by Meg Cowley
Saradon clapped his hands together, the sound booming around the space, and let out a delighted peal of laughter. “Excellent! Clearly, I could not have entrusted this task to anyone more suited.” His grim glee was clear.
“So the goblins are unneeded, yes? The people will be enough? I also have the Winged Kingsguard in hand,” Dimitri pressed, his eyes flicking to the blood-stained stone at his feet and back to Saradon.
He dismissed him with a wave. “You must trust me, Lord Ellarian. Do not doubt my plans.” He rose from the throne and walked to Dimitri, standing before him. He raised a hand to Dimitri’s shoulder and rested it there for a second. His violet eyes pierced him to the core. Dimitri strengthened his mental defences, ready for attack, but none came.
“Remember our visions of Pelenor.” Green, peaceful, and prosperous... Dimitri could hardly forget, for it felt like a world apart from that now. “We are far from that. Peace always comes with the cost of bloodshed, but we shall see it done. From coast to coast, I will reign over a land so fair that none will seek to change it.”
Saradon’s gaze still pierced him, and Dimitri could not look away. He felt strangely hot and flustered.
“I must go now. We have more allies to muster.” Saradon stepped away and made to leave.
Dimitri blinked away the sudden haziness. “More allies? Who? Where?” he asked sharply.
“The Indis nomads were ever stalwart allies to my cause.”
Dimitri could not hold back a bark of laughter. “You will find no aid there.”
Saradon raised an eyebrow.
“The Indis nomads were hunted almost to extinction after their uprising for your cause. Even now, those few remaining are hidden from the world. I do not think you will find them welcoming.”
Saradon smiled, a lazy curl of his lips. “Then you are a fool...and I would not think it of you. All the more reason for them to join me. Revenge. We seek it ourselves, no? It is a powerful motivator. They harbour hate for those who persecuted them, not I. They will come to my cause, whatever their numbers.”
You are so sure? Dimitri questioned, but he did not dare voice it.
With a widening of his predatory smile, Saradon vanished into the ether.
Dimitri left a moment later, his heart pounding as he processed what he had found in Afnirheim – utter destruction. He had no desire to be in the halls of the dead with only goblins for company.
Twenty-Four
The königshalle was silent as Jarl Halvar’s voice stalled. It seemed that not a soul breathed. Even the könig sat in dumbfounded silence.
“It cannot be so,” König Korrin finally said, a hint of hope to his voice that perhaps the jarl was mistaken.
“I am afraid there can be no mistaking it, König.” Halvar’s voice was hollow as he bowed to Korrin.
Aedon shifted, but did not speak. His glance flicked to Harper, standing some feet away, before returning to the dwarven king.
Why isn’t he speaking up? Harper could not fathom why Aedon did not talk. He had said it was urgent that the king know what she had seen in her vision.
She stepped forward to take the matter into her own hands, but Brand’s mighty hand upon her shoulder stayed her. She twisted to look at him, frowning at his warning glare. He shook his head infinitesimally, and she fell back into line beside him. His hand fell away.
Jarl Halvar’s attention also strayed to Aedon, who he regarded with a troubled frown. Aedon had shared her vision with him in confidence. “There is something else I must discuss with you.”
“Speak,” Korrin said.
“If I may, König, this matter is for your ears only. Our guests bring grave tidings of their own.”
Korrin looked over them all, drumming his fingers upon the arm of his stone throne. “Very well. Clear the hall.” His fingers increased their drumming until the very last dwarf had left the space. When the doors boomed shut, he looked at Jarl Halvar.
“It’s best if the elf shows you, König.”
Korrin nodded. Aedon moved toward the throne, stopping a respectful distance away and bowing. He closed his eyes, and judging by Korrin’s suddenly clenched jaw, Harper knew he now soared through her vision. His mouth gaped soon after.
Perhaps he now soars through the broken halls. Harper felt a sick swoop in her stomach at the memory.
