saw merchants, warriors, and rangers, not drunks and layabouts. Here, the air did not smell of stale sweat, pipe smoke, and worse, but musky woodsmoke, pine, and rich food. Here, the patrons seemed uninterested in the serving girls – at least before their sustenance – being more than content to flick them a coin for their service before tucking into steaming plates.
Despite her appreciation of this place, smelling the familiar scent of ale upon the air gave her a pang of almost homesickness when she thought of Betta. You can’t return, she reminded herself. Betta will be fine. She hoped the weathered old crone managed to survive the winter without her help.
The low ceiling was supported by elaborately carved wooden pillars depicting nature scenes. Some were carved from giant, living root systems that descended from the trees growing above the tavern, continuing down into the earth below. Harper brushed her fingers across the smooth wood as they passed, winding through the stools and tables to the bar at the head of the room.
Flames crackled from the twin fires at either side of the surprisingly large space. One to warm the patrons, the other to cook bubbling pots of stew and a boar upon a spit. Harper’s mouth started watering as the smell of meat and woodsmoke twined its way into her nose alluringly.
“Can we have some of that?” she whispered to Ragnar, tugging on his sleeve.
“I should think so,” he answered, sounding offended at the prospect of not doing so.
“What can I get for yeh?” the barkeep asked, flicking a practised gaze over them and spotting every weapon upon their person.
“Ales all ‘round, and your meat and stews, please,” Aedon said, counting coins from a purse hidden within his cloak. Harper eyed the money. She had still not figured out what Pelenor currency entailed.
The barkeep nodded and swept the coins from the countertop in one swipe. “Wait for yer drinks. Maid’ll bring yer food.” He poured the fizzing, honey liquid from a cask into wooden tankards, sliding the full vessels across a bar worn and smooth with age.
Once each had their drinks, they made their way to a corner near the fire where they begged enough spare seats from neighbouring tables to form their own. Brand stooped, his wings crumpling against the ceiling, and he huffed a sigh of relief as he perched upon the stool, which was comically tiny under his bulk, able to ruffle his feathers once more.
“Cheers. To another mission well done,” Aedon said, raising his tankard.
The group followed suit – Harper scrambling to copy them – before supping deeply from the ale within. Harper coughed on the first mouthful. It was far sweeter than Tam’s sour brews. She gulped another mouthful eagerly.
“Steady on, Harper, or you’ll be drunk before we eat,” Aedon said, laughing.
She winked at him daringly, emboldened, but he only laughed harder.
Their ales were almost all gone by the time their dinner arrived – chunks of meat carved from the boar, a bowl of steaming stew each, and a hunk of bread. The companions fell into silence, each tearing through their food as quickly as they could chew.
Harper savoured the rich, honeyed bread – only a day old and hardly stale – dipped into the rich, meaty broth, before picking up her chunk of boar and tearing off strips of the juicy, tender meat. Hot grease ran down her chin, dripping into the stew below, as she closed her eyes in bliss.
When Harper finished, she threw her meagre scraps to the hounds lying before the hearth. They scrapped over the meaty remains, cracking the bones and gobbling up the marrow within. The companions collectively slumped back in their chairs with satisfied groans, nursing refilled tankards, as the swell of conversation flowed around them.
Though Brand and Erika furtively scoured their surroundings for the first sign of any threat, she had never seen the four of them so relaxed.
“Are we safe here?” she dared to ask, keeping her voice low.
“As safe as we can be,” Brand murmured in reply, continuing to examine the closest patrons. “The Kingsguard turn a blind eye to these places, so they’re frequented by the likes of us – and worse – as well as honest traders. They’re good places for us to come. We hear a lot more out here than we do in the cities, where
we’re hounded by the red cloaks.”
Harper nodded and glanced around. Now she could see their fellow patrons up close. Their cloaks were on the tattered end of their lives, and under each bristled a hint of weapons – the bottom of a scabbard, the point of a sword. Long, tangled hair was restrained in braids and ties, pulled back from faces that bore shadows and scars.
“I can’t understand half of them,” she said, annoyed. Their voices were hidden amongst their own cacophony, and it seemed most of them did not speak the Common Tongue.
“If you spoke Pelenori, you would understand most of it. It matters not. We can listen and hear what you cannot, but I reckon you will still find many interesting tidbits. Plenty of folk speak in the Common Tongue. Keep your ears open.”
Harper did as Brand suggested, listening to snippets of conversations – when she could understand them – whilst nursing her second tankard and trying to still her wandering mind, freed by the drink.
All seemed to speak of looming war, the closure of trade routes south through the mountains to the dwarves and beyond, and the threat of a dark force, but Harper could understand no more of their words.
When conversation turned to Tournai, an icy fear shuddered through her and she stiffened. It would not do to dwell on Tournai, or what had happened there. But they did not speak of Aedon, or her, or the missing Dragonhearts – or even Dimitrius. The latest preoccupation was the weakening of the very king himself.
Now, they only dared speak in murmurs, and Harper had to strain her ears to hear them. From Aedon’s unflinching stare into the fire and Brand’s set mouth and hard gaze into his tankard, she knew they also eavesdropped.
“The king and Tournai have been cursed? It is too fanciful to believe,” Erika whispered, full of her usual suspicion.
“Yet these are the most honest mouths in all of Pelenor, if only you can discern through the swill to find the truth,” Aedon replied.