Finally, Aedon bowed and stepped back, and Korrin’s white, tattooed knuckles, clenched upon the arms of his throne, loosened at last.
“What is that?” he growled. His voice carried through the empty hall.
“König, I believe it to be inside Afnirheim at the present moment,” Aedon replied.
“You have seen this?” Korrin asked Halvar.
“Yes, König. I believe it to be true. Seeing the carnage before the shattered gates and upon the road... Afnirheim has fallen.”
“Gods help us.” Korrin cast his eyes skyward, then to the floor, before meeting their gazes once more. He rose slowly from the throne and approached them. “This must not become public...for now.” His stern gaze held Halvar’s.
“My men swore their secrecy, König. It will not be so much as whispered.”
“Make it so.” Korrin turned upon Aedon, Harper, and their companions. “Is she a seer?”
“Not that we have ever known, König,” Aedon answered. “But the gift can strike any of magical blood, without true seer gifts.”
Korrin’s face fell.
He’s trying to find a way to deny this.
Harper could understand. It was bad enough to admit a city might have fallen, all those within dead, let alone that a power as dark as Saradon’s had arisen.
He deliberated, standing in silence for a moment, gazing at the ceiling. “I wish to have the vision verified. She will be sent before the Mother.”
Harper’s eyes widened. She glanced between Korrin and Aedon, but Aedon’s face was blank. The Mother? What is that?
“I can assure you the vision is true, König,” Aedon said, “but if that is your will, so it be done.” He turned to Harper. “Will you stand before the Mother? She is the Goddess embodied. She will see the truth of your vision.”
That did not sound quite so intimidating, though anxiety still roiled in Harper’s belly.
“What do I have to do?” she asked in a quiet voice, hoping to avoid the king’s ire. Though he did not seem like King Toroth of Pelenor, quick to cruel anger.
“Nothing taxing, I promise,” Aedon reassured her. “She will simply look at your vision and know if it be the truth or not.”
Harper swallowed. “All right.” She straightened and bowed to the könig, unsure what else to do.
He seemed satisfied as he nodded. “Take her to the Mother presently,” he ordered Jarl Halvar.
“Follow me.” Halvar walked toward the throne, not the doors. After a moment, Harper followed, Aedon, Brand, and Erika trailing behind her. The jarl turned at the sound of their footsteps. “Not all of you, I am afraid. Only Harper will stand before the Mother. The rest of you may be at leisure. I will send for you when the Mother is finished with your friend.”
Coldness spread through Harper. No! She didn’t want to go alone. But Korrin nodded, so she knew that she had no choice. Still, she sent an imploring glance toward her companions. They only bowed to the könig, regarded her with inscrutable faces, and left through the great doors they had entered by.
The jarl turned once more to the back of the hall. “Come.”
Behind the throne, a small door, seamless in the stone, silently opened at his touch to reveal a stairway descending into the mountain.
DOWN INTO THE BOWELS of Keldheim they descended. The stairs went farther and farther, turning left every thirteen steps. No doorways provided an exit, the walls sheer and straight with nary a crack or fault.
The air grew colder, the faelights more sparse, casting the stairs into shadows. The walls seemed to grow paler with every flight of stairs, until by the time Harper and the jarl reached the very last steps, the wa
lls were white and ran with water.
The last step descended into a void. Jarl Halvar picked up a glass lantern containing a faelight that pulsed warm, white light, and led her into the dark. Beneath her feet, stone crunched.
She realised they were now in a cave. The white walls rippled, undulating, slick with water. It was so cold not even her cloak could keep her warm, but she tugged it tighter all the same, trying to ward off the insidious chill.
It felt like they trudged for hours, the long minutes lost in the dark. The caves trailed off in all directions, the true extent of them hidden behind white, dripstone stalactites and stalagmites, which Harper had never seen before. This place has teeth. It felt like being in a giant dragon’s mouth. She suppressed the uncomfortable thought.
Somewhere, she heard running water, bubbling over stone. The rock seemed to glow with its own pale, ghostly light. Am I imagining it? Harper blinked, but it was impossible to tell. It’s probably just the faelight. It bobbed ahead of her in the jarl’s hand.
He stopped walking unexpectedly, just as she decided that it was definitely growing lighter ahead.
“I can go no farther. The Mother will only see you.”
Harper gawked at him for a moment. “She... Surely she doesn’t know I am coming. And I cannot speak Dwarvish. And–”
“It matters not. I shall not take another step. You must continue alone. Go. I will wait here until she sends you back.”
Harper swallowed and placed one foot in front of the other, forcing herself to continue. The jarl kept the faelight since she could now see, the way ahead of her gleaming in the pale light like a path in the moonlight.
Who is the Mother? What will she be like? What does she want from me? Harper’s nerves only brought more questions, but no answers.
The light brightened. Squinting, she realised, impossibly, daylight lay ahead. Have we travelled under the entire mountain? It could not be, yet weak sunlight filtered into the cave, illuminating the space. In the final antechamber, before the stream tumbled from the mountainside in a rush of falling water, Harper saw a figure framed against the light, so still, it could almost have been stone itself.
Is that...the Mother?
“COME CLOSER, CHILD.” The female’s voice was an aged croak.
Harper gasped. A crone!
The dwarf’s wispy, braided hair was so pale as to be almost transparent, and her eyes were as milky as the stone.
She is blind... How does she know I am here?
“Come, Harper of Caledan.”
Harper’s eyes widened as she drifted forward, torn between apprehension and curiosity.
“Sit with me.”
Harper silently perched opposite her on a fallen tooth of rock.
“You may call me Vanir.”
“H-Hello, Vanir,” Harper whispered, feeling painfully awkward.
Vanir’s wrinkled, weathered face split into a kindly grin at the tremor in her voice. “You need not fear me. I see all, and you are no threat. But you intrigue me. You hold visions of dark things and carry a token I have not seen in many centuries. I will see it before we are done here.”
How old is she? Harper wondered.
“Older than you might believe,” Vanir answered.
Harper startled. She can read minds?
“Only when you shout your thoughts for all to hear.”
Harper blushed, resolving to think of nothing private whilst in the Mother’s presence.
“I will verify your vision now. The könig must not be kept waiting.” Vanir reached out her tanned, age-spotted hands to grasp Harper’s. Somehow, she need not see to find them. Her skin was surprisingly warm and smooth, and a strange comfort to Harper.
The Mother took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. Instinctively, Harper did the same. She was suddenly no longer in the cold, milky caves, but the dark depths of Afnirheim. Her hands shook in Vanir’s as she relived her vision. It was exactly like the first time, except she now knew what to expect. Nausea roiled in her stomach as she beheld the destruction once more.
The vision slowly faded, and the chill swept in once more. Harper shivered, wishing the weak sunlight at the edge of the cave carried warmth. As if in answer, a flurry of snow danced into the mouth of the cavern.
“Your vision is the truth of Afnirheim at this very moment,” Vanir said gravely. “I wish it were not so.”
“What does that mean?” Harper dared to ask.
“It means that a dark power rises once more. One who ought to be long dead and banished. One who is in league with our gravest enemies.”
“The goblins?”
“Yes.” For the first time, Vanir’s voice turned menacing. She cursed in her own tongue. “Yet there is one thing I must see before you leave me. I saw you held a talisman of significance. I did not realise it spoke of him.”
Suddenly, Vanir’s grip was iron as she flipped over Harper’s hand and pushed her sleeve up, exposing her leather bracelet and the silver bead upon it. The crone’s thumb and forefinger rubbed over the stamped symbol.
“Why do you have Saradon’s Mark upon your person, Harper of Caledan?”
“I-I don’t know,” Harper stuttered. A familiar panic rose in her. The same panic of being utterly out of her depth and as helpless as she had felt in Tournai.
To her surprise, the crone dropped her hands, placing them in her own lap once more. Harper realised the woman held smooth, rounded, white stones of varying sizes in her lap, for she started to twiddle with them again, picking one up and running it between her fingers, caressing the worn surface. As they flowed through Vanir’s fingers, Harper saw strange runes inscribed upon them.
“Your past is as interesting as your future,” Vanir said with a sly smile that unnerved Harper. She shifted in her seat and clasped her hands in her own lap. Vanir cackled. “You will know what I mean. Eventually. Ah, if only you knew where you came from.” She cocked her head. “I wonder how different your life might have been.”
Harper fought a rising tide of curiosity, unsuccessfully. “What do you mean?”
“Do you know deep down, I wonder?” Vanir squinted at her and leaned closer, as if her blind eyes could see.
“Know what?”
Vanir sat back, looking at Harper with her head cocked, as if wondering whether or not to answer. “That charm you carry is hundreds of years old.”
Harper looked at the innocuous bead with surprise.
“It was forged by the hands of elves.”
She scoffed. Little surprise there.
“Did you never wonder why it has not tarnished over the years? Magic runs through that metal, girl. It is from Pelenor, from the time of Saradon’s rising. It was made by the first son of Saradon.”
“Saradon did not have any children,” Harper said, though the moment she spoke, she realised she had no idea if that were true. Aedon implied Saradon never had anyone of significance, save his mother.
The Mother smiled, as if she heard Harper’s doubt in her own words. “He did not have any children...that the world knew of. His blood still flows today, though even he does not yet realise it. His line remains unbroken...” She paused, as if savouring the moment, “in you.”
Twenty-Five
“I ought to call you Harper of Pelenor. Harper of the House of Ravakian, by your proper birthright, though the name of that House crumbles into dust, and all others are long since dead.”
“No... No, you must be mistaken.” Harper shook her head and snatched her hand back from Vanir, clutching at the bracelet and the charm. “I’m an orphan from oceans away. I–”
“The water in your blood does not lie to me, child. You know you are half-elf, yes?”
“Yes...” Harper felt the now familiar curl of magic tingling in her belly, mixing with confusion and anxiety.
“Elves do not reign in Caledan. Nowhere over the Great Sea, in fact. That is the domain of men, those you know as Eldarkind, the faded puppets of the gods.”
Harper frowned. She
had no idea what Vanir spoke of.
“No. Your blood is Pelenori and, if you go back far enough, Auraurian. You are the only remaining daughter of the Ravakian line. Your mother is Saradon’s granddaughter, his only grandchild.”
Vanir frowned. “She knew her heritage. I wonder why you were not afforded the same privilege. You deserved more than a life of poverty, despite the curse of your blood. Perhaps she sought to protect you, sending you far away with no knowledge of your birthright.”
Harper had no reply, and for once, her mind had stilled of questions. Only one thing surfaced. I don’t understand. This can’t be true.
“I promise you, I speak the truth. Drink of the wellspring and see for yourself.”
Vanir stood and shuffled over to a ledge, where a stone chalice stood amongst other paraphernalia. She dipped it into the crystal-clear water and offered it to Harper.
“Drink and see.”
Harper obediently sipped. The water was ice cold, jarring her teeth. It burned a freezing path down her throat, sitting unpleasantly in her belly. Her head fogged, overcome with dizziness, and Vanir’s warm hands steadied her as she slipped away.
THE WOMAN’S HAND STROKED the babe’s forehead. She was slim and willowy, a curtain of raven hair obscuring the world as she cradled the swaddled child close. Her heart ached at the parting that was to come, and the one she had already made. But there was no choice. They came, and they brought death. She was already doomed, but her babe would live on.
“I wish I could have known you for longer, my princess,” her soft voice crooned in the small space. She wished she had just a little more peace. With him. With them both. He had already crossed into death to save them, but it had not been enough.
She fingered the leather bracelet he had made her not long past, with the silver bead that had belonged to her grandfather, Saradon, upon it, and tucked it inside the swaddling. “At least you will have something of your past.”
